The latest in bullet points

• Abby stuck a pinto bean up her nose. It took an hour to convince her to blow it out. Otherwise we were headed to urgent care - for a pinto bean.
• I am sick. It sucks.
  
• The dog has developed the dangerous habit of hopping on the table after dinner to check out if there are leftovers worth scrounging. This is dangerous. Eddie is likely to kill the dog if she does it again.
• Abby gave herself a shiner. She was spinning around to make herself dizzy and plowed into the cabinet head first. It looks like we beat her. We did not.
• We ate leftovers for dinner. I'm afraid I'll be needing to cook in the near future.
• We watched our friends kids last night and today. They have four kids; doing the math that makes for 8 children. It was surprisingly easy.
• It, oddly, hurts my fingers to type
• I hate the flu.
  

Long Love

He's not my childhood sweetheart. Though, looking back, its seems we were both barely out of childhood. But I can relate to this post.

I know what she means.

Because while we've been at this for over a decade, and we've got four little people to prove it, I still feel a bit "twitterpated". Only better, deeper, more.

Gospel Truth

The gospel is the dynamic for all heart-change, life-change, and social-change. Change won't happen through "trying harder" but only through encountering with the radical grace of God.

-Tim Keller

Special Needs and Bazooka Bubble Gum

So kid number 4 has a challenges regulating, and transitioning. Sugar-free gum helps. I know it's weird, but it's true. I mentioned that gum theft had been on the rise in our house to our therapist, and she pointed out that chewing gum actually helps sensory seeking kids regulate.

So we bought lots of Trident.

Whatever works. And, oddly, gum does work.

Unfortunately, kid #1 recently purchased Sugar-FULL Bazooka bubble gum at the Dollar Store with Valentines Money. Now we've taught our older kids that if they really care about something it needs to stay somewhere unattainable to kid #4. We'd love to guarantee that personal belongings are shown respect in this household. We're working on it, but in the meantime, you better just hide the stuff you really like.

Bazooka Gum did not get hidden properly.

Now Abby-girl has an earlier bedtime the rest - it helps with our sanity. Unfortunately, she was in non-compliance mode. We put her to bed. She snuck out of her room and promptly proceeded to chew 20 or so pieces of Bazooka Sugar-FULL. Now, as your probably aware, most people cannot fit 20 pieces in their mouth simultaneously. This is the case with our small-boned 3 year old. So, being the clever problem solver that she is she chewed 10.

And then she stored those 10 in her HAIR while she then proceeded to chew the other 10.

Abby is sporting a new, and rather cute bob haircut today.

I just got the scissors and cut a chunk of hair out (it could be fixed later), then loaded kid #4 up on extra melatonin. (Melatonin is the herbal supplement that doubles as miracle drug for families parenting kids from hard places - WE ADORE IT.)

Now here's the weird part:

The consequence for blatant naughtiness was a cup of warm milk and these words, "That gum belongs to Ethan. It doesn't belong to you. And gum is not for bedtime."

Because I know she'll swipe stuff again. I know she will wander the house again when she is supposed to be sleeping. I know we won't take gum away from her. I know that stiff consequences won't fix a thing.

Sleep issues will be the norm.
Trouble understanding ownership will be the norm.
Impulse control trouble will be the norm.

In these early years it is Bazooka Sugar-FULL. NOT A BIG DEAL. And I pray that God will protect my child as the years progress, and weight of consequences are much larger than we can imagine.

So it's baby gates, better hiding places and more melatonin. It's prayer for wisdom.

This is so not how I would have parented #1,2 and 3. And it's impossible to know where to make allowances for brain differences and where to enforce tough consequences. We're winging it here.

So if you see as making weird parenting choices. Offer grace. It's possible you do not know the whole story. It's possible that it is not as simple as you perceive it to be. It's possible that in our shoes, you would be making the same decision, and praying for wisdom too.

Aspergers

Today I met a kid on the autism spectrum. He explained to me why some pennies are shiny and some are not. It's some kind of chemical reaction, or something. I didn't get it.

A minute or two into this explaination and he got a "look" from his mom. "Too much.", she said.

He sighed, stopped, and explained, "My mom has a "3 facts a day" limit."

Then he walked out the door.

Awesome.

My One Word

A friend and mentor of mine challenged me to NOT make a New Year's Resolution this year. Instead, she said, "Pick a word." Just one. Where is it that God is at work in your story? Where is He trying to weave in a new thing, or, perhaps, develop a thing that is anemic, starving from lack of attention? So I picked one word.

It is February, and I have decided that "one word" is more difficult and more freeing than innumerable resolutions (resolutions, that would surely be broken by now). Because once fear, shame and guilt have been unharnessed they are useless in driving me. They lose their pull, and I find that my own self-discipline is not enough to move stubborn habit, wheels entrenched in mud. Still, this letting free of shame, guilt, and fear has been a good exchange. Because while this trio, well harnessed, can move a thing they also trample the soul. They crush and suffocate. Stifle.

So now here I stand, having let go of my former motivation, only to find that I do not have the strength, the emotional hudspah, to get" it" done." It", illusive "it", is almost everything. I have the muscles of an amoeba.

My word? My non-resolution?

Dance.

Let me tell you a story.

Years ago, pre-Eddie, I found myself in a long, weird and utterly dysfunctional relationship. I'd love to say I was innocent, and throw this former boyfriend under the bus. But, as any good psychologist will tell you, no man can be a verbally abusive, dehumanizing, devaluing, selfish ass of a boyfriend by himself. I stuck around. Way. Too. Long. And in the process my self-confidence took a pummeling.

Now at the time of this Dr. Phil-ish relationship it was hip to go out to West-Coast and East-Coast Swing Nightclubs. You know, like Dancing with the Stars, only less impressive and with more clothes on. So we'd dance. I knew the steps. I knew the moves. And on the dance floor I got yanked around. My arms felt like they would be yanked out of their sockets. This guy couldn't lead. I couldn't follow. I danced in fear of the next yank, trying to anticipate the next move so I could preemptively move in sync, avoiding the pain. And when I erred I was yanked and belittled. The result was a clumsy, disjointed imitation of the real swing, hardly dance at all.

Eventually, I got a clue, and left this relationship behind. He grew up. I did too.

I met Eddie. Some of first dates we went dancing. Eddie knew how to dance, and he knew how to lead. I knew the steps too, but I was used to harsh treatment, yanks and humiliation. I couldn't follow. Couldn't. It was a process, for me, a process of learning to trust. He knew what he was doing. He wasn't going to hurt me. I wasn't going to be embarrassed. He led me gently, surely. I could rest in that. With him I could dance. And I learned to dance without the hiccups of fear, and the jolts of insecurity. I knew what to expect of him, even in while learning a new move or spin, or flip. I grew accustomed to his touch, and responsive to his lead.

Eddie has always been like this, in dance, and in our relationship. Good to me. And I am a better me. I fell hard for this man; I'm still falling.

So, back to my one word: Do you see it, this parallel in my mind? I learned to dance with my husband, but sometimes I think I have not yet learned to dance with my God. I am not yet accustomed to his touch, responsive to his lead. I anticipate, making a preemptive move to avoid a yank. A yank that would not come. I have not always lived the spiritual sigh, lived safe as I am, in the hands of one who loves me. I have been, at times, bound to fear, and shame.

I want to dance.

I want to hear the melody He whispers in my ear. I want to join my heart to the cadence he offers and let my feet follow his sure-gentle lead. I want to dance, entwined in the steady hand of divinity.

Happy Valentines Day

-This morning's beverage of choice: hot cocoa with heart shaped marshmellows. Healthful, I know. But no one 'round these parts complained about the artificial colors or flavors.

-The kids were in a "mood" yesterday when they realized that Valentines was not recognized as a national holiday for which school was canceled. The injustice.

-Eddie has the flu. Bad. Romance=NyQuil, and tea with honey. 13 years in we discovered love often looks less like a Hallmark greeting card and a lot more washing the dishes, and bedtime stories.

My husband, of the bedtime stories and on-line bill pay, is my favorite person on the planet.

Hands down.
No contest.
There is no one else is even in the running.

He is my own personal hero, and best friend.

And a good kisser too.

This is my Valentine's Day Prayer: Thank You. He is more than I deserve.

A knock-down drag out kind of Day

Today was a knock down, drag-out kind of day.

I started with the best of intentions. My goals were aligned rightly with the things that matter to the heart of God. Thus, I declared battle. And I was caught unaware.

We began by reading the fictionalized biography of Mary Jemison; it's called "Indian Captive". The little white girl of the story was taken captive by Seneca Indians at the end of the 18th century. Ultimately, when given the choice, she chose to stay with her captors. (side note: if you are parenting a child from "hard places" this is a must for your reading list.)

We happened to be at the part of the story where Mary was talking with an Indian Woman who had taken her in. The woman was sharing how courageously animals of the forest dealt with hurt and misfortune. She challenged Mary, poor grieving girl that she was, to deal courageously with her hurt.

That was in the story.

In our house in suburbia chaos ensued. Tears. Screaming. Hysteria. Venomous words began to spew. They were totally out of proportion to situation.

Whoa! I was unprepared.

For I know a true thing: Out of the overflow of the heart the mouth speaks. We didn't have a mouth issue. We had an issue of the heart. Festering wounds. Bitterness. Ingratitude. The room fairly reeked of it. It was a nearly palpable evil.

While the rest of us talked about how deal with hurt and injustice this child REFUSED to engage - lost in rage. Nursing a grievance, holding in to the heart just as one would an infant. And the thing took on a life of its own.

It was an ugly few hours. I wish I could say I was a pinnacle of wisdom and kindness. I was not. Well at first I was, but as it drug on and on, and the Godzilla of Hurt marched through our living room, I eventually lost it. I said helpful things like, "What is coming out of your mouth right now is absolutely putrid.You're infecting all of us. " I used the highly effective parenting strategies of shame and guilt like a one-two punch. And the monster grew. It was the stuff of reality TV.

I'm not a big spanker, particularly with this child (for whom spanking generally does not resolve a thing). I try never to spank when angry. But holy hell did this kid need a whooping. And I delivered - mostly not furious. Mostly. Eventually, rage spent, this child could hear. Could receive.

"You will be hurt. Often, you will be inconvenienced and misunderstood. And when your heart is broken or wounded HURT fills those places. Then you have a choice. Will you allow the hurt to stay. Will you feed it, and watch it grow. Will you let it ferment, and mold and go rancid? Or will you take that HURT to Jesus and give it to Him? Will you let Him heal you? That is your choice. Because what I heard today was old HURT spewing out of a wounded heart. It was a little thing that caused it, but your heart was so filled with this poison-hurt it oozed out with the smallest opportunity. "

And this child says, "But I try, I try not to let those words come out of my mouth. I try to control it."

"How's that working for you?", I say, in my best Dr. Phil voice.

"It's not."

"Exactly. Heart work is God's work. Will you let go of your hurt and let God heal your heart?"

Pause. Sniff. Watery smile.

We've reconnected. The drama of the morning has been redeemed. At last, God may work. But this hurt, this bitterness it's insipid stuff. It can corrode a soul, a family, a church. It is a destroyer, and more lethal for its subtlety.

Oh God of Heaven, help us, for we are not immune. So prone to wander, so prone towards petty hurt, and long bitterness, that we can no longer smell its stench. Let us be sensitive to it. Quick to reconcile. Quick to forgive. Let the aroma of Christ be the sweet incense of my life.

Little Abby

Kids #1,2 and 3 are bright and creative, but they've never had imaginary friends. Kid #4 does. And to my great delight Abby has named her imaginary friend after.....herself. True, it is a bit narcissistic to name ones imaginary friend after oneself. But if you can't get away with narcissistic tendencies when you're 3, when can you?

Little Abby usually comes out to play when we are transitioning from one thing to another. Change stresses out my little one, and she's clever enough to know it's better to do hard things with a friend.

My big kids think Little Abby is a kick. They are always asking Big Abby about Little Abby because the answers they get are, frankly, amusing. Once on the ride home from Grandpa's Emma asked, "Abby, where is Little Abby?"

Gasp.

Shriek.

"Emma, you're squishing her!", Big Abby hollered. She was dismayed.

And my big kids died of laughter. Emma, being a considerate sister, did however move her foot.

Funny, charming endearing, that little girl of ours.

Unschool: why I wish I could and don't.

Unschool started in academia in the 70's as a rebellion against traditional classroom models. Back in the day it was called the "open classroom". Basically, academics questioned why kids were learning about trees from a text book in darkish classroom when directly outside the door there was:

a. real. live. tree.

With leaves that changed by season.
Providing shelter to birds, squirrels and bugs.
A living textbook in the truest sense.

It was a good question, that.

In fact, the best educators have been asking it for hundreds of years. Charlotte Mason understood, and wrote about it at the beginning of the industrial revolution in England. She waged war against "twaddle" (worthless worksheets and dry textbooks). She insisted that kids could learn from quality literature, and nature, and real life.

Unschooling is Charlotte Mason on steroids. It's child-led, interest driven learning that happens in the natural unfolding of life. It explodes the dichotomy of school vs. life. And in Derridian style unschoolers thumb their nose at production driven modalities of modernist education. Organic. Wholistic. Authentic. Diverse.

And the me who spent those years at CU and ensconced Boulder -life rejoices. Amen. Amen.

Insert my own personal schizophrenia.

Right-brained me and left-brained me wage war. Because, while making homemade chicken noodle soup with my children, my left-brained self is screaming, "Real math means memorizing multiplication tables. And cooking with kids is messy." The left-brained me longs to have a worksheet I can correct in the ink of a red ball-point pen.

Discipline.
Creativity.
Linear.
Inter-woven.
Curriculum based.
Interest driven.

The war wages. I cannot decide. And for unschooling to work you must trust it. Leap over the edge of the waterfall and let it immerse you. And the left-brained me cannot make that leap.

So I'm trying to find the middle ground. I ask:
"Will this worksheet help them learn?"
"Can it reasonably be taught another way?"
"If they fill in the blank correctly, yet cannot explain the concept have they learned?"
"Is it worth the battle?"
"Does it preserve or grow my relationship with my children?"

And those questions help to keep me on track.

It's the dance, after all.
Creative expression within structure.

Hunky Dunky

It's Mother Goose according to Abby. And it goes a little something like this:

Hunky Dunky sat on a wall.
Hunky Dunky felled.
And nobody could fix him.