How… disappointing.

I stayed home from church yesterday. Self diagnosis: bronchitis. I can’t remember the last time I was in my own house, entirely alone. Probably about 10.5 years ago. There’s usually a baby that stays home with me or a small toddler who isn’t capable of sitting in the pew with children and no parent. We don’t use a nursery, Blaine has duties during the service often, so me not being there means a likely noisy child. But… Pierce went and sat like a pro I’m told when Blaine had to leave. Amazing.

Anyhow. There I am, in a silent house, wondering what on earth I ought to do for what promised to be at least four hours of silence. I took a shower, briefly considered cleaning but quickly nixed that idea, read a chapter in a book, and decided on a nap.

I woke up four hours later when the front door flew open and my children piled back into the house.

Once I was over the adrenalin rush of being woke up like that, I couldn’t help but be disappointed. Alone for what turned into nearly five hours, and I slept through it. How… disappointing.

I do think I’m on the uphill climb though, thankfully. I don’t typically get completely incapacitated by illness, but this one has knocked me down. I love my new recliner, but I’ll be glad if I don’t ever have to sleep in it to keep upright enough to be able to breathe ever again. I’m so glad, if I had to get this, that it’s now, and not with a newborn in the house.

A newborn. Eek. It hit me last night. We’re about to have another baby. This pregnancy will end. Soon. 5.5 weeks to due date. Back to nursing, diapers, a child who cannot walk, and waking up in the night. Life’s about to get more interesting, my friends. I’m excited… and a wee bit curious how this will look. Chaos upon chaos.

Shifted purposes.

I am not enough.

There’s not enough of me to go around. I’m tired and sore and wishing the next weeks away, longing for the day I’ll feel normal again. For the day I feel normal again.

I can’t ever take the kids to the park enough times to suit me. The zoo pass sits lonely and unused far more often than I’d like. I haven’t played with my kids outside since the first time it snowed. That was at least a month ago. But lately, it’s not just “not enough”. It’s “not at all”.

The subject of “mommy guilt” has always confused me. Guilt about what? Lately, it’s all come crashing in on me. Guilt about everything. There’s something about pregnancy hormones that will do that to you.

And yet, as I lay in my bed last night, unable to sleep, I couldn’t help but wonder at the thought process. My children aren’t complaining. They rub my belly and look forward to the day they can hold their newest sibling. They take joy in serving me… most of the time… even if, in Pierce’s mind, it’s bringing me a Coke four times a day. (Since I bought the Coke to marinate deer meat, it’s an interesting gesture. Basically, it has him moving Coke from the box in the basement to the fridge in the kitchen because I don’t have the heart to tell him I don’t want it. So I procrastinate and send him to put it in the fridge for me. We’re getting a huge stash up here, only to be taken back down… he must think that box will never, ever empty itself.) Liberty offers to make supper every single night. Eden loves to look through cookbooks to find me recipes to make with the ingredients we have. Sterling is the expert “stand on a stool and stir this” supper helper and Ruby loves to get things out of the garage for me. She usually comes back giggling with a tale of “I had to climb into the chest freezer to find the broccoli.” Such hardships, I’m sure.

I wonder. Is pregnancy a way to make me slow down? Is this an opportunity to teach my children service, empathy, and the value of offering to help instead of spend their time doing less fruitful activities? In my guilt over what I’m not doing with them these days, have I missed the bigger picture?

Our home is still functioning. The floors are swept… most often by an eight year old these days. Laundry is as caught up as it ever is. (You decide what that means!) My older two have learned how to sort, start laundry, switch loads, fold, and put away. The younger four are fabulous at taking laundry to the laundry room. School has happened every day, just like we always do. Grocery shopping is enough to make me need a nap – but my children pitch in and put groceries away and while I have yet to find the onion soup mix we bought last week… that’s minor. I’ve had more chances than normal to sit and read books to the kids, to snuggle up next to my little ones, to convince Pierce to take a nap – with me.

Maybe, just maybe, I need to look at this as a season to live differently, a chance to teach my kids things they’ve not learned yet about service, compassion, and empathy. Maybe, instead of seeing this as what they aren’t getting, I can see it as a chance to get something entirely different.

It’s hard. I’m thankful it’s not anticipated to be long term. But instead of looking at it for what it isn’t, I’m going to look at it for what it is. Guilt free.

To everything there is a season, a time for every purpose under the sun… (Ecc. 3:1)

Christmas

Early yesterday morning, before anyone had emerged from bedrooms, there was a crash.

The tree that had been standing tall for over a week fell over. No one was in the room, it had never threatened tipping before, but there we were, drenched gifts and broken ornaments strewn across the living room.

I headed for the kitchen to make Blaine’s gift. Without a clue what else to get for him, I decided to try my hand at the very Dutch pastry banket, or butter letter. Not being a stitch Dutch myself, I had yet to try making it, but my completely-Dutch husband grew up with it, loves it, and has hinted many times that I ought to make him some. After a thorough search of my city’s grocery stores, I found one that carries almond paste, and we were in business.

The filling melted out of the dough EVERYWHERE. Every single one I made leaked. My dear husband assures me this is relatively normal, but after the tree, an imperfect gift for my husband was not what I’d hoped for. Frustrating. From his consumption of his gift, I’m thinking Blaine’s less than bothered.

While the butter letter baked, I had one of my girls mix up the pumpkin pie. The oven sat hot and empty for over an hour before I found the pumpkin pie batter in the mixing bowl, pie crusts sitting empty, oven sitting empty. There went my target time for dinner. We didn’t eat anything beyond fruit for the first time yesterday until 1:15 pm. It wasn’t the meal I’d planned. Our big meal was supposed to be a late lunch. It was supper. We didn’t open gifts until 3:00.

We ended up eating three hours after I’d planned. Charlotte dropped and broke her brand new ornament. Several of the dolls made by dear friends for my girls took a bath in Christmas tree water. Pierce peed on his new truck. Ruby decided to take the paints out of her new paint by number and Pierce opened the lavender and painted the floor, Ruby’s new skirt, the couch, and the paint by number package. I found out said paint washes off of wood floors and leather couches and skirts well when wet. Charlotte’s new sock has a small seam in a place where a seam ought not be from the scissors she used to open the package. The Christmas tree was down and out of the house before supper when it threatened to fall again after we cleaned it all up and straightened it once. The kids loved their Lincoln Logs, played heartily, picked them up and filled an entire five gallon bucket with them before bed, and Pierce helped them out by dumping them with a crash during devotions.

Sitting back last night, exhausted by the day and reminiscing on years past, I couldn’t help but think. Things were not like this growing up for me. It was just my sister and I, life was organized and quiet. Traditions were upheld. Yelling over the noise never happened. I remember exactly zero toppled Christmas trees. We took the tree down when we wanted to, not when it forced us to. We always opened gifts in the morning. The living room didn’t look like a hurricane had hit after gifts were opened.

Was that better? What am I complaining about? It was less stressful, to be sure. Things were more organized. There wasn’t chaos. It was quiet.

My kids weren’t complaining. My husband wasn’t complaining. It was me. It was my picture of the ideal way to celebrate Christmas that was being skewed.

Jesus was born in a barn, my friends. He left a perfect world to become man, to dwell among us, to save us from our sins. He humbled himself from God to baby. A not-talking, not-walking, helpless infant laid in a hard, stinky, dirty manger, a baby sent to save. And I’m complaining that there’s chaos in my house, that things aren’t happening when I wanted them to, how I wanted them – on a day that we celebrate Him.

Humbling.

Random, I’ve got.

Blaine’s been off from work this week. We didn’t take a vacation this year, so he was left with time off that had to be taken before the end of the year. Darn it anyway… it’s been awesome to have him home. I’ve decided he should work from home. Of course, I’m not sure how much work he’d be able to get done with no enclosed office and six children who seek him out on a constant basis, but… it’d be fun for me!

With him off, I’ve gotten a bit of Christmas shopping done. Some of it’s been fun, but most of it’s been frustrating. Somewhere along the line, we hit the point where they have need for little, space for none, and nothing in my budget seems like it’ll make it to the new year. Eden and Pierce were the easiest, and I have Blaine’s statement that he’ll take care of Sterling’s gifts, but the other three girls have me stumped. I have a few things for them, but nothing that thrills me overly much. Frustrating.

My house is being taken over by winter clothes. Towels spread with mittens, hats, and scarves to dry, times six (if they put them away as they dry…) makes for a big mess. Coats that don’t get hung back up, eight pairs of boots in front of the door… I’m starting to think I’ve been spoiled with this non-wintery state in which we live. I couldn’t handle this mess long term. We’ve upped sizes in puddle boots to make space for extra socks, nearly left a hat on the grocery store shelf, and, miraculously, not lost a mitten yet. I’ve been accused of not liking the snow because I’ve only ventured out to play in it one time in the last week. I have to admit, it’s prettier from the window. It’s hard enough to move this bulky body even remotely gracefully without walking through a foot of snow. Something about a coat that won’t quite button in single digit overnight to 20’s during the day doesn’t quite scream warm.

I got a Kindle Fire! I can’t stand it I’m so excited. I need to get faster at the one finger typing, though, or blog posts suffer. I found a grocery list app and another app for a calendar… trying to make it less toy and more tool. So far, the kids have watched from afar – except for Pierce, who doesn’t fear Momma’s wrath nearly as much as he ought and wants to try this screen swiping business out for himself. I’ve wished for one for over a year now, and am having so much fun with it.

I’ve begun my third trimester. Baby kicks often, but goes crazy when I eat something with sugar. I’m pretty sure I’m waddling when I walk, have nearly outgrown my winter coat, and can’t wait to see who this baby will be. Names have yet to be discussed, I waffle on whether I’m guessing boy or girl, and Pierce loves to lay on my belly and get kicked.

I was contemplating two of my children this morning and made some observations to my husband.

We have buddies around here. Each of my children has a buddy – a littler person who they are willing and able to get things for, help dress, take potty, etc., when I am unable. Eden’s buddy is Charlotte. Eden’s been compared to a bull in a china shop more than once. She takes life in stride, plows through where she ought tread lightly, and tends to be a bit… blunt. Charlotte, on the other hand, is calm and quiet, shy, one to let her emotions get the better of her. The two together make an interesting team. Sometimes it’s really, really interesting.

Pairing up with Charlotte has smoothed a few of Eden’s edges. It’s taught her compassion, gentleness, understanding. Charlotte has taken Eden in stride for the most part, and it’s been amazing to see the relationship between those two grow. Lately, Charlotte has been sleeping with Eden. Charlotte had been on a trundle of sorts, but she kept rolling off her bed and ending up under Eden’s bed in the middle of the night. Nightly for a good while, I’d stumble in to her hollers that she was stuck once again and pull her out from under the bed. Finally, she started sleeping with Eden instead, and the under-the-bed mid-night rendezvous stopped.

This morning, though, Charlotte told me, “Eden pushed me off the bed again. But this time I didn’t hit my head!” Poor girl, I never knew. I commented to Blaine how good Charlotte has been for Eden, and how Eden apparently has a learning curve in sleeping next to another.

He told me it sounded like Eden and I have a lot in common.

The first few years of marriage and attempting to share one sleep space were interesting. Apparently Eden comes by her rough edges honestly.

Sobering thought. How easy is it to see my daughter and wonder why she can’t slow down, do things carefully, watch her words, be gentle? Is that how I am?

I’m thankful for Blaine. For the man who stood by me and helped smooth out a few rough edges without complaint. Who lives with the rest of them, never saying a word – being glad “it didn’t hurt – this time”. Those personality differences in friends and spouses and children can be difficult. We just don’t understand some people. But how often are those the ones we learn the most from?

Sobering thoughts to start out my day.

The desires of your heart…

I married a handyman. Over the years, Blaine has fixed water pipes, gas lines, changed brakes, took apart a dashboard to solder an electronic component that kept shorting out and sending the dashboard dark, and refinished a table and church pew for our dining room furniture. He’s built rock wall flower beds and changed vehicle belts and a host of other things. Last Saturday, he had my lawn mower torn apart, trying to figure out why it kept revving to a ridiculous speed. (Carburetor, I’m told.)

All that, for this story. A month or so ago, we agreed a new couch was in order. Ours was given to us several years ago, and was a huge blessing to us, but a year and a half ago we wore completely through the arm fabric and I recovered them. Last Christmas, we bought a slipcover for it because we’d gone through the seat cushion too. Now… it’s not so comfy anymore. On a search for a used sofa that didn’t cost a lot but would serve our family, my first choice was leather. I’d heard so many people say how well it wipes clean and dreamed of not washing slipcovers and the messes these children of mine can make.

I looked at hundreds of ads by people wishing to sell their sofas. I came to one conclusion: even used, leather is too expensive.

Then… I found a blue (not my first choice, but it’ll do) leather sofa. $50. Missing the mattress for it’s hide-a-way bed. (Sofa bed hadn’t crossed my mind… but it seemed like a great addition for our small house that doesn’t offer much space for company!) I agreed to buy it, and went home to do research on what it would take to find a mattress. Ouch. Those things are expensive too. Then I found a couch listed for sale for $35 with a sofa bed. I called on it. I kid you not, I asked if she still had the sofa bed and the lady said…

“It’s really in rough shape. It was my aunt’s, and her dogs tore it up. But if you wanted it for the mattress inside…”

Wow. She didn’t even know what I needed it for. So yesterday, we went and picked it up. She took $20. So we now have $70 into two couches that I plan to combine into one and Blaine has agreed to demolish the leftovers. (Dear, dear man. He didn’t even bat an eye when I told him my plan.)

We started combining couches, but quickly learned the sofa bed mechanisms on my blue couch were less than straight. Blaine went to work, taking out the entire sofa bed mechanism from the ugly couch, putting them into the leather couch, and the only modification was the couch needed to be 1/2 inch taller to accommodate the folding of the bed frame. He fixed that, and we had a complete couch, with perfect mattress and sliding mechanism, and we’re out $70… less than we ever thought we’d have to spend.

The amazing part? Water spilled on my new couch last night. A quick wipe up later, we could still sit on the couch… and not shift around uncomfortably.

I know this is a long story. It could have ended very differently. The mechanism could have not fit in the leather couch, the mattress could have been to thick to fit… but in the end, we got exactly what we’d hoped for at a good price and I can’t help but think: Does God care about the little things? Like a couch that we can enjoy and use that takes less work to maintain – that’s comfortable to sit on too. I’m rather inclined to think He does. If you all have been around a few years, you’ll remember this story about Sterling and the desires of his heart. Amazing.

Contentment–in THIS life.

Every mother has struggles. Or, even broader, every person has struggles.

How easy is it to say, “Mary has it so easy. She doesn’t struggle with not having enough money like I do.”

“Joan has it so much easier. Her children are so much more compliant and easier to parent than mine.”

“Marge has easy pregnancies. She’s so lucky.”

I could go on and on. It’s so easy to look at other lives, pick out the part that they aren’t struggling with quite as much as we are, and think their lives are better; God’s blessing them more – and end up in a disgruntled, envious, unsatisfied mess.

I’m here to tell you, dear friends, it’s not as black and white as all that. I’m preaching to myself lately, because my tendencies are to look at others’ lives and think that they have it so much easier than I do.

Ha.

The things she struggles with are things I cannot fathom. Different stresses. And chances are, she’s looking at my life and seeing the things that I have easier and thinking the same thing. If we could combine mine and fifty friend’s lives and all the best parts, we might, just maybe, end up with a perfect life.

But probably not.

We live in a fallen world, tainted by sin. We’ll all have struggles, until the day that we die. I’m so thankful, as I preach this message of contentment to myself, that I don’t have all the problems of me and those fifty friends. God is gracious, giving us what we can handle so that we can learn, grow, and become more like Him.

That’s something to contemplate as we attempt to rest in contentment in our own lives.

Redneck practices, old age, road kill supper, and one stupid move.

Low point of yesterday: preheating my flat iron for 9 1/2 hours, then laying my brand new glasses on them when I went to bed. The smell of burning plastic several minutes later jogged my memory. Ugh, stupidity.

Tomorrow, I turn 30. I face the number with mixed feelings. I’ve always been one of the young moms. I always wanted to have my children when I was young, but getting older never really crossed my mind. Suddenly, I’m hitting thirty and am not quite sure what to think about it. My kids keep telling me they don’t want me to turn 30 because then I’ll be old. Sterling is all but mourning my death already. I remember as a kid thinking 30 sounded old. It kind of still does – but here I am. Strange.

We were given a deer to eat. Early one morning, one of Blaine’s co-workers calls and asked if we’d eat it if he brought it over. Thinking of deer meat and the creativity required to make wild game edible and the rising grocery prices I’ve been seeing, I said I was up for the challenge.

It was a road kill deer.

Turns out, Missouri has a whole program/list of people who are waiting for freshly pulverized bounty, and we can put our name on such a list to receive notifications of such events.

Tell me I’m not the only one who has never heard of or considered indulging in something hit by a car at a high speed? And yet. Freshly dead, this buck weighed somewhere in the vicinity of 200 lbs. A little while later, Blaine’s coworkers were hanging the animal in the shed to gut it… but the shed rafters protested, and the meat ended up straight in my house, no hanging necessary. I washed and trimmed and froze the meat, and we’ve had two lovely meals of Ree Drummond’s Beer and Paprika Beef Stew, venison style since, with many more meals’ worth left. Entirely edible, free, and it’s filling my freezer at the moment. Everyone liked the stew, and free meat made it the ultimate in cheap. The same week we got the deer, we got a receipt in the mail saying they knew and approved of our consuming one dead road kill deer.

I just can’t think about the road kill part. It’s just a tad redneck. Wow. I have yet to put my name on that list. It’s like I’m embracing the weirder practices of this strange state we now call home. It’s just… wow.

I never imagined this.

These days are hard. School seems to drag on forever, co-op has become a stress like no other and keeps me awake at night, it’s all I can do to keep up with the house somewhat and laundry, Pierce is tearing the house apart as fast as I can put it back together and refusing to take naps many days, and my belly is bigger and causing me more pain than it’s ever been at just shy of 23 weeks.

It’s funny, as a kid, picturing motherhood didn’t include absolute exhaustion. It didn’t include frustration or anger or sticking to the floor when I stumble into the kitchen after consoling a child with growing pains at 3am. It didn’t include repeating myself over and over and over or searching for lost objects that I didn’t lose or potty training a single child for six months with limited success.

Strangely enough, I pictured lovely children, well-behaved, without all the work. I imagined clean, pressed (HA!) and smiling children. This just wasn’t what I imagined.

Messes. Oh, the messes. The laundry, the mountains of work without the energy to climb anything more than the path to the couch. The pure exhaustion and achiness that pregnancy brings. The unending meal preparation and the inability to feed my children one helping of anything that fills them up.

But.

I didn’t picture the discussions either. The talks of sin and Christ’s love. The discussions of those painful growing up moments that are inevitable.

The laughs. Oh, the laughs. The hilarious things that a child comes up with. The heart stopping moment when you find your two year old standing high in the air, perched on a tiny patch of instability. The baby kissing “his baby” in Momma’s belly, loving someone so unconditionally that they’ve never met, don’t fully understand, and who is taking up more and more of “their” lap space.

The different personalities. The ones I see myself in clearly, and the ones I don’t understand in the slightest because they are so unlike me. The ones who are word oriented and the ones who crunch numbers like nobody’s business. Outgoing. Shy. Energetic. Quiet.

If I had to describe them each in a word…

Liberty… perfectionist

Eden… scattered

Sterling… mathematical

Ruby… passionate

Charlotte… imaginative

Pierce… hungry

Yeah. I never pictured any of this. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done. The hardest thing I’ve done, and the only thing I can’t quit. Day after day, new struggles face me in the lives of these children. I never imagined this. But I’m having the time of my life – on the good days and the bad.

Sometimes.

I was so on the ball this morning. I sat and did science with the kids first thing, since it tends to be the thing that falls by the wayside when the day gets too busy. I got some pictures for a review I need to finish, finally. The day had promise!

I took a nap. I woke up to the kids having finished or nearly finished their schoolwork I’d started them on. I cleaned up the kitchen, started the very last load of laundry. For a few brief seconds, not a single dirty item remained in my laundry room.

I sent Ruby out to the van with a pair of sunglasses to put in the tote we keep out there. She returned saying there was a cat in the van and the cat had locked the doors. I grabbed my keys and headed to get the cat out of the van.

Turns out, the cat had been in the van for 16 hours at that point. A cat, confined in a large van, poops. Many times. On spare clothes for the baby, on the floor… thankfully, I haven’t found any on the seats. Yet. I am unimpressed. Cat’s life is threatened. Eden volunteers - or is volunteered, that part is unclear – to clean the evidence of the cat’s night in the van. I have a brief moment that I’m thankful for cool weather and that it wasn’t 100 degrees out during cat’s extended stay in places she doesn’t belong.

I head back inside, on a track to accomplish great things for the day. I need to make another batch of soap. Turns out, I’m out of coconut oil in jars. All that’s left is in a five gallon metal pail with an opening approximately one inch in diameter. Coconut oil solidifies at 76 degrees Fahrenheit. Our garage is cooler than that at the moment, since the heat isn’t running. So here I sit, while my canner heats a pail of coconut oil on the stove, plans for soap making postponed, thinking I should be cleaning something.

But, here I sit. Contemplating another nap.

Today:

• Pierce threw two new rolls of toilet paper into the toilet.
• Someone left the toothpaste, uncapped, on the bathroom rug. Charlotte stepped on it.
• The rug’s in the washing machine. Fourth load for today.
• I took the kids grocery shopping at two stores and to the library.
• A random man asked me when I was going to be done having babies. I sputtered but remained polite.
• I found out Liberty had a huge amount of homework to do for co-op. Due tomorrow. It’s still half done. Three maps to color and label takes a long time.
• I found out Eden had a report on Laura Ingalls Wilder to do, among other things. Also due tomorrow.
• I remembered once again that I’d rather homeschool than deal with daily homework.
• I took the kids to the library. I’d borrowed Courting Cate by Leslie Gould and liked it so much I went to see if she had other titles. None were there. Read Courting Cate if you like Christian Fiction. It’s really good.
• I didn’t have to throw even one kitten out of doors. They seem to be learning. I took Theodore Roosevelt’s advice to speak softly and carry a big stick to heart.
• Floppy rulers qualify as big sticks.
• I counted four gallons of milk in the fridge when we got home and sighed, realizing we’re not going to make another week. I thought we had six.
• I sprayed the tub down with Comet spray at 9 am.
• I finally got the tub scrubbed at 9 pm.
• The tub soaking for that long doesn’t help out anymore than soaking for three minutes.
• Pierce made it to 8 pm before he pooped in his pants. I was just thinking that we’d had an accident-free day.
• Sterling couldn’t remember what lines of symmetry means on his math assessment. Seconds later, he informed me that 22 x 10 = 220. I don’t know what to do with that boy.
• Ruby maybe, just maybe, has caught onto reading. She’s getting faster. It amazes me what personality and a little bit more time means at the ripe old age of five. Thinking back, the older the child was, the easier it was to teach them to read. The oldest one was 5.5 years old. That beats 4.5 any. That’s nearly a quarter of their life difference.
• I stayed up way too late typing this, because I walked into the bathroom and saw the two rolls of tp in the garbage and it was just enough aggravating to write about.

It’s like a barnyard around here.

There’s still a rooster roaming the yard. How he’s lived this long, I’m not sure. Why I continue to allow him to live, I’m even more unsure. He crows at all hours of the day and night, but lately, he’s pushing me to my limits.

He’s taken to thinking the front porch is for his residing pleasures. The concrete patio has become his playground.

My children’s shoes keep tracking in the signs of the suicidal animal.

If he’s hanging out on the porch and patio… and leaving the remnants of his time spent there for everyone to know where he’s been… he must be suicidal.

Between “Some Other Guy’s Rooster” as Charlotte has affectionately named the stray, and two of these furry gray balls of infuriating named Fred and Angus (both girls, ironically enough):

who like newspapers, which is fine with me, but also like the inside of my home, which is NOT fine with me, I’m just going to go crazy. Between the rooster making a mess of our play spaces, and the cat climbing the screen and running inside every time the door opens, it’s like a three ring circus around here. It’s driving me crazy.

Looking at the bright side, it’ll be the animals that send me over the edge. The kids’ consciences can be relieved. They didn’t do it.

Grace.

My children have an imperfect mother.

I know. Shocker.

I show my children depravity at it’s finest.

But where there is sin, there is grace. Forgiveness. Another day.

I distinctly remember the first time I ever apologized to one of my children. It was the hardest moment I could recall. So humbling. Since then, it’s become far easier. I have had lots of practice.

It’s a balance, this motherhood thing. We make mistakes, we learn from then, we move on, striving to do better. And then we make more mistakes. Scripture talks of the faith of a little child. The forgiveness of a little child is also a remarkable thing. Whereas I want to stay offended, and struggle to forgive and move on, a child forgives and immediately acts as if they really aren’t offended. As if I didn’t really just mess up once again, use a harsh tone, hurry them along when they were already doing their best, or interrupt their story to remind them of chores. They just forgive, move on, and love me still.

It’s incredible.

Today, I’m thankful for grace. God’s grace, grace from my husband, grace from my children, grace from my friends. Lately, I feel more in need of it than ever. I struggle, I sin, I fall flat on my face, and yet, God has offered me free grace. Over and over again, I’m in need of it.
I was called “super mom” again the other day. All I could think is, “Wow, have they got the wrong lady.” I try, I fail, I try again, and fail again. Motherhood is the most humbling experience of my life. My frailty is fully displayed to these six little people – and when I think I might be conquering just one small portion in life, one of my children says or does something that I taught them that reminds me, once again, that it’s so much worse than I ever thought.

Grace. Forgiveness. Thankful.

Liberty's making pancakes - from a mix. She's over an hour in and I just heard the first oil spray hit the pan. I can teach them how to cook… but how on earth do you teach them speed?!

Sterling asked me how big a yard was. My reply was, “3 feet. 36 inches. A yard stick. You know, that’s why we call it a YARD stick.”

My son just snorted at me. In that brief second, he realized he’d asked a very stupid question. I love it. (If you saw how they play with yard sticks around here, you’d understand better. We have about 10 of them, from the farm show and from Blaine’s parents’ hardware store. They frequently become swords, roads, and, with the help of bread twist ties, bridges. Yard sticks are something he knows VERY well.)

Yesterday Sterling learned about nickels. We sorted out 2 quarters, 10 nickels, 5 dimes, and 50 pennies into four piles to make a point on the value of each coin. What Sterling got out of our piles? “We have $2 here!” I’m not the least bit math minded. My son is scaring me.

Pierce is back to his normal self. Temper tantrums, requiring lots of correction, and eating everything in sight normal Pierce. Thankful. Even for the exhausting job of the constant need to correct him. Funny: I dropped a butter knife onto the tile floor with a crash that sounded worse that it really was. Pierce took the opportunity to correct me back. “Momma! No no!”

Ruby was told that today at co-op she has PE and needs to wear jeans. She came back with five jean skirts for me to choose from, insisting that a jean skirt with leggings is really easy to run in. She just can’t stand it.

Eden is the first child I’ve ever had to tell to write out her math answers using numbers, not words. She had an entire lesson that she wrote answers like “five hundred twenty six thousand nine hundred fifty two” – in cursive. I’m sorry. I’m glad you know place value and how a number reads in words. But my brain does not want to convert that to numbers, so you’ll have to indulge me and use numbers next time.

Charlotte insists she’s three now, so she’s big. Until last night. When asked why she wasn’t helping to clean up supper, she informed me she’s not that big. It went into a several-minute dissertation on why three years old is pretty big, but she’s not quite big enough to do work, because she’s still pretty short. With the ability to have a discussion like that, she’s being recruited into service. She’s a fabulous “Crawl under the table for any runaway cups, silverware, napkins, or large pieces of food picker-upper”.

The pancakes were worth the wait. If you have the chance, the pecan-glazed mix from Aldi is pretty darn fabulous. And a ten year old can make them. If they have an hour and a half.

Our week in review.

The rooster lives. He’s moved to our pasture next to our house, but regularly takes to the front yard. He’s joined the group of six children, one dog, and two kittens that runs for Blaine’s van when he gets home from work. It’s comical.

In a discussion of naming the rooster, Charlotte announced, “We should name him “Some other guy’s rooster”. I made that name up.” We’re still laughing.

Blaine and I celebrated our 11th anniversary on Saturday. What was planned to be a relaxing day was changed with a phone call at 9am. Blaine headed out to cut up a tree that landed across a driveway and I made a birthday dress for Charlotte. I’m attempting to scale down the dress to fit an 8 inch doll so she and the doll can match. So far, I’m on try #2 and it’s a tad ugly. Fun times.

Pierce came into our bedroom in the night on Friday night and Blaine told him to come to that side of the bed. Pierce cried for Momma and Blaine told him to leave Momma alone and come to Daddy instead. Pierce turned tail and marched back to his bed, screaming all the while. Hello, stubborn child.

We went to friends’ from church last night for supper. They don’t have children. They were nothing but gracious, but there’s nothing like the glaring realization of exactly how crazy your life is as seeing it through someone else’s eyes. I believe there were three glasses of water spilled, one dear child wanted seconds on dessert, and all the kids were dancing in their larger-than-ours living room like there was no tomorrow. Sterling commented on their TV screen saver, saying “All they’ve taught us about are leaves and sticks” and I corrected one child or another every 35 seconds for the duration of the night. Oh my.

The kids cleaned their room to perfection Saturday morning. By Sunday night, you couldn’t see the floor anymore. When you multiply belongings times six, it doesn’t take more than a few items per kid to make a room look like a tornado hit it. Frustrating.

I’m 15.5 weeks along now. I quit getting sick at 13.5 weeks. So thankful.

On with the day. School, co-op homework, house clean up, laundry, mowing the lawn, and finishing a sewing project await me. I’m exhausted already!

It’s sounding like a barnyard around here.

A rooster has declared our yard home.

Exactly. Huh what?! This is the second time a chicken – first a hen, now a rooster – has wandered onto our property and taken up residence. I’m not quite sure what the draw is, other than the dog leaves it alone, to make them want to move in and make themselves comfortable.

The kids asked if we could eat him.

I know. Not “Can we keep him?!” but “Can we eat him?” They saw a rooster and declared him one yummy supper.

At 4am when he began his wakeup call, making him supper sounded like a fabulous idea.

(Yes, it’s raining. No, I did not step out into the rain… in my pj’s… to photograph the rooster. I stood on the porch. There’s only so much I’m willing to do for a chicken.)

I’ll keep you posted on the saga of the rooster. The last time, the hen lasted three days before she disappeared in the night. What fate she met, no one knows.

My cape was showing.

I always pad our leave times. Always.

We plan to leave 20 minutes before we actually need to. If we have a lot of things to get into the van, if anyone needs fancy clothes, or if anyone needs a hairdo nicer than a ponytail, the leave time gets padded 30 minutes.

Almost always, we arrive on time. (If it’s me and the kids. If my husband is coming, all bets are off. Love the man, but punctuality isn’t something he’s ever learned. Ever.)

Every once in a while, we manage to leave at our padded time estimation. And then. Things like arriving in a town 30 minutes away 20 minutes early happen. That’s when the kids and I look at each other, realize that showing up 20 minutes early at 8:40 am is less than cool, and make a 20 minute trip to Walmart for a padded mailing envelope that we didn’t get during our normal shopping trip. And four children decide they need a potty break. And just like that, we’re running on time or late again, and life is back to normal. Whew. That was close. My cape was showing.

In all seriousness, though, I get asked all the time how I do it all. I shake my head and say I don’t – I just do whatever is screaming at me the loudest. Usually that means cared for children and a less than perfect house. Just about the time I think I might just have my moment together, we get somewhere only to find out Charlotte’s shirt’s backwards and she failed to put underpants under her skirt. Or we back down the driveway before I remember I left the sleeping baby sleeping. In his bed. Not in the van. Or I find out two dear children “finished” school every day this week and yet both “forgot” to do one subject. Or I ask why the zucchini is out on the table and the kids stare at me like I’m nuts and I repeat myself only to get the same blank stares before I finally realize the word I meant to say was pepperoni – at which point I’ve lost all the respect my authority requires and we all dissolve into fits of laughter.

It’s a good thing that every once in a while we arrive 20 minutes early and I feel like I really can do this job. Because most of the time… my depravity is showing.

I can’t do it all.

I can keep the house really clean. I can teach my children their schoolwork. I can cook a pretty decent meal. I can take children to the zoo, I can get groceries for the week. I can wash the laundry and get it folded and put away.

But if I get a good day’s school in, the laundry falls by the wayside. We’re scrambling to finish up school and chores before supper. Supper might be pasta and a jar of sauce. If I get the house good and clean, school doesn’t happen. If we head to the zoo or the store, the house magically falls apart while we’re away.

I can’t do it all.

The verse “I can do all things through Christ who gives me strength” haunts me. All things? Me? It’s not happening. I don’t have enough hours in a day. I don’t have enough energy.

I. Am. Exhausted.

So I dug into Philippians 4:13 just a bit more. What am I missing? Why can’t I do it all?

And then I found the verses before (an including) 4:13.

Not that I am speaking of being in need, for I have learned in whatever situation I am to be content. I know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound. In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance and need. I can do all things through him who strengthens me.

Just like that, the word contentment comes up. And reminds me: exhausted might just be what I am called to right now. Struggling might just be what I’m called to right now. I’m not perfect. I can’t do it all. But in all things, I am called to be content. So I’ll wade (and waddle) along, striving to do this whole wife and motherhood the best that I can. And when I can’t, I’ll remind myself: I’m not called to a perfect house. I’m not called to gourmet meals. I’m called to walk with my God, serve my family, and honor my husband.

He just might have to find his clean socks in a basket in the living room, though.

Learning.

Someone told me once that, to have a large family and remain sane, one must have a good sense of humor. I’m always rather enjoyed the funnier side of life, but children have slowly taught me to see things that way on a far broader basis.

When Pierce pooped on the floor at the eye doctor’s, it was horrifying. But, now we laugh. And I’m certain he’ll hear about that one when he’s older. And when he gets married. And when he’s potty training his own son.

When my then two year old asked, in a Baptist (ie. dry) congregation why she wasn’t allowed to take communion, followed by “Does it have ALCHOHOL in it?!” in a very loud voice, I was mortified. We didn’t share all the same convictions, but that didn’t mean we needed to offend everyone in that. But… now we laugh.

So now, I’m trying to remember to just laugh. Skip the embarrassed and go straight to enjoying my children. It’s all I can do, anyhow. Embarrassed doesn’t get you very far anyhow. Anger doesn’t either. In an eye-opening moment, my dear baking-loving daughter brought me a broken (6 year old!) rubber spatula in two pieces and a dollar, I wanted to cry. Am I seriously so stinking uptight when she legitimately broke something that she felt like she needed to bring money to help replace it when she showed me what she’d done? Hello mirror. That reflection is looking pretty stinking ugly right about now.

When Pierce bit Charlotte and ran for the bug bite medicine, I scolded. And then, I laughed. Because who would have thought of that?!

When I’m rushed for time and my dear, fun-loving Ruby decides that the train she needs to color for math needs stripes – about  30 different colored stripes – I’m learning to go with it. I’m doing my best to back off from the hurrying up and slowing down to try to enjoy life. Including the most colorful trains you ever did see in one math book.

When Sterling left his 2 week-old crayon box out in the sun one afternoon this week, we examined what wax does in heat, what colors melting on colors looked like… and then I handed him a new box of crayons. It’s just not worth getting crabby about. (Contrast this to the melted crayon he was required to scrub off the sidewalk this summer and you’ll note progress. I hope.)

When naked Sterling, fresh from the tub and 20 months old, plopped himself down on the frozen turkey my sister had just removed from the freezer but it had yet to make it off the floor and into the sink to thaw… Sterling saw it as a perfectly sized stool. And then he froze. On two counts. But oh, we laughed. And laughed, and laughed. Do you know how good that feels?!

Motherhood, it turns out, is pretty stinking funny. Embarrassing, certainly. Humbling, definitely. As iron sharpens iron – but, I’m learning, play dough in the carpet does a pretty good job of sharpening iron too.

How do you want to be remembered when your children are grown and gone? I’m aiming for easy-going, go with the flow, laugh-instead-of-cry, grace-extending, and quick to forgive. And slowly, with God’s grace, I’ll learn from my mistakes and get better at this.

Scattered.

Life is pretty mundane right now. My pregnancy is creeping toward 12 weeks, I’m starting to feel better but have started throwing up on occasion. Strange. My ultrasound showed just one baby, due mid-March. Exactly what I thought. It’s measuring a week or two bigger, but nothing enough to change dates. After two miscarriages, seeing a baby live and moving and growing on the screen was amazing. So thankful.

In other news, Charlotte told me my crack was showing when my shirt crept a little lower in the neckline that she thought it ought.

I see the midwife tonight for the first time this pregnancy. Strangely looking forward to it. Very different than my five OB/Family Doctor experiences. Bonus: no exams. Maybe that’s why I’m looking forward to it.

A friend kept my kids during my ultrasound. She has six children too. There were 12 kids ages 1.5-10.5 in her house. She had all of her hair when I returned. Kudos to Laura.

I folded nine loads of laundry this afternoon. I paused the wash; fearful I’d never catch up if I didn’t stop washing the laundry. Tomorrow I get to wash… about nine loads of laundry. And mow the lawn that’s starting to go to seed on the top. It’s been a week of falling behind. Dishes in the kitchen reached new heights. Horrible, stinky heights. All better now… and I kept my lunch down to boot. Amazing.

I had to get my maternity clothes out. Back to the world of tents and elastic. Such a lovely place to be.

The kids and I all got our teeth cleaned at the dentist this morning. Sterling had an x-ray to check his adult teeth formation. He’s going to have enormous front teeth. The hygienist told me that, showed me the x-ray, then told me he takes after me. So honored. Good thing has has my big round head to match.

Ruby turns five next week. She’s been counting the days for months. I can’t wait to give her her gifts.

Last night was awful. Watching my child endure a bad experience that I have no control over and know she’ll never forget  is heart breaking. I hope she grows from it. I’m seriously questioning my mothering capabilities. I’m glad it’s another 8 or so years before I have to let any of my kids go. Awful.

The shelf in the fridge fell off today and condiments crashed to the floor of the fridge. No one was even touching it. I’m amazed how fast we break things around here.

Crockpot Pizza is for supper. It’s one of my new favorite recipes. I’ll have to share it one of these days. Seriously easy and so good.

We’ve been talking personality tests and types lately. I’m a ISTJ on the Myers-Briggs. A ‘C’ on the DISC assessments. What are you?