Curly Jo's 2 cents

Pity Me, or Don't

2012-02-09T17:12:00.000-08:00

We've had the stomach flu. I am an overachiever at the stomach flu. A champ.I won't go into details, but believe me here.

We're recovering. I'm recovering, but it's left me in an emotional funk. The emotional funk in the midst of sickness is not the time to evaluate ones life. But I was starting down a road of self pity.

See I've got 2 kids with dyslexic tendencies, and one with FASD, and then one who's just freaky smart. These kids, plus my temperament do not equal an easy match for public schools.

I was feeling rather grumpy about this.

But turn it around. I have the opportunity homeschool my kids in a way that is tailored to who they are. I have an opportunity to know and invest in them for who they are, and how they are wired. I have choices. This is a blessing. It is. No need for pity here...I have the choice to live this with joy, to the hilt, or to, NOT. And I get to pick.

Who wears the pants?

2012-02-02T13:51:00.000-08:00

Caleb told me yesterday that if I ran for office I would only be vice president.

"Interesting," I said, "explain, please."

"Well, Dad would be the president.", he spouted, as if that was all the explanation needed.

So, apparently, Eddie wears the pants in our marriage.

At least, as far as Caleb is concerned.

Actually, we do a pretty nice tag team, and have worked out a division of labor that makes life happen around here. I don't ever feel bossed around, or relegated to steerage. The 1950's version of "wearing the pants" doesn't really resonate - at least not for our marriage.

If leadership meant anything like that I would probably dig in my heals a bit - or, um, a lot! As it stands leadership looks like Eddie creating a platform for me to shine. And I try to do the same for him - I try to create a place and opportunities for him to be his best. This works for us. And, if I can be so bold, I think this is how marriage SHOULD work.

Here is the other way Eddie leads: he protects me. Yeah...tones of 1950 with this one, but it's true, and subtle. Early on in our marriage Eddie discovered that I freak out about money, so he took over doing the bills. It had nothing to do with competence (okay, maybe a little to do with it ), rather he was protecting me from my own freak outs. I'm cool with it. In this sort of undefinable way he makes home safe. When Eddie traveled we felt it - the kids woke at night, and had bad dreams. I locked up at night - which apparently wasn't the same as dad doing it. Never once has Eddie gone after a bad guy at 2AM with a baseball bat, but just knowing that he would some how just makes it better. Plus, he squishes spiders, and that job was mine too, when he was gone. Call me Mrs. Cleaver, butI like these things. Safe feels nice.

So "who wears the pants?" has been a non-issue in our marriage.

But, here is where it gets weird, I have my own "leadership" gifts. I'm a good teacher. I'm a good visionary, and strategist. I can build concensus (just can't spell it), and can help build cohesive teams. Granted, I've been up to my eyeballs in motherhood most of my adult life, but when opportunities arise these are roles where i can succeed. In fact, I use these skills in how I mother our kids.

Unfortunately, I generally suck at crafting, hostessing, administration and the stuff that women are asked to do in church settings. If you need a pot-luck organized, I am most definitely NOT your girl. But if you are looking to develop short and long term goals for your children's ministry staff, I could probably help craft a document like that.

Eddie gets this about me. He uses it to our families benefit. Eddie doesn't ask me to be who I am not; he knows the girl he married.

The church, however, is another matter. We really like the new church we've found. But I feel awkward as a gangly 13 year old as we begin to look for places to serve in this new community. Churches, generally, don't know what to do with girls like me. I really want to serve, but I don't want to be conspicuous. I'm cool with brewing coffee, or helping out in the children's ministry, but I am good at other things too. Things that look like, ahhm, leadership. In our marriage, and in my life, leadership has never been equated with "throwing ones weight around" it's been about service; its been about creating a place for others to shine. So I don't really understand some churches' hang-ups with women in leadership roles, of course, women can and should influence a church culture. But some churches DO have issues with women in leadership. And we still haven't quite figured out where this new church stands. I don't want it to be a big deal. I don't have to be the "boss" to be a part of something. But a part of me wonders, "is this a safe place for me to do and be all that God has wired me to do and be?"

It's a weird tension.

On Joy

2012-02-01T16:24:00.002-08:00

I'm learning joy. I'm learning joy has to be learned.

Cultivated. Joy must be cultivated. And I wonder how I never knew this before, how it escaped me.

My fundamentalist background mandated that I should be "joyful always". And "joy" was a "should" that I always struggled with, because Depression and I have wrestled much of my adult life. As much as I wanted to dance with joy I wore cement boots. No one had good answers for that.

I'm good at martyrdom, and self-sacrifice. Co-dependence even? Eeesh, I hope I have outgrown that, but this is true:

I have not tilled the soil in my heart to make ready for joy. I have not scattered the types of seeds that could germinate into this joy-life that the Bible says is possible. I didn't know I could, or that I should, or how to even go about it.

I am a novice gardener, this is my first go at deliberately cultivating a joy-filled life., but here is what I am learning:

First, uproot the weeds.

-Joy isn't hedonistic.
-Experiencing joy isn't selfish.
-Value isn't determined by productivity.
-Comparison is a thief that steals joy. It must STOP!
-Hope in anything I can lose, is no hope at all.

Then cultivate a life where joy can grow:

-Develop the deliberate and intentional discipline of gratitude. For everything. In everything.
-Create beauty. See beauty. Hunt for it.
-Rest. Do the Sabbath. Every month, every week, every day I am responsible for carving out room for my soul to breathe, and be fed. I am responsible. I am not the passive victim to which life has happened. If life is mundane, and ugly I need to look carefully to see if I have made it so, or allowed it to be so.
-Long obedience demands that I carefully nurture my heart.
-Become a worshiper - not just on Sundays.
--I cannot offer life out of a vacuum. If I want to care for others, I need to run to the one who can fill my life with joy.
-The metric for success must be carefully aligned with true greatness. The first world has a very distorted view of greatness.
-Become okay with slow. What feels slow to me is probably just about right for my crew.
-Work hard. Choose to do it with a cheerful heart.
-Live out who God has made me to be.

On Joy

2012-02-01T16:24:00.001-08:00

On Joy

2012-02-01T16:24:00.000-08:00

Invisible disability

2012-01-25T15:04:00.001-08:00

Bottom line: parenting a child with invisible disabilities is humbling.

Case in point: Today.

Abby has been out of sorts lately, and what I mean by that is she is on a downhill slope of a FASD behavior roller-coaster. Difficulty regulating, difficulty sleeping, difficulty transitioning, low threshold for frustration, lots of oppositional behavior are par for the course in one of these down hill turns. (think 2 year old behavior out of a nearly 5 year old) Sometimes I think it's just about her being tired or getting sick; sometimes I cannot nail down one single solitary trigger that would account for the shift. It just is. Predictably unpredictable. And every time it takes me by surprise. When she's doing well, I come to expect it from her and I set aside some of my best therapeutic parenting techniques - then wham. I'm sitting dazed on my butt mumbling, "Oh, yeah, that's ARND behavior, I should have been prepared..."

The last few days have been rough...I recognized it for what it was...brain quirks and such.

Abby umm.... acted out at Caleb's swimming lessons today. It's not an ideal situation for her, and today she could. not. keep. it. together. I pulled out all of my best tricks to very little avail. The hollering, whining and crying were, shall we say, considerable. And I couldn't leave, and it sort of echoed like we were in the Grand Canyon. She appeared to be exceptionally bratty. And, well, she was....bratty, I mean. I can excuse it (or, at least, understand) when I remember to expect her to act half of her chronological age. I can expect it when I know that life feels like any itchy sweater, sleep deprivation and heavy metal with a hangover for Abby. I'd be cranky too.

But to everyone else? Just simple brattiness .

And it's humbling.

And I am reminded that I am more than the best behaviors, or worst behaviors of my children. Their success, or lack thereof, does not define me. I am my own and His, and what you see may not be the whole of it.

2012-01-17T20:16:00.000-08:00

Homeschooling:week 2

I remember why I love homeschooling.

We spent a half hour just watching a baby calf in the field, and rode bikes. We curled up on the couch reading a Fredrick Douglass biography. He read. He did his best and was proud of his work. He is learning. Quickly even. He may not be quite at grade level, according to "the district" , but he is dang close, even by their standards. Give him a month or two of fear- free, opportunity rich time and He will flourish. It's been so fun.

Remind me of this on the days when I hate homeschooling. They will come.

Emma is jealous. She wants to come home. Remind me that homeschooling one is not the same as homeschooling two, or three, or four. Pray for me as I wrestle with where my children should be next year. .

Slow is smooth and smooth is quick...

2012-01-06T09:56:00.000-08:00

Eddie has a superintendent that was a marine - special forces. The guy has fascinating stories. Fascinating.

Yesterday, he told Eddie about a saying they have in the marines:

"Slow is smooth, and smooth is quick."

Those words have been rolling around in my head, buffing away at some of the jagged edges of half formulated thoughts. Think on it: slow is smooth and smooth is quick. It challenges the motion of our lives, the pace at which we measure our days. We think our motion is movement - productivity even. But maybe we're just gyrating to the rhythms of chaos. Maybe their is nothing quick about frantic.

Part my psychophrenia about education is because my core beliefs are really on the margins of the culture at large, and sometimes living on the margins feels uncomfortable. So, I move towards the mainstream, but I find that that is even more uncomfortable. How do I live with these beliefs, and the reality of their cost to my kids, and our family? How do they flesh out in the world outside of my head, and do I sometimes need to make concessions to reality, even as I hold on to the ideal? Hence, the phychophrenia.

I kinda think it wouldn't be that big of deal if we didn't teach kids to read until they were 8. Especially if they get to listen to stories like Charlotte's Web, and Mrs. Piggle Wiggle and The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe. I'm pretty sure that kids can learn grammar sans worksheet, and that baking cookies and playing store are pretty damn good ways to learn math. I think map reading skills develop best on road trips. I'm pro childhood and long afternoons lived out in pretend worlds. It's slow. It's smooth. And could it be quick? What if slow is the ideal pace of childhood?

What if 1.5 hours of homework for a 4th grader is just dumb? Maybe she should be making friendship bracelets and lemonade?

I was looking at my 5th grade son's language arts review sheet and noticed he was being quizzed on the subjunctive tense. Seriously? I was an English major and I cannot remember what that is - nor do I care. I cannot fathom a world where any 5th grade child would be edified in the knowing. Does this improve his writing? His oral communication? His critical thinking, or appreciation of literature? Will it ever matter? Or is it more drill and kill, and crank the blank? I believe it is the later.

Gyrating to the rhythm of chaos.

What if language is the art of conversation and communication? What if we teach our kids to love the aesthetic of a well written verse, and what if they learn to wield the written word like a powerful tool? What if we, say, didn't do so many worksheets? And, well, spent some more time reading really good books, and writing?What if we honored the fact that a kid spending an afternoon learning HTML to recode his computer game is real learning, and mattered? What if it was more important that a science worksheet?

So public school fits me like a wools sweater two sizes too small. It makes me itchy. I take a deep breath and tell my self it WILL be okay; everyone is doing it . I try to cajole myself, to spin the benefits of sending my kids to the machine that cranks out kids with standardized skills. There IS a part of me that loves tab A, slot B, turn this, punch in that system. Its tidier, and more predictable. And I am not anti phonics, grammar, math or composition. They're important, and sometimes boring to learn. Kid's should still learn them anyway. And sometimes in a really systematic way. But still. Itchy.

Homeschool is messy, and frankly, in certain seasons, totally undoable in our life. Real life is where the ideal meets dirty dishes, flu symptoms, bills, and bad attitudes. And there is friction. Always friction. And I don't have answers . Not always. But...

slow is smooth and smooth is quick

And there must be a way to teach them that honors this truth.

Double Minded...

2012-01-05T11:19:00.001-08:00

I'm an options girl. I collect options like some people collect key chains or trinkets. I like making life a multiple choice test, but in the end I never like to choose one thing over an other. Options, wiggle room, and space to imagine are much more comfortable for me.

So we were pursuing an option for schooling Caleb via a home study charter school. Basically it homeschool with some funding and accountability provided by the lovely state of California. Caleb got in. I should be leaping and shouting for joy, but I am not. Because its decision time, and I like options. Choosing this route, necessitates that we do not continue to have him in public school. Obviously. And well, mostly, I don't like public school. But I do like some things about it. And Caleb wouldn't have those things anymore.

I am such a freaking opinionated perfectionist about schooling - I annoy myself with it sometimes. So here is, for all to see, my pro/con list.

PUBLIC SCHOOL
PROS
It wouldn't require change
All the kids would be doing the same thing
Caleb would be getting some reading supports he needs
Caleb would continue stay connected with friends he is making at school.
I get time to myself.
Eventually we could get some testing done - probably...

CONS
Caleb hates school - most days anyway
I have philosophical objections to some of publics schools practice - so its cognitive dissonance for me baby!
The after school homework craziness would still be craziness because Emma and Caleb both require lots of my help at a time of the day when they are already spent.
Caleb gets so anxious he doesn't sleep well when he knows he's going to school
Caleb doesn't eat at school
We wouldn't have time or money to get him into things like Karate, drama, or guitar - area's were he could really excel and shine
I don't have as much one on one time with my kids.

HOMESCHOOL CHARTER
PROS
We would have the money and time to get Caleb in Karate. drama or guitar
I could tailor the curriculum to meet Caleb's needs
We could get connected with some co-op homeschool families
I would have one on one time with Emma after school b/c would already be done for the day
Caleb would leave the anxiety of school, and hopefully he would eat and sleep better
We could still be meeting state standards and do testing via the charter

CONS
My alone time goes out the window.
Change
Leaving friends, missing field trips and class parties etc.
Possibly send the message to Caleb that he can quit hard things
The kids won't all be doing the same thing
Makes it more difficult for Caleb to get back into the elementary school again if we change our minds

2012-01-02T08:01:00.000-08:00

13. Hot pink sunrise
14. Lattes - plural
15. Decongestants and sleeping in
16. One last day of "vacation"
17. Snazzy high tech phone.

This morning, in just a few minutes, I will start the phone call making process to get my daughters insurance figured out and my sons school figured out-hopefully. I feel like it is me against two huge and enormous beauractatic machines. And if the gears catch just right then we are on our way....but if the wrong person answers the phone then our fate could be different. I am praying for the mighty hand of God to intervene on our behalf. If he hung the stars then certainly a little beauracracy cannot be too much for Him.

Count em

2012-01-01T19:55:00.000-08:00

Blessings:
1. Free passes to six flags
2. A walk around the lake with my husband
3. Mascoto - my new favorite girly wine
4. Giggling kids playing UNO and Phase 10
5. Lemon tree, lavendar, rosemary,grapes and blackberries in my yard
6. Craft projects cluttering the table
7. Kids old enough to make their own breakfast - crepes even!
8. A trip to pacific grove
9. A large capacity washing machine
10.a sweet library with a great kids section
11. Enough cash to pay the overdue fines
12. Down comforter and old sweatshirts

A long time coming...

2011-12-23T07:01:00.000-08:00

This post is a long time coming. In fact, I doubt anyone ever reads this anymore because I've been sporadic - at best. But my "hit or miss" posts are chronicle our lives, and someday my kids might care. So, I post. Randomly.

I like California.

I am not such a big fan of typical public schools. Oddly, this surprises me. It shouldn't, but it does. This opinion is an old one, well formed, researched and entrenched. It began before I graduated from college while still in the Department of Education at CU. I did my practicums in middle schools and the Juvenile Justice Center and I saw things. These things disturbed me and kept me up at night. Mostly, I discovered that, while school was okay for lots of kids, many, many others suffered there. Literally, suffered. Anyone who fell outside one standard divination of the bell curve was well and truly marginalized. Gifted. Learning Disabled. Short. Chubby. Physically handicapped. Clutzy. Poor. Doesn't matter what the metric for normalcy is; kids outside of it suffer.

Actually, my own public school experience was kinda sucky. So, maybe my opinions started far before college, and were formed in Kindergarten, when I fell outside the norms. If people had been in to diagnosing ADHD then I might have received the label. But I was ADD before it was trendy, and I was a girl. I was well behaved. I just struggled. I felt stupid through high school, and it wasn't until college that I realized that I was actually smarter than most of my peers. Luckily, I had a really stable home life and my parents made some good moves to help me negotiate the war zone. I survived public schools, and even have a few fond memories. Yet for me, on a very basic pimal level public schools = scary and unsafe.

Now things have changed since I was a kindergartner, and even since I was an undergraduate. Policy has sifted. No Child Left Behind rules the day. Standardized Testing guides the classroom. Now kids on the margins shouldn't fall through the cracks. But they do. Oh, but they do. School isn't a good place to be something other than Standard.

Before, these opinions were largely academic. Here and now it has become deeply personal.

I have a child on the margins, and I watch him suffer.

Last year Caleb was a first grader, and a homeschool kid. We home schooled that year out of necessity, not from a place of joy. Basically, I brought the curriculum my kids were using at school home, and we did school at home. (Which, if you are a homeschooler you know, is not the same as homeschool, but that is a post for another day). Anyway, I watched Caleb progress slowly. I kept telling Eddie, "Something is not right here." But Caleb was basically content. By the second semester I knew I needed a shift. I started moving back to true homeschool (or at least true to me homeschool) and I had Caleb evaluated for ADHD. We put him on stimulants and watched his academic performance excellerate rapidly. Unfortuantely, the meds had sidefeffects that were intollerable. Caleb couldn't sleep. His eye began to twitch, which I later discovered was "ticking" and often a precursor to the onset of true Tourettes syndrome. Anyway, we took him off the meds, and hoped that we would find solutions and relief at the Gifted Charter school he would begin as a second grader.

Westgate (the Charter school) is a school based on universal design and employs the best practices of both gifted education and special education in the typical classroom. And, um, there were a lot of quirky kids there. Basically, it was a school for kids on the margins. Quirky was cool, or at least very acceptable. Caleb was doing okay there even without the meds -kinda.

Then we moved, and put Caleb in Public School.

And within a week we saw him flounder, fail, and begin to sink. He developed headaches, stomach aches, nightmares, and serious school anxiety. He was really, really behind and confused. I watch him walk around in a fog. Actually, thinking back, I remember the fog. it's a feeling I haven't had since my own public school days. Phychologists call it disassociating. Basically, I checked out. My body was there, but my mind and heart were elsewhere. School sucked, and though I physically had to be there I could choose to be elsewhere too. On those days I lived my life in 3rd person. I have seen my son do the same, and I remember the pain that was the precursor to the fog. And I am determined, my son will not live a life in 3rd person, he will not be a person of the fog.

So we've looked back into medication. And we've found a med that works for ADHD that is a non-stimulant and doesn't lower the threshold for ticking. For now, Tourettes is held at bay. And the new med is working. We're seeing slow and real progress in Caleb's ability to attend.
We've also had him evaluated by an audiologist and found that he does have a real auditory processing struggle. The sound of school is a challenge for him - it's a jungle of noise. For now, he has no guide book, compass or map through it. The school has been responsive, in their slow and beauracratic way, but they teeter on gray legal area, and they are a machine that will not be deterred. They are a locomotive on the tracks of standardization and policy, and my son might be a casualty.

I am faced with 2 options.

A - Hop on the train, like a ho-bo. And use my influence to direct the choices of the school. But like a train it has mass and inertia that is not easily influenced.

B- Get off the tracks, and help my son without the resources or policies of "THE DISTRICT".

And it's decision time...

Fasdblink

2011-12-03T07:40:00.000-08:00

this is our life.

http://daysofwonderandgrace.wordpress.com/category/prenatal-exposure/2011/07/20/personal-best-is-not-predictive/#entry

Easiest, Hardest, Most Surprising.

2011-11-20T15:36:00.001-08:00

Yesterday I asked Eddie what has been the easiest, hardest and most surprising thing about this move. It was a pretty good question, I thought. Here are my answers:

-EASIEST
-Finding a church
-Finding my way around a new area
-getting unpacked and settled

HARDEST
-Helping the kids navigate really hard school stuff
-Watching Eddie struggle with acclimating to a really difficult job
-Finding time to exercise

SURPRISING
-We found a big, pretty traditional church that we are becoming acquainted with. "Big" and "Traditional" have not been the adjectives of our recent church history, and we didn't think a church like that was our speed. Yet we are finding community, and stability and worshipfulness in this place.
-How much I've enjoyed intentionally hanging out with the family.

2011-11-10T12:15:00.000-08:00

Abby's Ballad

"I'm (n)inja Abby.
I'm Inja Abby.
We are the Inja Girls.
The spiders are sad and my mom is working on her ipad
I PAD!!!!
It makes me happy!
I am a precious girl, girl...
watch me I (know) how to jump!

She's an original, that girl. And I'm the only one who got to hear that particular song; and it's a one and done kinda thing. No one will ever hear that particular song again. I am the lucky one.

So anyway....life is bumpy post-move. We're kinda taking a pummeling. Caleb is struggling in school. Emma is struggling in school. Ethan isn't actually struggling much, but he likes to complain sometimes anyway. Abby and I are pretty much sick of hanging out with each other - we are the only people we know and we've henceforth been too busy with survival to meet anybody.Eddie is treading water at work, busting his *ss to keep afloat. So last week I'd had it. HAD IT! I decided I was done watching my family take a beating, and I would not sit idly by and watch it happen.

"Dammit", I said. And I really meant damn-it; like Satan, you and your minions are headed to Hell, and let me help you on your way. You will not wreak havoc on my family. So I've been getting up early and praying, praying, praying.

God and I had a little heart to heart.

"You said you wouldn't leave us, you said you'd never forsake. GOD, do you hear me? We are drowning here! Show up!"

I've been reading this book off and on; It's called "When God Interrupts". When I don't hate it I really like it. The author says, and I paraphrase, "When you feel as though you've been abandoned by God you've only been abandoned by the God of your own making. Not the real God. He doesn't abandon and He doesn't behave how we believe he should. He's the Jesus that showed up after Lazarus died, not before. He's the Jesus who waited till after the grief and loss to make an appearance, and He's the mysterious one who doesn't abandon and never forsakes. He is the One worth knowing."

And though we are in the thick of it, and we are still taking a beating, I do believe we have not been abandoned. More than that, He has been gracious in his blessings.

-We found a church we like (an ironic story for another day)
-We got a great doctor, and some teachers who are really on the ball sorting through the crisis with Caleb.
-Abby (or theoretically special needs child) is doing really well. We found her a preschool too.
-We live in a beautiful place, and somehow it soothes when the suckage here gets pretty intense.
-Eddie has someone at works who understands.
-Caleb made a friend. So did the other kids.
-A lady I met invited me to coffee; I might soon have a friend in this fine state.
-Wine is yummy and cheap when you live this close to Napa.

So it's a mixed bag. Hard stuff. Lots of blessing too. Then more hard stuff.

On Community... or lack thereof.

2011-10-30T06:29:00.000-07:00

We love Colorado for lots of reasons. The climate. The mountains. The blue sky. But, mostly, we love the people.

California has lots to love too. The Pacific Ocean. Need I say more?

It does not, however, have our peeps. We have a real live grandma and grandpa and great grandma and grandpa in Colorado. We have aunties, and uncles and surrogates by the dozen. We were loved by and love some really amazing people in the fine state of Colorado.

And that is a wealth that is hard to come by. So our search for community in California has begun, and we feel like those poor blokes in the gold rush. Treasure isn't easy.

We started our prospecting at church, because as much as I sometimes hate church, I love it more. Our dearest friendships, and most loyal war buddies have nearly always been forged at church. So we went. And there was a choir, and some of the women wore panty hose, and a fair number of the dudes wore ties. I had some PTSD-type flashbacks to my Baptist roots. I begged Eddie not to make me go in while we were still in the parking lot. Eddie told me to put on my big girl pants. So, I did. It wasn't TERRIBLE. I actually liked the hymns, and watching my 8 year old rock out to the orchestra.

Alas, this was not our community.

We miss Gary Duncan greeting us with a warm smile and an off-color joke as we walk in the door to church. Where can you get that, I ask?

Do they even make churches like that in California?

I hope so, because we could use a little church without the varnish. We don't have the time or inclination for the spit and polish. We'd just like to meet some folk who love Jesus. Like REALLY. LOVE. JESUS. You'd that church would be a good place to look.

Then maybe they could come over, and grill burgers and drink beer, and lemonade. And we could be friends.

I guess I'm thankful that I know what the mother lode looks like. I know the taste and texture of real community. I know the good and gritty of true, deep friendship. I know what I'm looking for, because I know what it's like to live rich - the affluence of love.

So if your a praying person, pray. Pray, that we will find this treasure, and our kids will live this treasure too. We want this kind of wealth for their future more than the type that will buy a glass mansion teetering on the edge of a the hills overlooking The Bay.

Rich friendship.
Real community.
To know and be known.

Head in a Cardboard Box

2011-10-27T22:04:00.000-07:00

I don't have my head in the sand.

It's in a cardboard box . Figuratively. Figuratively - ish. My head has been in a cardboard box, literally, more often as of late. But figuratively, my head has been in a box too. Or maybe there are boxes in my head. The analogy is crummy, but the fact is still true. Moving across the country has consumed all of my headspace.

Today I listened to NPR and discovered that the economy sucks in Europe and its affecting the Euro. Yeah..missed that one. Probably most other stuff too. 'Cause, as I said, my head has been literally and figuratively in a box.

I would like to re-emerge from corrugated cardboard, but I feel it may yet be weeks away.

Week 2 in California

2011-10-24T06:49:00.000-07:00

Week 2; status report:

-The kitchen is unpacked.
-The bedrooms are unpacked.
-The bathrooms are unpacked.
-There are still boxes.
-I am tired of boxes.

Mostly, these remaining boxes contain pictures, mirrors and other wall hangings. There is also a smattering of office supply boxes and a few boxes of unpacked books (for which we have no shelving). In another 2 weeks I am hoping to be living in a box free home.

The biggest unpacking frustration is the lack of a good linen closet in our new house. Our current "linen closet" looks remarkably like a large cardboard box. It contains towels, sheets, Children's Tylenol and toilet bowl cleaner all mixed up together. The packers were men who didn't understand the finer points of linen closet packing - apparently. Or, maybe the just didn't care, and dumped everything into a wardrobe box figuring we'd be in California and too far away to hunt them down - yeah, that's probably it.

What this new abode lacks in linen closets it makes up in location. We are literally right next to an open space. A 1 minute walk up a small hill yields views of the bay. At sunset it is breathtaking. B.R.E.A.T.H. T.A.K.I.N.G. And if by chance you walk a minute down the hill, you will cross a little bridge and discover yourself walking on a path lined on one side with blackberry bushes....which taste yummy in scones. As I said, the kitchen is unpacked. If you keep walking down the blackberry path you'll cross a road, and enter Lake Chabot Park and Open Space. There are miles of trails, great fishing spots, and importantly, a snack shack that sells Push-up Pops. Ethan cannot wait for his friend Jonah to visit. Jonah loves to fish. Ethan loves push-up pops. The days have been planned, furthermore Jonah's entire future has been planned, as the kids have decided he should become a Park Ranger at Lake Chabot. Actually, that might be a good gig for Jonah, but as he is 10, we will give him a few years before he has to decide.

This is Small Town, USA - the neighbors are friendly, and charmingly nosey. The old guy down the street brought over beer to share with Eddie. They sat on the porch shooting the breeze for a couple of hours. Freshly picked orchard apples have been left on our porch. Flower's delivered, and a dozen of introductions made. Nice place, this.

But it has not all been sunshine and roses (or blackberries and sunsets). We still don't have our internet working. The California branch of ATT must hire employees from a pool of high school drop outs and losers. We are under-impressed. Our cable doesn't work, either. And pretty much nothing is straight forward. There are big emotions and their coinciding behaviors happening round here. Eddie's work is overwhelming, and challenging. I don't often see him legitimately "frazzed" (I just made up that word). The dude can handle more responsibility and stress than most everyone I know. But he's "frazzed".

Today, we're finalizing the kids school enrollment. Tomorrow should be there first day. We are all freaking slightly...the poor kids have to start another new school, and mid-year this time. Here's betting a therapist will here about it 15 years from now...

So breakfast needs to be served, and I am the short order cook round here. I must be done. More to come...

soon

2011-10-11T20:02:00.000-07:00

It is Tuesday evening and the truck pulls out on Friday morning. Hyperventilating here.

I said goodbye to my mom and my sister and my best friend today. I love them all dearly. Bittersweet.

My husband is in Castro Valley and I am in Northglenn. We are states away, and I am sick of it. Lonely for him.

And in the middle of it am feeling so blessed. Because I have a husband I miss. Because I have a family to love and who loves me.
And because I have a friend who has loved me through many seasons. Because I have a God who never changes and never abandons and he is good yesterday, today, and tomorrow. Amen and Amen

Funny thing just to remember and 13 years.

2011-10-06T19:47:00.001-07:00

Abby is cute these days. And sweet. She's just loving preschool and is a sponge. I need to post a picture and tell the stories so I don't forget 4 - it's worth remembering how she sports the superman suit with pink cowboy boots and pig tails. It's worth remembering how she is so proud to write her name.

While Eddie and I were house hunting in California my parents and dear friend, Dawn split kid watching duty. My dad overheard this comment:

" Grandpa has curly hair, Mommy has curly hair. Abby has normal hair. Dad just has a head!"

Love it.

But that daddy with just a head, is her favorite. They've got a special thing going on the two of them.

Caleb - because he is himself, did a funny thing too. He wore his pajamas to school because he thought it was Pajama Day. His siblings told him that it's actually next week. I suggested that he wear jeans and pack jammies just to be safe. But he was surely sure it was today. He was wrong. Luckily, Caleb wears hand-me-down karate pants as jammies, so no one even noticed. Well I'm sure someone noticed, but not for the reason Caleb thought. It's just that red spiderman t-shirts, white Karate pants and brown hiking boots are kinda a fashion statement in and of themselves. He was so utterly unflustered by the whole thing, I wonder if his feet touch the ground at all some days. When I was his age mine rarely did. The drummer in this kid's head plays a rhythm few others hear....and I like it.

Ethan is 5 foot 3 , give or take I figure I have until he is twelve to still be taller than him. How can this be so? I rocked in my arms and then I blinked. He is a young man to be proud of, and I can measure my life in his inches. The Silicon Valley is only a bridge away from our town, and I'm thinking it's just the place for him.You should see the things he invents - he's brilliant and I pray the world will not squash it.

Emma had the good sense to be born in the daytime, and not interrupt my sleep. Emma has good sense. Always. And opinions. Always. She is her father and my sister, Amanda, wrapped up together - though I most distinctly remember giving birth to this child - it's not a thing one forgets. Still she is practical, and hard-hardworking, and a cheerful and sweet. She is a rock-star babysitter even though she is technically too young, she is old too; she's worn a lot of responsibility. Emma is not so much like me but is so many things I admire in the people I like the best.

I'm feeling sick to my stomach sad, and torn about moving next week. It's the big hairy unknown that looms and its autumn in Colorado - my favorite. We are leaving so much. But my favorite things are coming with me. These 4, and the man I love.

And in case I forget in the craziness Happy Nearly Anniversary, Eddie. These 13 years have been a breath and a lifetime. I'm too much a cynic to believe in love at first sight, but with you it was a near thing. And its only gotten better, richer, sweeter, and deeper. I'd move to the moon to be with you.

Beautiful Things Out of the Dust

2011-10-01T06:21:00.000-07:00

I haven't blogged for months. I've been busy. And I've been in denial. But reality has a way of rearing its ugly head, so here I am, telling the truth.

We're Moving.
Out of state.
Like Northern California out of state...
In 10 days.

Thus the busyness and the denial.

The Reader's Digest Version of the story is this: Eddie had been traveling to good ol' CA for months, and the bulk of his work had shifted west. We missed him, and decided we should all live in the same state all of the time. We're making it happen quickly, because, right or wrong, we've embraced the "rip the bandaid off" approach to trauma management.

I should have emotions about this. I am sure that I do, and they are likely strong and overwhelming emotions. But I am not feeling these emotions as they are nicely stowed away in my knapsack called Denial. Every once in a while they creep out and I am paralyzed by their force. So back in they go; I'll carry them across state lines and unpack the loneliness, grief, and sadness there. After the boxes.

I tote the knapsack - it will HAVE to be unpacked. But I carry with me these two true things as well. 1. Just because I know the blessings I am leaving here, doesn't mean that God doesn't have some (yet unseen) blessings in store for us in Northern California. 2. God always creates beautiful things out of dust. It's kind of his M.O. So what feels like loss, can and will be something lovely - someday.

And their are the views of the San Francisco Bay, and the lovely walking paths around Lake Chabot. And Muir Woods, and Napa Valley, and my darling Mediterranean style house with all the french doors and a lemon tree. There is the actual real diversity of people and people groups, and there is sleeping next to my husband every night of the week. Plus, there is the story being lived out in front of my children that just because it's hard, and scary doesn't mean you don't do it. Good adventures are always hard and scary, the safe ones are never the stories worth telling.

Weekend at Bernies and the Death of a Church

2011-07-11T06:53:00.000-07:00

I'm going to tell you a story about the death of a church.

It's the death of the church that we love and have served. So it's personal.

About a decade ago a bunch of people from Chicago land decided to plant a church. Now Chicago isn't exactly the Bible Belt,but it is steeped in a traditional church culture. So these adventurers were looking some place a little less churchified, a little more heathen, to start a church. Someplace like Thornton, Colorado. And they were spot-on. Many of us living in North Denver are nominally christians, if that. Many, many more of us just don't see that great of a need for God in our life. These Chicagoan were up for a challenge when they decided to plant a church in a community that didn't particularly like church.

But still, they had vision to help people "find their way back to God." So they up and moved their families across the country and did, in fact, start a church. And that church did, in fact, help people find their way back to God. There was a season of life in this community. There was a season when people who would never typically darken the door of a church would be welcomed in and introduced to God. People were excited, lives were being changed.

Now church looks like Weekend at Bernie's. The few of us that remain shlep around this dead thing, and pretend it is alive. I'm not saying God is dead, or that he is no longer at work in the lives of the people in our tiny community. He is alive. We are alive. And He is at work. But I AM saying that this entity that began in the hearts of some folks from Chicago is well and truly dead.

Toast.

None of those people from Chicago are still here. They are all gone. All of them. And their vision is dead too. And this death, in this way, brings with it a cacophony of emotions.

-Relief. We're tired of carrying around a dead thing. It's hard work with little payoff.
-Deep sadness. Because it was a good dream, and it was a good thing, and people did find their way back to God. And now it's gone. Plus, we love the pastor and family who planted this church, and we know that this will hurt them. And that sucks.
- Failure. We wonder, "Could we have brought this thing back to life?" "What did we do wrong?"
-Frustration. There are those in the Thornton area who used to be part of this church, but left it. Some of them are tipsy on the sips of gossip of our failure. A In all my arrogant self-righteousness I want to shout, "We were in it for the long defeat. Sure, we made mistakes, but we inherited your mistakes as well. Who are you to feel vindicated by death?"
-Fear. What's next for us?
-Anticipation. What is next for us?
-Responsibility. How do we do this well? How do we honor what was, but not pretend it still is. How do we help those of us left to process the grief and move on to a new season in their journey?

It feels like an autopsy needs to be done. What was the cause of death? How can we determine it? It's like the guy who spends years eating donuts and then dies of a heart attack. The donuts didn't kill him exactly. But they contributed to death. And I want to look at that -not to blame or shame, but to be real. Because we need to know the donuts that compete for the vitality of a church. We need to know the poison with sprinkles.

But I don't have the energy for that yet. Not yet.

I 'm 35

2011-07-08T11:14:00.000-07:00

Why does 35 sound so much older than 34? I know 35 isn't old, but it does land me smack dab in the middle of adulthood, and that's just strange.

Yesterday was my birthday. It was a typical day - or almost typical. I went out at about 10 with Abby to run errands and when I came home a little after 11 I had a surprise waiting. The kids had made "6 Margaritas" the Happy Birthday version of 5 Margaritas Mexican Restaurant. This one day restaurant was complete with a hostess stand (w/ mints), tableclothes, candles (unlit), and a homemade menu.

Have I had better mexican food? Yep.
Did the wait staff nibble on my nachos? Yep
Were my microwave enchilladas piping hot. UM...not so much.

Yet I felt loved and special, and my kids made 35 memorable. Just thought you should know...

If money were no object...and such.

2011-06-24T06:30:00.000-07:00

It's more FASD and special needs for today. Skip it if you'd like.

The thing about FASDers is they can be successful when their environment is set up for success. Provide the necessary support and they function quite well most of the time. This is a double edged sword. Because when it looks like these kids are doing just fine people get hesitant to pay for the services that make the success a possibility. It's the functional equivalent of saying to a wheelchair bound kid, "You get around just fine, why do you need that dumb wheelchair anyway." Well, it's pretty obvious the kid has mobility because of the wheelchair. You take away the wheelchair, you lose mobility. But somehow the same logic doesn't apply when the supports look like a Occupational therapy, speech therapy, picture schedules, sensory diet, and therapeutic parenting techniques.

So the challenge for me is to build in the right supports to help our little girl succeed without her appearing so functional that the schools won't pay for services and develop an IEP (individualized educational plan). She needs support, and early intervention is our best bet to capitalize on brain plasticity. It will require a sophisticated ability to work the system. This is a particular specialty of mine. It's how I got through college with great grades and little effort. Seriously - if there is a rule to be bent or twisted to my advantage then I will find it. It's funny that this quirk of mine could serve my daughter well.

Anyway, if I had my druthers these are the interventions I would use.

I would have Abby continue with OT, and add in speech therapy at Children's. I'd also have her receive OT and speech at preschool. Plus, she might need a para just to keep her safe, and the kids around her safe. Also, I'm interested in pursuing NeuroReorganization type therapy with Anna Buck and then top it off with iLs. Plus, of course, we need some therapeutic parenting tools for ODD type behaviors. Also, I'd like to go to the Children's carseat clinic for an Abby-proof carseat. And I think we need better locks/alarms on our doors. Plus, Northglenn's police department can give me an Abby tracking device. (You can, indeed, microchip your kids) I'm not quite sure what she will need in an IEP, but you can bet that I'll figure it out.

Link a dee loo

2011-06-23T18:26:00.000-07:00

My blog has been just cram packed with FASD stuff lately. I do occasionally think of other things. Yet this is where we are as a family. And if you know my family in real life it's helpful to understand this stuff too. Here is a great LIhttp://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gifNK.

McDonald's Playland

2011-06-23T12:11:00.001-07:00

WE WENT TO McDONALD's PLAYLAND!!

It was busy with moms and kids looking for a break from the heat and cheap entertainment. I was hesitant. Many days a trip like this would be disastrous. But Abby was well regulated today; I knew it. I took the risk, and .....SUCCESS. No drama. It was so utterly normal.

That's the thing...sometimes it's normal,and sometimes....well not so much. And I get all jumpy and hyper vigilant trying to guess what will happen. I can almost always "talk her down" if I catch "it" in time so I'm always tuned in and keyed up for the potential trigger that lurks. It's a weird way to live.

In other news...

I've been running. I was so pathetically and ridiculously out of shape when I started that running for 2 minutes made me suck wind. Now I can run for 25 minutes non-stop. To true athletes out there this is totally unimpressive, but this is huge progress for me in 4 weeks time. I will, indeed, be able to run the 5k when Eddie does his first triathlon.

The thing about running is it is really really helps with my depression. It works better than the meds (which I'm still on) and has the side benefit of being good for my heart. I gotta stick with it. The temptation is to do too much too soon. So far, all my body can take is 3 runs a week. My knees and shins ache if I do more. So as a person in her mid-thirties, I need to honor this. I need to take a "long haul" approach to things. In an effort to do this I'd like to start swimming. It's good cardio too, plus it's a nice upper body workout to augment the running, and low impact. Trouble is: I suck at this too. So I've decided to figure it out. To hell with looking cool. I 'm gonna just look stupid and chubby till I get it...because otherwise I'll just stay chubby because a was too big of weenie to look stupid. If Eddie can do a sprint triathlon, then I can too. I can. It's just gonna take awhile.

fasd

2011-06-18T19:55:00.000-07:00

"FASD is devastating. What disability results in sufferers being good at small talk but without substance? Then add a kind heart but a violent temper, complex needs but no insight, a small frame with big expectations and perhaps worst of all, a damaged mind but a beautiful face."

- Elizabeth Russell

Downward Mobility

2011-06-16T15:06:00.000-07:00

"To mature as a follower of Jesus means to be led to the same powerless places he (Jesus) was lead. It means the road of downward mobility in the midst of an upwardly mobile world. I do not say this with sadness, but joyfully, because the downward road of God is the road on which he reveals himself to us as God with us...

Nobody wants to be on the road to downward mobility. It costs too much. If you aspire to it, you don't understand it. It runs counter to the road we desire to travel - the one that leads to upward mobility. By right, we should get to pass important mile markers that measure our success - marriage, babies, career, house, better career, bigger house. We should be on our way. So why would Jesus ask if we love him, and then, if we get the right answer, promise that we will be carried to a place we don't want to be?"

-M. Craig Barnes, When God Interrupts

I've been thinking, "How do you make church relevant in culture?" The question is tricky, and the answer is even trickier. Here's why:

Doing "relevant" church runs the very real risk of becoming "McChurch, I'd like fries with that." We can become Drive-Thru Jesus.com because we want to speak to the American Consumer. So, we are tempted to make church into a product to be consumed. Makes sense, kinda. Phenomenal messages, excellent children's ministry, hip worship done well, these things DO get butts in seats. It looks like success. The problem is that once the proverbial "butts" are in seats, they stay there - mollified by the spiritual equivalent of Krispie Creme Donuts. Our church communities become anemic, malnourished and obese all at once, and we have done it in the name of relevance.

The Good News that God is With Us,and For Us is utterly relevant. But God is on the move and if we are to be Christ-Followers then spiritual butt sitting will not do. In a place like Colorado, an invitation to join a spiritual journey/adventure appeals. It fits with the culture of this place. We ski, and hike, and mountain bike, and kayak. We do adventure.

Except...

The road of the disciple is one of downward mobility. Always. And that is not an easy sell to any culture anywhere. It's one thing to tell a people, "Get off your fat asses and join the adventure." It's quite another thing to say, "By the way, the road we're traveling will likely put to death the dream you had for your life. It will be harder, longer and more treacherous than you ever imagined. In the end, it will cost your life."

"Would you like fries with that?"

McChurch, and real discipleship don't mix.

This does not mean our messages should be lame, our worship tacky and outdated, and our children's ministry pathetic. Excellence matters. But I'm not sure we can ever be trendy. "Come and die" doesn't lend itself to trendy. A promise of downward mobility doesn't make for good copy in brochures and door hangers.

Case in point:

-God called our family to adopt.
-We did.
-It was hard.
-It will become harder.
-Hard will last forever.
-Part of that hardship was the fact that the dream I had for my life had to die.

Today, we met with the physician overseeing our daughter's multi-disciplinary evaluation. I was expecting one diagnosis. I got 4. And one more looms in the future. We have a virtual alphabet of disorders with acronyms. These acronyms spell out a future full of therapies and challenges, challenges that will never be outgrown.

In our daughter we received the gift of downward mobility. Moments of this have been excruciating. Yet, I have found the quote I began with to be true. As we have followed Christ on this path of downward mobility, I have encountered the Living God more frequently, and more potently than ever before. I have met my God here, on this road littered with the skeletons of dreams decomposed.

Put that on a brochure.

waiting...

2011-06-12T13:09:00.000-07:00

Waiting sucks.

Every time there is an unknown around the corner I get fidgety.

Adoption is full of waiting. I was so much more comfortable with the process of adoption when we were in a season of doing. Homestudy. Classes. Fingerprints. These I could do, but I hated the seasons where my only task was to wait. And there are months of waiting.

More recently I applied to have the kids enrolled in a charter school. There was a fair amount of paperwork - which was fine by me because I got to DO something. The cruddy part for me was when there was nothing left to do but wait.

Now I've done everything I can do to get this job I might maybe want. But now I have to wait. There is nothing more to be done. And hence...I discover yet again that I am not a peaceful waiter. I'd rather do than wait for the script of life to unravel like a scroll.

Funny thing. I actually feel pretty much okay with going back to work or not. I could live with either. There is an upside and a downside to both. What I HATE is the wait. I'd like to know, or at least hold on to the illusion of control by doing some task, no matter how banal.

A theme emerges, does it not? Maybe I should think about why I hate to wait, you know, while I'm waiting...

Many things and wide open space

2011-06-11T06:51:00.000-07:00

My brain is a whirlwind. There are fragments of thoughts and new ideas blowing around in disorder. Writing is how I nail those pieces down and begin to mosaic them into some sense. Right now there are so many pieces that I've not blogged because the prospect is daunting. I'm not sure I can arrange all the thoughts and ideas into a pattern that makes sense. So this one is not for the grandparents. It's not for anyone else. It's just me. Nailing down some stuff. A first attempt at order.

I'll begin with Thursday. Thursday was the beginning of the long awaited evaluation at the Child Development Unit at Children's Hospital. I love that place. They are amazing, and they understand kids. End plug. Anyway, we spent our morning with a team of psychologist who did IQ type evaluation with Abby. Before the testing they spent time playing. The room with the testing was a pale green shade and the florescent lights were off. They fitted the table and chair size just for Abby and took breaks for "heavy work" ( a regulating technique we use at home ). Essentially, they set her up to be successful. Which, as a mom, I appreciated. But I found it interesting to watch how they understood she needs an adjusted environment. She just does. And it's work. Now, granted, all kids do there best when set up to succeed, but florescent lights and background noise wouldn't derail my neurotypical kids.

So, with Abby, it is a constant dance; we go before and behind her making adjustments along the way so that she can be successful. To most people they are invisible, these adjustments, but if we slack off (and sometimes we do) her little world quickly unravels. The psychologist got this. And they commended me on my bag of tricks. It brought tears to my eyes, because what most people see is a sometimes out of control kid, with parents who don't appear to be disciplining her. It felt good to have what I see validated, and what I do appreciated. Because very, very few people get it.

We have more testing and we'll be seeing more specialists, but the IQ testing was revealing. She absolutely aced some of the language testing. She even seemed to get some of the analogies. But there were holes in her visual spacial reasoning and her ability to grasp complex directions. The scores haven't been tallied, but they reveal a pattern consistent with data on prenatally exposed children: Strong expressive verbal skills, challenges with math and abstract reasoning.

So I am highly suspicious that we will, indeed, get a diagnosis that is on the Fetal Alcohol Spectrum. I'm glad of this, and sad. A diagnosis explains behavior. It gives me tools to advocate for Abby as far as an Individual Education Plan and public schools. It has protective value for her as an adult, and will give her access to services and support. I can look into therapies that are appropriate to this type of brain damage. BUT. BUT. It ain't going away. It's forever. And the implications are far reaching. Sometimes they will be subtle and sometimes they won't be, but they are forever. Forever feels like a long time. For her, and for us.

One of the challenges for me to accept as we parent Abby is a need for a stripped down version of life. She thrives on simplicity and routine. She always will. I think that this is boring. I feel guilty that my bigger neurotypical kids live with a stripped down, simplified version of life too. I feel like they miss out. They do miss out. Just recently, I read an article from a brain researching MD, specializing in trauma (Bruce Perry), and it was encouraging. Because he said boredom was good for kids; it's the catalyst for creative play. Play is great for all types of brain development. So those long afternoons of legos and pretend are nothing to feel guilty about. They were an opportunity in disguise.

The challenge remains though, how do we keep life simple for Abby, but allow opportunity for my older kids to stretch their wings? For us, part of the solution is Westgate. School offers respite for them, because Abby is not an easy little sister. I'm praying for good friends and fun experiences, because I cannot do it all. In the past God has brought people and opportunities into our path when I didn't have the bandwidth to meet every need. I will have to trust he'll continue to do that for us. For Eddie and I. For the "biggers". And for our peanut too. (By the way Dad, your camping trip with the "biggers" falls into this category of meeting needs I cannot. Thank you a thousand times. It's huge for us.)

Another piece of the mosaic: this job possibility. It's looking quite likely. I'll hear very soon. I ran across this position on accident, and it looked like such a good fit with my passion for adoption issues and my background in education that I applied. It's the kind of job I've dreamed about. Yet,as the possibility sits on my doorstep I find that it's not an easy decision. Simplicity and me working do not go hand in hand. It definitely complicates things. Just as the kids need respite from a life of catering to special needs, I find I need it too. And that is guilt inducing, because those needs aren't going anywhere and they do need attending to. I wonder if my decision to work will complicate things in a not so okay sort of way. Yet...it'd work great with the biggers, and I do have good options for childcare.

There are other pieces too. Like Eddie traveling, and church, and upcoming adoptions, and family etc. But here is my start, my nailing down of a few. More to come.

The jury is out...but I might like to run

2011-06-10T14:49:00.000-07:00

Eddie is training for a sprint triathlon. Not me. I thought a 5K would be a legitimate first step from my former coach potato status. I'd never been so out of shape. It was down-right yucky. I had to do something...something drastic.

So I've been "running" (and those quotation marks are appropriate) for about 4 weeks now. I am slow, and slowly getting into shape. But I'm discovering that I actually, might actually, maybe quite possibly could like this thing. Jury is still out. I'm not committing, but I feel so much better after a "run" that it makes me want to do it again.

Really good running shoes help.
30 minutes away for kids double help.
Potential to get my fat a** in shape, or at least less fat is quite motivational as well.

If I can do it so can you...think about it.

For the Grandparents

2011-06-08T05:41:00.001-07:00

I've been slacking in my blogging lately, so here's one for the grandparents. It's a quick "what's up" for those who care.

-Eddie is going to travel again. He starts next week, and continues traveling every week for the foreseeable future. This time he'll be headed to northern CA.

-We're going to try to squeeze in a summer vacation and crash his business trip one week.

-I was called back for a second interview for a part time job I've been pursuing. It's a cool job; I applied on a whim. I think there were a lot of applicants, and I'm surprised it's gone this far.

-We've been hangin' with the Crocker girls while Matt and Gretch house shop in NJ. They've found some cute houses in cute subdivisions (townships?), but I'm gonna miss those Crockers.

-Tomorrow is Abby's appt. w/ the Chidren's Development Unit. Pray she acts out. Really. Because so much of the time she's sweet, but we want them to see when we see her acting "off".

-The big kids are looking forward to a camp-out with Grandpa next week.

-Caleb is the winner for the "most teeth yanked" award. He's had 3 pulled so far. He's going in for 3 more, and then, after that 6 more will get pulled. 12. sheesh. Here's a quick shout out for good dental insurance....

Kota our Hungarian Sheep Dog (aka PULI) is working on her dreadlocks, cause that's the hip look for Pulik. I'm feeling sorry for her though because her coat is so hot during the summer. We may shave her down, but then instead of looking like a tough Puli, she'll look like a poodle, and Eddie is not a fan of that look..

-Haven't even started the summer reading program for kids at the library. I want to do it, but Abby throws a fit at the library, and it's anti-motivational.

-School's back in session the 20th of August. I have a feeling we'll be shocked at how quickly that sneaks up on us.

I have dark eyes and you have blue

2011-05-27T18:53:00.001-07:00

Everyone says Abby looks like me. And she does...in a your Native American and I'm a white girl,we share no DNA, sort-of way. I like that we look alike(ish). It's nice to share brown hair and high cheek bone with my little girl, and it makes things easier to look similar.

Yet...

Abby has been taking inventory of those in our family with blue eyes and those with brown. So far its 5 to 1 blue to brown. Except for if you count the dog (and we do) then its 5 to 2.

The point is: she knows. She knows she's different, and she gets a confused and sad look in her eyes. I adore, adore, adore my little girl, and I love her dark eye, but I think she wishes she had blue eyes. And for that hurt there is no "kiss it and make it better." trick in my bag. I could never wish away such a beautiful feature, I love who she is...but I would wish away the hurt and confusion in a heartbeat.

The Desert

2011-05-24T19:45:00.000-07:00

I struggle with contentment.

Always.

Maybe this is everyone's story, but it is, most particularly and poignantly mine.

I have my dad's wanderlust, and creative spirit, but with a mother-heart need to nurture. It chafes. And I am raw with twisting. I look for some breathing room in this straightjacket life - this crazy blessed straight-jacket life.

The need to create stability and predictability for my crew is at odds with my dreamer me - the other one who get's so little face time. Case in point : the only class I nearly flunked (aside from high school physics - which doesn't count) was home economics. This is not my forte. I strongly and passionately dislike home economics. Strongly. Passionately.

That 1950's image of motherhood sticks like popcorn wedged in my gum. I can't sew. I hate to craft, and flunked out of scrapbooking (sidenote: how is scrapbook a verb - tell me this). I never send thank-you cards or birthday wishes. I only learned to bake because I like cookies. I can cook and like to, but my family would rather eat hot dogs. I refuse to iron. Laundry is a bane. I like a clean houses; I just don't like to clean it. I suck at coordinating play dates. I hate planning birthday parties. And I do not particularly enjoy playing nice with other parents at my childrens' sporting events. Hotwheels drive me crazy. I vacuum up Barbie shoes. I'm not even the finance person in my marriage - balancing the budget is Eddie's job. He does it better.

Luckily, I do like to garden - so there is that.

I need a homemaker wife, wife #2 or something. The details of this proposition are still a bit obscure seeing as I am dead set against polygamy, particularly in my own marriage. It would help if I got to be the head wife, and wife #2 was fatter and uglier than I am. But still, it's problematic don't you think? So the kicker is this: somebody has got to do the homemaking. Homemaking is important and necessary work. I just don't want to do it.

But I love my kids.
I love my husband.
I love them so much it hurts.

I am good at things too; they just aren't homemaker-ish. I'm a good teacher. I can write. I can manage complex projects and solve complex issues. I'm more creative than most. I can paint. I can sing. I can write a curriculum and I am an adept student.

Can't iron!

I have a little girl who thrives on structure, and simplicity. She does well with order and slow, measured steps. When we live like this she blooms, she blossoms into the best version of herself.

But I am dying here.

I cried out to God -
"I see desert. For miles and years stretched out in front of me. If I take the next step my following step will be the same - blistering my feet with the redundancy. 40 years of slow measured steps and crock-pots, is this it? Is this all I get? Because I cannot do it; this long obedience is too long. I see sand, and beating sun to the horizon, and my soul shrivels at the thought. Hope to dust and blown away. I need a new vision. Something less sand and heat,and not this barren land of same slow death."

I cried to God tasting the salt as grief escapes. There is shame in this, so I never let the grief out. What kind of mother wrestles with her role, and shake her fists like I do? Good moms don't. But at last the grief is a torrential downpour. And my tears water the desert.

The desert stays.
I have no other landscape.
God did not remove it.

40 years stretch out and it's all desert. The same desert. Simple, slow life. Unseen service. My feet on the ground moving in the same direction; long obedience is the calling.

When I quit my teaching position, I was so terribly sad to give up a job I loved. I knew it was best for my family; I didn't think it was best for me. Yet God showed me that hard things were for my good too. He could bring me into a spacious place, a place with elbow room and a chance to breath deep. I had hope.

I didn't know the spacious place would be a freaking desert.

I prayed to God for a new landscape. He said no. There will be no wife #2- fat and ugly. I am to be the homemaker. Yet the desert is more than I can perceive, and he has offered to walk with me through it -to open my eyes so I can see true. Desert land is more than redundancy. It is a land of great intensity, and variety. It's hot by day, and cold at night. And the desert blooms with spring rain - flagrant color. It is nocturnal animals, clever amphibians, survivalist tendencies and divine design. The desert may be arid, but it is not barren. It is not barren. There is life here in this place. In this calling there is hope. Strangely, I find that I cannot see these things if I walk away from the God of the Desert - even but a step. I see sand and years away from Him. But when the steady hand of Divinity entwines my vision gets tangled too. And I see with His eyes: the desert is a place of beauty.

Hi, nice to meet you...think carefully before you agree to be my friend.

2011-05-24T13:35:00.000-07:00

I used to be kinda hip and fun, and generally a low-maintenance friend. Not so much anymore. Because anytime we choose to care for kids of trauma we adopt their trauma too. In fact, a very large majority of people parenting FASDers end up being treated for post-traumatic stress. Trauma is contagious. And this makes for a messy life. Messy is not terribly attractive. And, sadly, I do understand why casual friends won't choose to stick around. They miss fun and hip. Heck, I miss fun and hip.

I read a statistic just recently that said 80% of families who adopt special needs kids find themselves abandoned by friends, family and church. They literally become outcasts. When fun and hip become broken and messy people head for the hills.

I feel so very blessed that the story of the majority is not our story. We have great friends who love us even in the mess. We have a church community who has not run for the hills. And our families, though they sometimes think us nuts, have not been scared off yet.

It's part of the job, but it's in the fine print

2011-05-23T12:13:00.000-07:00

When I signed up for this motherhood gig I thought the job was mostly about rocking babies and pushing jogging strollers. Really. I was THAT clueless. But there nothing like "living it" day in and day out that helps to bring reality into focus. And apparently, this parenthood deal is a bit more complicated than I first assumed.

I am Butt Wiper in Chief. I have been wiping other peoples butts for over a decade now. Yes, it's been 10 long years of monitoring the elimination patterns of persons who um...aren't me. We should be closing on this season of Derriere Care, but in a cruel twist of fate, our youngest has a prognosis that includes extended potty training years. But someday, maybe even someday soonish, there will be nary a diaper in the place and I'll never here, "Mah-ummmm (my kids can make mom a 2 syllable word) I need you to come wipe my buns." Moms of older kids remind me that I'll miss these days, but I can't imagine grieving the title, "Butt Wiper in Chief."

There is another role that was probably in the fine print of the job description - the fine print I never read. It's a role that IS rather extraordinary and unfortunately a challenge for me. It's that of a humble listener. This weekend was crazy, and today my kids need me to be present, and available. They've all needed to come over and sit with me awhile. Abby just sat snuggling and talked my ear off for 20 minutes. The others have done the same. Kids need to be heard and seen -they need to know I think they are worth knowing, not 'cause they are my kids, but just 'cause they're cool.

I was really grumpy this morning, especially about the chaos of our house. Messiness makes me crazy. My kids LOVE to wallow in messiness. It's a difference we have yet to resolve. So as the morning went on my anxiety mounted as I realized I was losing the battle. Just in the nick of time (almost - I bit the heads off of only two of my children for general slobbery.)I quit caring. It's just mess - the mess will always be here. My kids, probably won't always want to sit on my lap and tell me about their lego creations, or the book their reading, or pretend to feed me plastic food. Carpe Diem right?

What is normal?

2011-05-14T15:58:00.001-07:00

I haven't been blogging much lately because all I have to say is sort of depressing and un-fun. Depressing and un-fun is okay now and then in bogger-world, but really, nobody wants to read that all the time. I wouldn't want to read it all the time.

So you have been duly warned.

Yesterday, I went to the grocery store with my littlest. This is always a challenge, so much so that I have totally forgotten what it's like to buy groceries like normal people do. I know as I go from isle to isle people think, "That is a seriously bratty kid, why doesn't her mother put a stop to the behavior." Several years ago that is what I would have thought if I had seen someone like me walking through the store. But I have learned that what you see is not always the whole story.

First, you must know, grocery stores are almost intolerable for youngest. There are unusual and unpredictable sounds. There are too many people. There are weird florescent lights and transitions at every turn of the isle. It is overwhelming on every level and Abby becomes dis-regulated quickly. Dis-regulated is therapeutic parenting speak for when a kid cannot manage what's happening on the inside (i.e.anxiety or nuero-chemical wackiness) or outside (environment) appropriately. Disregulated kids shut-down, or rage, or act really bizarrely.

Now all of us are constantly "regulating" our responses to internal and external stimuli. For instance, loud parties stress me out and make me feel anxious, so I prepare mentally before I go. I find corners to hide away in when the noise becomes too much. I "regulate" my response.

The trouble for kids of trauma, SPD, or brain damage is that they are working with severe disadvantages. Their cortisol, nor-epinephrine, dopamine, and seretonin levels can be totally wacky. From a chemical standpoint they are unable to regualate. Add in a little post-traumatic stress, or dysmaturity and you have a DISASTER in the making. And were not even addressing the sensory regulation that should be happening in the brain stem (but isn't) or the frontal cortex that misfires and causes poor impulse control. Bottom line: what you see as the behavior of a bratty or weird kid, but there is so much going on behind behavior that makes it impossible for kids to meet the expectations of society.

So when you see my kid screaming and hitting at the grocery store please know that both my daughter and I are working extremely hard to keep it together. We've worked hours to even be at a place to make it through. Before we even get to the store we have done "heavy work" or spent time in the therapy swing. We've done joint compression to change brain chemistry.

My daughter will probably go through an entire pack of gum because the chewing motion changes brain chemistry too. She might be wearing tight leggings and no shoes. I do not need your two cents about how to keep my child warm. Her lack of footwear is intentional. It helps her regulate. She might have a potty accident or two, or she might be four years old and wearing a diaper because she literally cannot manage "potty" stuff with everything else going around her Abby might be belligerent, run away, or scream and yell. Please know that we do not allow the behavior, but spanking is entirely ineffective. It might look I am using distraction or bribery; I am. Because when my daughter is overwhelmed typical consequences cause her freak out even more. It would be like trapping a wounded animal in a corner... a stupid thing to try.

You take going to the grocery store for granted, but for us it is a major feat. It takes 2 hours, and one melt-down screaming tizzy fit is progress for us. We've worked hard for that. We will both come home exhausted. We will talk it through, and roll play appropriate responses. And next time it may, or it may not, go any better.

4 year old in the house.

2011-05-13T19:37:00.000-07:00

It's Abby's birthday today. She's 4, and my how time flies. Just yesterday we brought her home, it seems.

Birthday festivities were simple, b/c simple is the best plan for Abby. We had hot dogs, watermelon and french fries for dinner. Her choice. Then we ate Umizoomi Birthday cake and opened presents. It was just the 6 of us and she was happy with that. I am not a lover of birthday party planning.I hate it. So it does my heart good to prepare a simple little affair for Abby and know that it was the best possible choice for her as well. Motherhood sans guilt, it doesn't happen often so I enjoy the moments when they come.

Abby is a challenge. She is. So it helps that she is so stinking cute I cannot stay frustrated. Plus, she is so loving and sweet. Her trouble with transitions and sensory input sometimes hide the kindness and goodness that motivate her. Abby just wants to please, and shines with affirmation. She finds pleasure in the simple things and has just about the best belly laugh I've ever heard. She is affectionate and silly and absolutely crummy at holding a grudge. We so love her and feel so blessed she is part of our family.

Happy Birthday Sweet Girl.

Unicyle

2011-05-13T19:31:00.000-07:00

I bought the kids some flip-flops for our upcoming camping trip to The Sand Dunes. They were cheap - even for me, and I'm pretty much the master of cheapness. $.50 is a price that can only be beat by free. Anyway, the kids wanted to know if they were girl or boy flip-flops. "There unisex," I replied, "both boys and girls can wear them."

Emma caught on quickly, "So when I outgrow mine I can give them to Caleb, and when Caleb outgrows his he can give them to Abby."

Caleb took a minute to ponder this one, and then joined in. "That's the great thing about unicycles."

Quick update

2011-04-28T06:11:00.000-07:00

I STILL don't have anything cute or pithy to say. But I know the few that read this are looking for updates with kids etc. Inquiring Grandmas want to know...

-We are foster parents now. Of kittens. Gretchen suckered me good, and now 3 little kitties have taken up residence in the kids bathroom. They are so cute. The kids love them. I like them more than I let on. Eddie is entirely ambivalent, but he is gracious. Because the people he loves love them he tollerates. The kids are pushing to become permanent kitten foster parents, wherein we get a new batch as the "old" ones are leaving. We shall see...

-Spring fever has hit and motivation is waning. I would feel guilty about this except I know the same is happening in every homeschool, private school, and public school across the nation.

-Abby got into the preschool we wanted her to go to for FREE. We don't meet the income requirements for a subsidy, but her history qualifies her.

Yesterday was the preschool evaluation. Abby peed her pants on the way in. Then she started to meltdown but good because they transitioned her through 4 rooms in 30 minutes. Abby doesn't do transition that quickly; those teachers started to catch on as Abby's eyes flooded with tears, she pretended not to hear (or comply), and went off to play with the off-limits kitchen set.

The evaluator was gracious; she'd sat through evals. with hundreds of typical kiddos, and new something was up. I filled her in a bit. Then she wiggled around the numbers in our favor and got us into the preschool that meets the needs of special ed kids. She did NOT have to do that.

"Hold up", you say. "Special ed?" Yep (though Abby will be with typical kids mostly). Abby does fabulously with experienced teachers who get her need for help with transitions. Teachers who understand giving choices, not ultimatums, have an easy time of it. Teachers who use simple language, create routine, and keep things structured and quiet will have no trouble. Special Ed teachers know how to do that. Brand spankin' newbie teachers w/o the training will be given a run for their money -by a four year old. I promise. So we got into the school we needed to be in, and I'm thankful for it.

-I want to go back to school. Grad school. I'd like a Master's in Social Work. I'm looking into it. But I know I need to hold off for a couple of years - probably. Tell me this: why is grad school so expensive even for a MSW? Social workers make terrible money, and they pay a lot in tuition to do it.

The kitchen sink

2011-04-23T06:41:00.001-07:00

I have nothing important or interesting to write about.

So here is a bit of the uninteresting and unimportant:

We will likely be getting a significant chunk of change back from our taxes because of new adoption tax law. Getting a lump sum like that is sort of weird. What to do? We are STILL paying for the eviction of our tenants in our rental house. The responsible thing to do would be to pay that off. How unfun! We might do a little of that but we are also planning on re-doing our kitchen.

We like our house, but our kitchen is a lame 2 butt affair (My family measures the quality of kitchens by how many butts can comfortably fit in them. And by that metric ours is a serious loser). This little kitchen is dumb, because our house is pretty spacious, and there are lots of us. And we like to invite people over. The two butt kitchen makes things more than cozy. We bought the house in spite of the kitchen with plans to re-do it. Now, 4 years later or so, we're getting around to it.

Our basement is an apartment. This summer it will be empty. Seriously, how many people are lucky enough to have a spare kitchen for when they remodel the main one?
I'm looking forward the project beginning and dreading it. We're knocking out walls people and I despise dry wall dust.

As per our M.O. we are doing things on the cheap. Eddie will do the labor. We're getting the granite counter tops for free. We found a smokin' deal for high quality semi-custom maple cabinetry. (Maple b/c it's pretty and NOT trendy - trendy seems bad in a kitchen). I'm searching craigslist for new appliances - stainless steel.

Hopefully, if we do it right, it won't throw our lives into upheaval for long. But then again there is that all too true construction maxim: It always takes longer and costs more.

funny things

2011-04-18T10:48:00.000-07:00

story 1 - I have a jar I keep full of nuts, like cashews, almonds or pistachios. It's easy and healthy snack food for skinny kids. So Caleb was recently busted for putting the pistachio shells back into the jar of uneaten nuts. The boys is quick on his feet, so he responded, "I was just putting them back in case someone found a nut without a shell. So they would be able to put a shell back on it."

Ummm... skeptical.

Because usually when I find a unshelled pistachio I try to put a shell back on before eating it.

Funny guy.

Kitty Kitty

2011-04-18T06:56:00.000-07:00

My sister fosters kittens. Kitten are unfathomably cute. Seriously. WAY CUTE. So I'm considering expanding my orphan care passion to kittens. I'm allergic to cats, but kittens I can handle. And remember....WAY CUTE. Plus, my kids are big enough to really be helpful, and Gretchen insists that its easy and low maintenance. My biggest hang up...I think kitty litter and cats are kinda stinky. Any cat lovers out there who know what to do about that? Cause I WOULD win mother of the year for allowing kittys at home.

Another good post I didn't write.

2011-04-14T11:16:00.000-07:00

HERE is another good post. Somehow when talking/writing about prenatal exposure its easier to refer to others. I've done the research. I've got crazy documentation that no one will see but Eddie and I. I am not a loon, at least at not in this regard.I know what I'm talking about. However, I FEEL like a crazy lady, like what I know and have learned is somehow not credible.

Babycakes is in a really good season. We've incorporated some parenting techniques that are transparent to others but essential for our family. No one sees what we see. But they WOULD see behaviors if we weren't doing what we are doing. Invisibility - it's one of the trickiest parts of this whole deal. It's like catching mist.

Well said..

2011-04-11T18:40:00.000-07:00

She said it better than I could....so just read it HERE.

Not Your Neurotypical Kid

2011-04-03T07:41:00.000-07:00

I finally got an appointment.

We've been waiting for our littlest to get an evaluation by Children's Hospitals Child Development Unit. It's multidisciplinary, multi-day evaluation is the best at diagnosing the cause of quirkiness neurological issues in kids.

Let's be honest: we've all got quirky neurological issues.

But my baby girl has diagnosable issues. I've hesitated to share them here, because I wanted to preserve my daughters privacy. It's her story, and there are many pieces of her story that will remain hers alone. But there is a need for the people that love her and interact with her to understand what is going on, so they can help her.

Abby has organic brain differences - damage. It's caused by exposure to damaging substances while she was carried by her birth mom. Most people would not be able tell by looking at Abby that her brain works differently. And, in fact, IQ tests would not identify these issues. She's got a normal IQ; counter intuitively, this does not negate the damage.

People with this kind of damage have predictable behaviors that are a result of organic brain damage. They include:

-Poor impulse control. They will steal, because they have the impulse to take with no thought to the consequences, or even that it's wrong to take what doesn't belong to them.
-Difficulty with cause and effect reasoning. They literally do not always learn from mistakes, so punitive disciple is totally ineffective. Punishment doesn't work because it assumes cause and effect reasoning.
-Difficulty understanding abstraction. Concepts like money, time and ownership are a challenge.
-Rigidity. Abby has a strong need to finish things, or do them in a certain order. She really, really struggles to make transitions. Almost any change is stressful. This is very typical.
-Sensory Processing Dysfunction.
-Auditory Processing Dysfunction. They may appear to understand you, but chances are decent that they haven't understood fully at all.
-Dysmaturity. Often there developmental age is far younger than their chronological age.
-Memory Problems. What was that rule again? Oh and it applies at home and at school?
-Communication Problems. Their oral communication surpass their ability to understand language. So it appears that they have good verbal skills and are understanding instructions, but they don't. This is often mistaken for defiance.
-Difficulty regulating sleep wake cycles.
-Unpredictable good days and bad days.

All of these struggles present in behavioral problems. On a bad day it appears that children with this kind of brain damage are spoiled, naughty, and out of control. As adults, the same behaviors can land a person in jail. It is all too common.

Eddie and I are learning that to effectively parent this little girl of ours we MUST look beyond behavior. Behaviors are cues that tell us she needs help. So we're learning NOT to parent behavior, but instead parent needs. It's a gigantic paradigm shift, and difficult to do.

So when Abby gets out of bed 6 times after we've told her not to, we are tempted to give her greater and greater consequences. It's usually totally ineffective. Warn. Spank. Bark orders. Threat more consequences - it just doesn't work. We've got to remember her brain is damaged so sleep is hard for her. Impulse control is hard for most preschoolers, and nearly impossible for her. Plus, she truly may have forgotten (though in her case - I doubt it.).

What works? Predictable routine. Simple language. Repetition. Warm milk. Melatonin supplements. Baby gates. It is far easier to avoid the problem all together, by setting up our daughter for success.

We would accommodate the needs of a child who is a paraplegic. We'd build ramps, and buy wheel chairs, and modify the layout of our home to allow for the most independence and success. Organic Brain Damage must be seen in the same way. The brain is somewhat pliant, but the damage is permanent. We must create an environment for success.

We keep our home calm. We establish routine. We lock up dangerous items, and secure doors. We use simple language. We repeat. We offer grace. We model correct behavior - try to move daily independence activities into long term memory. We minimize transitions, and are careful to not take Abby places where she will go into sensory overload if she's having a bad day. We learn techniques to help her regulate.

And most of the time, if we're doing our job well, and she's having a good day, you wouldn't be able to tell she is anything other than a typical kid.

Pithy Quote

2011-03-31T19:11:00.000-07:00

I had a pithy quote I thought I'd blog. You would have been impressed with my whit. But it's upstairs. I'm downstairs. And if I go upstairs, one of "THE FOUR" will ask me for a drink of water, or an extra "tuck in". They might even ask me, "What's for breakfast tomorrow?"

No thanks.

I'll stay down here, where they're less likely to venture. 'Cause here's a dirty little secret: I hate bedtime routines: the tucking in, the glass of water, the prayers, the whole shebang. It makes me crazy. Because I am so DONE with kids by bedtime that I don't usually have the tolerance for the "I'm scared.", "I'm thirsty.", "I need a band-aid." crapola my kids dish out at this hour. I am sympathy challenged at my best. So, I have absolutely zero feelings of charity and empathy towards kids who think they need water after I think I'm entitled to "clock-out" for the evening.

And there goes my Mother of the Year Badge.

You think, "No, surely not. The Stephanie I know is compassionate, and empathetic."

Um. Not so much. Here's Proof:

Emma comes in crying, "Mom, Ethan is picking on me."

I say, "Stop being an easy target."

Or how about this one:

"Mommy, I hurt my head."

I respond, "Are you bleeding?"

"No."

"You're fine. Stop crying."

Yep. Yours truly has uttered those words.

But this is the perennial favorite.

I say, "How many kids are there?"

"Four", some sheepish kid mumbles.

"How many mommys do you see?"

"One."

"Get in line, kid, I'm doing the best I can."

Yep, that mothering award isn't casting long shadows around here this evening.

.

We're IN!

2011-03-29T10:32:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, at precisely 5:01 PM, I received an email. It's the one I've been waiting for a forever of 6 weeks or so. And we're in, just like that.

We've homeschooled, mostly, and dabbled in private Christian school and now we'll be doing public charter school. Because all 3 of my big kids drew "seats" in the lottery for this fabulous charter for gifted and creative learners.

I love the idea of homeschooling, and have, at least in seasons, loved the actual doing of homeschool. But it's not the best choice for my kids now. And christian school is pricey. We've loved Christan school too. But it does tend toward creating "Club Jesus" and that is not what I want for my family or children. The neighborhood public school is bad, and actually not in the neighborhood. The district buses kids from our subdivision to a rough neighborhood. That would be throwing my kids into the deep end - not going to happen. So what to do? Well we found the answer in this little charter, and we prayed we'd get in.

We did.

This is big news. I'm thrilled - mostly. And a little sad for what I am losing. To a non-homeschooler this would make no sense. Believe it or not there are some sweet moments unique to homeschool. I'll miss it. Really, I will. But we're in a new season...a good new season, but still.

A few good reasons to homeschool

2011-03-25T16:52:00.001-07:00

-We may (or may not) be a traditional school family as of next fall. It would be a good thing. However, there are some fairly fabulous things about homeschooling. For example:

-If you get a pair of rollerskates for your 9 year old birthday and you want to wear them while doing school....NO PROB! Roll on over.

-If you need an extra 15 hours or so in your life so you can research and then build a space station from Legos, then homeschooling is just your speed.

-If you have a cold and need to sleep in...no worries...stumble on down at 9AM.

-If your the teacher and you have a cold you can (and should) declare it a late start day.

-If you want to do you math in red felt tip marker you probably can.

-You can read science magazines for an hour and half before you fall asleep at night and it counts as school.

-If you need to stop to play with the puppy or you just need a break it can be arranged..

-Your mom just might let you pick your reading material for language, and it just might be the graphic novel version of Nancy Drew.

-Frog and Toad.

-Making cookies for math.

-etc...

When "Hell NO!" becomes "Whatever..."

2011-03-22T13:14:00.000-07:00

I'm clumsy at using foul language - embarrassingly, so. Eddie, who grew up swearing like a sailor, can cuss proficiently (It's like riding a bike, apparently). So, my husband finds it "cute" when I am trying to be vulgar. It's irritating.

Mostly, I don't mind being a crummy at potty talk. I have a big vocabulary, and it's never posed much of a hindrance. However, there has been a few times in my life when my "no" has really been "Hell, NO!" Often, it's while metaphorically shaking my fists at the Almighty when I feel like he might be leading me someplace I don't want to go.

There was (still are) a time when I was (am) quite comfortable applying Christian principles to life's decisions and calling it "good enough". Fidelity, responsibility, stewardship, respect, these are good things. They are comfortably "christian". Yet, my God was not content with this from me.

He wants it all.

He's jealous like that.

And so I say, "Hell, NO, I won't go."

I will not live the radical adventure.
I will not choose the costly.
I will not uproot my dreams, and allow you to plant a new vision.
"Hell, NO, I won't go."

Because You will wreck my life.

Wreck it.

But time and time again I have been wooed to the "whatever." I am overwhelmed by the tidal wave of YHWH. His Love. His immensity. And I find my "Hell,no.." becoming "whatever." As in: whatever you have for me, where ever you take me, when ever you say. Because, in the end, there is nothing else that matters.

And the great tidal wave of YHWH tears through my life, and wrecks it. Every. Single. Time. Decimation. And then he rebuilds a new plan, a new vision, a new hope.

I'm talking in obscurities. The nuts and bolts of it seem a little too real - too raw - to share here in Podunk, Cyberspace. But I feel my most recent "Hell, NO!" slipping. Hands clenched are loosening, the ash of me dusting. It's the fine mist of a life I cannot hold.

The new vision is fuzzy. Unclear.

But the "whatever" is looming.
Whatever it is.
Where ever you take me.
Whenever you say.
No matter the cost.

M&Ms

2011-03-21T06:05:00.000-07:00

Abby calls M&Ms: "L-M-N"s.

Sometimes having a three year old is absolutely magical.

What if...

2011-03-16T09:11:00.000-07:00

I've been reading this book, "Irresistible Revolution." The copyright says it came out in 2006 - so I'm reading it in the wake of it's first run. I'm hip like that...missing trendy by half a decade or so. But I digress.

The book is good. Well it's good in a, "Oh Crap." sort of way. The dude (aka Shane Claiborne) is a hippy from Tennessee, and more recently Philly. Maybe he wouldn't own that title "hippy". But really: homemade clothes, dread-locks, and community garden = hippy, or neo-hippy. I went to school at CU Boulder; I know these things.

But Claiborne poses this question,and it chafes. What if following Jesus really changed the way you live - turned it upside down, even? The earliest disciples were absolutely wrecked for ordinary once they decided to follow Jesus. Many lost their homes, many lost family, and businesses. They were forced into exile and some died for their allegiance. They lived lives of radical community and wild adventure. They were NOT addicted to Netflix,or x-box. They didn't drive Beemers, and they were scare in covenant controlled communities. Just saying...

What if the American church was less interested in drawing a crowd, and entertaining? What if we were into transformed lives,and a call to risk everything for the only thing?

That hippy from Philly casts a vision that rumbles.

Now here's the grit of the thing: It sounds kinda pretty, but it's FREAKING hard to do. Because I do live in safe suburbs. But our house is full with 2 families - one of whom is is led by a newly single mom. It's a hard gig, that. And the messiness of it spills out into my life at the most inconvenient times. The answers aren't simple, or cookie cutter. Sometimes it isn't even fun. At all.

Then there is pumpkin of a three year old whom we call our baby. We adore her. Yet the trauma we were unable to protect her from will affect her all of her life. Invisible disability. And the brokeness of our world spills over in our living room.

Now most of Christian culture applauds this kinda stuff - at arms length. They are uncomfortable with the ambiguity. There is no, "kiss it and make it better." for urban poverty, generational addiction, foster care, and mental illness. Solutions are messy and costly.

Few are willing to roll up their sleeves. Pick up a shovel, and start shoveling out the sh**. And that's what we need.

Sometimes I'm one of the few who has been so transformed that I cannot wait to serve. But sometimes I would love comfortable suburbia, and I hold tightly to my latte and SUV. So this "Irresistible Revolution" feels very truly "resistible" for me. I've dabbled in it. I know the price tag; let's not be coy about that. It will cost my life. This kind of Jesus-loving is a destroyer of the American Dream.

I CAN say they times I've followed Jesus into place the Pro/Con chart would never recommend I haven't regretted it. It's good. Amazingly Good. Life but costly.

If I have not love...

2011-03-13T06:30:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, Caleb went to a birthday party. He'd been excited all day and constantly checking the clock, so we wouldn't be late. Finally, it came. At 3:00 I dropped him off at his friend's a bouncy, happy seven year old kid. When I came to pick him up a couple of hours later he had the gate of Eyore.

"I didn't have so much fun."

"What happened?", I asked.

"Well no kids wanted to play with me. And when we played flag football no one would pass the ball to me." he said, trying to play it "tough".

"Ahh, Bud I'm sorry. Nobody?"

"Yeah well, a couple kids did sometimes, but no one really liked me. I'm not a good sports kid"

My kid, my cute-as-can-be seven year old, was hurting. The truth of the matter is that Caleb is not a "sports kid"; he inherited his mom's coordination (which did improve somewhat in adolescences). But adolescence is a million years from seven when your hurting.

"Yeah, that happened to me sometimes too. But I noticed that you're really funny, and a good actor. You've got a good ear for music. Maybe you won't be a sports kid, maybe be you'll be a music guy and learn to play the guitar - like Will, and Scott and Wil and John. He perks up. Those guys are hero material, and they DO play the guitar. I think I've won, but Defeat never gives up so easily.

"Nah, I'm gonna be the "no friends kid."

He is seven.

Seven.

#############################

"That heavy beat of failure, that pounding bass of disappointment, it has pulsed through my days and I've mouthed the words, singing it to myself, memorizing the ugly lines by heart. They become the heart. For years, I tried medication, blade, work, escape all attempts to drown out that incessant, reverberating drum of self-rejection. All futility, acidic emptiness."

Those are the words of Ann Voskamp - but they could be mine. I RAGE that the "heavy beat of failure" would pound against my son. He is seven. The assault is full - too heavy for little boy shoulders. It is wrong - I know it.

So what is the solution when I see the vibrations of Self-Hate course through the veins of my little boy? He thinks the song is His own. That vile tune of Shame seeps into the heart. Hell's song.

I need a new melody. A stronger one - one that will shake the gates of Hades.

CS Lewis argued that the most fundamental thing is not what we think of God, but what he things of us.

God says,

You are precious.
You are honored.
Gifted.
I love you.
You are mine.
I'd die for you.

"I have loved you with an everlasting love; I have drawn you with loving-kindness." It's the Siren Song of God. It's the strong melody to overpower Hell's furious beat.

This melody must course through my veins and pound truth into the broken places. It heals. It frees. It overcomes.

If it were the catchy tune that stuck in my head, and I hummed it through my day, maybe my son would learn it too.

Precious. Loved. Gifted.
Precious. Loved. Gifted.
Precious. Loved. Gifted.
You are God's own child, set apart for the Great Adventure.

I could drown in that.

The ENOUGH

2011-03-06T06:37:00.000-08:00

⁵ LORD, you alone are my portion and my cup;
you make my lot secure.
⁶ The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places;
surely I have a delightful inheritance.
⁷ I will praise the LORD, who counsels me;
even at night my heart instructs me.
⁸ I keep my eyes always on the LORD.
With him at my right hand, I will not be shaken.

⁹ Therefore my heart is glad and my tongue rejoices;
my body also will rest secure,
¹⁰ because you will not abandon me to the realm of the dead,
nor will you let your faithful^b]">[b] one see decay.
¹¹ You make known to me the path of life;
you will fill me with joy in your presence,
with eternal pleasures at your right hand.

****************************************

I'm always trying to get my littlest to eat real food; she would be content to drink only milk. Maybe, many decades ago, my mom struggled to get me to eat my dinner too. But I doubt it. I like food. I like to grow food. I like to prepare food. I like the smell, and feel of food. I especially like to eat it.

If I am not paying attention it's easy for me to eat too much. Sometimes, I think it's because I don't actually pay attention when I eat. I'm trying to grab a bite between the many tasks and people who compete for my attention. I consume, but I forget to savor. I hardly taste. And in the end I'm left craving, for I never tasted, never savored. Forgot to chew -nearly.

All this to say - food metaphors work for me.

"Lord, you are my portion and my cup; you make my lot secure....You will fill me with joy in your presence."

So is God my enough? Does he alone sustain? Even when finances unravel and health is precarious, is he enough for me? When depression leaves me empty can He fill? More. Have I found joy in His presence. When a dream dies is He the bigger, greater vision. Have I stopped to taste and see that the Lord is, indeed, good. I know craving. I know longing for more. Have I even tried to find satisfaction in Him?

This sounds poetic. Because it is. But the truth of it is hard.

Because it might just mean that when I pray for the bonus, and clean bill of health I've got it wrong. When I pray for the easy and convenient I might have missed the point entirely.

He is the ENOUGH.

Really?

When a mother loses a child? Crushing depression? Divorce that ruptures a child's security? And for every abandoned child who finds a home many thousands languish.

Is He ENOUGH then? Is joy possible even in the darkest? Even when it all falls apart?

Sure. Sure. This world is not as it should be? And we can pray, should pray, "Thy Kingdom Come". We long for that which we were created? And God does heal; he does make right even in the now.

But not always. Not always.

And then He is the ENOUGH, the JOY that spits in face of circumstance.

Living Free

2011-03-02T17:57:00.000-08:00

So I've been thinking...

Living free is a hard thing.
Like Lazarus, alive yet in grave clothes;
Gasping: That's me.
Tomb opened, the deep inhale, oxygen.
I am alive.
Because I do believe (want to believe):
He IS the Resurrection and the Life.

Yet I trip on the linens that mummify.
What's worse, I wrap myself in these death-clothes as if I were dressing for the senior prom. Vain in my religiosity.

Pride.
Insecurity.

(The same fabric really - woven in the belief that somehow it's all about me.)

Fear.
Shame.
Complaint.

And I am bound.
Saying yes, but living the no.

Holy God, FREE ME.

Teach me the language of liberation.
You, God Who Breathes Life,
Whisper your melody.
For I have been bound in grave-clothes

living pungent death.

If I reach out will your hand entwine?
Pull me near?

I've been thinking....

If my pulse could tangle in your heart...
If my breath was your last exhale...
So close to taste your sweetness...
Then. I could be free.

Phonics Song 2: It's stuck in my head

2011-03-01T09:55:00.000-08:00

The latest in bullet points

2011-02-26T16:48:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-25T11:06:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-22T06:44:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-20T06:53:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-17T17:50:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-15T15:28:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-14T09:51:00.000-08:00

-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

2011-02-07T15:05:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-03T19:43:00.000-08:00

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.

2011-02-02T12:34:00.000-08:00

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

2011-02-01T15:51:00.000-08:00

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.

The Dumbness of Robinson

2011-01-31T14:59:00.000-08:00

Bear with me. This is homeschoolese. It may be so uninteresting to some of you that you should quit now and return another day. That being said...

I'd been investigating a curriculum and philosophy of education called "Robinson", as in The Swiss Family. Basically, it uses classical literature and Saxon Math to teach kids. A typical day of Robinson would be sans sugar, sans TV or screen based media. It would include liberal doses of park your butt and bust out some math. Approximately, 2 hours of that...plus 2 hours of reading..and some writing for good measure. Because, you know, most kids like to wake-up to a bowl of unsweetened oats, then sit down at a desk for 2 hours of uninterrupted math. Of course, parents shouldn't engage this process (except to be the enforcer) because doing 2 hours of excruciatingly boring math by oneself builds character.

HOLY CRAP. I was nearly snowed. I almost bought into thinking this is how school should happen. I was, however, saved by the director of a public school. I'm sure she is flagrantly pagan. Yet I had one of those moments (usually saved for church) when I felt that as she spoke God was speaking to me.

REPENT!

Turn. Run. Robinson, and his Swiss Family are not for you!

Lately, homeschool has SUCKED. It's no wonder really. I was sitting my kids down with a pile of worksheets and asking them to be self-motivated and disciplined and complete these worksheets in a timely manner, all with a good attitude. Robinson and his insipid philosophy and wheedled into my thinking and robbed my family of joy.

I am 34.

An adult, by every definition.
I would be grumpy about sitting down for 3 hours to complete a bunch of worksheets.
It would be like doing taxes everyday.
(Not that I would know, because I haven't done my own taxes in well over a decade
- but one could assume it would be similar.)

This Robinson stuff is crappy pedagogy. All the research in adult and childhood learning suggests this an exceptionally bad way to learn. Besides that, it's a joy killer. I got into homeschool because I was disenchanted with this type of "back to basics" education. I knew adults learn best when they:
-are ready to learn
-and can attach learning to their own life and interests
-are given opportunity engage and interact with others in the learning process

I figured that kids learn best that way too. And I was right. The research has my back.

So when we started this homeschool journey we played, and we read amazing literature, and we built, and painted and experimented. It was FUN. And I was a good teacher. Somewhere I got lost, though. Because my kids got older and their school got harder. It's easy to have fun learning to add. It's more difficult to create authentic, experiential learning around long division and multiplying fractions. Add in a regulating challenged baby and the whole thing goes to #$&%. So I started looking into things like Robinson (because if my kids were basically schooling themselves homeschool seemed doable).

But at what cost?

Back to that public school director I was talking about. She founded a charter for gifted and creative learners. Like I said, she's a pagan right out of the Republic of Boulder. Yet, her philosophy of education is far more biblical. Honor the child. Be humble. Smart is good. Kind is better. Allow for differences. Create safe places. Work together. Teach community. Strive for excellence. This world is a place of beauty; let children be in awe of it. Inspire. Encourage. Serve.
She said these thing, she and her Crunchy-Boulderite-Dansko-Wearing self, and I remembered. I remembered what makes me a good teacher, and what makes homeschooling beautiful. I remembered why I started.

Here's the thing: It is quite possible, probable even, that I cannot do home school like I believe homeschool should be done with my particular preschooler. Either she's going to school, or my "biggers" are. And if I'm lucky it's possible they all will. Because if I can get them in, they are gonna go to that school the Pagan started.

Enough with Swiss Family Robinson. We're done. God has spoken. Truly. And through a Boulderite, no less. So I went to the library this weekend. We're reading together again. And baking. And experimenting. It's messy. Not sure if its sustainable. But it IS better.

So you wanna adopt?

2011-01-30T07:16:00.000-08:00

People have called me an advocate for orphan care. Maybe, I am. No. I am. Yet, sometimes I struggle to encourage people to adopt. Adoption is good; it can be God's amazing redemptive plan for a broken situation. But adoption is not easy. It is always, always, always a result of loss, trauma and brokenness. And the result of that brokenness doesn't go away when the adoption decree is finalized.

Best case scenario = birth mom relinquishes a baby she cannot parent to a loving family who raises that child well.

Sub-text = Somebody knocked that girl up, and didn't stick around to help her out. That girl will always wonder, and always have the scars of loss for a child she didn't raise. There is a reason that that mama couldn't parent...it's probably unjust. And that kid, that kid will wonder too. Even in open adoption.

More often than not adoption is far messier than the best case scenario.

Addiction
Abandonment
Poverty
Disease
Birth defects
Mental illness
Despair
Profit

These are woven into the stories of adoption.

Sometimes, love, and family and Jesus redeem the story in miraculous, and virtually painless ways. But sometimes, very often, the effects of a broken world (that made adoption necessary) do not quietly disappear. They linger. Sometimes they are inextricable from the stories of adoption. A lifetime cannot heal brain damage, and emotional damage, and physical damage. And sometimes adoptive parents spend their life trying to extract threads of despair, and addiction from their children's stories only to watch their own life unravel. It happens.

But God says he will place the lonely in families. He says he is the strong defender of the orphaned and widowed - a father to the fatherless. He is calling his church to embrace a culture of adoption. He is about adoption. Because he redeems. He restores. He makes beauty of ashes.

Yet to paint a picture of adoption that looks something like Barbie's Dream House, all neat with a Ken Doll and brown skinned baby is dishonoring to the reality. For just as Jesus laid down his life to bring us into His family the adoptive family must be ready to lay down their life on behalf of a child. That's how it works. So you wanna adopt?

See this great link.

grateful list.

2011-01-25T19:48:00.000-08:00

-stacks of laundry neatly folded.
-Cherry and Orange Jam smooshed over toast
-10 year old who still plays pretend
-giggles
-making music on an antique piano
-Motrin and decongestant
-Having a husband that I miss
-Puppy, freshly bathed
-girlish play
-imaginary friends
-little boys with messy hair

one thousand gifts

2011-01-25T19:46:00.000-08:00

Google it.

Awesome book.

Read the first chapter free on Amazon.

Then buy it.

Trust me.

quotable

2011-01-21T14:07:00.000-08:00

I let the kids buy candy with their own money when we went to the grocery store. Caleb picked some nasty spray candy that was super sour. Gross. No chocolate involved whatsoever.

The kids were having a ball spraying each other with the nasty candy and watching each others sour expressions. It was funny. What was funnier was Caleb's comments.

"This stuff is so sour it makes me want to cuss." he exclaimed to Emma. "I wish I knew some good cuss words."

We keep walking. I pretend I didn't hear. What? Am I going to reprimand him? I'd wanna cuss too. Then, 2 isles later, I hear my seven year old say, under his breathe, "I guess it's good I don't know any cuss words."

Ha!

final analysis

2011-01-11T12:08:00.000-08:00

Final Analysis

People are often unreasonable, irrational, and self-centered. Forgive them anyway.

If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives. Be kind anyway.

If you are successful, you will win some unfaithful friends and some genuine enemies. Succeed anyway.

If you are honest and sincere people may deceive you. Be honest and sincere anyway.

What you spend years creating, others could destroy overnight. Create anyway.

If you find serenity and happiness, some may be jealous. Be happy anyway.

The good you do today, will often be forgotten. Do good anyway.

Give the best you have, and it will never be enough. Give your best anyway.

In the final analysis, it is between you and God. It was never between you and them anyway.

~Mother Teresa

Robinson Curriculum

2011-01-05T18:55:00.000-08:00

I sort of suck as a home schooler. I don't toe the party line very well.
And I flunked out of Campus Crusade in college.
I love Jesus; I love the church, but who are we kidding?
Christians can be so weird. Christian culture is even weirder. Can I get an "amen"?

That being said, I am considering employing some of the pedagogical practices of a dude that I probably wouldn't/couldn't be friends with. He is exactly the type of guy that helped to form the stereo types about Christian homeschooling. His life is Saturday Night Live sketch material.

But his kids rocked the SATs, and his system works. Now, to be honest, I think good genes had a lot to do with those kid's success. They were genetically predisposed to being smarter than your average bear. But the system has merit. It's sound.

It is based on self-teaching, with a strong focus on the 3 Rs. Robinson Curriculum employs a sound math curriculum, fabulous Literature and writing (as the means of learning to write). Parents facilitate a learning environment that is conducive to self-teaching; they set up accountability, then back off. I like that the curriculum teaches kids how to learn, and not only what to learn. I like that it is doable with multiple children. I like the good literature, and solid math. Those are the pros.

Here are the cons:

The dude makes my husband (who is a right-wing conservative) look like a flaming liberal. In Art Robinson's reality all children in the public schools have been orphaned to a system hell bent on indoctrinating children with socialist bull crap and systematically eroding there sense of right and wrong. (Okay-He didn't say it in those words, particularly the "bull crap" part.)
The dude suggests that nearly all intervention on a parent's part (as it relates to academics) is detrimental. That is not my experience, nor is it indicative of the best research on how people learn. I've found that sometimes just sitting next to a child who is tackling difficult math gives them the courage to press on. This is often my own experience. And I do not agree that we were meant to live independently; we're made to connect.
The dude has totally legalistic views on sugar and TV. He probably doesn't dance, or drink, or think women should wear pants. I doubt he would approve of me being on staff at church in the role of director (which I am). He would likely pitch a fit that I wear jeans, to said church, and report to a woman in the role of a pastor. I also drink and dance, and hang with people who do. I've even been known to say "SEX" out loud and in mixed company. This has nothing to do with his curriculum per se ; it just annoys me.
The dude puts high value on the sciences (which is good), but minimizes the language arts. As an English major (from a very liberal college) I kinda like the language arts. A lot.

But the curriculum.

It just might be good.

I'll probably use it, or steal from it liberally.

That is if I don't send my kids to public school.

Involuntary Cussing Face

2011-01-03T12:04:00.000-08:00

My daughter is a genius at giving the stink eye. She was born with the ability to give nasty looks that make people want to shrink into the carpet. We've decided it's gotta stop; its a bad habit that reflects a bad attitude and disrespect. So we've named it. You've gotta name a thing before you can tackle it head on. We've called it her "involuntary cussing face" because she insists that she never MEANS to do it. (parental side note: "whatever"). Anyway, when that look crosses her face we reply with, "Oh look its the involuntary cussing face. I wonder what bad words she's using on the inside. She must be a good cusser because the look on her face is really disrespectful." Sometimes we even call it the ICF for short. My daughter HATES this. HATES. HATES. HATES. She also a master at being passive aggressive and when her ICF fails to get under our skin and hurt our feelings its annoys her. We render the ICF powerless. Then we make her practice responding respectfully with her words, her tone of voice and her body language (including the infamous ICF). I even have a little jingle or two I break into about ICF and disrespect. It is SOOO not appreciated by our little darling because it makes her laugh. She's trying to be pissy and mean; laughing ruins her shtick.

I was well and truly convicted that "anger does not bring about the righteousness of God". That wisdom applies to parenting. Anger might change a child's behavior while you're watching, but it cannot change a heart. Heart change is the only way to bring about right behavior when no one is looking. So instead of harsh words and stiff consequences (born of my own irritation) we're aiming for good acronyms, humor, melodic little ditties, and a chance to make it right.

Knitting

2010-12-29T20:18:00.000-08:00

My friend, Sue, is a masterful knitter. She makes beautiful things. My friend, Anne, picked up the handicraft in like a nanosecond. I figured, "how hard can it be?" I bought myself some pretty yarn and some needles. Now my hands are cramped up and I want to cuss. It's harder than it looks people, and I'm not sure why anyone says it relaxing.

because i need to post some pictures of 2010

2010-12-23T19:00:00.000-08:00

I am SOOOOOOOOOOO bad at documenting our existence through photography. Horrid. But we were all present for 2010. We went on summer vacation. We did stuff. We went places. Honest. More to come..

Going on a ride
yep...those are chaps; every good cowboy needs em.

We have yet to convince Emma that the dog is not her on personal baby.

Moab
CA coast
Sexy bald man hauling darling 3 year old on a hike in Moab
Pebble Beach
Davenport CA - amazingly gorgeous place
Obligatory picture at the Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco
Lake Tahoe
San Francisco

Breckenridge - we answered the question, "what happen if you add shampoo to a jetted bath tub and then turn it on?"

Bloggified version of a Christmas Card

2010-12-23T18:49:00.000-08:00

· The Wood house is currently home to 3 adults, 6 children, and 3 puppies. . Steph’s longtime friend and her 2 sons moved into the basement apartment this June.

· This summer the Wood’s family friend and pastor announced he, and his family would move to Chicago and plant a church. Thus began a virtual avalanche of event ending in both Eddie and Stephanie stepping into leadership roles at the church. Eddie currently serves on Leadership Team of our small church and also serves in the role of executive pastor. (We like to call him “Pastor Ed” ). He does all this while he continues his full time employment with Legacy Partners.

· Stephanie is providing leadership to the small group ministry at Jacob’s Well Community Church. She is also homeschooiing the kid’s again, thus verifying that one should be very careful about what one says one will “never do again”. Actually, both mother and children have been pleasantly surprised by the experience.

· Ethan ,10, played his first regular season of tackle football, and now watches the Broncos with the zeal of a kid with real football smarts.

· Emma,8, has become quite a little cook. She can be sent into the kitchen by herself, recipe in hand, and emerge with something really yummy created all by herself.

· Caleb, 7, has started to learn the piano and we are discovering he has quite an ear. It’ll we be fun to this talent emerge in years to come.

· Abby, 3, has much to say—about EVERYTHING. She loves the color pink and likes to play school with her big sister. She might, quite accidentally, learn to read here soon.

· This fall the children, all 6 of them , successfully campaigned for the acquisition of puppies. Longtime pet hater, Stephanie Wood, has been converted. The puppies are trouble, but the cute factor weighs heavily to their advantage.

· Kota (short Lakota Pumpkin—naturally), is the Wood family pet, she is darling, smart, and a bit spoiled.

· The Wood family did not even attempt to attain a Christmas picture wherein all member were nicely dressed, smiling, and looking in the same direction. Apparently, doctors will not prescribe Valium for such events and the adult were unwilling to attempt such a feat without being properly medicated.

THE DIGITAL STORY OF THE NATIVITY

2010-12-22T11:54:00.000-08:00

Generational poverty and aging out of foster care

2010-12-21T15:26:00.000-08:00

Last year I hardly ever blogged. I was too busy. So I missed the opportunity to process what I was learning, what I was seeing played out in front of me. I think it's time.

Our basement is a one bedroom apartment with an separate entrance. Last year a teen mom lived there. She was 19 and had 2 kids. She had also aged-out of foster care. Before she came to us she was homeless. The majority of kids who age-out of foster care end up on the streets or in correctional facilities. That's how it rolls.

Our friend was pretty, and smart, a fiercely protective momma. She was up against incredible odds. A chance to live in our basement, to partner with a mentor from the Hope House, and get accepted into college (with grants) should have been what she needed to make a "go" of life. And she did, for awhile. But my guess is that she is either on the streets again, or very nearly so.

People rallied around this teen mom to pull her out of her circumstances, but ultimately the weight of her past pulled her back into the life she knew. Because, while our friend didn't want to be hungry and homeless and helpless, she was much more comfortable in a life operated around those things than in a life of relative security. She was used to chaos, and the cortisol buzz from crisis was her drug of choice. She literally did not know what to do in a world where someone didn't need to be bailed out of jail, or didn't have to scrounge up change for a bus ride to the food pantry. She didn't know how to feel safe.

There is a culture of addiction, and a culture of generational poverty that is drastically different than middle-class America. Asking a girl who grew up in generational poverty to leave it for middle class America is like asking me to up and move to China. I wouldn't know the language. I wouldn't be familiar with the food. I would operate under a different value system. I would feel like a "foreigner", and I would have to leave my family behind. Even the clothes would be different. Culture shock and assimilation would be huge issues. Assimilation might very well feel like I was betraying my home country.

Our friend's choices made no sense until I understood this.

The first few months our friend was here were a honeymoon for her. She had food, a job, a safe place for her kids. Her relief was palpable. But then there came a point where her continued progress, her healing, depended upon her making the hard choice to leave her old life behind. She could not stay friends with people in her old life and embrace her new life. She could not have a relationship with her birth mom (a felon, addict, liar), or her boyfriend (same goes) and break the patterns of co-dependence.

The Bible says, "A double minded man is unstable in all his (or her ) ways". This was exactly the case for our friend. She wanted all of the benefits from life in our basement apartment, but in the end she was not willing to pay the cost of HOPE." It was her undoing.

I learned a weird thing about addiction while our friend was a part of our life. Addiction is not only about the addict. It's about the people in the addict's life who make the addiction possible. It's the wife who buys doughnuts for her morbidly obese husband. Or the spouse who calls in sick for their partner when the hangover from last night's binge is too much. Codependents become addicted to "feeling needed" by addicts. We would not have allowed a chemically addicted person to take up residence in our basement. Our friend wasn't; but she was terribly codependent. We learned that codependents are addicted too. They are addicted feeling needed, to solving a crisis, to smoothing over. Ultimately our friend couldn't give up her habit.

She returned to her abusive and addicted boyfriend. She returned to her birthmom. She returned to squalor. And she took her young children with her.

I knew from our adoption training that a bed, clothes, food and education can't heal brokeness. A heart healed is a product of unconditional love, the hand of God, and ultimately the broken persons choice to heal. We show up willing to give. We love. We tell the truth. And we understand that our value is independent of another person's choice to heal or not heal.

Laughed so hard I nearly...

2010-12-16T19:49:00.000-08:00

I hate to laugh at other peoples expense, but really when they make it so easy...what's a girl to do. And you thought your 7th grade year book picture was awkward. It ain't got nuthin' on this.

I'd like to write a novel someday

2010-12-14T18:42:00.000-08:00

I'd like to write a novel someday. But it sounds like a lot of work.

I am not opposed to work per se, even hard work. But the thing is I've got a bunch of other stuff that needs doin'. Boogers to wipe - for one. Also, I'm the resident guru of 1st, 3rd, and 5th grade math 'round these parts. And it comes with responsibility - who will teach long division if I will not?

"Here am I, send me."

Then there is the laundry. It. Must. Be. Handled.

"Here am I, send me."

And the therapy to attend.

"Here am I, send me."

Dinner doesn't cook itself, now does it?

"Here am I, send me"

Sometimes I can say it with grace, with abandon. "Here am I, send me."

Those words, those 5 one-syllable words, they basically hand over my right to dictate my own life. Self actualization is traded in for servanthood. And the greatest shall be the least. On the good days...

I am happy to be a stay-at-home momma.

Happyish. (For it was never my dream.)

But I'd like to write a novel.

Or go to grad school.

Or travel.

However...

My life is not my own.

So Lord, let me find joy in the ordinary, and the day to day. Get my head out of the clouds and my feet on the ground. Help me to find satisfaction as I wiggle my toes down into the dirt of life. Remind me that the endless dishes, and the mundane tasks have a purpose. Help me to be faithful. Help me to be joyful. Help me to be generous.

I'd like to write a novel some day.

If I don't do it before I die, I'll just write it in heaven.

Busy bags and homeschool tricks

2010-12-14T15:19:00.000-08:00

This morning I spent an hour and a half putting together "busy bags". Other people have cuter names for these contraption - but it's all the same. We homeschool moms are working to keep our "littles" busy while we school our "bigs". So we pull out ziploc bags, or shoeboxes and fill them with activities to keep our preschoolers occupied. Play-dough. Lacing Beads. Puzzles. Audio Books. And the trick, the imperative, is that these things do not come out unless mom hands them out. They are not for everyday use. They are special, and must remain novel in order to work.

Of course, these "busy bags" only work when your child is NOT hell-bent on creating havoc. But they do, generally, buy some time to bust out a little algebra. I know good homeschool moms are supposed to like to put together things like these. I don't. Seriously folks, I nearly flunked home economics. But somethings we do out of necessity. And my survival instinct is strong.

The other day an acquaintance from church came over and was uber impressed with my white board, chunked up into neat little boxed for each child outlining the work that needs to get done. She said, "Are you a really organized person?" Yea -NO! I am a person residing in a home with 9 individuals and three very young canines. 6 kids. 3 puppies. 2 dealing with recent trauma. 1 in therapy for her "quirky" little brain. And I homeschool. That white board and any semblance of organization you see is about me makin' it work. And it does work - at least most days.

But least you think I have it all together I must 'fess up. I don't have a solution for this one: a particular 3 year old is completely obsessed with dog food. She love to play with it. She loves to throw it, and eat it. She loves to gag puppies with it. I think its a weird sensory thing combined with ZERO impulse control, and just a smattering of "I'm pissed at the puppy for stealing the show." Looking for a solution here.

Things that don't work:

-Moving the food.
-Screaming and yelling.
-Requiring the offender to pick-up the mess.
-Gentle reminders

Eric Ludy - Depraved Indifference

2010-12-13T12:11:00.000-08:00

Advent, and my dog might die...

2010-12-08T07:51:00.000-08:00

I like Jesus better because he was born in a stable. Or a cave. Or whatever. It wasn't the Ritz-Carlton, or St. Josephs Hospital. And I like him better for it.

I can serve a God who can enter into the mess and redeem it. I can love a God who will be with me through the ugliness.

Because, my kid's got special needs.
And my friend 's husband is an alcoholic.
Wellbutrin, and Prozac are close personal friends.
And my puppy might die, despite the vet bills.

There's a kid up the street who's a pothead and breaking his momma's heart.
And there's a guy, a very talented guy, toting so much baggage he is his own worst enemy.
Despite what Hallmark says love cannot heal post-traumatic stress, and malnourishment.
The scars of abuse remain decades after the fact.

I don't need a god of sugarplums and fairies. I'd prefer a little dirt under the nails. Cause that's where I life.

So today, this season, I will worship Emmanuel. GOD WITH US.

Homeschool and Christmas

2010-12-05T18:10:00.001-08:00

I tend to blow off the natural rhythms of life, preferring instead to ascribe to the guilt and shame modality of my Baptist heritage. Life SHOULD be full of grace and truth, fun and diligence, training and recovery.

But I am, apparently, above that nonsense. I work, work, work then fall flat on my face in exhaustion. Looking back I can see patterned played out over and over again.

This is how it looks as it applies to homeschool:

By December we are ready for a break in the routine, plus the holiday season brings with it lots of other commitments. One would think that, I would adjust accordingly. Homeschooling provides that kind of flexibility. NOPE. Traditionally, I hunker down and bust out some school, making every one in my path as miserable about education as I am. Then mid-December, my determination fizzles and I say "screw-it" . I then embrace Christmastime in all its cookie making gluttony. Novice homeschoolers take note:

THIS IS DUMB!

DON'T DO IT!

IT IS NOT SMART!

Plan for Christmastime. Enjoy it. Live up the beauty of homeschool. And for goodness sakes, be okay with taking some time off. This would be much smarter. And this is what I am doing this year.

We're making a recipe book of Christmas goodies and calling it handwriting.
We're gonna read "A Family Under the Bridge" and call it Language.
We're gonna double a candy recipe and calculate the cost of ingredients, and that will be Math.
We will probably read some of Luke, which will of course, be Bible.
Maybe we will make some ornaments: ART.
We're gonna make some cookies, and candies, and that will be science. Because there really is a science to cookie and candy making.
Then were gonna go shopping in the World Vision Catalog and buy us a some ducks and a goat, so that a family escape abject poverty. Maybe that's social studies, but even if it's not were doing it.

There are some beautiful things about homeschool. This December I'm determined to relish them.

Christmas Food Court Flash Mob, Hallelujah Chorus - Must See!

2010-11-30T06:27:00.000-08:00

Children's Hospital Development Center

2010-11-26T19:10:00.000-08:00

I got "the packet" from Children's today. It's ahmmm....not short. I will spend a large chunk of tomorrow filling it out. Then "the packet" goes to a team of experts to be evaluated. Then we get "the evaluation"; it's an all day deal where Princess, and her respective parental units get... well we get evaluated.

I don't know the results, and I don't know if we will get a "diagnosis" but just reading through the packet was affirming. I am not making stuff up. There are legitimate things in my youngest's medical history and family history that contribute to the stuff we see. It's documented by medical doctors, occupational therapists, and social workers. It's real.

Funny how I can trick myself into thinking that nothing is wrong. Abnormal becomes normal and we forget...
-most people don't have to drug their children to get them to sleep (well technically herbal supplement them...but whatever)
-most people can take their children into a store without them becoming unglued.
-most people do not plan sensory diet events into their day.
-most people don't walk into a new situation with a transitional item in place.
-most people don't start every every morning the very same way because change sends their little one into "behaviors" that aren't worth a few extra minutes of sleep.
-most people can ask their children "why?". (we tell "what")
-most people don't have to frame every stinking thing as a choice.
-most people aren't on hyper-alert all the time for when their child might impulsively do something to hurt themselves or others.
-most people aren't kinda expecting to change their child's diaper till she's 6.

But because we've developed a hefty repertoire of coping strategies and parenting tools that might look weird to others our lives operate relatively smoothly. Normalish. Nearly invisible differences. Yet, you take away the crutches and holy guacamole; chaos abounds.

I promise to stop blogging about this soon, but it's on my heart right now.

Thankful

2010-11-21T16:09:00.000-08:00

Topping the list: a bald dude on the downhill side of thirty. I so love him. He's my best friend and biggest ally. He responds to my, "Hey, let's..." with a " Sure!". Some of my ideas are nuts, some are risky, and he's always game. He's the feet and hands to my dreams. And I cannot tell you how much that means to me.

Next: My kids all one, two, three and four of them. My life is FULL, but less would feel empty.

In no particular order:

Lattes, and mountains. So maybe the connection isn't obvious. But I love them both. With their respective deliciousness and majesty the feed my soul.
My suburban. I love my miniture green school bus of a vehicle.
Friends who "get" me.
Gluten free "oreos".
Writing, and books. I love words. Nerdy, I know. Shut-up.
Living a story bigger than myself.
Family. I really had a "Leave it to Beaver" childhood. You can thank my parents for my general level-headedness and well balanced outlook.
Anti-depressants. Okay- so you might have to thank the makers of Wellbutrin too. They have heavily contributed to my sanity.
Puppies. I am a recovering animal hater.
My lovely home. I am even sorta thankful for the kitchen table missing most of its finish and marked with crayon. Good things happen 'round that table.
Will Farrel - I'm not even gonna explain that one.
Our church
many many other things

No Lone Rangers in this Story

2010-11-19T12:40:00.000-08:00

-Invisible disabilities can be such a head game. I got "in" with Children's Develpment Clinic. It's lot's of paperwork . Evaluations are scheduled 4 months out. That doesn't bother me. I'm nervous they are going to tell me that I am making stuff up, and that bugs. I would like someone, besides my husband, to validate what we see.

-She's cute, and charming. And, well, really charming. She doesn't regulate sleep. Or tolerate certain sensory input. She is potty training challenged. She looks for bizzarre sensory input. She has food texture issues. Just because she hears it, or even says it back to me does NOT mean she get's it. She is cause and effect challenged, and has barely perceptible motor delays. Impulse control what? She is impulsive and sometimes jet propelled. It is unsafe to keep her unsupervised for even a half a minute. She loves to be at home, or outside in the mountains. She becomes absolutely UNGLUED in stores. We both have post-traumatic stress after a trip to get groceries. And don't even get me started on what happens if her routine gets goofed up. It ain't pretty.

-At church, we've been talking a lot about what it means to do life WITH. We've been using words like: authentic community, and selfless sharing, and vulnerability. The value of this becomes really apparent as we consider that our daughter may always NEED to do life with others. She's bright, and delightful, but she will NEED someone. The truth is that we all need community, and life isn't meant to be lived in isolation. But the ramifications of my daughter trying to "do it alone" could be disastrous - all the data indicate it would be disastrous.

And so I question why "independence" is a metric for a successful life. For my littlest success will be defined in terms of whether she has the support people and systems in place to become all that God would have her be. And I am convinced she has much to offer the world. But the operative words will be interdependence, and connected, and supported, and valued. There will be no Lone Rangers in this tale - not if it is to be a "happily ever after".

2010-11-17T13:13:00.000-08:00

With

2010-11-14T13:05:00.000-08:00

Independence is as American as apple pie. But as we bite into it I wonder if it will not turn to rot in our mouth.

We were not meant for independence, and self-reliance is over-rated. If we bear the image of our creator (and we do) then we are meant for relationship.

Kitchen tables and campfires.
Sleep-overs and girls-night out.
Rainy afternoons and board games.

It's true we are meant to be free, but independence is a distortion of freedom. Some of the most enslaved people I've met have been fiercely independent. Fear of abandonment, pride and self-reliance have built a prison they call a fortress. They believe they are safe, but really, really they are just in a jail of their own making.

Then there are those who live on the margins. They are unseen, unloved, forgotten, and unkown. But most of all they are alone. Alone. Not independent. Not free. Alone.

Independence is over-rated.
We were meant for community.

The beginning of the Story starts as God walks WITH Adam and Eve in the Garden.

The end is the same.

Revelation says, "Now the dwelling of God is WITH man and he will live WITH them. And he will dwell among them and they shall be his people, and God himself will be among them...

WITH is the bookend - the beginning and the end, and the purpose in between. God intends to know us, and be known by us. He intends for for us to know each other. WITH is woven throughout the fabric of history...

Broken and then Restored.

Have you ever wondered what it means to be restored?

John 1:1 says, "In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was WITH God, and the Word was God."

The Word: that's Jesus. God in the flesh, dwelt among us. Emmanuel. When Jesus came he came to be WITH us, to restore us and redeem us from the jail of our own making, and the jails we did not make at all, yet find ourselves in. There is freedom in WITH. There is power in WITH. It is the power of God.

We are meant to be in relationship WITH God. We are meant to be in community in WITH each other. And when we reach out beyond our self-absorbtion to walk WITH those who live on the margins God is honored. Because when we walk WITH, we become imitators of God. True followers.

Be careful here; a danger lurks. Just as independence is not freedom, neither is near the same as WITH. Near is a cheap substitution for WITH.

Near is about proximity.

WITH costs. Jesus was Immanuel, God WITH Us, and it cost him his life. His life.

If you think you know a thing about WITH, yet it has not cost you it is not WITH. Do you want intimacy in your marriage? WITH is going to cost you.
Do you want to know the heart of your child? WITH is going to cost you.
Do you want your life to be a story worth telling? WITH is going to cost you.

It always does.

But a story WITH is the only story worth telling. It is the Story, in fact...and so all great story, must be the same story.

Walk WITH God.
Walk WITH Others.
Walk WITH the Least of These.

"See, I have engraved you on the palm of my hand..." God said this to Israel, His People. He says it to us as well. We are the people that he loved, that he remembered, that he restored. He wanted to be WITH us. And so he engraved my name (and yours) on palms of His hands. So deep, in fact, did he engrave my name that it pierced His flesh. I think it may have looked like a...

A Spike.
A Tree.
A Hill where he died as soldiers mocked and crowds jeered.

WITH is a priceless gift.

Barking more than the puppy!

2010-11-11T11:06:00.000-08:00

This morning I thought I would blog about why I love homeschooling. It would have been a lovely post about deliciously homeade buckwheat pancakes and lattes, and lazy snowy mornings...

it would have been a post like that...

except...

There is a ten year old learning to write research papers, and that apparently requires a fair amount of pissing and moaning.

There is an 8 year old who does not want to learn 6x8, or 6 time anything for that matter. It makes long division an extremely LOOONNNGGG and excruciation process for anyone in the vicinity.

There is a 7 year old who doesn't feel well - and inherited his mother's tendency to get emotional when hungry, tired or sick.

There is a 3 year old who does not enjoy her schedule being thrown off by such silly things as buckwheat pancakes and lattes.

There is a 12 week old puppy who doesn't like to be drug around by her front leg by a preschooler wearing a fairy costume. Imagine that!

There is a thirty something woman who is trying to model long-suffering and tolerance, but in actuality might have been barking more than the puppy.

SO...

We are declaring an extended recess/PE. The big kids are going outside to build a snowman in 3/4 inch of snow. And peanut put herself down for a nap.

See there are some good things about homeschooling after all...

John Piper and the Prosperity Gospel

2010-11-10T14:39:00.000-08:00

Orphan Sunday

2010-11-10T13:24:00.000-08:00

6 years ago God broke my heart for a thing that breaks his - a worldwide orphan crisis.

It never really mended - my heart, that is. And somehow I don't think it was meant to. Millions of orphaned children should chafe at one's soul. Child led households should be disturbing. Babies with cleft palates destined to short lives lived out in institutions - that should keep a person awake at night.

So because God broke my heart for these things, I wrote a little email to the leadership of our church suggesting we host a Orphan Sunday event. I was not at all sure that they would take it seriously. But guess what? They did. We did. And Jacob's Well hosted our first ever Orphan Sunday. I'm sure big churches with big budgets pulled off some impressive events. Ours was simple yet... God was on the move.

One family made a commitment to adopt. Another is seriously considering it. Small groups are supporting child led households. Our church is commiting to help an organization who cares for kids who've aged out of foster care and are living on the streets.

There is a buzz...a rumbling...an undercurrent and a subtext.

I am so excited.

Partly, it's that I know many orphaned kids need to have the church act as their defender. If we are really, truly the hands and feet of Christ, then we need to be feeding, protecting, advocating and caring for the least of these.

But it's more than just that...because in some weird way we (the American church) need these orphans too. We need the to draw us out of the bondage of our own self-absorption. We need them to teach us about joy, and hope. We need them to redefine "treasure" for us. We need them to lead us to the heart of our Father.

When my heart broke for the orphaned child it broke, really and truly. Yet somehow in the process I found that life was bigger than I ever knew, and I found HOPE. I believe that as our little church cares for the things that break God's heart we will find life. Our world will grow. We will grow - both in numbers and in maturity. And I am so excited to see what God will do.

Quotables and Bullet Points

2010-11-04T19:14:00.000-07:00

Caleb, aka kid #3, is laid back. He's seriously low key - and it sometimes disguises itself as laziness. Yet, underneath he's got this creative and incredible inner world. He's got a fabulous ear for music. He's funny - but he can be so quiet you miss funny comments. So, I thought I should record recent Caleb comments for posterity.

"When I die and go to heaven I want to get the body of a lego guy." - Caleb

"Mom, I think I can breathe through my ears." - Caleb

I am riddled with guilt because our puppy has an ear infection. I have no idea why this is my fault, but it feels like I failed at puppy ownership and will have to turn in my " Humane Individual Card". This is compounded by the fact that we returned Psychotic Oso, may he rest in peace, to the shelter a week after rescuing him.

We're homeschooling. It's going well. I am still not convinced we are lifers. Homeschooling is an imperfect solution (Back-off you homeschooling nut jobs - It is NOT perfect, and not everyone should do it.). However, public school are jacked too, and so is private school. So where does that leave us?

"Je ne sait pas" is French for "I don't know".

I think it sounds classier than, "I'm clueless."

So

"Je ne sait pas."

I have a cold. I hate colds.

Abby is wearing a princess dress over her footie jammies tonight. She is kid number four, so we don't care. She's sleeping. Sleep is good - she could ask to sleep in medieval chain mail and we'd probably say "yes."

I talked with this amazing woman who just adopted a newborn. She's in her late 40's and has 10 kids, and a whole bunch of foster kids. Most are special needs. She's normal looking, and put together - in case you were wondering. I'm pretty sure she knows a lot about the important things. Plus, she said, "Get Pull-ups; it doesn't matter if your daughter is 6 years old when she is finally potty trained." , and that makes me like her even better.

I'm excited our little church is hosting an Orphan Sunday initiative. Go Us. We're little. We're made up of mostly new Christ-followers. And we're talking orphan care.

I've taken to carrying around a bottle of childrens' antihistamine with me. My allergies are become a PAIN, and I've found a swig of liquid Benedryl is the fastest solution. Pretty sure nobody's doctor recommends that.

Denial and other parenting tactics

2010-10-30T16:08:00.000-07:00

Where to begin?

Daughter #2 (and kid #4) was adopted through foster-care. She was itty-bitty when she came to us and thus avoided much of the trauma her biological sisters endured in their home of origin. My brown-eyed girl is an absolute doll; everywhere we go I get random strangers commenting on her general cuteness. And, let's be honest here, the girl is SUPER cute. She is also bright, maybe even very bright. So I have this darling and intelligent kid and it's easy to assume everything is normal. Oh, there are indicators that something is amiss, but they are easily overlooked, and to the general public they are entirely invisible. Even to our friends and family these "QUIRKS" are nearly invisible.

Yet...

According to Karyn Purvis (adoption and childhood trauma specialist), and our pediatrician and my daughter's occupational therapist there are almost certainly physiological differences in her brain. These differences can be managed, but they will never go away. Never. They will likely have bigger and bigger implications as she grows and matures.

What's a mom supposed to do with that? 'Cause the kid looks normal, and she's my daughter and I love her. How do I come to grips with that? How do I tell people who need to know what's really going on and still keep my daughter's story her own. If I told people, would they even believe me? I don't want to give my daughter a label that carries a stigma, but how do I let the world know that not all of the same rules apply to this pretty little brown eyed preschooler?

And, seriously, how do I parent this kid?

SI dysfunction.
Adhd.
Information Processing/Auditory Processing Disorder
Sensory Seeking.
Poor transitioning.
Executive Function Differences.
Causal Relationship Issues
Sleep Disorder
Preconception /Body Awareness Problems

It's an alphabet soup of mumbo jumbo.

If any of you lack wisdom, he should ask God, who give generously to all without finding fault and it will be given to him...James 1:5

Ah God, it's me, I need wisdom. I need a generous heaping helping of it. Because you've called me to mother this precious child, yet I don't know how...

Bear, the Psycotic Dog

2010-10-17T14:29:00.001-07:00

My kids have been begging for a pet for years. According to them they were the only kids in America without a one; it's a terrible burden to bear. I held out for a good long time, but the mom guilt gets to you after a while, so it was time to consider. consider. consider. pet acquisition.

Reptiles, amphibians, and rodents are icky. They were, and are, an absolute NO GO!

Cats give me hives and make it impossible to breathe.

Dogs...I'm allergic to some dogs. But there are a few that I can tolerate.

Thus, began the saga.

The story begins with me doing hours upon hours of research into hypo-allergenic dogs. Apparently, poodles are the hypo-allergenic-ist of all dogs. So people cross breed poodles with other breeds to get the hypo-allergenic qualities of a poodle and hopefully breed out the poodle ugliness. They're called designer dogs, and unbeknownst to me they are all the rage. There are labradoodles, and goldendoodles, and ausi-doodles, and cockadoodles. And then there are micro-mini versions of all of the above. It boggles the mind.

There is also a breed called bichpoos A certain sad and pathetic bichpoo had taken up residence at the Dumb Friends League, and my internet research had brought him to my attention. Eddie and I went to check on the hypoallergenic qualities of this dog, and ended up bringing him home. He was a sorry sight. Bad hair cut. Recently neutered. Skittish little thing. But he loved me - loved me to distraction.

We named him Oso, which means bear. It was wishful thinking.

One week and a couple hundred dollars into dog ownership we discovered a thing. The dog was psychotic. Fear had driven him insane. Really. I'd leave and he'd freak out to the point he'd start injuring himself. He chewed off his own claw. We're tolerant of neurosis, so we though we could deal with that. Until he started growling, barking and lunging at every little boy in sight. There are currently 4 little boys in residence. So poor Oso had to go before he attacked a kid.

(Philosophical sidenote: Some people are like Oso, the Psychotic Dog. They are so driven by fear that they hurt themselves and others. The need to control destroys them and the people around them.)

We returned Oso, the Psychotic Dog to the shelter Wednesday. But, of course, the story cannot end here. My kids have ridden an emotional roller-coaster. It went like this:

Children had born the burden of pet-free status for years.
Finally, they got a dog.
The dog was psychotic.
The dog had to be returned.
Imagine with me the years of therapy this kind of trauma could entail...

I needed a hypo-allergenic, non-psychotic puppy, at a deep discount, and in a hurry.

So I email every breeder of hypo-allergenic pups this side of the Mississippi, begging for a discount. Designer dogs are expensive. I needed a miracle of puppy proportion.

Kathy, at AAC Ranch, came through for me. She had mercy on our pathetic story and sold us a darling little fuzz ball at an $800 discount. We call her Kota. It's short for Lakota Pumpkin. "Pumpkin" because its October. "Lakota" because that is kid #4's ethnic background. I think it might be weird to name your dog after your daughters ethnic background. I mean really who names their dog African American, or Northern European? You see what I mean?

Anyway - we are now pet owners. She's nine weeks old. And a puppy in every sense of the word.

INFP

2010-10-10T13:33:00.000-07:00

Our small group recently did the Myers-Briggs test and a spirtual gifts inventory. I am an:

INFP (an acronym)
Introvert - I renew energy by being alone. I am introspective and contemplative.
iNtuitive - Patterns, intuition, and relationship inform my life. I dream.
Feeling - People, and their feelings play into my decision making.
Perceiving - I like my options option, and am comfortable with being in process.

Now I've been an INFP since the very first time I took this personality inventory in high-school. People who know we well, and understand the Myers-Briggs verify my INFP status.

Here's the rub. The test I took last week turned out a bit differently. Though I AM an INFP I act Like a INTJ.

This annoys me.

It annoys me a LOT.

Because it sorta means I operate outside of my wiring. I've adapted to my life by acquiring survival skills.

Like being logical.
Like paying attention to details.
Like being goal oriented, and task focused.

These things aren't bad things, but let's be honest here, there not all that FUN either.

They're functional.

But, once, I was a dreamer.
Once, I was an artist.
I used to now how to glory in the beauty of a fall afternoon, and NOT do my laundry.
And believe it or not, years ago, I had the reputation of a slacker who distracted others from their work.

(In self-defense, I wasn't an actual slacker; I was just skilled at working the system so my work took me less time. I do, however, plead the 5th on the part about distracting others from their work. It might have happened, a time or two or... )

Life is stressful. It's busy. It's full of tasks that need to be done. right. now.

But somewhere in the midst of things I've lost the art of play. I lost the head in the clouds day-dreamer I used to be. What if I could just:

CHILL OUT!

and play.
and read.
and dream.
and pray.

What if I embraced these tendencies in my children?

a hand full of shells...

2010-09-05T11:37:00.000-07:00

Theoretically, has settled down for us.

Theoretically.

The actuality is somewhat different.

We may have downshifted, but the RPM are just as high. We've traded in the freeway for off-roading. So while we cover ground more slowly the climb is more intense and it requires more skill in the assent. The slower speed lets me be intentional about the things in which I involve myself. And so many things vie for my attention. Good things. Really good things. Excellent even.

But my energies need to be focused.

I like missions statements. I get geeked about stuff like that, so I'm trying to develop my own.

Here is what I know: When I try to grab hold of life by living for myself...I end up chasing after the wind. I arrive with handfuls of hard won... nothing, and I am empty for all my chasing.

2 Corinthians 5 talks about being compelled by Christ's love to be a part of the ministry of reconcilliation. I know that sounds like a bunch of churchified mumbo-jumbo. Still, it speeks to me because there is nothing so compelling as the love of Christ. Nothing so motivating.
There is a song we sing at church that says " if His love is an ocean then we're all drowning" and it is true. After experiencing the radical, crazy love of Christ there is no going back. Nothing else feels like life...nothing else satisfies. His love engulfs and it changes; it compels me to action.

'Cause when you walk with God the things he cares about become the things you care about. His passions become your passions, and his heartbreak your own.

"Thy kingdom come, thy will be done", becomes an authentic thing.

The particulars for me center around orphan care, issues like fatherlessness, and poverty. They center around engaging the comatose Church in America with the heart of God. For God so loves the American church, now enslaved and chained to the things we have long pursued, that he gave his only son that whosoever believes in him should be disentangled from the consumerism that so easily entangles and experience life, both here and in eternity.

Still working on that missions statement.