Bittersweet Christmas

I've spent much of advent preparing--but not preparing in the usual way. Instead, I've been preparing paperwork, mountains and mountains of papers that are supposed to somehow stand for my eldest son's childhood.  You see, when you homeschool all the way through and when you believe that all of life is education, that transcript morphs into something much bigger than usual.  College application requirements vary, but the big stickler is actually surprising.  The NCAA Clearninghouse, that institution which allows barely literate public school graduates to play in college (I'm thinking of those oft-interviewed basketball players who are tall and strong and athletically gifted, but cannot answer a simple interviewer's question coherently), requires the following:

Standardized test score (must be on official transcript OR sent directly from the testing agency); 

Transcript (home school transcript and any other transcript from other high schools, community colleges, etc.); 

Proof of high-school graduation; 

Evidence that home schooling was conducted in accordance with state law; AND 

Lists of all texts used throughout home schooling (text titles, publisher, in which courses texts were used).

When we looked for clarification, explaining that we used few texts and many real books, they said to list them all. All.  Every single one.

So, we are knee deep in portfolio construction and Michael has really gotten his act together in this regard.  I'm "just" tweaking and fine tuning and trying to remember everything we've ever read!

Then, there are the essays.  The last few days, he's been reflecting on his education and writing essays that answer all the questions admissions deans might have about what he's been doing all his life. (Don't miss this one.) Yesterday, we settled into a familiar rhythm: Talk about it, write about it, edit together, go off and do something artistic, repeat the process, send it to Dad.  After the first round, he went down to the craft table to clear his head and to do something he's been promising me for three years.

While I nursed the baby in my room, he crafted a nativity from Sculpey clay. I spent my time thinking and thinking about his latest essay, turning phrases in my mind and remembering the decisions that have brought us here. And I reflected on something I think might be unusual:  this process, however stressful it might be for all of us, has not been the slightest bit ugly.  Michael and I have spent day after emotional day together this fall, riding the rapids of the college soccer recruiting process and navigating the nightmare of the paperwork and we have not once argued.   We've worked together in a familiar, mutually respectful rhythm. Whatever storms are raging around us, we are peaceful together.

Ironically, that makes it all so much harder.  I know that very soon, scenes like this, now so very familiar and ordinary, will become memories. And, oh, how I will miss them! 

I have a hunch I will never, ever be able to unpack this particular nativity set without feeling hot tears and a lump in my throat.

On the eve of eighteen

My baby is sick. My first baby, that is. He's not just sniffly sick, he's totally wiped out sick. He's the kind of sick that has a very pregnant mother haul herself out of bed two or three times a night and go down two flights of stairs just to hover over his bedside. And then, because I'm so very pregnant and feeling way too maternal, I fight the urge to cry. Who will hover next year? Who will be there for this midnight vigil when he is living on a college campus? The convergence of new baby and "newly minted adult" is brought home to me at three in the morning with an overwhelming force.

Tomorrow is Michael's eighteenth birthday. As this baby stays tucked up tight, my husband jokes that we will never have eight children. Tomorrow, we will have seven children and a brand new adult. Someone decided that my first born baby is now old enough to vote, to go to war, and (joy of joys) to get a Costco card. What a momentous occasion it will be. We made it--the three of us: Michael, Mike and me. We navigated an entire childhood. And he's really a wonderful young man.

I remember so well the day he was born. I remember becoming a mother. And I remember every single lesson he has taught me since that day. The irony is that we are probably hours from beginning the adventure again with a new baby. And much of the reason we are so eager to do so is Michael. That first childhood entrusted to us was such a joy, let's do it again. And again. And again. Well, you get the idea.

I think that I loved being a mom and he loved being a kid because we lived a lifestyle of connected parenting (sometimes known as attachment parenting). We kept him with us. We answered his cries promptly and then, when they evolved, we listened to his every word. We respected the person in the child. We loved wholeheartedly. And we were so richly rewarded.

He talks often about how we fostered independence. But I think what we fostered was interdependence. We grew up together in many ways. I was barely older than he is now when he was born. And as Mike and I caught a vision of life, we naturally shared it with our child. We knew he was capable of great conversation even when he was very young. And so we talked. We talked and we talked and we talked. They say that you can't or shouldn't be a friend to your kids. That's probably true. Children need to see a clear authority. But the goal is to raise children whom you would love to have as your friends. So, you can and should be a friend to your young adults, right? Because this kid--I mean, young adult--is one of my best friends.

It's all good right? I can go out and tell the world how well attachment parenting--especially Catholic attachment parenting--works. I can shout from the moutaintops what a beautiful way it is to raise a family.

Well, yeah. Except I really should tell you about the tears, too. A couple of weeks ago, Michael sat in the seat I'm in right now and learned that there really isn't a place for him on the soccer team of the local university where he hoped to spend the next four years. It had nothing to do with his ability and everything to do with a quirk of numbers. They had long told him he'd be there, but there was a dawning realization that this year's kids weren't playing; there wasn't going to be room for more of them next year.

We live in an area that is flush with colleges and universities. He began to look at rosters of every school in the area--a wide area. And with every click, we learned together that there is an abundance of underclass defenders on the area's soccer teams. He looked at me, blue eyes wide and filling, and said, "I'm going to have to pick between my dream and being close enough to be an integral part of the lives of my little siblings." He pretty much hasn't slept since that night.

Nothing else was said. He is acutely aware of my pain. And I am aware of his. We are connected.

Bedrooms and Babies...

It was midnight dance of sorts, that four-times-a-night shuffle I learned to do eighteen years ago. Awakened by the cries of my firstborn, I'd stumble to the bathroom to wet a washcloth with warm water. I'd take it to the nursery and lift the baby from his crib. I'd pass the rocking chair on the way back to my bed. (It was too big for me, it turned out, and I never used it.) I'd nurse the baby on one side, change the diaper, nurse him to sleep on the other side and then carry him back to the crib. I'd dump the wet diaper and washcloth in the diaper pail and crawl back into bed for an hour and half of sleep before repeating the dance. If I lucked out. More often than not though, Michael wasn't too happy about the transfer back to the crib and I'd have to nurse him to sleep again sooner than later.

I was committed to attachment parenting; it was the logistics that weren't working. So, desperate for sleep, we tried some things. We wedged the fullsized crib into our tiny bedroom. He hated the crib. We took the side off the crib and anchored it to our bed. He still hated the crib. I slept in the crib with him next to our bed (I was much lighter then;-). He slept; I didn't. Finally, we ditched the crib and put him between us in the bed.

When our second baby was born, we didn't even put up the crib. By the fourth, we'd given it away. Over time, our nighttime parenting and our bedroom design and decorating have converged. Furnished entirely with gifts and hand-me-downs, no other room in our house speaks so much to our lifestyle as our master bedrooms does.

Two summers ago, my aunt moved out of a large house and into a smaller one. She called to tell us that a van was coming to our area to bring some things from that house to a friend of hers. She said she had a few other things and asked if we would like them. Not sure at all what we were getting, we said we'd take whatever. Mike was out of town the day the truck pulled up and it was rather like reality TV to stand at the truck's door and make decorating decisions as previously unknown pieces were unloaded and carried into my house.

A massive desk ended up in the sitting area of our bedroom. I wasn't sure its purpose (and I still don't know), but there was no place else for it and I had vague plans for a desk all my own. It's so huge and was so hard to get upstairs, that whatever we do with it, it's going to stay right there.

A very comfortable armchair worked well in that space, too. The picture above it came off the truck and I knew immediately that I wanted it within sight of my bed. It is an Asian mother and two children. Before this baby was conceived, we were prayerfully discerning a Taiwanese adoption. When the picture arrived, I knew it would be a constant reminder to pray for Taiwanese women and babies upon awakening and before I went to sleep. Even though the adoption plans were set aside, the prayers continue.

The dresser for the new baby was rescued from Bobby's house before he left to play in England. It was falling apart and Michael rebuilt the back. It will serve nicely as both clothing storage and a changing table. The nightstand next to it is from a set my mother bought us when we were married. We moved it away from our bed to make room for baby's bed. Here it holds a stash of diapers and wraps.

And then there's the glider...I am so looking forward to having a rocking chair that's made for a petite person! My sister generously provided both glider and ottoman for the baby. She said that everyone assumes you have everything by the time you get to eight, but sometimes there something you never indulged in that will make this time extra-special. I am looking forward to spending time here. My girls have already filled the side pockets with their collection of First Little House books. And the little touch of pink, the piece that really says "Baby Girl," is the quilt, a gift from Donna Howey.

The baby will sleep right next to me in a co-sleeper purchased by grandparents four years ago for Katie. My mother updated its cover and bought leg extensions so it would work against our new king-sized bed (yet another piece of furniture that came off that truck). I love my co-sleeper and the midnight dance is completely eliminated. A small table my mother found in Amish country sits at the foot of the co-sleeper with a basket of nighttime diapers and wipes and my CD player. No need to get out of bed at all--just reach over, nurse the baby and leave her sleeping in her bed. Diaper changes are bedside business too. There is something to be said for the lessons of experience! Maybe they'll compensate for the fact that I'm forty, have seven other children to care for, and much less energy than I did at 22.

The hope chest was an engagement gift from my father. It survived a flood in my mother's house before I was married and my father-in-law rebuilt the bottom. The baby's scrapbook sits upon it and I sincerely "hope" to work on it in a timely manner.

Though most of our books are shelved in our library closet, each bedroom in the house has a bookcase for special books. Mine is no exception. I loved this bookcase in my parents' house growing up and I think it's perfect in this corner of my bedroom.

When the baby is about a year old, she'll move to the "Rose Princess" room.

There, she'll find a dresser, rescued from my father's storage space and a closet festooned with flowers. The doors kept falling off, so I took them down and hung a curtain and some tulle.

The desk was a hand-me-down we painted (and need to paint again). The bed belonged to the set in my room but belongs to the girls now, who love to sleep together under the canopy. And the bookcase? The bookcase I actually purchased because I just couldn't walk away from it.

I have no idea how the baby will fit into this room, but it's a decorating project that could make for some summertime fun--next year!

Practical Life with Little Ones

I was going to write a full-blown post on the Montessori approach to practical life.  Then, I remembered that Rebecca has already written two and they are awesome.  She wrote about care of self and  little ones in the kitchen.  I encourage you to read, absorb and implement the wisdom there.

So that frees me up to answer CityMom's pressing question.  She writes: 

Thanks for this and the great preschool arts and crafts post. I am wondering how you manage your time. In theory I love the poem you post about childhood, but the thought of fingerpaints right now makes me want to cry -- so much of the preschool work (even when done in Montessori fashion) requires Mom to be right there with them. My 4 and 3 year old had been in a surge on independant work, but now the twins (almost 2) want to do painting and play dough and things, and it all breaks down so quickly into a huge mess!Do you have a seperate time set aside for these kinds of work? How does this fit in with the older children's school day?

My introduction to motherhood was much more of a gentle slope than yours, CityMom.  You definitely ended up in the deep end very quickly after getting your feet wet! I had one child for almost four years before our second was born.  During that time, I had cancer and underwent chemotherapy and radiation.  Lissa and I were chatting recently about some lessons learned during times of compromised immunity that I'd never really recognized until recently.  They were just a part of me without being officially analyzed (which makes them a pretty rare part of me since I analyze everything). 

During chemotherapy and radiation and for several months afterwards, I couldn't be exposed to the germs of the "the world."  That meant that the pool was off limits.  So was the playground, playgroups, most play dates, grocery stores, children's museums, zoos--pretty much anywhere with people. Add to that the fact that we only had one car and Michael and I pretty much lived a cloistered life.

But, I embraced that life wholeheartedly.  I didn't care about the inconveniences of the illness.  What I cared about was that I was alive and I had my husband and child with me.  In His providence, God had put us in a tiny townhouse that backed up to Pohick Valley Stream Park.  A creek ran through the park property behind mine.  And Michael and I had that whole wooded, leafy, creek-fed park and all its inhabitants to ourselves.

We also had a fully stocked art cabinet (brought home from my classroom two years before).  At the risk of dating myself, children's television (4 network channels and PBS) was limited to Sesame Street and Reading Rainbow. We had no computer.

So what did I discover? I discovered that I could spend hours a day being fully present to my child.  We ate together, walked in the woods together, did messy art projects together, gardened our very small plot of land together, played in the wading pool on the deck together, read stacks and stacks of books for hours together and napped together every day.  Essentially, I literally clung to him for dear life. Yep, I was right there with him all the time.

As I recovered, our world widened a bit.  But we had learned certain habits so well that they were inculcated into our beings.  For me, the key to being a mother at home was to be at home.  And my happiness there depended upon my being able to limit my television and telephone (and later, computer) time--because those things could easily take me from home without my even getting dresssed! The key was to be fully present.

Lest you think that Michael suffered from his cloistered early childhood, let me assure that is not the case.  The boy, now 17, has traveled all over the USA and the UK.  Last weekend, he got himself from a soccer field to an airport in North Carolina, flew to DC only to discover his connecting flight had been cancelled, booked himself on a later flight, and flew to LAX late at night.  There, his father was waiting for him.  The two of them will spend the week on one of many California adventures, this one planned entirely by Michael.

So, let's go back to the fingerpaint question.  Right now, we have Michael, a 14 year-old, an 11 year-old, a 9 year-old, a 7 year-old, a 5 year-old, a 3 year-old, and a friend's 2 year-old in our home every day. 

The 14 year-old is young in many ways, so is likely to be interested in a painting project but absolutely cannot be sent off to complete schoolwork on his own.

So, here's how the hands-on messy things unfold in my house:  someone little suggests fingerpaint or dough or I have planned a project.  I'm at the kitchen table (where I try to keep messes) or the backyard picnic table (if weather permits) with them.  Sometimes, I even have my own paper. I sit with them--all of them are invited to particpate; I paint with them.  I talk with them.  Then, when someone is tired of the activity and the others are engaged, I follow the one who is leaving.  If he's old enough to do something different, independent of me, I let him go, after ascertaining exactly what it is he plans to do.  If he's a tiny person, he gets scooped up in my arms and we go together to find something new.  I plop down in front of the Tupperware cabinet and help him pull everything out.Then I teach him how to put everything away. We're still in the kitchen, so if someone else is finished with the painting project, I see that, too. What usually happens is that the children who remain at the table are engaged enough to carry on properly without my direct presence.  I've already demonstrated the correct way to use the materials and they know that if they use them inappropriately, I'll put the project away immediately. That leaves me to guide the ones who are not interested. Those are either old enough to do something purposeful on their own or little enough to be contained in my arms or within my reach.

If we're talking about the shelves in the schoolroom, the principle is much the same.  The older children can be started doing seatwork--a math page, a grammar lesson, copywork.  Then I sit on the floor with the little ones.  I have several mats rolled up in a basket.  They get a mat each and unroll it in front of their workspace.  They know (because I've taught them) that the work stays on the mat and that they can expect to keep the mat all to themselves.  No one else is to encroach on somebody's mat.  I present the lesson, usually to more than one child.  After I finish, they are free to continue to work with that material or to choose another material I've already shown them.

If the littlest ones are engaged, I can work with the older ones, still in the same room.  Some days, the little ones are really needy and my time with the older ones is limited to naptime for the little ones.  Usually, by the time you would need large chunks of discussion and instruction time with big kids, you have enough big kids to help you rotate and supervise the little ones.

Babies are with me in a sling or front pack pretty much all the time.(I've never had twins, so I invite mothers of multiples to help CityMom with that aspect.) Crawlers are on my lap with an interesting rattle or such.  Alternatively, they are on a mat next to me with a basket of baby toys and a sibling to show them how to stay and play.  At eighteen months or so, they are learning--with my constant reminders--not to pull things off the shelves and they are incorporated into the routine by the example of their siblings.

It's not always perfect. I've picked up plenty of dumped baskets of blocks.  But I'm right there. So, there's no way he can wreck the whole room before he gets scooped up and redirected.  Often, the re-direction is a book.  Toddler dynamo on my lap, I read to whoever wants to listen.  The situation is defused and we're back to business. Also, babies and toddlers are nursing, so there's no leaving for bottles and such (with the exception of the neighbor's child).

Now that I have older children, a toddler on a backyard swing with a nine-year-old sister is a good option.  That nine-year-old can easily finish her schoolwork during naptime and the outdoor break does them both good. The 11-year-old is only too happy to take two little ones outside to kick a soccer ball around while I read with an early reader. As I type, I'm realizing that these are not great options for someone who lives in the heart of New York City!

I'm trying, for CityMom's sake, to remember a time when everyone was under seven.  And I can feel the tension in my shoulders.  Those were days when bubbles or fingerpaint in the bathrub were great stressbusters for all of us.  The mess is contained and it can all be rinsed down the drain.  Water play is a great calm-inducer.  We baked lots of bread in those days, too. Little people standing on chairs, pulled up to the counter, can pound and knead and shape and take pride in baking "daily bread" daily!  Yes, it takes time and effort and energy, but it also keeps them engaged and happy and learning.  What could be a better use of their time or yours?

And then there was my refuge to that well-forested park.  I know getting outside is a much bigger deal when one lives in a highrise in New York City, but I encourage you to find those places of green where you can go inhale deeply and try to get there every day. It's worth the hassle with the stroller and the packing of drinks and snacks.

Those early days where everyone is so needy are limited, indeed. But they can feel endless, can't they? I remember going to bed at night sometimes, wishing I could sneak out and head down Route 29, back to Charlottesville and college life and just a week or so when I was responsible for no one but myself. Then I'd fall asleep and find that everything truly is better in the morning.

Trying to escape the children, to compartmentalize them into only part of my life, to maintain a large chunk of "identity" apart from them, has always proven counter-productive to me.  We're all happier and even more efficient when I embrace them and this all-encompassing vocation wholeheartedly.  That doesn't mean I don't have my own private reading time (at night) or my own writing time (early in the morning).  Before this pregnancy, I even had a daily workout at the local Curves (I could be home and back before anyone awakened).  But when my children are awake--I'm theirs. (Warning:  once you have both babies and teenagers, there's rarely a time when everyone is asleep.  That's another post entirely.)

I start and end my day with prayer. And then I pray all day long. I ask specifically for patience and grace to be what my children need.  And often, I ask for time.  If I have something I want to write or a pressing project better done without little hands "helping," I ask the Blessed Mother specifically to take that request to her Son.  If Jesus wants me to do it, He'll provide the time.

Inocorporating Rebecca's ideas, the children are a part of the daily household routine. Once our home is running smoothly, we go about the "rest of childhood."  What can I be doing that is more important than forming my children? Something on tv?  Someone on the phone?  A great thought on the computer? Well, occasionally.  I had a day last week when a genuinely urgent computer issue had me both in front of the monitor and on the phone way too much. It hit and snowballed before I could plan for its intrusion.  I suffered.  My children suffered.  The house suffered.  This has occurred enough times for me to guard myself against it as much as humanly possible.

On the flip side, I also have to accept that "stuff happens."  I don't have perfect control over our lives.  Actually, I have little control.  All I can do is beg for the grace to be obedient to my calling. I pray for the self-discipline to "come as soon as I am called."  And to recognize that usually God calls me in the voice of my child.

19 Minutes!

Are you kidding me?! According to the Daily Mail, that's how long the typical working parent spends looking after her child.  I received an email this morning, referencing this article and reminding me what John Paul II had to say about being a mother at home.  Nineteen minutes a day, indeed...can you imagine?