Wait a Minute...

I just realized something.

How can Elena, who has been homeschooled all of her life, have 138 friends on Facebook?

Isn't she supposed to have socialization issues?

There's something fishy going on around here...

Words No Woman Ever Wants to Hear

"Mommy, you have GROWN!!!"

Why, thank you, Jacinta, so nice of you to notice.

Fortunately, I later discovered that she was referring to the length of my arms.

Of course. Silly me.

Life Lesson

If you happen to be running late preparing all of those snacks for the conference social and you decide to ask your teenager, who appears fairly mature on the outside, to finish up the last few batches of cookies for you, do not allow her to open the laptop to check her email.

Especially if you are a perfectionist and she, most decidedly, is not.

Oh well, the rest of the kids wanted some cookies left at home for them anyway, and I'm pretty sure they like them extra crispy.

It's a good thing she knows how to make me laugh.

You Should See Me at the Ice Cream Counter

I've been contemplating a creative response to that meme that's been floating around my corner of the internet world. And then I remembered this post I wrote and shelved before Christmas. I think it might actually reveal a little more about who I am than answering those forty-two random questions.

MY WALLS ARE PAINTED!

Yes, after 11 sample shades of yellow (from light lemon to dark mustard), a rash conclusion resulting in some trim and half a wall before a change of heart, and several painfully vacillating weeks living like this...

...I finally made a decision. Here's a play-by-play of the final moments.

As Jim was heading out the door to buy the paint, I handed him two paint swatch cards.

Jim, perplexed and a tad bothered: Why are you giving me two? Which one do you want?

Me, feeling pretty proud that I had actually narrowed it down to two: Call me when you get there.

I walked up and down the stairs and looked at the patches from every possible angle. I started to sweat and feel a bit nauseous. I frantically phoned my sister.

K: Hello?

Me: Jim is on his way to buy the paint. Which one should I choose?

K: I'd go with the first one.

Me: Which one is the first one?

K: I was hoping you'd know.

Lots of nervous giggles.

Me: It's between Morning Sun, the softer, butter yellow, and Slice, the more vibrant, golden yellow. I can't decide.

K: I really like the patchwork look of several different shades all together on each wall.

Click, click.

Me: Oh my gosh. That's him on the other line.

K: Go with the Morning Sun. You won't regret it. You might regret too much zing.

Me: Okay, bye.

Click.

Me: Hello?

Jim: Well?

Me: I'm not sure.

Jim: Diane, I'm next in line.

Me: I just don't know.

Jim: Diane, they're exactly the same color.

Me: They're completely different on the wall.

Jim: I'm at the counter. Go with the Slice. (randomly chosen, I'm sure)

Me: That's what I was leaning tow...

Click. (before I could say another word)

I immediately called my sister again.

K: Well?

Me: I went with the Slice.

K: You can never have too much zing in your life. And I'm so glad you didn't go with the one I suggested. Now, what you need to do is go shopping while Jim is painting. Do not look at it until it is completely done.

Me, already second-guessing my choice: I feel sick.


Well, I did stick around to watch Jim paint. And I did wonder about my decision. And I did make a few weak jokes about changing my mind.

To which Jim clearly warned me: If you decide to find a new yellow, you'll have to find a new husband...or at least a new painter.

That zipped my lips up fast. I let it go and let him paint.

My walls are now the color of Slice. They're bright and bold and cheerful and full of zing. Everything that I am not.

And I love them.

Our entry, living room, stairway, and upstairs hall are a juicy Slice of golden yellow, our family room is a warm Chestnut, and our dining room is a light Sheepskin above the chair rail and a rich Cranberry Bog below. It's beginning to feel like my home.

God bless my saintly painter. I'm doing my best to send him to Heaven.

(I think I'll wait a while to talk to him about the bedrooms and bathrooms. And the fact that the carpeting is now looking kind of shabby..)

I Never Imagined Such Things Would Ever Be Uttered in My Home

"Charlie, will you please be a gentleman and use the bow and arrow so that Qiu Qiu can use the sword?"


And how about this exchange from a few days ago...


Me, standing in front of Charlie's closed bedroom door: It's ok, Charlie. You can come out now.

Charlie: NO!!

Me: Jacinta, you aren't allowed to cut off Charlie's head when he comes out.

Jacinta, standing outside his bedroom door with a sword raised and an evil glint in her eye: I know that.


How did it come to this?

Pillow Talk from Charlie

This evening, as I lay with Charlie, trying to prepare himself for sweet slumber, I heard the following whispered words, his little arm draped across my neck.

"I just have one more thing to say.

Mommy...I love you 'cause you are the best."

(Be still, my melting heart.)

"Well...not bester than Chaser."

Forget about Feeding Rodents Sweets

If you leave your husband home alone on New Year's Eve, he may try to do some laundry.

When he breaks your washing machine, he'll probably decide that it's not worth fixing.

He'll take you to buy a new one (because every mother of many knows that her washing machine is a friend she cannot live without), and the store will be having such a great sale that you'd be losing money not to buy the matching dryer.

When he takes the old washer and dryer out of the laundry room, he'll realize that it would be a good time to repaint the walls (which he would never be persuaded to do under ordinary circumstances).

He'll have to remove all of the shelves before he paints.

This will force you to de-clutter the first of twelve rooms on your list.

When the room is freshly painted, you will want to wash the floor before the new washer and dryer are placed in their new home.

As long as you're washing the laundry room floor, you might as well scrub all of the bathroom floors too.

If you spend the evening cleaning floors, you can put off writing that Christmas letter you've been avoiding for weeks.

And chances are...if you don't get the annual family letter written by Epiphany, the next time you leave him home alone for New Year's Eve, he'll forget the laundry and write the letter himself.

A Word about Advent Candles...

...for Margaret.

Tapers are so overrated.

Check out that itty-bitty-wanna-be-of-a-candle to the right (but please, don't notice the wrinkles in my tablecloth or the barenakedness of my wreath). Do you honestly believe that candle will last for another nine days? I think not.

And I knew this would happen. I've been buying pillars for years. But that cute little boy from the youth group just looked so pitiful selling tapers outside of Mass a few Sundays ago...and I caved.

I will not be duped again. Unless, of course, next year he is actually smiling as he sells them.


Postscript: Last night (Mon) I broke all the rules and lit the fourth candle instead of the first one. Elena was horrified.

My Dancing Skating Queen

On Wednesday, my sister and her kids joined us for an afternoon of roller skating, because her kids can simply never get enough of my kids AND because she will look for any excuse to drive sixty miles to go shopping with me afterwards (wink, wink---she actually abhors shopping, especially with one who cannot make decisions easily). Weeks ago, within seconds of hearing that a home school skating party was planned, Karen called to reserve spots for both of our families without ever consulting me. If she had consulted me, I would have told her that I would be busy washing my hair that day.

After a leisurely gourmet lunch (pb&j's snarfed down in five minutes while the maternal chorus of "EAT! EAT!" shrieked in the background), we headed for Skate World. The rink is less than three miles from my house, a ten minute drive max. In an attempt to shave a tenth of a mile off of the trip, I decided to follow Mapquest directions instead of taking the familiar route I know well. We ended up on a twenty-five minute driving tour of the area, including a three minute stop in a medical park so I could figure out where the doggy dog we were and then still go the wrong way. The highlight of the tour was driving by the middle school where Jenna Bush was visiting. No kidding. Karen said her kids were quite impressed. I don't know what my kids thought because they were eerily silent as I sputtered various (clean) expletives from the driver's seat.

At last we arrived, just as all of the other homeschoolers were arriving, about fifteen minutes late. It took us another fifteen minutes to make it through the entrance. As I walked through those heavy metal doors after we paid, I was immediately transported in my mind to the Cortland Skateland of my youth, flooded by memories of dim lights, blasting music, filthy matted carpet, sweaty teenage strangers, and watching the Couples Skate from the sidelines while my little sister circled each loop with a different boy. I knew that I should have stayed home to wash my hair.

Weeding our way through the happy crowd, Karen and I dragged our kids over to the skate counter to rent roller blades for Charlie and Zachary (because they don't have their own skates yet), Valya (because she's outgrown hers) and me (because Princess Elena has a sneaky way of brainwashing me and had assumed ownership of mine). Elena and Marissa didn't follow us over to the counter but instead sat down with some of Elena's friends to put on their roller blades. Within seconds, Elena ditched her ten-year-old cousin to enter the rink with her friends and left Marissa with nothing but the helpful advice of "Go find your mother." Ah, teenagers.

I am obviously quite inexperienced as a skating mom. After plugging my nose, closing my eyes, counting to ten, and pretending not to notice the stench as I put on the rented blades that have been worn by who knows how many other feet, I soon realized that the other mothers were in the center area of the rink in their street shoes while they tried to hold up their fumbling little skaters. How very wise of them. I quickly abandoned my rented roller blades to squeeze into Elena's funky tennies, since mine were behind the counter holding the place of the stinky skates, lest I decide to steal the stinky skates to become my own forever.

I'm thankful that it was a safe, Christian home schooling environment, because all of my kids except Charlie immediately took off to skate on their own, and honestly I lost track of them from time to time. Elena sauntered the rink casually with her friends, chatting contentedly throughout the afternoon. Valya, who loves all things sparkly and glamorous, was quite enamored by the disco globe hanging from the ceiling, but its beauty didn't detract her too long from chasing some of the teen boys we know. Nastia and Jonah raced each other recklessly both around the skating circle and in the carpeted areas. Marissa, Ethan, and Mariana were much more civilized about it all. Charlie and Zachary hung desperately to their mothers' arms. You know the look...they'd be standing very still, moving across the floor by inches, and then suddenly their feet were wildly scrambling as they tried to keep their balance. Very quickly the two of them were content to sit on the side and watch with a bag of popcorn and a bottle of Gatorade. I didn't mind.

Every once in a while I would notice a blur pass by, and that little blur will now forever be known as our Skating Queen. As skaters twice her size awkwardly struggled to keep from falling, my tiny five-year-old Qiu Qiu whirred confidently around the rink, gracefully weaving in and out, passing those around her. She would come charging full-speed up to Karen, the little boys, and me standing in the center, and just as we braced ourselves for the impending collision, she would skillfully stop exactly where she intended. She was amazing. And she thoroughly enjoyed every minute, a huge smile spanning her sweet face all afternoon. I am convinced that if she had been an only child, with her natural skill and determination, she might have trained for the Olympics someday. But...she got stuck with us, a large homeschooling family that makes visits to Skate World once a year at best. As my sister remarked, rather than the Olympic athlete she might have been, Jacinta gets to become a saint instead.

Life is good. Embrace it. And make this day count. :)

image courtesty of britannica.com

Word to the Not So Wise

Attention, Home Educated High School Students:

If you are going to sneak a peek at the private family blog during your online science class,
do not be so foolish as to leave a comment with a time stamp.

I'm just sayin'.

Busted.

A Canine By Any Other Name Would Still Have Dog Breath

How do normal families name a dog? I'd really like to know.

The drama of naming of our new pup began shortly after his arrival on Saturday. My firstborn, Elena, was certain that she alone would be able to think up the perfect name and assumed that the rest of us would naturally have reached this obvious conclusion. This line of thinking evolved into the inevitable power struggle between Elena and Valya, my second child, who also likes to be top dog, so to speak.

Elena wanted to name him Grady, after a certain baseball player. Valya wanted to name him anything but Grady. Nastia, my animal lover supreme, was just plain happy to have a dog and was willing to call him anything. Mariana, Jacinta, and Charlie were just plain happy to have Nastia as an older sister and were willing to call him anything Nastia called him.

Elena used the morning dog walk after Mass on Sunday (while Valya was stuck inside copying a psalm) to lobby Nastia (and thus M, J, and C) into her corner. She played the rather sinister card of saying that our cousins would LOVE the name. They all came back from the walk calling the dog Grady. This set Valya into a fury, and she started calling the dog everything but Grady. Jim caught wind of it all and told them not to call the dog anything since it didn't have a name yet.

We then sat down to a lovely family brunch of perfectly scrambled eggs, slightly burnt toast, and a somewhat heated discussion of canine names.

Starting at the bottom of the lineup, I asked Charlie what he thought, and he shyly whispered in my ear, "Paddy." (Actually, I'm pretty sure, he meant Patty, but I'm giving him the benefit of the doubt since he is so adorable.) I thought that was a lovely Irish name, quite original for our family, and it got my vote without even hearing any of the others. It seemed right for the baby of the family to have this honor...how could I choose anyone else's? Of course, there was the unpleasant likelihood that outsiders would think the name was Patty and wonder why we gave our male dog a girl's name. It was quickly dismissed by the others.

When asked her opinion, Jacinta announced with naive five-year-old enthusiasm that her choice was King. We all oohed and ahhed appropriately. No idea where Paddy or King came from.

Next was Mariana's turn, and she smilingly said Grady. Nothing more. Valya practically leaped out of her chair but was restrained to wait her turn. Nastia, sensing conflict and wanting to please all involved, admitted that she too liked Grady but that she also thought Chaser (the name that the Humane Society had bestowed on our puppy from the get-go) was a very good name. Valya said her choice was Nibbles, a name she had suggested in the waiting room of the Humane Society, as the dog was nibbling on her.

Elena finally was permitted to plead her case for Grady. Blah, blah, blah, Grady's cute, blah, blah, blah. Then began the inevitable power struggle between the teenage daughter and her father. He did not like naming a dog after a person of whose character he knows nothing. He did not like how Elena had lobbied the others to her side. And he did not like Elena being the one to win and Valya the one to lose. All conveyed in so many words.

Elena declared that we could not leave the table without a decision. Pushed too far, Jim decided that the dog would be named Chaser, since the younger kids had been calling him that Saturday and they all seemed to like the name before the lobbying began. Elena was dead set against it and tried desperately to pull me in to defend her. Honestly, I'm not that fond of the name myself, but I was not about to enter the third power struggle of the day over the name of a dog, especially not with a man who spent all day Saturday painting for me.

I did try to throw out a few other options (actually several other options), and Elena, desperately hoping to avoid Chaser, was uncharacteristically encouraging about all of them. The other kids were enthusiastic too. My favorite was Sam, after Samwise Gamgee.

But Jim had made up his mind. Chaser it would be.

Indignant, Jacinta asked, "What about King?" Since she has her daddy wrapped around her little finger, he agreed that the dog could be formally named King Chaser but that we would call him Chaser.


So, there you go. Family angst, gotta love it. I'm thinking of submitting the story to Oprah. Maybe she'll invite us to appear on her show.

(Next time around, I will drive to the Humane Society myself, choose a dog, and name it on the way home.)

Real Learning?

If your seven-year-old reads over your shoulders as you are composing a new blog post, does that count as reading practice for the day?

Just wondering.

She did amazingly well.

My Most Faithful Reader Is Also My Harshest Critic

Yesterday, as I was composing my post about humility, Elena glanced over my shoulder and asked, with disappointment in her voice, "Oh, is that another boring one?"

Excuse me? Ex-cuuuuuse me? (written in my best Warden's drawl)


(This post definitely does not qualify for the Cute Kids category.)

Retroactive Obedience

Overheard this morning...

Jim, exasperated: Jacinta, WHERE did you put your tennis shoes?

Jacinta, calm: I put them on the rack......in Belgium.


Ummm, Qiu Qiu, that was four months ago.

A Difference in Perspective

Yesterday afternoon I had ninety minutes to kill with the three little ones while the older girls had their piano lessons. We were headed to find a park when I made a split second decision to pull into a McDonald's parking lot instead. This particular Mickey D's had a two-story indoor playland, and cheers erupted from the back seat. The only times we ever buy fast food are lengthy vacation drives, which happen fairly often in our family, I admit. But we only stop long enough to pump the gas, use the restroom, and hit the drive-through. Maybe that's why I thought it might be a good thing for my kids to experience an indoor playland. Or maybe it was the hot, humid weather that made the park less than enticing for me.

Here are two separate observations made during our visit:

Mine: What was I thinking? This food is awful. (Big surprise there.) Everything I touch is sticky. I can almost see the germs hopping off of that disgusting playland onto my kids. They'll probably all get sick. We are never coming here again.

Charlie's: I love it here. I want to sleep here, right here on this chair. Then I could wake up, eat breakfast, and start playing right away. (He actually said these very words...three times.)


It's amazing what 38 years does to one's perspective.

A Maternal Twist to an Old Question about a Tree Falling in a Forest

If a laundry mound is overflowing in the closet,

but the door is closed so no one can actually smell it,

does it still need to be washed?

That's My Qiu Qiu

Last Friday, Jim and the kids watched an hour or so of Jesus of Nazareth. We had intended to start it Palm Sunday and then continue it throughout Holy Week, so that they would reach the crucifixion scene on Good Friday. But we forgot our grand intentions and the film until Friday. Such is life around here. Anyway...

Following the viewing, Jacinta, who is almost five and better known as Qiu Qiu (Choo Choo), was very excited to tell me all about it. An unrequested narration---fabulous! I was eager to listen. This is how it began.

J: Mary had a baby, and she was so tired that she had to lay down and take a nap.

Me: And what was the baby's name? (even though I know I'm not supposed to prompt)

J: Pocahontas.

Before I could recover with the proper response, Charlie, 3, jumped in to say: No, it's not. The baby is named Jesus.

J: Well, first it was Pocahontas. Then the angel told Jofess to name him Jesus.


Hmm, I admit that I haven't actually watched this version of the life of Jesus in a while, but I definitely don't remember that scene.

On a positive note, she did remember Mary, Jofess, and the angel. And since I know that she has never watched the Disney film, at least something from our reading of D'Aulaire's Pocahontas must have stuck with her.

June Cleaver I Am Not

I was really hoping to avoid the nasty little virus working its way through the blogs these days...you know, that ABCs of Homemaking meme. I so did not want to go there and definitely did not want to hang the boring, humbling, nitty gritty details of my laundry for all of my blogging world to see. But apparently that insidious little blogger named Margaret had nothing better to do in all of that Minnesotan snow than to call me by name. Somehow I just can't bring myself to say no to such a dear friend and faithful commenter (and I fear if I do, I may never be tagged again), so here goes....

(I hope this also qualifies as my contribution to It Is What It Is. I'm sorry, but you won't be seeing any photos. I have my limits for humiliation.)

Aprons – Y/N
Well, I've had an old, stained, canvas one for years, but I rarely remember to wear it…until it is too late. I remember more often ever since I found this cheerful one at the Euro Store. Honestly, it looks much better on her. (What wouldn’t?)

Baking – Favorite thing to bake:
I’m with Margaret…did you say bake or eat? Because I much prefer the latter. The bakeries are so incredibly wonderful here, offering tantalizing works of edible art for mere euro cents--- it really doesn’t make much sense to bake. At least that’s how I justify it. My two oldest girls, however, love to bake anything sweet, and they pretty much do it on their own. My husband enjoys creating the most beautiful birthday cakes. As you can see, there’s really no need for me to bother.

I do hope to try baking bread after we return to the US, even if it's just throwing ingredients into a machine. I will really miss our fresh Belgian bread each day---the baguettes, oh the baguettes.

Clothesline – Y/N?
I’m afraid not. I do believe I have more of an excuse than Kristen in sunny Orange County...but even in Orange County, I probably wouldn’t either, except for beach towels.

Donuts – Have you ever made them?
I don’t think so. Surely I would remember, wouldn’t I? Actually, I think I made them once with my youth group in high school. Does that count? I have made my grandmother’s apple fritters, which are sweet dough deep-fried around apple slices and sprinkled with powdered sugar. Sort of like donuts. Even better, methinks.

Every day – One homemaking thing you do every day:
Why is everyone saying, “only one?” Because I can’t think of a single one that I myself do everyday. Well, I do feed my family everyday, usually cooked food. And I do move piles from room to room each day. Oh, and there is always at least one toileting issue to deal with. I guess I do have more than one homemaking thing that I do everyday.

Freezer – Do you have a separate deep freeze?
No deep freeze, though I think it would be a lovely addition since I do our major commissary shopping only once a month. We do have an extra refrigerator courtesy of the Army, and that extra freezer space really helps. Not that I ever fill it with frozen casseroles or anything practical. More like ice cream and Boboli crusts.

Garbage Disposal – Y/N?
You mean besides my husband? Actually, my father was a much better one than my husband will ever be. We do not have a garbage disposal in our sink---perhaps because Belgian plumbing seems to be notoriously rotten and perpetually clogged. They do collect the compost bin every other week, and I don't really miss having a disposal.

Handbook – What is your favorite homemaking resource?
My wise friends at 4Real. Of course. I want you to know that in no way do I hold you responsible for my poor implementation of your simply elegant and efficient ideas, except that you keep me on the computer far too much.

Ironing – Love it or hate it?
Hate is a very strong word that I try not to use. Let’s just say that my poor husband is ironing his shirts as I write this.

Junk drawer – Y/N? Where is it?
Maybe this is my problem. (one of many, that is) I don’t have a junk drawer, just piles of random junk scattered throughout the house. Sigh.

Kitchen: Design & Decorating?
We live in a rental house now with ugly tan tile, basic beige cabinets and faux marble counters. It’s a contemporary, European style that is definitely not mine. The last kitchen that I was able to design had cherry cabinets, eggplant walls (meaning that they were painted a deep purple, not that they had leftovers splattered all over them), and a mossy green tile floor. It was rich and warm and I loved it. Not sure what my next one will look like, but it definitely won't be neutral. What do you think is better for a kitchen floor---hardwood or tile?

Love – What is your favorite part of homemaking?
Naps. Oh, and getting a front row seat for all of the funny and smart and creative and loving things my kids do. They are not perfect, but they are by far the best part of life, along with their daddy.

Mop – Y/N?
Yes, once a week, by my beloved maid, Ania. Were it not for this hard-working Polish ex-pat, the answer would be…not so much (i.e. only when my poor husband can’t take it anymore and pulls it out himself).

Nylons – Wash by hand or in the washing machine?
I rarely wear nylons, and they seem to snag before ever needing to be washed. I do wash my tights by hand, but the girls’ usually go in the washer.

Oven – Do you use the window or open the oven to check?
We use the grill. I guess I should clarify that…my husband uses the grill. Okay, sometimes he is late from work and then I do use the oven and---horror of Good Housekeeping horrors---I do crack the door to check. I would use the window if I could see through it. (Kidding, I'm kidding.)

Pizza – What do you put on yours?
My husband makes the pizzas around here (by now you are wondering if there is anything I do in this home...trust me, he has been wondering that very thought for years), and he puts anything and everything (within reason---no anchovies or fruit) on them. I love white pizza with fresh tomato and marinated artichoke hearts, but I’ll snarf down the works just as easily.

Quiet – What do you do during the day when you get a quiet moment?
I have six children with the gift of gab. (I had so hoped it would be true that boys are more nonverbal.) A quiet moment during the day is exactly that…a moment. Just long enough for me to catch my breath and (almost) unscramble my thoughts. My quiet moments come during the night, when everyone else is asleep. Lately I spend that time with my friends, soaking up the sisterhood and wisdom at 4Real and visiting them individually at their inspiring blogs. (Big surprise there.)

Recipe card box – Y/N?
Yes. And a folder of random recipes printed off the computer. And a gallon-size Ziploc bag, overflowing with haphazard scraps of paper and cardboard, some scribbled by my mother’s hand eons ago.I am going to organize it all…one of these days…no, really, I am.

Style of house:
My husband describes it as a Belgian house that the Brady bunch might have had. Picture the 70s with a European flair. It’s a split-level, but not in the American sense---we have six half levels altogether. No carpeting, all tile and marble. A 3'x5' brick planter in the entryway and a funky black metal fireplace (that I've grown to love) in the middle of the living/dining room. Three bathrooms with tubs/showers and sinks and three toilet rooms with toilets and sinks---did I mention how much I love my maid?

Tablecloths and napkins – Y/N?
Cloth napkins everyday, as long as I’ve done the laundry. (Too many paper ones lately.) Tablecloths for special occasions and seasons.

Under the kitchen sink – Organized or toxic wasteland?
Somewhat organized. Not that bad. Really. (My overly honest daughter might disagree.)

Vacuum – How many times per week?
Twice per week, but not by me. Once by the maid, once by my daughters.

Wash – How many loads of laundry do you do per week?
Okay, this is one that I do. (And it only took me to W to find one.) 8-10 loads per week. I sort and wash by bedroom (theoretically), which makes it easier to put away (theoretically). I really try to have it all done by Friday, so that I can take the weekend off. Of course, our electric company just changed its rates so that electricity costs about half as much on the weekends. I may have to give up my laundry-free Saturdays. Sigh.

X’s – Do you keep a daily list of things to do that you cross off?
I write lots of lists. And then I misplace them before I have the chance to cross them off. The really sad thing is that even when I find the lists weeks (or months) later, I still can’t cross off things because I still haven't done them. Sigh and smile.

Yard – Y/N?
Who does what?You guessed it, I’m sure. My husband does the yardwork.

Zzz’s – What is your last homemaking task for the day before going to bed?
Am I supposed to do a homemaking task before going to bed? Does brushing my teeth count?Lately, I’ve been falling asleep as I tuck in my babies. (You are supposed to get under the covers when you tuck in your babies, aren’t you?) I’m absolutely sure that loving your little ones to sleep is one of the essential tasks in making a good home. It’s certainly one of the most enjoyable.

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

As I read this list over, I realize that it must look like I am a total slacker. I do admit that I did marry wisely. Can I be blamed if my husband likes to serve? In my defense, there are many things I do that weren't on the list...like, um...vacation planning...and, um...gift buying...and, well, I'm sure there must be many other things that I just can't think of right now. And despite how it sounds, my home is not dirty, just a bit, you might say, cluttered. Believe me, I would call Robin Puckertucker right now...if I could only find his number.

Just so you know, I do not take the vocation of being a homemaker lightly, and I really am aiming to be more like that Proverbs 31 gal. It's just not something that comes naturally to me in many ways. I absolutely love being at home with my kids, but I'm not that great at pulling it all together, primarily due to a lack of organization, self-discipline, and know-how.

My mother, God love her, was not exactly the best teacher of Homemaking 101. She was a gentle, easygoing mother of nine whose very phlegmatic nature would often lead her to choose lying down to read a novel over organizing the pantry or taking us to the beach (where she could lie on a blanket to read a novel) over scrubbing the bathroom. I can't exactly say that I blame her. More often than I'd like to admit, I follow in her footsteps, although I am more likely to turn on the computer than to open a book. (I'm working on it.) She did teach me that children were the most important part of life, and I can't imagine there is a homemaking lesson more significant than that.

One final thought...right before I graduated from Notre Dame, my dorm voted me Most Likely to Be a Happy Homemaker. Probably because they viewed me as too unambitious to have a real career. I can't think of any career that could ever make me happier. Now, this is Real.

(If you've read this far, let me applaud you for your endurance and thank you for your faithful readership, let me apologize for allowing this post to grow so long, and let me invite you to reexamine your priorities and your use of time. Obviously, I have the gift of gab like my dear children, at least when it comes to writing. Or perhaps it would be more appropriate to label it the gift of blab.)

As for the toss...I had planned to tag Karen, but she just couldn't wait. Is there anyone left who still wants to play? Kristina? Maria?

Just How Long...

do I let this go on? It's 11:46pm here, and my thirteen-year-old is downstairs working on The Global Puzzle with her grandfather. Earlier I told them that I would probably come down at 8am to find them placing the final piece...but I WAS JOKING! They have shown no signs of letting up.

I'm torn. They are both relishing some precious one-on-one time, and they are engaged in a worthwhile educational endeavor, after all...........

But it's 11:48pm, for goodness sakes! On a "school" night, no less! Exactly how long can I allow this to continue as a conscientious mother?

Oh...wait a minute...they're coming up and calling it a night. Whew.

Ah, the dilemmas of a mother who is truly, truly blessed.

Intergenerational Humor

Much to my husband's chagrin, one of our kitchen cupboards holds a plethora of plastic tableware in various shapes, sizes, and hues. We use it for quick lunches. Some of my children are rather zealous about making sure a place setting matches---heaven forbid a green cup is placed next to a yellow bowl. And of course, they all have a favorite color which must be set before them.

One afternoon last week my oldest was sitting at the table in front of a medium blue setting (of course) when her grandfather (sometimes known as Joachim) decided to take the seat next to her. As he lowered himself into the place set with bright pink plastic, Elena started laughing.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"Grandpa, your dishes are pink!"

He casually shrugged and quipped back, "That's okay. They match my underpants."

Now who says seniors can't relate to teens? We all bust up laughing every time this story is retold.

Do my kids have a great Grandpa or what? Actually, they have two.