Monday, September 26, 2011

Things for little brothers to do while Mom homeschools older brothers

1.  Strip 1/2 the leaves off succulent house plant and squeeze out liquid from leaves with feet.

2.  Escape outside and stomp in mud puddle.

3.  Sit in mud puddle.

4.  Peel wrappings off all crayons.

5.  Smash chalk against hardwood floors

6.  Dump remaining chalk in little space behind baseboard radiators.

7.  Spin several gluesticks to the top, take out glue, smush on table.

8.  Tear library books.

9.  Attempt potty training.

10. Dump cordless phone neatly in garbage can. (Thank God it rang soon after!)

Granted, this is not a comprehensive list.  But we've only been at this for a month so far...

Friday, September 23, 2011

Cheetos and stuff

"A cheetah could eat a giraffe."
My five year old stated matter-of-factly this afternoon.  He was, aptly, wearing a giraffe costume rescued at a weekend yard sale.  Daddy had been in charge of lunch on his day off, so a take out pizza and bag of Cheetos magically appeared on the table at noon.  The boys were ecstatic at the crackle of the orange bag of rare delight.  Now, as I cleared the table, Gavin sat munching with a twinkle in his eyes.  "Look, now a giraffe is eating a Cheeto!"

Daddy grinned, "That's my boy."
I chuckled.  The boys are constant entertainment; at least when we choose not to be exasperated by them.  Life must have been so dull before I had children, but that era is a distant memory now.  Gavin is 5 and 1/2 now, and he is followed (and often tackled) by a 4 year old, a 2 and 1/2 year old, and jolly little 8 month old.  And yes, a bit of a break does sound nice.  And yes, we are busy.  And yes, they are all mine.  I was there at their births.  Believe me.

And, yes, we are beginning our homeschool journey this year, officially.  In fact, we have survived week four.  When asked recently what he'd learned so far, Gavin flung out nonchalantly, "Stuff."  As if my ego and reputation were no concern of his.  As if he doesn't consider how desperately I want to do this whole "raising children" thing right.  

Of course, I learn so much from having these little reflections around.  My relationship with God is so often mirrored by their own simple existence.  I suspect He gets exasperated with me, cries for me, laughs at my antics, aches when He must discipline me, and always, always loves me.  I read John 13:1 this morning.  Jesus, "having loved His own who were in the world, loved them to the end."  His own.  Isn't that a wonderful phrase?  Two chapters previous, Jesus had wept with His dear friends before Lazarus' tomb.  Later, He sat down to a good meal with His disciples, then humbly washed their feet.  He was preparing to die for them.  For me.  For His own.  That's heavy.
Yet I blithely go about my days largely naive to His great sacrifice for me, His grace toward me.  I appreciate some good things, complain about a lot of difficult things, and generally ignore the One who holds the molecules of my life together.  He delights in me.  He's constantly teaching me, giving me good things, taking care of me when I have no concept that I need taking care of.  Because I am His own.      

There.  Blog one.

Thursday, September 15, 2011

For Momma at 4 a.m.


Where did you come from, baby dear?
Out of the everywhere into the here.

Where did you get those eyes so blue?
Out of the sky as I came through.

What makes the light in them sparkle and spin?
Some of the starry spikes left in.

Where did you get that little tear?
I found it waiting when I got here.

What makes your forehead so smooth and high?
A soft hand stroked it as I went by.

What makes your cheek like a warm white rose?
I saw something better than anyone knows.

Whence that three-cornered smile of bliss?
Three angels gave me at once a kiss.

Where did you get this pearly ear?
God spoke, and it came out to hear.

Where did you get those arms and hands?
Love made itself into bonds and bands.

Feet, whence did you come, you darling things?
From the same box as the cherubs' wings.

How did they all just come to be you?
God thought about me, and so I grew.

But how did you come to us, you dear?
God thought about you, and so I am here.
                                    -George MacDonald