I put my children first

I made some hard choices these past weeks. Hard, and yet not so. 

To stand up for oneself, for one's family, is a touchy business but necessary. 
It comes naturally to many of us -- the "mama bear" -- and some of us do it with grace and good manners.

Unless of course one happens to be a people pleaser, backed into a corner 
by too many yeses and half-hearted mmmhmmms heard of course by others as heck yeahs.

Dozens of books, maybe hundreds, written on this topic,
and I will still ramble on the subject
 for my mental health 
and maybe for yours.

 I don't blog often about my daughter Sarah's chronic autoimmune and anemia disorders.

I don't talk about it either.

Many of my close friends aren't aware of what it looks like to live at farmsuite 

outside of the
prettinesses and the victories.

It's as though we live a Christmas letter 

because I don't see anything edifying about sharing the pain
or the difficulty that is sometimes true for us.

And probably for everyone.

We none of us know what others are facing, really.

So maybe it seems as though we play hooky too often.

Maybe we can come off as noncommittal even as we faithfully attend dance, flute, community theater rehearsals,
homeschool co-op.

Sometimes people say they understand
and then they are mean and punitive about an absence.

And I usually shrug it off.

But I quit the co-op last week, with just two weeks to go.

I did it badly, without much grace.

I feel compelled to explain that I had attempted to bow out just after the holidays,
with a handwritten letter expressing how much our family has been facing and how grateful we were for the experience and how we just needed some white space.

But in fact that letter was received with hurt feelings and I was, to put it frankly, 
emotionally manipulated into continuing.

To not disappoint someone else's child I pushed my family, myself, my children, for months.

Here's what I'm grateful for today:

They forgive me, my children do.

And just possibly they will learn that it is alright
 to put themselves and their loved ones first.

Mudslingers and muckrakers

 

Before raising children I was a news junkie who ate out more than she cooked.

Local and fresh meant the corner diner. 

 

Muckraking meant bringing up some really good dirt that needed to see the light.

Mudslinging was something politicians did and I reported.

 

 Gee, I'm happy to be a farm girl raising vegetables, flowers and children.

That other life was fun and I'm glad I had it.

It makes me appreciate this one so much more.

Any ideas?

For the past thirteen years or so I've spent my fair share of time dreading, agonizing over, planning for, celebrating (by turns) the increasing independence of my children. Cases in point are too too numerous to sort through but I'll offer the first that comes to mind: When Madeleine (now 13) lost her first tooth she immediately turned to me and said in her most grown-up lisp, "Now, Mom, don't start crying or anything."

I can even get angsty over normal growing up of other peoples' children so you know it's a distinct burden on me that I appear to be raising five spunky, sparky individuals each with her or his own opinions and goals and, you know, votes in the family democracy. Gah.

So last week Madeleine went to her first official job. She had posted color advertisements at our local bookstores and cafes listing her resume and qualifications. Energetic, responsible, oldest of five, seeks mommy's helper position. (And here I thought she already had one? Just kidding. Sort of.)

In the past she had worked for friends and family babysitting. She watches children at church and she is incredibly good with our littles. She keeps her money like a miser and has a specific goal in mind for its eventual release from savings. So in theory this was all fine with me. Until.

This was all fine with me until another family called and wanted her to interview.

I may or may not have paid to run a background check on them. After all, just because it's a small town and their boys (2 and 4) are adorable and their front porch is covered with tasteful planters and the mom and dad are cute as 28-year-old buttons, after all, these are no reasons to trust that they understand this is my BABY they're asking to borrow.

Every Monday from 10 to 1.

You'll find me parked across the street from their house with binoculars.

More pictures worth thousands... of words

...because honestly...

I can't keep up.

Camps, glampouts, road trips.

The very occasional backyard nap.

More family drives.

A few farm projects.

A theater debut.

Homemade and homegrown pesto. Bruschetta. Much bettah.

Chicks become pullets.

Ponies become pets.

Roses reach higher.

Friendships blossom.

Characters develop.

Grandparents are made, not born.

We heat up, we cool down.

Sometimes speed up, then slow down.

We realize: It's the journey.

Spring fever meets summer planning? And a little melodrama.

From my spot on the lawn I have done the math.

We have just three weeks of schoolwork left before summer vacation.

I almost regret the nearing of the end of this school year. Don't mind me, it's just my bittersweet acting up again. You see, next year Madeleine and Sarah will begin logic curriculum. My babies, those creative nutty bookish sweethearts, are ready for more advanced studies whether or not I'm ready.

Isn't this the way of motherhood? Just when I'm all snuggled down with infant Salvador and ubercontent with my rocking chair teaching style, he's ready to wean and the big girls are ready for their own desks, [classical] educationally speaking.

Ah, well, at least I still have Grace and Laura to torture. I mean, to read aloud to. You know what I'm talking about even when I dangle my prepositions, don't you?

And then will come Salvador with the Tonka trucks and the We Help Daddy texts.


The thought, the mere thought, of him starting school is enough to make me lose control of my tear ducts.

I'm preparing for empty nest syndrome and I like to get a running start. That's all.

From whence does all this melancholy and melodrama spring?

From looking at the short list of what must be done before our whirlwind summer can commence.

It's a pretty short list: A little geography presentation, a little Constitution recitation, a little long division. And then let the school holiday begin, coinciding tidily with the end of my stint of teaching exclusively elementary school and preschool students.

I'm not ready, my father said to me when I announced my engagement to be married fast upon my graduation from university. (Maybe it was slightly before, but that's hardly the point.)

And now here I stand at a hardly comparable milestone with the same reaction. I'm not ready.

Of course life doesn't give me a warning, a "ready or not" chant during which to secure a better hiding spot. (Living in the moment might have its drawbacks when one is gobsmacked by the future.)

So. For the summer. We are hosting family, camping, taking a road trip or two, celebrating birthdays and anniversaries, gardening, riding ponies, sending children to theater camp (Melodrama! I kid not.) and church camp and art camp and then taking a deep breath before we jump in the deep end. Again.

It reminds me a little of the time Madeleine (now 12) was about to lose her second baby tooth. She must have been five and the first tooth had come out just a month or so beforehand. As she approached me with the news of the wiggliness, her baby self said very soberly, "Mom, I don't want you to freak out or anything. It's bound to happen."

Yes, Miss Madeleine, it is.

What are you planning? What milestones do you pass this season?

Groovy, again

This is another of those "groove back" conversations.

The ones where I ask the room at large whether there's a groove to, in fact, recover.

I have never been that groovy a gal. At least in my own estimation. In spite of more than a decade of ballet I can't really dance all that well. I'm not even very graceful, to tell the truth. (A broken hip and a bad knee and a collection of other clumsinesses are testament to this vicious cycle.) And although I was told in my youth that I had perfect pitch I subsequently damaged my hearing and can't currently carry a tune. (Don't mind me though because I still do sing. Show tunes especially. It's good to embarass your children.)

I like routine and I love tradition. I dig a good garden furrow as much as the next farm girl, I do, and I've earned all the lines on my face through laughter and tears and too much time squinting at my handsome husband on a baseball field.

So even though the riff on a groove is cool in concept it's never really worked for me. And it's not that I think a groove is the same as a rut, although sometimes it seems comparable. I consider it more of a fault line, really, this shifting, mobile area of life that flirts around somewhat like a dance but less predictable. I fear the jolt when the comfort zone is inexplicably disturbed by the moving plates of life.

Pretty soon my baby turns 1.

Pretty soon my oldest turns 13.

I don't have time for a groove. I'm too busy looking up at the blue sky, looking down to see where my feet are placed, balancing on a beam of life with my arms wide open.

Groove? I had a groove?

I like to worry way, way ahead of time. (Which of course is ridiculous as there's not really an appropriate time for worry. But follow me for a moment, if you will.)



I especially obsess about things I can't control and/or about which I have only a vague idea, such as Empty Nest Syndrome and Blog Readership Decline.

Well, maybe I could work on controlling the blog readership thing. But in my random notions on the subject I'm sure that it would require posting regularly, with some, er, content, and even possibly some expectancy of quality. And the main reason that's a problem for me is that I'm too busy worrying about how to keep all my babies from ever leaving me in an empty nest.

Kidding.

Sort of.

After our fourth baby, Laura (who turns a dynamic, energetic THREE today!), I spent a little bit of precious time looking for my "groove." I emailed with some friends and some bloggy buddies, fellow travelers and writers on the subject of getting that groove back for goodness sakes. I wanted to know if I'd ever feel "myself" again. That writing, reading, traveling self who skipped the recipe section in magazines because she ate mainly yogurt.

But after the arrival of our fifth child, Salvador (who is all of six months old and still as delicious as can be), I'm not feeling the groove search. It's possible I'm still caught up in 2010's goal of living in the moment (which sounds a little, upon re-reading, like living in the past?). Or it's possible I've simplified to the point that I don't need to return to any pre-mommy glory days.

These days are fairly glorious all on their own.

And they're fleeting.

Our eldest, Madeleine (a scary-smart 12 years old!), second daughter, Sarah (still my 10-year-old bookworm mini-me), and our middlest, Grace (6 and a half and a Lego/puzzle/spatial genius)... these three have taught me that the baby years go too quickly to be wished away in any way, even in pursuit of finding oneself. There will be time for that when the nest is emptier. Right?

At this point, and I reserve the right to freak out later, I like my particular current groove just fine. I like my recipe-reading, bread-baking, baby-wearing life like I like jazz. It's sometimes unexpected. And it's beautifully full of high and low notes with an engaging beat of soul.

I might even call it groovy.

Watch and learn

If I were a chubby little baby (a-hem) I'd watch other people fall down and laugh and I'd think falling could be fun.

.

I'd think there'd be someone to chuckle with me over this hilarity of falling. I might even think people fall on purpose for the experience. Over and over.

.

I certainly wouldn't confuse falling with failing.

.

I might do this and then grow up to be a risk-taker, thrill-seeker, limit-pusher. Or I might just grow into one fantastic individual unafraid to fall, or to fail, in the pursuit of new horizons.

.

I dunno.

.

This parenting gig might have something to teach me.

.

p.s. Did you get a glimpse of that baby's hair?

One week in

I can't seem to find the proper balance between experiencing the moment and recording it.

The newborn sweetness is intoxicating. Time holds its breath while paradoxically flying by.

And then the beginnings of interaction and emerging personality tiptoe in to surreptitiously albeit joyously replace the milk-breath exhilaration and exhaustion of new life.

I know these minutes and days go too quickly; I am determined to memorize them.

waiting

She's back.

Just look at the eyes on that horse.

I think I mentioned my mini crise de nerfs when we sold the incomparably beautiful, sweet and well-bred Seven before Christmas. And I'm pretty sure I updated you last week that she'd been, well, abandoned at the boarding barn when something happened in the would-be buyer's life that kept her from following through with a lot more than farrier care and stall rent.

Now we've Seven back. Like a lucky penny I guess. (Isn't that how it goes?)

Someone asked Madeleine yesterday as she was mucking stalls whether Seven is for sale again.

Like a mom (and, to be honest, like a salesperson) I answered with a price. Meanwhile Madeleine kept her back turned and continued picking the stall clean.

And then I got in big trouble later with my oldest daughter. It's an emotional roller coaster, this adolescent girl and horse thing. Not to mention how I feel about it.

This is after all the horse Madeleine came off of and broke both arms. This is after all the horse on which that same tiny but fearless girl broke the barrel speed record in her age group. When she "wasn't even trying." It's a pretty deep chasm between the two experiences and it's somehow to be crossed with possibly the same difficulty and certainly similar trepidation as raising a soon-to-be teen. Letting go and hanging on. Risking and protecting. Balancing happiness and inevitable pain.

But did you see those eyes?

I decorate with garden gnomes

Laura likes to make herself useful in the weeds at the edge of the garden. Try not to notice her hair. Her outfit. Her general disheveled state. It's the country; no one will notice. Right?

Sarah decides to help her out with the task. I am thinking of adding to Mr. Suite's never-ending list of projects to ask for a wooden sandbox with fitted lid for inside of the garden gates. This is my imagined solution to managing 2-year-old Laura in the garden. Any advice?

Farmgirl alert! Sarah's actually very good with the hoe. She has an attention to detail that should make the mere dandelion sprout cringe. I'm pretty sure I saw the crabgrass quaking in anticipation of its demise.

I had both of the big girls at work on weeds in the existing garden beds. Then when the soil was weed-free we spread big flakes of straw as mulch. I am determined to beat any possible drought this year. Also to not have to weed as much.

Meanwhile Madeleine's determination to learn how to not only drive the lawn tractor but to back it up puts my pride in my own back-up victories to shame. I think there's a lesson here. I think it's something about "at least she uses her powers for good and not evil." Because put to other purposes, that girl's focus is scary intense.

Gracie, for her part, spread the weed-blocking newspaper over the bare ground inside the new raised beds. She did get distracted by reading the ads several times. "A swimming pool! Just $299!"

"Barbies are on sale at Toys R Us! ... HEY. They put the 'R' backwards. You should call them."

Scary intense focus? Not so much. Attention to detail? Depends on the detail.

Here she is, the original sassafrass girl, taking a break from her reading break.

We're grateful for all the help we can get.

The decorative aspect of my garden gnomes is just a bonus.