The Perfect Food Attempt Number 2

My children gathered around me as I dumped the scoop of the Perfect Food into a white bowl, "What's that stuff, Mom?" "The Perfect Food, my dears. But I don't want to talk about it just now." I reply in an unconvincingly controlled voice. Huh? My ragamuffins shot puzzled looks to one another. Apparently they noticed my look of sheer disgust as I gazed down at the strange mound which appeared to have suddenly multiplied from one scoop to enough to cover the entire bottom of my dish. If only it didn't still smell like the kelp I give my goats. I tried hard not to breathe. If only the powder weren't that all too natural shade of bright green even after sitting untouched on the shelf for another two weeks. This time I intended to eat the mix dry instead of mixing it into the undesirable prescribed drink. I collected an ambitious heaping spoon full and stuck it into my mouth and pleaded with myself silently, "Swallow. Just swallow. Come on. You can't just waste $35.99 on some grand health experiment. Swallow the darn stuff." Gulp. Gag. Spit green globs into the sink. Swig water like an alcoholic downs Mad Dog. Dash to find any food which will tackle the wretched taste in my mouth. "Mom doesn't like that stuff" my wide eyed children conclude. Yes, I can and will waste $35.99 on a grand health experiment today. I poured the remaining powder from the bowl back into the can. Helen says I should sprinkle it on my broccoli. Today is not the day to try that approach. Maybe I'll wait another few weeks.

Do your eyes light up?

Today I was profoundly moved for a second time by a statement revisited on Oprah. Okay, please snicker at me if you want for still liking, yes admiring her work over twenty years. Maybe she isn't cool anymore for trendy folks or conservative enough for other tight individuals, but Oprah is a hero to me. It's obvious to me she may not have arrived, but she's moving forward on a journey to be her best self. And I've grown myself from watching that process.

Mind you, I do not watch her show every day or every week even, but now and then I catch an bit or piece.

Anyway, the show went back to an interview with Toni Morrison. If you are unfamiliar with Morrison's work The Bluest Eye, then I strongly urge you to put that next on your reading queue (if you are up to staring harsh tradegy in the face with Toni). What Toni told Oprah in the interview hit the mark on my soul, again. She asked something like, "When a child, your own or another, walks into the room, do your eyes light up? Or do you keep a bothered look on your face? They feel that as harshness directed at them. Children find love or not in their caregivers faces. What expression do you wear?"

Gracious. I spend too much of my day rolling my eyes, drawing my mouth up tight, pointing at the disturbance of my peace, then huffing, "Who left these legos in the middle of the living room floor?" or "Why can't you put your cup in the sink instead of always leaving it on the counter?" "Your room looks like a disaster. Don't ask for dessert until it's picked up." "Put your laundry AWAY, not on top of the dresser." "Quiet! Take that boy energy outside!"

Do my eyes light up when I look at my child?

Not enough.

It takes great effort for me to lay down my crowded agenda to look my child squarely in the eyes with a loving sparkle he longs for from his busy mom.

Tonight, and hopefully many to follow, I will be conscious to let love show in my eyes. I will stop and pet the cat Peace holds right in front of my face. When I pet that feline at my son's request, it's nurture to my son's spirit. When my daughter asks me to watch yet another dance, I will stop and admire her moves until she bows. I will listen to Wise One's dream about dinosaurs sleeping in his bed with him. I will cook with Tator tonight, because he want's to learn how to make fried rice. It's all love and all good.

Sometimes when hearts overflow with joy, some spills from the eye.

It's Sproutin' Time Again

Anyone else thinking it's time to pull out the peet pots and pop in the secret miracles known as seeds?

A New Day

[p]All, with the exception of Tator who has bronchitis, are well again in this household.[p] The car is fixed. Hallelujah! [/p] [p]The water leak is not only repaired but the utilities board attributed the problem to be somewhat their fault and will reduce our bill. Can I get an amen? [/p] [p]The garage who last changed the oil in our van, filled our van with oil, replaced the missing cap, and sprayed the engine clean. Glory![/p] [p] I even made it to the gym, and am putting finishing touches on a new material I've been writing. Somebody say God is good![/p] [p] I'm ever so grateful for a new day dawning. [/p][p] However, Scott from Swept Over the paragraph thing isn't working out on blogger....help![/p]

Happy Vomitine's Day

Valentine's Day

What's that? You say Valentine's Day was yesterday? Did I miss something? Yes, I missed it, completely, because for our family it was Vomitine's diarrhea Day. Four of six, experienced the most unpleasant February 14 th ever as we huddled shivering under covers in between dashing bursts to the our porcelain friend. And here's the rest of the story, something fell off my husband's car on his way out of the garage day before yesterday, and it needed a tow. The water company failed to tell us the water meter at the road a quarter mile from our house was submerged, yes under water, due to a leak which is on our side of the meter (can-you-believe-it!), and we now have a zillion dollar water bill for last month and a terribly sick husband who couldn't lift his head from the pillow yesterday to access whether he can fix it or not. Another thing which needs our immediate attention is our van; the garage who did our last oil change last week, accident's left the cap off after changing the oil, and the engine has been sprayed with black gunk and the oil light keeps flashing. Then there's the matter of the one wheezing sick child, my dear slightly recovered husband dragged himself out of bed to take to the doctor this morning. A dear friend called yesterday to offer a meal, and it was the first time I laughed all day. While it was a very generous and sincere offer, noone here wanted to talk about food in any way, shape, or form. I do feel better this morning, though sore and winded. And the sick people's bathrooms and bedding bid me, "Wash before I spread my terrible germs to the remaining children." Somehow, certainly not today, I will need to make up for a very sorry Valentine's Day to my eager little girl who begged to put up Valentine decorations the day we boxed up Christmas. I told her she'd confused me with our friend Mrs. Roberts when it came to bedecking the house for every holiday; I don't own any Valentine's Day decorations. Maybe I could find it in my heart to make heart shaped cookies and have hot tea with her in little cups soon. All that is love is not lost, because at least she got a valentine from a friend at ballet class Monday and one from Grandpa and Grandma M, and some matching jammies to me though they don't fit. Next is the matter of a neglected husband. I got the new Charlie Hall CD and cute Bambi pajama pants for my present. In return I gave him a G.I. bug. Hope he'll be able to forgive me someday.

Am I making my children into nerds?

I am more than convinced after an out-of-town week of children, including mine, who were constantly looking to plug in and zone out, that I would be a horrible mother of children with Game Boys, Game Cubes, X-boxes, televisions. It seemed to be a constant battle for me, and I honestly don't know how other parents do it, to coax children away from those enticing electronics into real life and relationship. And if your answer is "limit on screen time", and please be honest, I haven't met an interested child who doesn't try to play sneaking under the radar of their parents yet. Longer and more seem never to be enough for the child.

Or maybe it's not a painstaking chore for other parents with more patience, less children, or more obedient children than mine to monitor and moderate screen time.

When my children were small, I drank in a delicious lecture about allowing children to explore wonder, and I made the tiny leap that a screen was no place to really experience anything. Years later, another I attended another lecture on "raising your children to love literature". The speaker boldly admonished that her approach would not work if parents were not committed to totally unplugging their children. So, I did.

We're safely home now to Tennessee, and back into our own family's routine. So, here's how my guys spent their day now that we are away from beeping, singing, boinging devices beckoning to hiding youth like the child catcher in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang, "Candy. Lollipops. Icecream. All free today." Two boys played lazer tag over the hills and woods of our yard this afternoon while another hung out with the dog and goats in the field. My girl dressed up and dragged out every doll in her closet. I read aloud for some time in the afternoon to the gang. And since it's dark and rather cold (otherwise my boys still might still be outside) they have spent the evening gathered around a book on CD building with legos. It's very pleasantly peaceful evening.

We may watch Home Extreme Makeover or some Olympic action together if they wish.

So, am I cursing my children to nerdom by depriving them of the American Boy's Electronic Dream, simply because I don't want to deal with the hassle? I do wonder what other segways between boyhood toys and grown up jobs are available which don't involve power sources. Is it sad to you that my boys are so mesmerized when a TV is on in the same room, and they can't manage to play around ignoring the program like others who tune it out? Would moderation serve my children better than my deliberate household fast? I'd love to hear your opinion.

No show on the snow

Okay, the snow did fall but it melted almost on impact. To all you lucky folks meandering in white winter wonderland, I'm envious. The only pristene landscape of snow I've seen today was watching the Olympics on television. And everyone looks so bundled and cheery- except for the competitors who have lost.

Everything Stops

Being from the north causes me to puzzle over why the south comes to a grinding halt with even the threat of snow. At 8 am, we got the call from the basketball coach saying all games are cancelled today, and there wasn't a snowflake in sight. In fact, many businesses will close and social events will be cancelled all around. What is so scary about freezing white powder? The fact is, that the greater Knoxville area doesn't usually get much snow, so precious few snow plows, salt trucks, and small salt supply are budgeted. Only major roads and highways get blessed by scraping and crystal flinging vehicles, leaving everyone else without a major snow vehicle stuck at home or on sliding sideways into one another's cars. It's chaos. I'm a great snow driver from northern experience, but Tennessee natives do not follow slippery terrain protocol. For example, the wait-at-the-top-of-a-hill-until-the-car-in-front-clears-the-next-hill rule; TN drivers honk impatiently behind me, even steer around me to end up spinning out to just barely missing the car I was waiting on to clear the hill. So, I avoid going out like the other zillion Tennesseans who stockpile milk and bread and don't darken the doorway of the garage until thaw. Thaw is usually a few minutes or days after snow here. My family will drink hot chocolate if and until the snowfall crests over the grass. Then Buck and the children will suit up for snow ball fights and snowmen and snowmermaids if or while the snow lasts. I'm a coward when it comes to slippery- no further knee surgeries for me, thank you. So, I'll watch from inside snuggle in my toasty red blanket with a book. Buck promises to make chocolate chip cookies. Finally. I'll get my long awaited snow day. BTW, Blogger wouldn't allow proper spaces or paragraphs today. What's up with that? What if I'd have wanted to write a brilliant poem on The True Vyne? I wish I had a place to pose such questions and others to blogger. Anyone know of any way to do so?

National Underground Railroad Freedom Center

Yesterday we visited the National Underground Railroad Freedom Center in Cincinnati. A tour was about to start as we entered so we rushed meet the guides. A friendly knowledgeable man educated us on a tour with just my children and I.

First, I learned about the international problem of slavery. The U.S. held only 3 million of the 15 million slaves world wide. Even Africans held slaves themselves and perpetuated the trade. He showed maps and slave ship pictures. I found a record from Tennessee courthouse for the purchase of slaves to be particularly interesting. Two men and one girl sold for $1,500 around 1830. Our guide equated this sum to about $15,000 today. If one transported slaves from the northern U. S. to the south their value became significantly more due to the great need and fortune being made in cotton production.

I was surprised to learn that native Americans were sometimes enslaved too, but not as desirable. These folks could find home if they escaped captivity, and if too many native Americans were collected, there was danger of war. I also didn't know that African slaves would sometimes escape and become part of tribes which took them in.

The Freedom Center houses a slave holding cabin from Kentucky inside the building. The owner would collect slaves and chain them upstairs until he amassed about 30 or 40 people. Then he'd walk them 600 miles to the south to be sold for big bucks.

One section large section exhibits the Underground Railroad. One can watch a short movie about a boy deciding to run for freedom or stay with his family as a slave. A hall outside the theater room, houses computers around the displays where one might run with the boy from the movie and make decisions along the way, "It's been days since I've eaten. Do I go without food or try to steal some food from a barn?", "Do I stop at the house with the candle in the window, or is it a trap?", "Do I walk by a creek in the open so dogs will lose my scent , or stay in the woods where I might hide?" There are posters of people and stories who conducted or escaped on the underground railroad. A house was on exhibit which asked, "Where would you hide here if a slave catcher me after you." Yesterday, was the first time I understood that even if the people escaped to the north, they had to continue to Canada for true freedom. And because of the great value of slaves, bounty hunters chased them all the way to the U.S. Canadian border. So, the underground railroad spanned not just the south, but all the way north.
Oprah Winfrey hosted a longer movie about the crossing of slaves from Ky. to Ripley, Ohio over the Ohio River. Thousand of former slaves made it over with the help of two men, a former slave who bought his freedom, and Presbyterian minister who dedicated his life to the abolitionist cause. The minister's house is preserved to this day. Wish I remembered these men's names.

Another section of the museum is devoted to slavery and oppression today. The music and projected moving images were too powerful and overwhelming for my five year old Pooh Bear to spend any time in there.

The Freedom Center stands on the Ohio River just across from Kentucky. There is an encased flame on a veranda facing the river, reminding us of safe haven, as a beacon of light announcing freedom for all, in memory of all those who suffered and died for the cause.

One point was brought home to us in a simple fact. Construction of the bridge which links Ohio and Kentucky, and stands just across from the museum in full view from it's huge glass windows, was started before slavery ended in the U.S. Our guide reminded us, "Everyone thinks slavery was so long ago, but the bridge we still use today contains stone and labor from that time."

To sum up the experience, I'll use a quote if I can remember it-

"Freedom should be like the air we breathe, always there but totally invisible."

Museum

Pooh Bear stamped one delicate foot, stuck out her perfect and rosy bottom lip and shouted, "But I don't like art!"

"So, you don't want to go to the art museum today, right? And whose child are you anyway?" I question.

"I just told you I don't like art." Pooh Bear asserts again.

Well, I do. Boy howdy. Since my red headed aunt took me at age seven to the Cincinnati Art Museum I fell head over heels with high ceilinged galleries, walls lined with paintings, artifacts, sculptures. Looking at a painting by Mary Cassatt of a mother sitting with her back turned from the painter holding a toddler sucking on his fingers, I'm instantly transported to an age of high lace collars and impeccable culture, meticulous manners and sprawling flower gardens I otherwise never would have known.

This was a day of opportunity to explore the very same museum (CMA) with my own children for the first time, and Pooh Bear ended up being a rather good sport about it afterall.

We began in ancient middle east. The illuminated Koran texts reminded me Christianity is not the only religion to dearly love its sacred texts and preserve them in magnificent art form.

Later, I was wowed by a special exhibit called "Cat Chow"of women's clothing made from impossible items; coils of folded dollars sewn together for a dress, a continuous zipper wedding dress, a shift made entirely from glue sticks and copper rings, swirly designs of washers for an evening gown, ivory soap bar wrappers sewn together for a frock, a dress made old thick coiled bandaids, a jacket made entirely of facial tissue.

Peace liked a glass sculpture which he thought looked like Atlantis. It was a block of glass with a chiseled city inside somehow. I have no idea how one does that.

Wise One's favorite exhibit was the Damascus room, preserved from the Ottoman empire. Ivory and gold inlaid doors, intricate painting, a prayer section spoke to him of another place and time too.

Tator loved the Japanese knives and swords- gorgeous metal work and design full of snakes and dragons.

Pooh Bear loved the "Genius of the Water" who tops Fountain Square's fountain in the heart of Cincinnati's downtown. She's at the museum for a close up look while they are restoring the fountain. Her feet were gigantic- something I'd never have guessed while she was high atop the fountain water flowing down from her hands.

All our mouths dropped open when we discovered a piece of work over 2,500 years old.

I was a bit disappointed but educated to find that my personal favorite CMA piece "Grief", a 1981 painting by Fishle (I think) was not on display. The information lady informed me that 97% of the acquisitions are in storage, preservation, or lent. The displays are frequently changed out.

While I was in college at University of Cincinnati a hundred years ago, and my heart was desperately broken, I'd drive myself through tears to the museum, dry my face on my thrift store wool coat, and sit and stare at that particular painting. For an hour. Maybe two. From what I remember, the oil painting included a life-sized magnificent man holding someone naked, dripping, and drowned raggedly hanging from his muscular arms on a dark rocky seashore. The painted rescue came too late, and the deep melancholy and dark side of me wondered sorrowfully if my rescue would also be delayed until death.

On this day in 2006, I wondered what the picture would have done inside me among my steady abundant life. I'll not know until I venture back up here to Porkopolis and "Grief" hangs back in it's spot for me to gander upon.

The Perfect Food

I conducted a little experiment today.

I bought The Perfect Food at the health food store at a cost of the low, low price of $35.99. It's just one step down from juicing all the green veggies you need for the day in an easy powdered drink. The container is supposed to last a few weeks, but I have a feeling it make take me a bit more time to consume.

I grabbed the kitchen scissors to cut off the plastic seal, unscrewed the lid, and peeled back the safety and freshness seal. At which point I was assaulted with a fishy grass smell. I gazed down at the fine powder which likened itself to the kelp I give my goats occasionally. My caprines gobble their kelp like Christmas candy, so why would I just love this mix myself?

I found a large cup and scooped in two tablespoons of pale green flakes. I poured on 8 ounces of bottled water. Who in their right mind would use tap water with the Perfect Food?
I stirred and water turned fresh forest green instantly. Glob balls of green dust burst to the surface, and before long, I was holding in my hands, what resembled the primordial soup from whence we came.

Right then and there I knew I needed distraction to coax me through the process of drinking it. I got two books and some writing and sat them beside my glass. Two books in case one lacked the inspiration it would take to finish the concoction. Writing because I planned for my muse to appear beaming before me after such a healthy and fulfilling activity. I read a few sentences from the first book while I downed my first gulps. "Not bad" I thought as the liquid poured into my throat.... that is "Not bad" until I stopped drinking. The aftertaste was of kelp in fact with hints, I mean blasts of broccoli and spinach interspersed. While I like the latter two vegetables just fine, I wouldn't dream of imbibing the water I've just steamed them in. I read another paragraph to occupy my shaken thoughts in preparation for my second go round of gulps. After which I gagged. I put the book aside in order to speed up the daunting task and soldiered through more of the liquid after which I gagged more seriously. The fourth swig I threw up in my hands. Enough to concern my niece noticing my green covered face, sleeves, hands dripping with gunk as I dashed for the kitchen sink.

I readied a granola bar to shove in my mouth hoping to combat the aftertaste of the dregs in the cup. I threw up granola and green ooze into the shiny stainless steel bowl and washed all my sorrows away with the clear flowing water from the faucet.

I now have further insight into the profound saying, "Goats will eat anything."

How can this be the Perfect Food if it tastes so very awful?

Perhaps I will successfully get rid of the aftertaste today with the delicate blend of peanut butter, spaghetti O's, and bananas, and milk. If that doesn't work I'll try limburger cheese. Okay, I've never eaten limburger, but I've smelled it, and more than likely it could take on kelp and grass flavors.

Tomorrow I might try to eat the powder straight from the tablespoon washed down quickly with eight ounces of pure spring water, followed by a dainty puke.

So, stay turned for another exciting episode of Girl verses the Perfect Food. It costs too much to waste.

Now, please excuse me while I go wash the chlorophyll off my stained shirt sleeves.

Miss Rumphius and Me

This morning I looked over and spied this book in a Pooh Bear's pile, and it served as a simple reminder of why I homeschool. Without these moments, I just might chase the yellow bus down the street one day and stuff all my children into it, pour myself some ice cold milk, whip up chocolate chip cookies, wrap myself in my luciously warm red throw blanket, and read the book of my choice. All day.

Last winter, I read this particular story to my children. Miss Rumphius is a book about a lady who was the Johnny Appleseed of Lupines. She went about spreading beauty in the hidden form of seeds and changed the world to a better place. After reading, I realized I didn't ever recall seeing a Lupine, so in the spring I scattered hard,black, round seeds resembling whole pepper in the flower bed in front of our house. Last summer, broad star-shaped green leaves popped out of the ground, but it takes two years to get bloom. If I am blessed enough to wake up alive and well each day, this summer I may have five foot stalks of cone shaped beauties to gaze upon just beyond my beloved porch swing.

If I'd have picked a grown up book and snuggled by myself on the couch, I'd have missed the great anticipation of glorious blossoms due in just a few short months after a long year of waiting with expectation.

What else would I have missed? If we had not read this story, our entire family might be unfortunate enough to pass a Lupine in all its splendor and have it's foliage remain completely unnoticed.

More than that, it wouldn't have been me to catch this tender story and sprinkle its majesty and potential over four precious people in my specific bundle of folks to love deeply.

Here's what I hope to find in my flower bed in June.

Here's the first year's growth of Lupines.

Courage?

Sometimes the tough girl in me flies out like angery wet bees from a hive.

My workout buddy, Celine and I headed to a local park to run our 5K after a few weights this morning. When we arrived at the park, a red compact car circled the parking lot. Weird. When the car slowed down and crept too close for comfort alongside us on the parking side of the track, Celine and I agreed we might need to get out of there lickety split. I did not want to be intimidated give up my favorite local running course, so I prepared her for my plan, "I'll run on the outside and fight like hell if that window or car door opens a pinch."

Celine quips, "Yeah, kick 'em to death with your good knee." We've both had ACL knee reconstruction. Isn't she funny?

I continued between running gasps, "You may hear words pop out of my mouth you were sure I didn't know. I intend to scare those goons away with all I got if they come for us. I've done it before." Yes, years ago I turned the proverbial livid Jerry Springer guest who just found out my baby daddy was messing around with my very best girlfriend, when two young men bolted out of their car to beat up my husband for almost crashing into my husband. I know that makes no sense, but the arrogant boys had some sort of road rage to blame on Buck. I confronted the rascals as I stood with the proud erectness of a peacock, swirled a pointed index finger in the air with the other hand firmly planted on my hip and surprised myself by spitting loudly, "What on earth do you think you are doing? You think YOU are coming after MY husband? Get your skinny explitives back in your car and drive, NOW." The stunned young men obeyed the wicked witch I'd become in a quick hurry. I can't explain how I could possibly overcome rude boys looking for a fight, but on very special occasions, I can channel something meaner than a curled cornered cobra. And I was willing to take down the red car creeps today at the park.

Once Celine and I reached our vehicles I reached deep under my seat and pulled out my.....
cell phone and called the police. In my best fair maiden voice I explained the situtation to 911 dispatch, but inside I maintained the roaring lion necessary to vanquish the demons following us.

As two police cars crested the hill of the park, my cell phone gave a comforting "Doodle, doodle, do". I didn't know cell phones were smart enough to say, "Look, the police are here to save the day!" Did you? Multiple squad cars hemmed in the red car. Whoa... I just expected the bad boys to simply scurry on outta there when they saw the cops.

Celine and I did not want to be associated with the arrival of the cops, so we kept running the track, hoping for an opportunity to thank them later. The officers had one man spread eagle on the trunk of the car, and the other got a rather long talking to. At the end of our miles, Celine and I walked an extra lap to find all the cars gone.

Just so you know, if you happen to meet me, and I think you just might be up to no good- watch out! The raving maniac just under the surface of my skin might leap out and wildly rip at your throat...or maybe I'll just call the police.

Today

Perhaps this is something like what's happening in the world beyond ours...

Happy Birthday Thomas Merton

The reality that is present to us and in us:
Call it Being...Silence. And the simple fact that by being attentive,
By learning to listen(or recovering the natural capacity to listen)
We can find ourself engulfed in such happiness that it cannot be explained;
The happiness of being at one with everything
In that hidden ground of Love
For which there can be no explanations....
May we all grow in grace and peace,
And not neglect the silence that is printed in the centre of our being.
It will not fail us.

--Thomas Merton


Happy Birthday, Thomas!

Complicated

Today I'm going to treat you to some of my inner most thoughts. And I'm almost sure you might not understand why I'd care so much about this particular subject- children's spiritual formation. It may be hard to believe that I love observing and guiding children's spiritual formation as much or more as I enjoy savoring a succulant feast.

I did not say I love being a Sunday School teacher. The only reason I'd reference a Sunday School teacher to describe what I do is out of sheer desperation. I'd rather pull my own teeth out one by one with rusty pliers than sing the Christian Hokey Pokey (Father Abraham), make crosses out of popsicle sticks, or color a cartoon pictures of Jesus with cherub cheeked children sitting lovingly on his knee. I'm certainly do not want to criticize any precious person who does these activities on a regular basis, but it's simply not my style.

Maria Montessori paved the way for me to be with children in a way which doesn't plumb wear me out with cutting out and gluing animals on Noah's ark. In fact, and call me "crazy", but I take great delight in hanging out with three, four and five year olds if I can use Montessori principles. Did you know Maria's the one who revolutionized education from rigid straight backed desks swallowing up children, knuckle cracking discipline with the teacher's ruler, nauseating mills of education toward child sized furniture, self discipline, and child-centered individualized education? Maria also revolutionized Sunday School also by discarding mind numbing catechism recitation in favor of observation and experimentation to discover children's spiritual development. Did you know that? There's a good chance you didn't, and for a number of complicated reasons. Not the least of which are ugly denominational schizms in the body of Christ.

So, when I walk into my church to teach the little guys on Sunday mornings, I can't wait to plop myself down on the floor next to a four year old boy, and show him something I've been working on for our class. The next Sunday I teach, first thing, I'll show this little guy is how to carefully mix a dough himself with leaven and without. Then we'll read "The kingdom of heaven is like woman who took the three measures of flour, and one of yeast, and worked it till it was leavened through". We'll cover put the doughs on the heat vent while the child chooses and works on his favorite previous materials. When the leavened dough has puffed itself properly up, we'll sneak a peek at it and the unleavened dough while I ask a thousand meditation questions no one is ever required to answer like: "What happened to the dough which had leaven?" "What happened to the dough which does not have leaven?" "How can this dough with leaven be like God's kingdom?" "Who does the woman represent in this parable?" "What does the yeast represent?" "Do you remember how much yeast you put in? Not much compared to the flour. What does this say about the kingdom of heaven?" "What is it that works in the kingdom of heaven like yeast through the dough?" "Can you think of anything else that grows like this in God's kingdom?". To conclude I'll ask, "Is there anything you'd like to tell God or sing to Him in response to this new Word?"
Now this way of contemplative teaching lights my fire. The child and I don't talk about reading the Word; we do the Word. We don't talk about meditation; we meditate. We don't talk about how to pray; we simply listen and respond to God. Together- me and a four year old.

And who do you think learns more?

And do you know I have fifty two more lessons just as rich, deep and meaningful up my sleeve to follow? I do not joke here.

The trouble with me is that when I walk into a new church as I did two and a half years ago, I'm blazing on fire to teach preschoolers, but I could never simply jump on the existing curriculum. Have I already mentioned my particular aversion to making hearts that say, "I love Jesus" in glitter?

So, I have to lay some serious groundwork first to earn the privilege of teaching my very unconventional way instead of the church's prescribed curriculum's way. Over a year ago, and after some bold persuasion on my part, the nursery director at my church, Allie, fell head over heels in love the work I do with children. She's more than supported my work this year in the nursery; she has truly loved me. Regretfully for our church, she's resigning her position. We will not find her equal as she handles both people AND business with integrity and excellence.

My "out of the box" spiritual formation work will go on the auction block again with a new nursery director soon.

Cross your fingers, your heart or yourself for me. I'd like to continue to be taught about God by the little people in my own church.

Check Ups, Presidents, Therapists

I still love my pediatrician after twelve years of clandestine meetings in an intimate exam room with no windows. Dr. B is a rare gem. I took two of my boys to him yesterday for a well child check ups. It's been five years since their last, gasp, even though well child checks are 100% covered by our insurance. Bad Mommy! This doctor truly loves children though he and his wife never chose to have any themselves. He shows genuine interest in the boy's questions, drawings, gadgets. The nurse turned off the light first to get a good look at Peace's glow-in-the-dark real scorpion key chain. Then Dr. B asked for a turn to snuff the lights and handle the trinket. He also asked after my health and well-being. There was some mystery surrounding a vaccination given or not to Tator at the health department, of which I had a vague and fading memory from 1998. The health department had no record when the nurse called over, but I insisted, if I actually could remember that far back and that many children ago, he did have one particular immunization. Dr. B suggested we call detective Guy Noir to get to the bottom of it. I suggested perhaps Dr. B might like to join my campaign to elect Garrison Keller for President of the United States this next go round. Wouldn't you just love to listen to the State of the Union Address in Prairie Home Companion Style?
The nurse ended up figuring out perhaps Tator's shot was given under his former foster child last name and called the health department back to verify he'd already had the shot. Since she's so very smart, maybe we'll ask her to run for President.
After the appointment, my children begged to hit the used book store just down the street. Two of my boys scurried to the _Calvin and Hobbs_ and other comics section, another looked for Japanese robot books, and Pooh Bear and I browsed the children's storybook section to find anything but Barbies or books not based on any cartoon. I don't know about you, but I hate to read books about Care Bears or Ariel when perfectly great classic stories like _Madeline_ , _The Honest to Goodness Truth_ , or _Ping_ are available. When Buck's not with me at the bookstore, I have to keep up with the children. I cannot feed my hungry book addiction and get hopelessly lost in the aisles for an hour or two; plus I have six books on my queue already.
Out of the corner of my eye, I think I spied my therapist, Wilhelmina from B.C.E. (before the children era of my life). A hundred years ago, Wilhelmina helped a great deal in my inner formation. I was torn about whether to approach her in the store. I gave myself a few moments to think it over by absorbing myself in Pooh Bear's search for acceptable literature. By the time I weakly resolved to introduce my dear children to her, she was gone.
I have to share something slightly ironic about the situation. Perhaps Wilhelmina's been to therapy for herself in the past twelve years. Obviously she's worked on some personal issues, because I distinctly remember her telling me she hated used books. Why? Because of the germs of previous readers. She didn't like library books either. Everyone has their own quirks- even therapists.

What would you have done if you ran into your old therapist on the street? Or someone who knew all your stuff? Would you make eye contact? Would you speak? It must be something like running into an old lover...

Last night, Buck slipped into to bed with me after work, "Hey, I'm going to work out in the morning. What are you supposed to say to me?"

Pause. My mind goes completely blank, but I come up with a brilliant reply, "You are awesome, honey!"

Buck huffs slightly and draws out his answer, "Noooooo. That's not it. What are you supposed to say when I tell you I'm going to the gym?"

He obviously has some very specific reply in mind, but I'm still clueless. So, I come up with another excellent attempt, "Honey, good job. Working out will make you so buff. Good for you for taking the time to exercise."

Buck rolls his eyes and said, "No. I'm already buff. I'm just going for a little fine tuning. Last time I went to the gym, I forgot to bring something. Now do you remember?"

The bright and beautiful sun rises in my pea brain and the grey clouds of doubt are gone. "Why, Buck, you are supposed to remember a TOWEL next time you go the gym. That's it. Did you pack a towel?"

Buck grins widely, "Yes, I did."

Last time he worked up a dripping sweat at the athletic club, he took a lovely hot shower afterward. When he went to dry off, he had to use about fifty-two whimpy thin paper towels from the metal dispenser to sop up all the wet from his trim and hunky body.

They're always listening

Children are always listening even when you are sure they are not.

Yesterday I started crooning along when a song I've always liked came on the radio while I driving my children in our van.
Peace yelled loudly up to me from the back(this vehicle is old and very noisy, plus I tend to belt out songs like some sort of country star, but only in the confines of my home or my van for humanity's sake), "Mom, this is the song I think of everytime I'm doing the breast stroke. It gets stuck in my head and slows me down. I can't go faster than this beat."

Surprised I questioned, "This song? How is that you know 'Black Coffee in Bed' by Squeeze? Please don't tell me it's on your ipod."

"It's not, but mom you like this song. You sing like that everytime it's on the radio."

When Peace was two years old, ten years ago, I stopped listening to my Led Zepplin and other CD's when I noticed he was picking up lyrics like "where is that confounded bridge?" and other less innocuous, more serious words- not cute, nor pretty, nor funny coming out of the mouth of a small child. This wasn't easy for me to do, because I'd made such close friends of Peter Gabriel, The Cure, and Ricki Lee Jones and other fine artist's music. Instead, I began to play classical music and songs with positive lyrics I didn't mind my little guy repeating. I turned off the television, and started reading books. There is too much on TV to steal a child's innocence.

Fast forward ten years. When I moved to two years ago, I searched for new radio stations as my old ones were out of reach, and I came across one with all my old music pals, and new ones to boot. I wasn't thinking about my resolve made a decade ago when I first started playing this station with my children in the van. I have actually started asking my children to listen to certain songs just to take in their reaction. We howled together a week ago repeating the first verse lyrics of "Jeremiah was a bullfrog." What? How can a frog be a friend? Frogs drink wine?

My children aren't babies learning to talk any longer, but I don't feel like I can just break out any old CD's and jam. I still turn the station when I become uncomfortable with the direction of words. Recently Buck stood horrified with his mouth gaping open when he and I watched a ten year old girl sing and dance to a rather nasty hip hop song- something about booty calls. I know she didn't have any earthly idea what she was singing about, much like I didn't at ten spouting "Afternoon Delight". Remember, "Rubbing sticking and stones together make the sparks ignite, and the thought of loving you is gettin' so excitin'. Sky rockets in flight, afternoon delight"? I also memorized the "Tommy" album by The Who in the fourth grade. The lyrics about child molestation and a sexual healer went right over my head, then. I found myself blushing and turning my head away with Buck and not watching that young girl dance.

You may not believe this, but my children still have not been exposed to much. I know it has all to do with homeschooling and not really knowing other children anymore who rock out. Three years ago in my city old neighborhood, I had a conversation with a dad down the street who bought an Eminem CD for his twelve year old. "Brian, have you listened to that? I have watched three videos and I can't tell you much other than Em talks about beating his pregnant girlfriend to a bloody pulp and killing his mother. The third song I liked, because it was rap to the song 'Sing for the years'. Your boy is so sweet. Why would he want to listen to the two insulting and violent songs toward women?"
Brian replied, "I don't want to listen to it. I make him wear his headphones." He didn't exactly answer my question.

My son is twelve and not asking for any albums, but we fill his ipod for him. He's into Switchfoot, and they are an excellent band. But the day is coming when I won't like his choices of music or other things. Did I already tell you about the young man of twelve on Peace's basketball team who actually sits still willingly in the Beauty Parlor to get highlights on his carefully sculpted hair, carries a cell phone, and wears his basketball uniform shorts below his waist with shirt tucked in to hide his, well, crack? And this fancy young guy was not one of the boys talking smack on the sidelines at practice. From all I can tell, he's a good kid.

The young men and little girls my children hang with aren't into the hip music scene, yet. I suppose, in a way, when they listen to the radio with me, they are entering that scene a bit with me. I've introduced them to the Rolling Stones, but so far they don't like them- which I don't get. What is not to like? The Beatles fly sometimes- Tator loves to play "Blackbird" on his guitar. They've heard my Peter Gabriel Live CD till one son finally asked, "What do you like about this so much?"

I square my shoulders and proudly reply, "Son, it's poetry!" Same goes for U2.

I know I'm closer to the edge of the chasm of something large with my twelve year old, and music will play a defining role sooner or later. Peace is still very much innocent boy though he's got the tiniest hint of acne (oh, please God, have mercy on him). Manhood looms like a shadowy featureless figure on the not so distant dawning horizon; I gasp when I look his way.

Hero

Martin Luther King

Does anyone else feel especially compeled to ensure their children experience the Martin Luther King Holiday like I do?

For years, I've dragged my ragamuffins to East Knoxville, an hour's drive now from Loudon, to watch the community MLK parade. Austin East's marching band is always my favorite part; they've got something funky and they're not afraid to use it. Politicians, classes, churches, and clubs wave huge and serious MLK faces and "I have a dream" posters on sticks. There are more tricked out, pimped up, thumping rides cruising down Martin Luther King Boulevard than you've ever seen in one place. Everyone throws candy. Somebody usually hands out children's books. I love the bold colors displayed by participants.

Tator had guitar lessons Monday morning of the parade, so I scrambled to find some other event to honor King's memory. I'm so glad I did. Knoxville College, Knoxville's historic struggling black college, hosted an MLK concert. Knoxville Chamber Orchestra and a huge celebration choir put on a show. I'm not great at guessing people numbers, but there may have been 70 animated singers. The choir and orchestra teamed up and played separately. A few soloists knocked my socks off with their powerful voices. The first, an elegant woman performing "Precious Lord, Take My Hand", made the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck stand on end with the rise and fall of her dramatic voice. Her range was absolutely astounding. At five years old, Pooh Bear didn't understand why everyone kept interrupting her song in the middle with clapping and "Come on, sing it now". "Mommy," she whispered, "Shouldn't everyone wait to the end to clap?"
Pooh Bear also giggled when she saw a gigantic man with a tiny viola come in and proudly sit down on stage, "Mommy, that violin is too small!"
Wise One loved an instrumental African tune which sounded like rain in a jungle at times. "Mom, I wish I could play violin like that."
Tator took it all in. So did I. Why do I always cry at "We Shall Overcome"?

Home and Fine

I woke up feeling absolutely hollow this morning...
I survived my colonoscopy today and all is well. Honestly, I had terrible reservations about the ordeal, because unfortunately last time I woke up smack in the middle of the procedure begging the doctor, "Please STOP." I remember the exact year, because I recovered on a friend's couch while watching film footage of the first World Trade Center bombing in '93. My sister worked in the complex at that time. Since 1993, my physician has been pleading with me to have another colonoscopy. Last week, he crossed his heart and swore I wouldn't wake up this time (new anestisia), and I didn't. In three years, the only thing I'll protest is the Magnesium Citrate. I'd rather fast for a week than have to drink that nasty stuff again.
I'm spending the rest of the day EATING and watching movies. So far, I've watched a young Jon Voight stumbling over a very fake German accent in The Odessa File and found it interesting. I could actually see some Angelina Jolie in that long youthful face. I also kicked back and watched Oprah, the one about the newlywed wife whose husband was murdered on their honeymoon cruise. Golly, was that sad. I've eaten a lovely salad, spaghetti, and peanut M & M's and I don't think I could manage more- a bonus of a shrunken stomach.
I'm not allowed to run or lift for five days. Guess they think I'd bust a gut. When I objected the nurse placated me with, "Just take a nice walk, honey." I'm not convinced she keeps a regular workout program, because she didn't catch on to my anxiousness on the subject. And she told me "not to operate any machinery" with clever grin and glance over at my husband "including the stove." Buck cooks all the time, and quite frankly is far and away better at it than me.
I anticipate tomorrow will be a glad return to ordinary time for me.

Bet your day is better than mine

Just so you can have a moment of thankfulness for your perhaps ordinary day, I thought I'd tell you about mine. You'll feel better than I do. I promise. I'm having a colonoscopy in the morning, so today is the day I must clear my digestive tract. Completely. It began yesterday with what I'll refer to as the white death diet- NO grains, nuts, vegetables, or fruits. However, white rice, white bread, English muffins, white crackers made the cut. I'm one of those "naturalist" as my gastrointerologist affectionately calls me, who quite regularly grinds wheat and bakes whole wheat bread, and call my a nut, but I'm absolutely crazy about vegetables. Amazingly enough, my doc finds my bent toward healthy foods to be unusual. Why not just take a multivitamin and eat hotdogs and chips the rest of the day?

And before I went to bed last night, I had the privilege of ingesting three seemingly harmless and tiny laxative pills. Apparently the trio packed a punch, because by the time my alarm went off at 6:00am, in agony I called my workout buddy, "Don't expect me at the gym in a few minutes, I have a serious date with the bathroom for the rest of the day."

I don't get to eat anything today unless I can dissolve or drink it, and even then the "food" cannot be red or blue. Who in their right mind likes lemon jello?

And I will not inform my doctor that I bought certified organic broth.

For lunch I got to drink Magnesium Citrate which tasted like metal in lemonade superconcentrate mix without nearly enough water. It's permissible to mix this disgusting cocktail with sprite and ice, or I'd have hurled the bottle in its entirety. At 3:00 pm I get to drink 32 ounce of GlycoLax with emphasis on the Lax.
At 9:00 pm, I'll get to gulp more Magnesium Citrate. So, please, for me, go enjoy the heck out of your day. I'll be folding laundry in between fifty-two fantastic trips to the washroom.

Rainy Ordinary Day

Boy, did I wish the temperature outside would have dropped today. All this dark rain would instead be gorgeous white snowflakes covering and the ground like a freshly laundered fleece blanket and sticking to trees like cotton candy. Instead it's just dark, dreary, and sopping wet outside. If it had snowed, today would have become a bonified SNOWDAY. I'd be locating sleds, making hot chocolate, collecting soggy clothes from red faced freezing children to put in the dryer, drawing hot bath water to warm their chilled bones, reading aloud under a toasty comforter on the couch. Instead and alas, we spent the day as we do every other predictable weekday- homeschooling.

After easy Eggo or cereal breakfast, we read more on Abram. In his Genesis saga, we found him rescuing Lot from kings who had kidnapped him after raiding Sodom. Afterwards, I read aloud _Peace Child_. All of us have found the book *really* boring and dry for the first zillion chapters, but I'm promised by an expert, the story is so especially powerful, that it's worth pressing on to the end. Next, I invited the children into the kitchen for group dictation. You'd understand why if you ever examined the handwriting and spelling of my three boy children. I know our chickens could scratch out neater letters and our goats could outspell these rascals. Everyone dispersed for individual work following dictation.

Peace worked much more diligently on his Saxon Math today, because yesterday I spoke to him so harshly over the multitude of errors in his math assignment that I needed to apologize later. He likes his _Adam of the Road_ assignments now that his book has taken a turn toward more action. Peace is also "working" on identifying and spelling the 50 states correctly. At the rate he's going, he will not master spelling the states correctly in his lifetime. Perhaps his reincarnation will have better luck.

Tator fought with me AGAIN over subtracting fractions. He flew through his language arts today with the same style and grace as always.
Wise One is sincerely a puzzle to me at this stage of his academic game. Though he's completely unaware, Wise has some slight developmental delays to fight as he goes. He's not up for third grade _Total Language Plus_ assignments (a favorite language arts curriculum of mine), but he's not below enough to step back into second grade work for reinforcement. So for now, were using _First Language Lessons_ by Susan Wise Bauer, reading aloud and silently _Great Illustrated Classics_, dictation, cursive. Aside from his delays in writing out problems, he's above grade level in Saxon Math.

Each day Pooh Bear demands Sing, Speed, Read, and Write (Sing, Spell, Read and Write, SSRW, is the curriculum's real name). I didn't think she was ready, especially when we began to play the games and it was over her head completely, but she LOVES it. Desire directed learning is a principle I implement as much as possible, so her begging to study this SSRW in particular qualifies for a resounding "Yes" from me. We've just begun a laborious process of blending sounds with the Ferris wheel, and I can tell it's going to take a looonnnggg time and much review for this to stick. I turned on the incredibly annoying and cheesy CD for the song which matches the game, and the boys literally fled from the room holding their ears and shrieking, "Oh, no. Not that awful song again. Are you trying to kill us with goofy music?" I've prepared an area in the homeschool room just for her which has Montessorish materials for her to explore while I work with her brothers. She often crawls up in my lap at intervals during the course of a day, picture book in hand, flashes her marvelous big eyes, and whispers, "You have to read THIS to me." Unbeknownst to me and between the rain, Pooh Bear played outside by herself for a good while this afternoon collecting chicken eggs and running with the animals until Frankenbelle frightened her with his threatening rooster prowess. Pooh's just five, so I usually ask a brother to be outside with her when I'm occupied.

Why wish for a snow day with all this fun? The truth is homeschooling is a bit monotonous. My children argue, pout, cry, whine, over assignments. They regularly announce in a sing songy voice, "Daddy doesn't make me do that" or "Daddy doesn't do it that way" when Buck's not here. They look for ways to get out of work. The varmints bicker with one another. Sometimes, my sons hide from me and play instead of study; by the time I figure this out, it's 3:00 pm and my patience is utterly worn thin. Homeschooling is a journey of the painfully ordinary bound up in moments of sheer joy.

One might conclude from this post that I am not an unschooler. Honestly, I wish I could be so confident. I believe I lack the luster and enthusiasm of an inspiring unschooling educator, because, frankly, I'd rather be reading a great book I enjoy. So as a compromise, I have found mixing academics assignments into a rich learning environment of a pretend farm to be the right fit for my low key teaching style.

I love this quote, and I'd enjoy your responses to:
Every home is a school. What do you teach?

Imagination

When I was five years old, I became Catwoman. I knew she was the evil villian, but, hey, I really liked cats and the alternative was a nasty bat. No proud kindergarten beauty would settle for an ugly stingy winged creature. Except my gorgeous friend Carla Wallingford. She played Batwoman and tried earnestly to stop my evil feline deeds after kindergarten let out. I distinctly remember her throwing a sheet over me like a net and laughing maniacally, "I've got you now, Catwoman. You won't be stealing diamonds from the museum again!"
Another hot summer day when I was nine, I stuffed a long sock to dangle from the back of my hip hugger jeans, slapped on a cowgirl hat and boots, pulled over a red shirt, and bound my neck with red bandana. Why? I had magically become a horse. I began to gallop everywhere. I whinied randomly and tossed my thick long mane of hair throughout the day. When the sun came up the next day, I donned the same smashing attire and equestrian attitude. I didn't speak about it to anyone, but I hoped someone, anyone would notice my flowing tail and sparkly horse eyes. No one did.
With such powers of imagination, I do not remember finding any imaginary friends. I took many long walks and bikerides alone, but I never invited any fancied playmates along.
This is not the case with my five year old daughter, Pooh Bear. Aircorn (I realize this is an extremely odd name) and Sally are a very real part of her whimsical life. In fact, these illusionary girls are the sisters Pooh longs to have. Sally often messes up Pooh Bear's room and runs into the woods. What a sneak! Sally looks just like Snow White and works at miniature Wendy's making her especially hard to notice. Aircorn is a teenager, drives a pink car which had been assimilated by the Borg, but is now back safe and sound on earth to ferry Aircorn to high school. In fact, she lives at high school instead of with our family. For the life of me, I can't figure out where I went wrong as a mother with Aircorn to feel so very distant from my own offspring. It's like I don't know her at all. Sometimes when I question Pooh Bear, "Where's Aircorn today?" my real little girl states, "She's at Libby Lu (that fantastic store at the mall which caters to the inner princess), but you just can't see her. She works there." I wonder how Aircorn picks up her paycheck or is that invisible too? I've spoken to both Sally and Aircorn on the pretend Sleeping Beauty cellphone. Neither are much for conversation leaving me to do all the talking.
Can you remember an imaginary friend? Can you remember any specific details? Does a growing child suddenly wake up one day to find their fancied friend is nonexistent? How does one lose an imaginary friend afterall? Or do people secretly hold on to them and stop mentioning them after the age of ten?

Tator Writes

Ask my Tator to consider writing an encouraging birthday letter to a dear friend who turns 13, and here is what might happen.

Dear Mick,
I'm sorry we can't come to your party. My dad is going to a men's retreat for our church, so I'll tell you now what the Lord has said to me. You are a knight going into a land of evil. You are entering the land and everything is dark and dull, but as you ride by everyone, everything turns bright and beautiful, and the land of darkness is vanquished. Have a great brithday! And again I'm sorry I can't see you go into manhood.
Love,
Tator

Peace Writes

Leave Peace alone for an hour at home and he just might compose something besides a sword or shield with duct tape and wood. Here's his new song.


If the Lord Came Again

If the Lord came again, would we all be happy, my friend?
He is already here, you see.
He's come to earth to save you and me.

I tell you all His words are true.
He came here to save me and you.
So, prepare for Him, my friend.
He's coming to do good works again.

He's coming to the world to make it pure.
We'll all be happy there I'm sure.
He's coming back, I'm sure
To heal the blind and help the poor.

He's coming back to do good works again.

So come fast and come quickly,
To see the good works He's done in me.

When we leave the world, you'll see,
He's made a special place for you and me.
So let us go to the world, my friend
So we can tell His good works again.
To tell His words, my friend,
To tell He's coming again.

Cup of the Soul

I'm developing some materials for a women's retreat and need to blog thoughts into words.

In the process, I'm taking another look at Angela Thomas in her book _Do You Think I'm Beautiful_. Her words pierced my heart with her writing this morning.

I guess this is the question that prompts every longing in our soul: "Do you really love me?" Little girls grow up wondering, Do you really love me? Daddy, do you see me dancing in my party dress and smile with delight over me?

When dads are distant or abusive or addicted or just not affectionate, little girls become insecure teenagers and decide to ask their question of another man, except this time it becomes, "Will you love if...?" Will you love me if I sleep with you? Will you love me if I do drugs with you? Will you love me if I lie for you? Will you love me if I prop you up?

Those teenage girls discover a few answers that seem to add something to the empty cup of their souls, like a few drops of water into a dusty tin can. The cup never gets filled but there is a momentary satisfaction that mimics thirst being quenched. And then teenage girls become grown-up women who have learned intricate methods of coping with a heart that keeps asking, Do you really love me? Some women can spend a lifetime in a marriage wondering, Do you still love me? I know mothers who ache over their children hoping they really love them. I've watched too many friendships between women end because one felt the other didn't really love her.

I cannot avoid the deep longing in my own soul. Do you really love me means, Will you accept me in the process? Will you embrace what is different about me and applaud my efforts to become? Can I just be human-strong and vibrant some days, weak and frail on others? Can I have a relationship with you without pretending? Can I be honest and expect honesty? .....

To operate with only the taste of love we get on earth will leave us incomplete. That's by design. Our hearts have been made to cry out for a love that can only come from our Creator. The cup of our soul will never be filled apart from the love of God. Proverbs 19:22 "What a man desires is unfailing love."

"The cup of the soul" really got to me. Sadly, I occasionally find myself holding the cup out to my husband and demanding, "Fill it or else!", or else I'll find someone, anyone else to do it for me. As I heard Angela once say, "The most a poor man can offer is a little spit to swirl around on the bottom of that little tin cup." I hold my soul out to my peers and sheepishly ask, "Do you like my work? Am I not fabulous?" I stick my vessel out to my friends with insecurity, "I'm a trainwreck. Make me feel better."

Why do I run so quickly to others who truly have little to offer and bolt from the only Source who can replenish my chalice to overflowing? Instead I fill my days with mundane activity striving to escape the gnawing in my spirit.

Here's some answers to why I flee God's Presence. It takes tremendous effort and painstaking work for me to get quiet and still enough to hear the still small Voice pour life and hope back into me. And honestly, I'm sometimes afraid of what I'll hear. Crazy isn't it? Because I believe God is good and has good things for me though there are times when I'm not as clear about that as I need to be.

So here are some reflection questions I'm working on. Oh, how I love questions...

What's it like to be asked to dance by someone you find irresistible?
Have you ever danced with God in that way?
Does any other person understand the deepest longing of your heart?
Do you have all the passion and love in your life you need?
Does anyone find you beautiful?
Does God find you beautiful?
Has anyone smiled with delight over you?
What is unfailing love?
What holds you back in your life?
What fills the cup of your soul?

One of my best beloved lyrics of a song goes like this:
"I stand in awe of a God whose heart is ravished over fallen man... You consider me lovely. Let this truth open up my soul."

Banner Day

My ten year old Tator asked if he could cook dinner a little before 5:00 this evening. He claimed to be starving. I agreed to let him begin quite certain I'd drag myself to the kitchen to help at some point. Guess what? I didn't have to intervene once. He cooked broccoli, spaghetti, browned ground beef, and followed directions for chili sauce all on his own. The table was set and the food on the table before 6:00. I expected the kitchen to be in considerable disarray, but that was not the case either. He'd put many things away as he went. Gasp!

Mom, when you read this post, do not be alarmed or terrified as I was only one room away and listening carefully for any signs of a struggle or funky dangerous burning smells. Your grandchildren are completely unharmed and increasingly growing slowly toward a pleasant independence.

A bit of Mission Accomplished

Found a close match to my drinking glasses at Carolina Pottery after searching several stores.

Took pictures of my friend's eroding street in order to prod proper county authorities to PAVE it.

Ate a romantic dinner at my very favorite cozy Italian restaurant, Naples with my all time favorite man. I had splendid lemon picatta chicken with capers and a lovely house salad. Why can't I cook something so savory? Oh yeah. I don't enjoy cooking, and it always tastes better if someone else does all the work.

Buck actually took me to see Pride and Prejudice. I so love the book
I was just a tad disappointed with the movie. Buck added humour throughout the movie with his mighty male commentary. Frequently the character Lizzy would stare blankly in thought into nothingness, and Buck would snark, "Not another bipolar moment!" and "Is this one of those movies where absolutely no one is happy by the end?"

My babysitter and dear friend greatly encouraged me with kind words about my wonderful well mannered children. Yes, they actually play well and gently with her rough and tumble five year old BOY.

Buck and I caught the end of the National College Championship Football game when we got home. I rooted for University of Texas solely based on the UT initials and colors of the uniforms being close to the Tennessee Vols. Please forgive me REAL football fans for my shallow team spirit reasoning. The game truly was a nail biter all the way up to the last 9 seconds!

I crashed into bed a contented woman last night.

plans

I have a date tonight. With my husband. We have a sitter. I assume Buck has made romantic plans. Last night after having dinner with my husband while I took Peace to basketball practice, my Uncle told me Buck's plans were to go to a sports bar to watch some important football game and drink beer. While I am certain this is not the case, because I'd never agree to any further dates with my man, I don't have a clue to what Buck has come up with. I don't suppose he'll take me to see the movie Pride and Prejudice, because that's a GIRL movie.

I've thought up some completely unromantic plans since we'll be in the big city...

To buy or order more drinking glasses and white plates, because at Christmas dinner, I found my table to be a tad mismatched. Also, I realized my best Christmas table cloth does not fit my long table. I must not have used it for the past two Christmases. Finding another festive table cover, on sale, would be fabulous. I hope you don't get the impression I am talking fine china and linens. I only want my $4 drinking glasses and $3 plates to resemble one another.

I'd also like to take photos of a friend's terribly neglected road. Her neighbor at the top of the paved road doesn't want to become part of the city by getting the rest of the it paved to avoid Knoxville city taxes. My friend, near the bottom of the unpaved road, which the top neighbor is supposed to maintain, cannot drive down her steet without fear of breaking an axle or someone's exposed plumbing pipes peaking out of the gravel and dirt. Yikes! Once when I visited, I decided it best to park at the neighbor's and walk down in the dark (no street lights either) with my children in tow. It was outright frightening to navigate the deep holes and mounds with slippery gravel not to mention someone shooting off a gun in the distance. Yes, folks, this is NOT the third world, but a named Knoxville street. On another day, perhaps I'll take her to the appropriate office downtown to get some action.

We'll see what Buck has up his sleeve. Some years ago he took me out on a surprise date. I asked, "What should I wear?" to which he promptly replied, "It doesn't matter." However, when he drove just past the play of Phantom of the Opera into a nearby fancy restaurant parking lot, I asked if we could skip dinner, so I could go home and change into something less conspicuous than jeans and a t-shirt for an elegant evening on the town.

Tonight, I'll remind him that dress does matter before I ask what to wear.

Peace Turns 12

It's official my oldest child is older still. He turned twelve today and here is what he has to say:

Me: "What's it like to turn 12?"
Peace: "Ummm. I don't really know cause it's like one year till I'm a teenager."
Me: "What are your plans for this year?"
Peace: "I don't really have any."
Me: "If you could change anything about your life what would it be?"
Peace: "Stop being angry at my brothers."
Me: "If you could go anywhere this year, where would it be?"
Peace: "To Japan." (he doesn't say so just now, but he's utterly smitten with a Gundam book he got in our stop in the Tokyo airport, and now he wants to get more books and models)
Me: "And what would you do there?"
Peace: "See one of their museums. Buy some model kits."
Me: "What has been your happiest day so far in your life?"
Peace: "When we were at the Great Wall of China."
Me: "What's been your most disappointing day ever?"
Peace: "Not feeling good on my birthday, Christmas and Thanksgiving."
Me: "What is your favorite thing to do?"
Peace: "Pet Patches." (his cat)
Me: "Who do you like hanging out with the most?"
Peace: "Artmaker."
Me: "What do you like to eat?"
Peace: "Japanese food. That's too much about Japan. Soft tacos. Icecream."
Me: "What do you want to do before you turn into a teenager next year?"
Peace: "Don't know."
Me: "What is your favorite movies?"
Peace: "Lord of the Rings."
Me: "Favorite book?"
Peace: "The Hobbit."
Me: "Guess what you will do as a career when you are a man."
Peace: "I'll run an animal rescue for cats."
Me: "What are your favorite activities?"
Peace: "Running. Biking. Basketball. Soccor. Swimming. Building models."
Me: "Favorite salad dressing?"
Peace: "Ranch!"
Me: "Favorite song."
Peace: "Foreverandever" David Crowder Band*
Me: "If you could change one thing about your parents, what would it be?"
Peace: "Dad's work schedule." (Amen)
Me: "Favorite homeschooling thing."
Peace: "I can do my work outside. I don't have to go to school when it's freezing out."
Me: "Least favorite thing about homeschool."
Peace: "Doing work on a snow day."
Me: "What's been your favorite present ever?"
Peace: "My loft bed."
Me: "Favorite game to play?"
Peace: "Mech Warrior Dark Age."

The birth of this boy began an entirely new life for me. I am changed for the better, because of my relationship with him.

New Year's Rockin' Eve

I'm foggy this evening. It's not that I stayed up all New Year's night in Deerlodge, but somehow I managed to muddle through without suddenly falling in a heap to the floor snoring. I made it to the midnight champagne toast, a kiss Svetlana almost on the mouth as a stand in for my absent off-to-work husband (though before my midnight kiss, I had to let Baryshikov have his looonnnggg turn with his wife first all the while tapping my toe and folding my arms over my chest impatiently), two choruses of "Auld Lang Syne", and reading aloud my assigned New Year's resolution to the sundry collection of Clay and Helen's guests. Last year my clan o' friends began a tradition of writing up one another's New Years resolution and drawing them out on slips of paper from a basket. I wrote something silly to put in the basket last night- "For 2006, I resolve to join the local high school's Happy Hands Club", but the neatly folded one I traded with Svetlana for contained a far deeper message. It went something like this: "I resolve to be more disciplined in 2006. I will eat healthy, show self control, love more deeply, pray more, live more intentionally, and walk by faith." I was a bit taken aback that someone had put serious thought into what I expected to be frivolous fun. I asked around and Candy told me it was her husband's handwriting. I hadn't met Candy or her man before last night, but I've heard good things about them for the last eleven years from Helen and Clay. Upon spending some time with them, I understand the depth and kindness behind their names.
Another frequent guest at the Deerlodge fiestas is Liza. I observe her taking time to spend time with each guest individually. One moment she's sliding next to James at the player piano. Another she's sipping a pink drink next to his wife, Joan. She howled as Helen and I thoroughly embarrased our children with unrestrained dancing to thumping crazy music. She shot pool with her toddler son. I notice an elegance and tenderness about Liza.
Buck and I agree James, a middle aged English business partner of Clay's is the life of the party. I was elated to have him join us in a rousing round of the Dictionary game. You know, the game where one looks up an obscure word in the dictionary and everyone tries to fool one another with his made up definitions? I held my sides tightly to make sure my inards stayed put from the side splitting laughter produced from Jame's hilarious contributions to our game. One I enjoyed immensely had something to do with a disease caused by a diet exclusively of veal. James is also a captivating tale spinner; he left out no details in his keen description of some kind of English breakfast pudding made with pig's blood this morning. His fun wife, Joan, compliments his merry nature.
My children glared horridly at me last night when I declared bedtime to be an early 1:oo am. I did so, because I needed the peace of mind that they weren't wildly romping about Helen's while I slumbered quietly in the guest house down the road. I nestled the boys into cozy sleeping bags in the boy's room, and snuggly tucked in Pooh Bear next to her dear friend, Kate. Helen drove a sobbing Pooh Bear up to me around 1:30 am. "I'm not crying for you, Mommy. I'm crying, because the BIG girls get to stay up late and play, and I don't." Good grief. No wonder she fell asleep this evening for the night after dinner around 6:45 pm.
I think I'll join her very soon. I need to catch up on some rest myself.

Sometimes it just happens

Mothers hope to influence their children, but we know mostly we only throw out ideas like fluffy white feathers to the faint wind. While children dance and play in the falling plumes, one may capture a pearly prize in his youthful hands. He may turn the trapped feather over in his palm carefully examining the bony sheath tying together gentle sprays of velvet shoots. The child will caress his cheeks sensing it's softness. He'll pellmell toss the feather again and again watching it drift silently and smoothly to join the others waiting on the quiet earth. Or sometimes the boy will save the feather. The fellow may stick in a jar of treasures or into the brim of a favorite hat and wear it around. He may share the plume's mysteries with other interested children over for an afternoon of merry making and friendship.
Today my son, Tator, snagged a cascading feather I'd cast out rather casually on Christmas day. I purchased a Tommy Emmauel CD for strictly on advice not experience from another homeschool mother I don't know well, but whom I respect deeply. She highly recommended Tommy Emmanuel, because her pickin' and grinnin' sons had introduced Tommy's lovely music to their family.
Two days ago, Tator put the CD on while playing legos. He purposely came and thanked me, "Mom, you were right. I never heard about this man, but I DO love this music." Today Tator's vacillated between going to the front porch to jump on his gift of a pogo stick from his brother Peace, and back inside to practice a song on his guitar with Tommy.
Tears stung my eyes as I was wiping the blue marbled kitchen counter and began to comprehend what was happening. As the day passes by, I cannot always distinguish between the playing on the CD and my son, because he's determined to learn the song. He's learned the tune- not the intricate finger work.
No way on earth could I have persuaded him with bribe nor threats to spend his day this excellent way. He suddenly caught a glorious feather and has decided to keep it. Forever. I am delighted.

Five End o' the Year Questions

Questions borrowed from The Quiet Life who borrowed them from someone else.

1. What kept you sane this year?

Reading great books, writing, working out, teaching, gardening, chats with friends, spiritual formation, trips

2. What was the best book you read?

One educational reread- _Marva Collins Way_ Marva Collins
Fiction _The Keeper of the Bees_ Gene Stratton Porter
Another educational read _Children Who are not yet Peaceful_ Goertz
Favorite read aloud with my children, I could hardly stand the suspense myself- _The Great American Elephant Chase_ Cross


3. What was your favorite TV show?

TV has lost it's luster this year altogether for me.

4. Who was the best new person you met?

So many, but the person on my mind is Myra Arnold

5. Tell us a valuable life lesson.

Criticizing another without taking time to know a person or his or her motives damages a person and their family both publically and inwardly. Preserving others dignity, humanity, and reputation far outweighs stating personal opinions and positions.

Glamour Grandma and Girl

Swim Birthdays

Gorgeous

The Best Christmas Company Ever

Five Weirds

I've never been tagged before, and I'm not sure I would have been if Martha, Martha had known I was usually picked last for practically everything in grade school. So here's the meme (I don't even know what that stands for by the way).

Five Weird Habits I have:

1. I am somewhat compulsive about washing dirty dishes in the sink, and this extends beyond my own home.

2. I read several books at one time. Right now I'm reading Blue Shoe, Mrs. Kimble, Peace Child, and Watchman Nee's Assembly Life. And I'll add Kite Runner as soon as I find it again (thanks, Clay).

3. I never took pictures until I got a digital camera on my birthday last April. My birthday really is April Fool's Day.

4. I still pick out my clothes the night before, and if I haven't, the next day I become deeply depressed about not knowing what to wear.

5. I hate to repeat myself, so why, oh why do I have four children?

Now for the hard part, since I've never successfully added links to a post yet. I need to tag five folks who are most welcome to decline my invitation to post their own five weird habits.

http://wannabepreacher.blogspot.com/
http://running2ks.blogsome.com/
http://ryanearthboy.blogspot.com/
http://todayslessons.blogspot.com/
http://unquenchableworship.blogspot.com/

The Cost

I've been couting the cost today. Every little thing I allow into my sphere costs something.

For example, my computer which saves me oodles of convenience time and energy from writing snail mail, saves and even corrects my writing, allows me to shop online, and blog causes me to expend much time and effort. Since my computer crashed last month, my Norton's Anti- Virus could not offer a single solution which worked to save my computer from the trojan downloader and trojan vundo virus double whammy. I've already mentioned I had to dump every precious file I could not retrieve and start over from scratch. Scratch meant my $40 year's subscription to Norton's got dumped, but I got a free trial month from factory settings to maybe "protect" my 'puter till I could set the old account back up. Today I spent quite a while online searching for a way to contact the Norton company, but I never succeeded in finding an email or online way to do so without my old forever gone account numbers. Grrrr. I did find several international phone numbers. I called the California number and listened to a recorded message for yet another phone number for customer service. I waited a good long time on hold at that number, listening to annoying versions of "Rudolf" when a gentleman, who sounded as though he was sitting in a cubby in India, plodded through his list of questions and responses. Sometimes the answers didn't nearly match the questions I was asking, "Why can't you just look up my address and name for my account? You'll see I paid in September." He answered, "It doesn't work that way mam. You must wait until I ask you for that information. I will tell you when it comes up." Fine, I'll wait till your computer screen will let me answer that particular question. This is all to say, for every convenience, there is a price. My computer has cost lots of hours this year.

Another cost which is driving me nuts lately, is the impossibility of trying to publish a photo on my blog. I must wait till blogspot's perfect kharma aligns with the swirling universe favorably, and I never know precisely when this single moment of opportunity will occur, then viola, the photo be published successfully. I've been trying since yesterday to load Christmas pics. Notice none have appeared.

Christmas wore me out this year. I wearily laid my head down on my kitchen table in the evening and yawned, "Christmas is really for kids isn't it?" to my father-in-law. Christmas preparations and clean up sucked me in and spit me out like a nasty wet hair ball from a gagging cat. I hope I recover soon from that enormous expense of energy.


Onto the cost of animals. Remember how I've mentioned I'm a recluse uninterested, in fact in fear of meeting my neighbors in order to preserve my serenity? Well, this impacts my family's ability to travel as well. We know no neighbors to ask to feed our goaties, chickens, dogs, cats, gerbil as a direct result of my seclusion neurosis. When the goats were in milk, it was especially difficult to find someone with patience and honest true love for me willing to learn the fine art of emptying delicate udders on a contentious nanny. Also, goats, chickens, dogs, cats, and such need the time and investment of vet attention from time to time. Goats require worming and hoof trimming regularly. Our great dog develops matted hair and craves attention. Our cats tear up screens in every window they can reach, and their litter screams "Change me or you'll die from poop inhalation" often enough. Animals insist upon care.

Cars. Cars (and pathetic old vans) constantly fill with nasty sippy cups, doll shoes, tiny lego pieces, straws, stinky used sports clothes, wrappers, CD's, and sticky used lollypop or popsicle sticks. Maintainance of oil, tires, alignment, wipe/brake fluid eats away at a day quickly. Repairs, like a window which will no longer roll up without manual hand assistance, are put off for years in hopes a less busy time will suddenly roll around. Have I brought up the fact that I am not crazy about detail cleaning the inside and out of a vehicle much less the toilets inside my home? Every ride mounts up to something.

Wheat grinders. I adore owning six fifty pound buckets of whole grain wheat to grind at my whim. However, I detest the mess of the machine and kitchen filmed in browish white specks afterwards. While I love a fresh hot loaf of bread or the waft of steaming cinnamon rolls across my nostrils, the wheat grinder clean up is my nemesis.

Then there is the endless payment due each day with four children. Someone needs a ride to basketball, nose wipes, lunch, a hug, a kind word, help with fractions, a clean pair of underwear, a break. Children create ceaseless need.

Here's another biggie. Marriage costs. Relationships require nurture, and I've been working at mine with my beloved for 17 years. Picnics and strolls through the park are rare but longed for.

I think of the timeless truth in, "To whom much is given much is required." I've been given a king's ransom of blessings in all of the above. I certainly can't imagine typing a manuscript on a manual typewriter without going completely buggy. My blog holds a treasure box of who I am and who I'd like to become. This Christmas I had the honor of both sets of doting grandparents at our table. Our animals teach us valuable life lessons through birth, death, and provision not to mention endless flashlight goat tag fun and fresh eggs. My vehicles have carried bleeding, screaming children to the ER for immediate repair. My wheat grinder, a free gift from a friend, rescues me from pounding grain for hours on a stone outside a hut. My children create more joy than I have ever imagined. My husband is my very best friend.

"To whom much is given, much is required." May I do well by the gifts I've been given.

The Wish

Pooh Bear experienced a dream come true this afternoon. Grandma took her for a birthday treat to Libby Lu, a sparkly glamour boutique tailored to the inner princess of any young lass. Grandma proudly looked on as my girl had a serious updo on her hair, makeup, and nails done in glitter aplenty. The shopgirl even appliqued stars to her little cherub face.
Grandma and I paraded our beauty around the mall afterwards, and Pooh Bear modestly proclaimed, "People just can't keep their eyes off me for I'm so beautiful."
We stopped at the fountains midway through the bustling shopping palace, and Grandma gave Pooh Bear a dime to make a secret wish. I overheard Pooh Bear mumble something like, "reindeer" which made me curious.
Me: "It's okay if you want to tell me your wish. I'll keep it secret."
Pooh: "I wished for a reindeer."
Me: "Like the big decorated one in the fountain?"
Pooh: "No, silly. A real reindeer. She could live with our goats."
I wondered if Pooh thought the reindeer could take her flying through the crisp winter sky...

A Vyne Christmas

I'm giving myself a Christmas gift. I'm going to blog and munch on chocolate m&ms from my stocking plunder instead of continue the plethora of jobs still undone from Christmas carnage. I realized over the past two days how much Buck and I have shared in the work behind the celebration before. He's out of pocket this year. He's been home just long enough to tie up a few loose ends, assemble a dollhouse, sleep and partake in the early morning Christmas traditions of our family. He's since showered and scurried back to work before I could say, "Baby in a manger". Please tell me how many airplanes need him like I do on Christmas day?

Okay, so I've cooked and cleaned up from a delightful homemade cinnamon roll breakfast dripping with brown sugary goo and a classic orange lunch of from scratch macaroni and cheese (Grandma Eadie would be proud),clementines, and hoagies. I've got to consider timing on cooking the extravagant holiday dinner. I warned my mom, who is traveling to see us tonight, that the only possibility for food between Cincinnati and Loudon are greasy eggs and bacon from Waffle House or chips at the gas stations. I know so from previous experience where I believed my family could lunch on the way one cold December 25th long ago. I'm excited to make a feast for her this time. I can only appreciate fully now the work she put into each holiday dinner, and it's definitely her turn to be a guest.

After family rituals this morning, with my children's help, we separated mountains of paper/cardboard trash from plastic, and I burned the remains of packaging from a splendid and generous gift exchange. We cleaned out the van a bit, so if my mom wants to ride with us anywhere, I'm not completely embarrassed from the JUNK piled on the floor the children step on and over to reach their van seats. I'm doing laundry, because I always do. We've vacuumed after the initial hand sweep of the living room for plastic ties securing toys forever in place, plastic tags, plastic inserts, unidentifiable plastic this and that. I do not feel like a proud earth mother today. In fact, I never cease to be amazed and am a tad bit ashamed at the overabundance of simply everything we have- food,possessions, clothes, toys, technology, sweets, twaddle. It becomes most obvious in the trash. Sigh. As Scarlet O'Hara would say, "I'll think about that another day."

I loved it when Buck, just after presents were opened, proclaimed to the children as Santa did to the children in the film Narnia: Lion, With and the Wardrobe, "These are tools, not toys" and Buck added, "Treat them well."

Last night, I had the assignment of donning everyone in fancy Christmas Eve Candlelight service clothes by myself. Remember, how important Buck's job is as an air traffic controller on a evening when next to noone is flying? Tator didn't put on a any shirt literally until we were pulling out of the garage, because he detests all the fancy clothes in nice rows in his closet. "Mom, all those brightly colored stripey shirts look dumb to me. I hate wearing that stuff." He's much more comfortable with a Georgia Bulldogs (traitor!) t-shirt than a button down. Pooh Bear put on tights with holes, and I didn't notice till Tator pointed it out while I was driving down the road far from hope to change them. She also promptly pulled out her neatly groomed red, green, and gold hairbow the moment our bottoms sat in chairs for carols at church leaving her hair even more disheveled than usual. It was so crowded, we couldn't find five seats together so Pooh Bear and I sat in seats directly in front of my three boys. Believe it or not, my boys are angelic gentlemen to be commended during normal church, but I did mention earlier this was a candelight service, didn't I? The band played the longest and most rockin' version ever in the history of the world of "Go Tell it on the Mountain" with flickering lit candles in the curious hands of my three intrigued-by-open-flames-and-burning-hot-wax boys behind me. This "in front" position hindered my supervision of the three precarious fire hazards significantly. I grimaced as I turned backwards to find two of mine eating melted wax from the tips of their fingers. Just before the end of service and the lengthy spiritual song, I found myself holding all 5 blown out white wax and wick stubs with waxy covered paper circle hand protectors. Next year I'll know better to arrive early and sit where I'll have a bird's eye view of any delinquent candle activity.

I get a little sad lump in my throat on Christmas Eve these days remembering how the church I attended before I moved three years always asked me to be a part of the service in dance. The only people allowed to dance at our current church are true blue dancers in advanced ballet training, and these young ladies are a beautiful sight to behold indeed. If I counted correctly, I believe one gracefully pirouetted ten times around without pause at the climax of the song. I've personally met two of the other dancers (it's a big church), and their tender hearts as a gorgeous as their dance.

During church, my boys especially enjoyed the roving Christmas cam in beginning of the service. Every year, Pastor Bart takes a camera into the audience and questions a few children about their past favorite gifts, and what they want for Christmas this year. The crowd howled when an innocent, petite, dark eyed, ebony haired five year old squeaked in her best precious little girl voice, "I want a Darth Vader voice changer for Christmas". Bart doesn't know this, but Bart always chooses Wise One to interview, I suppose because my son is so very cute. Which is really too bad, because Wise One never receives the gifts he asks for in the service. I wish they'd pick normal families to interview who actually allow their children to write lists. I put a stop to the Christmas "greedy gimmes" years ago, and told my family I will buy or make gifts for them from my heart, not from a list. My boy told the camera and crowd last night he wanted a Star Wars Clone ship of some kind, and last year a Unicron which he'll never get but will never miss either. He couldn't come up with a quick answer to "What was the favorite gift you've ever received?" for the camera, but afterwards he told the family his favorite present ever has been his sister! Wise One is such a dear.

This afternoon, my boys all have their shiny new mp3 players stuck in their ears, except for Tator blasting the same rap song "Oopsy Daisy" his new Toby Mac CD in the living room. As they jam to tunes, they assemble new lego and mech sets. Peace is taking pics with his new camera of scenes he has arranged with his figures. I promised I'd help him set up a photo blog if he'd like. Pooh Bear goes from her new horses and dolls to her new pixter. She's gnawing on pink bubblegum from her stocking.

Now, back to my chores and Christmas joy. I do hope your holy day is most blessed. God bless us everyone.

Not of this world

What should I do today?

Hmmmm. Let's see. Today I need to mealplan, Buck will shop, and I'll begin Christmas dinner preparation. Buck has to work Christmas Eve night and Christmas morning (how awful is that?), so we cannot visit our relatives out of town. But just yesterday Buck's dad, my mom, her husband and his brother said they may come to US on Christmas Day. Hooray! Seeing both sets of grandparents on Christmas Day will be such a blessing and hasn't happened for as many years as I can remember.
More plans for the day. The children and I made a play date this afternoon with Tami's fam for a few hours. I really need to drop by the chiropractor for a quick adjustment. I'll need to get in the children's closets to survey prospects for Christmas Eve service clothes. Pooh Bears room needs a little work; a microburst or tornado swept through there the other day tossing dolls, Barbies, dress up clothes, real clothes, and Polly Pockets to oblivion. Yesterday, I simply closed the door and walked away quickly whenever I caught a glimpse of the destruction, but I want to relax on Christmas Eve so we'll have to plow through the chaos today. '
Also, I made a deadline for myself to finish some writing before January 1 that is calling my name. I started this particular article months ago, and got sick of it in the editing process. When I picked it back up to write again last month, my computer totally crashed from the Trojan Downloading virus which searches online to download whatever nasty bugs it can find. Buck,courageous hero, somehow managed to save the file, but I have not returned since to work on the article.
Lots to do. What else needs my attention?