My children are rather picky about vitamins.  Generally, if a vitamin could be consumed through corn chips or chocolate, they would consider the world a place of safety and good-will.

But being that vitamins and minerals must come through unlikely places such as rutabagas, they are a little miffed.  I try to speak in excitement about food. 

“Look, we are eating the rainbow!”

“Look at the beautiful colors God has created in food!”.

And they just look at me and gag, and hold their throats.  “Mom, I’m gonna throw up“, as they stare down the broccoli and look in hatred at the green beans.  Some day I just want to venture beyond mandarin oranges and bananas.  It is like Stage 2 Baby Food at our home.  We have graduated from pureed pears, but we are stuck on 4 or less fruits and veggies.  I am itching to branch out into the brave new world of produce.  What does a rutabaga taste like, anyway?  I want to know.

While the cat’s away, the mice will play- right?

And what they don’t know will not hurt them.  So, I configured my instruments of health and wellness and set to work.  Chop, chop and saute.

And then my food processor got working and whirring. 

“Take that, Anna and Josh.  Spinach and tomatoes and garlic and onion”.  And they came together in excellent harmony, if the smell was any indication.  A spaghetti sauce full of dirty little secrets.

Will paid careful attention to each and every detail.

He is such a mature and helpful boy.  Patient too.  I would hate my life of constant interference if I was him, but so far he seems to weather his place in the family with grace and no shortage of smiles.  And some concern, I suppose.

Pat the Vulture happened to be working from home, and swooped in for a kiss.  But really his heart was in the food, and so he nudged me aside and helped himself.

He declared it “Good!”.  But of course, my harshest critics- the ones who make retching noises at my meals- are not home yet.

Pat took these pictures a couple of weeks ago.  He was down-town with a friend, and they found a beautiful gourmet food store.  The owner has someone make these canned and jarred fruits and vegetables.

I wish I had been there.  Pat said there was a fabric store on the same strip that I would have enjoyed.  He mentioned that he would like to take me back there- fingers crossed?

This is the same shop from which Pat procured the best chocolate I have ever eaten.  And the best chocolate Emma has ever eaten too, as she came to me with a dark streak on her cheek and said: “I just had a little bit Mama”.

Mine child, all mine.  

I spent a little more at the grocery store last night.  In part, due to lack of organization.  But also in a concerted effort to veer completely away from processed and high-sodium anything.  More into the area of simple, fresh food.  (My Mom raised us on the healthiest diet you could imagine.  Flax seeds or bust).  But not organic, as my passion is economic side of things and not over-priced and under-sized packaging.  We have an AMEX Costco card.  So most purchases we make with this card earn us 2% back.   Each year in March our rebate arrives.  This year it was a little heftier, since Pat had purchased flooring and a camera through Costco.  I finally had an opportunity to head up to the store, and bought a couple of things.   But the secret in the rebate is this: buy one or two staples, then apply check, receive cash-back, and pay for piano lessons with it.

I was so tempted by Costco.  Everything in that beautiful store is fresh and colorful.  It is incredibly high-quality food.  But, I am spoiled on Kroger and I find it very rare that Costco can compete with my local grocery store.  So I wander around with my big check, but come home unconvinced that it is worth the money for most things.  Many items are easily more costly in “bulk“.  And if I DO buy 4 romaine hearts, they will spoil and so my money is truly wasted then.  I think in another couple of years, my boys will make Costco a winning proposition for me.

Piano lessos are pricey!  And so we bought our Stacey’s Pita Chips and Veggie Crisps and the rest goes into music.  So far, it seems a good trade as Anna is enjoying herself and progressing well.

And Josh will start guitar next year I hope.  And so 2011 will see us selling used items by the side of the road.

Does anyone follow ABC’s The Bachelor?

I used to.  I probably shouldn’t admit so, but I used to.  I used to like the show a lot.  But not in the way you should like something- because it fills a need or it satisfies.  Or because there is something fun or healthy about it.  I liked it because it was trashy, and at some level trashy voyeurism appeals.    And let’s admit it, ABC is onto women and junk and they do not disappoint with their scenes in hot-tubs and darkly-lit rooms.  With their shows of cat-fights and drama.  With their exploits involving good-looking men and beautiful women.

The Bachelor is the best of all that is raunch: and it is eaten up with a spoon.

Back when Anna was a baby, I was kinda struggling.  Who am I?  Where is my life headed?  Etc.  College was over, and with it life with tons of friends around.  Marriage was newly-wed marriage: good, but a little less secure and most definitely less gracious.  We were still figuring things out.  I can literally recall sitting in our office, emailing friends and thinking “My life has no glamour about it.  At all”.  Most of my friends were still dating and travelling, and I was home with a helpless baby and a husband taking classes at night.

Now no holds-barred, Anna was the beginning of the best for me but I didn’t realize it then.  I couldn’t appreciate what I had because I didn’t realize it for what it was or would be.  Or could be.  Or even,what it could not be. I had known a few years of getting dressed every day, working out when I wanted to, wearing make-up, dating a little.  I was so free and so put together.  It wasn’t glamor by anyone else’s standards, but looking back it was the most that I would ever have (and it certainly wan’t this).

I am convinced it is the glamour that appeals to women about The Bachelor.  The magnetism comes from flowers and beauty and exotic everything and romance and a love story.  But I think it must be the glamor more than anything that holds and transfixes.  And this almost embedding in someone else’s life and experiencing vicariously some of it.  After all, if the show was about a fisher-man living in a shack and seeking out a stout and weather-beaten and sturdy woman for a life of hard work, no one would watch.  Ratings would not even surface.  One piloted episode would be all there is of The Bachelor: Newfoundland Fisherman.

No one wants to feast on poverty and ugliness. 

Women love a good love story and The Bachelor promises what we all at some level want:  the rose-strewn fairy-tale.  With plenty of wealth and glamor to spare.

But nobody gets the fairy-tale.  The fairy-tale is riding off into wedded joy, without speed-bumps and hurt feelings and forgiveness.   And no one has that but we all want it.  Especially women.  We want to believe that there is a man out there who will never step on our toes or say unkind words.  Who will fly us over Maui in a helicopter and light thousands of candles and tell us how beautiful we are. Who will read our minds and souls, and bring us flowers and woo us until the day we die.

But unfortunately, we cannot get around the pesky issue of reality.  We are both married into baggage- each other’s and our own.   We settle into life together and have a baby or two and have to start to fight to have this beautiful relationship we want.  It is a shock how hard it can be at times.  On the day we get engaged and are all sparkly and filled with wonder, it is hard to imagine it can be very difficult to love some days.  That there are days or weeks where we will struggle to say even one kind word.  Or build up or encourage. 

The Bachelor ends at the fairy-tale.  With the roses and the sunset and the Harry Winston diamond.  But the show closes right where the rest of life begins.   Because the minute the camera cuts, reality will start.  The couple’s capped and whitened teeth will not save them from arguing.  Their beautiful bodies will not prevent them from being unloving.  Their diamonds and lavish vacations will not prevent what they want to avoid: reality.

I would not trade all the money in the world for my ex-bachelor husband.  This imperfect man with his flaws and sins.  In fact, I would not even want to repeat time and go back to dating him again: because who he is now is so much better.  I would never desire he and I to go back to the days of more money and more freedom: because the very reason we love each other better now is because we have fought to love without.

Without glamor.  Glamor only places a band-aid on the real issues of our hearts.  We cannot escape who we are by going to Maui.  What is in our hearts: the selfishness and the holding onto anger and the rude words and the unkind thoughts.  These parts of us are so embedded, they will follow us to the ends of the earth.  Mature love is built on giving up, not indulging or escaping.  By looking our sin full in the face and dealing with it and considering someone else better in the process.

The Bachelor ends there.  With the beginning of the real.  And the network knows that.  It knows full well that two days later the couple will be fighting over her hurt that he slept with two friends previous.  It knows that love no matter how sweetly professed, cannot be built on such grotesque selfishness.  It knows that mature love- true love will never take root on such a fragile foundation as polygamous dating.

And so the show wraps up, because no one wants to see the ugly.

So Jake Pavelka has his abs and his money and his job and his romantic side in full-force.  But I counter with: Give me big and sacrificial love.  Give me REAL love.  The kind that teaches and explains and works through life.  Give me love that is mature enough to move beyond being… a Bachelor. 

My husband is generally the one to plan our dates.  And generally they fall into place something like this:

Get in the car.  Drive somewhere.  Turn around because we decide we cannot commit to a location so far away.  It is 7:30.  We panic.  Bed-time is just around the corner.  And we have not slept in since Y2K, so we want to be cautious with our evenings.  Wind up at California Pizza Kitchen.  Pat scolds me for listening in on all the conversations around us (last time it was two teenage girls discussing their decision with lesbianism).  He tries to seat me away from people or I am very dull date.  We talk a little and check the time.  And wonder whether everyone went to bed alright. 

And then we head home.  Exhausted from our time driving around the suburbs and eavesdropping on other people’s conversations.

Well, this weekend is my turn to plan.  We have eaten our satisfaction out of pizza joints- they simply don’t hold the romance anymore.  And Pat has not had much to look forward to lately.  He has worked around the clock for almost an entire month.  Our poor children are suffering ill effects from his absence, and I am actually wondering how to administer spankings to 3 children all at once, myself. 

It is all in the stealth chase, I think. 

So I am planning an over-night for him, without any small dependents.  We will stay local to Chattanooga.  And even though my greatest desire is to sit and do absolutely nothing,  Pat’s love-language is: outdoors.  And  since this is all about him, I figure that outdoors + wife + new camera = great and profound happiness.

I think we’ll stay at here, at the Chattanoogan.  (www.chattanooganhotel.com).  We have visited once before, and it is very nice.  Contemporary- which is not my favorite style -but somehow the pieces come together at this hotel and it all works out well. 

I am a fan of the fireplaces all around.  And I hear there is a warm indoor pool- so, we will have to incorporate the kids somehow.  Leaving them out of the water would be so cruel after our mixed-up, decade-long southern winter.

Speaking of cruel: I had hoped to avoid a bathing suit for well over 2 more months, since Will’s exiting my body has left it a little confused.  My stomach used to have some self-respect, but not anymore.  No more. Kathy Kaehler’s step aerobics is a step in the right direction and the improvements are on the up-swing, so I can’t complain too loudly.  But I do need to be careful with that one.  KK  has the build of a Ken-doll and that is not the end-result I am aiming for.  Something a little more stream-lined would be good.  

Truly, in all likelihood our hotel will have large towels pool-side.  At least that is the hope and vision I have, so that I can sweetly wave at Pat covered head- to- toe in children, from the safety of a chair.  Exposing my winter-white self is something my emotions simply cannot handle right now.

Back to Pat:  I am very proud of him.  He has worked so hard lately, and he never complains.  His attitude is eternally good.  And when he comes home after working 12-hour days, he is a father and a husband too.  A really nice one.  His boss sent him a gift-card today as a gesture of kindness, and I noticed it went far in his mood.  We have been ships in the night he and I, waving to one another as we pass by in the hall-way.  He with his lap-top, me with kids and homework.  These are not the cycles of marriage I enjoy.  The ones where we are both having to give all that we have and without rest.  But really.  This is a recession and jobs and money have risen to a whole new level of respect for me. 

God has been very good to us.

Back to booking.  Taking on planning has been more fun that I thought.  I think it is an inward satisfaction of deeper control issues, but also a sense of: “Oh good.  This ensures that I am not staying in a Motel 8″.  Which is where the two of us disagree.  Motel 8 is a subject of nightmares to me, but to Pat on the other hand, such accomodations are completely fine.  After all, a room is a room.  He thinks environment is over-rated and budget is fine.  Generally, I do my best to win these arguments.  Because I personally am a proponent of: Have you watched Dateline and their spy-cam hotel series?  We need to make careful decisions with bed-spreads and such. 

Back to planning…….

When I got home, Mother called me into her room.  She looked as if she had been crying.  She said I gave her a great deal of pain by my self-will and ill temper and conceit.

She said my character would be essentially formed by the time I reached my twentieth year and left it to me to decide if I wished to be as a woman what I was now as a girl.

-Stepping Heavenward-

These little ones. 

So much love for them.  So much daily instruction needed.  They are growing up and every moment must be taken captive.  Every experience framed out so that hearts and minds point upward.  Because as reality dictates, within a few years they will be formed.  That is a scary thought: releasing them into into independence.

My sweet Emma:

May you use that strong, strong will to serve God in strength.  May your humor always bring others joy.  May your be tempered in your tendency toward deceit, and may God give you a clean and truthful heart.  And may you one day learn that poop should only be found in the potty, and not underneath beds and other unsuspecting inanimate objects.

Josh:

May you grow to be a man like your Dad.  Or even half of that and I’ll consider it a job well done.  I hope the joy you take in tormenting your sisters will one day translate into joy at loving and supporting them.  My brothers do that for me, and it is such a gift.  Take that blunt and honest side: the one that says things like “you sure are cranky today, Mama“, and speak wise and true words.  Be honest and say the right things.  And as you often remind us: “It’s not fair”.   And we tell you “You may not start a sentence with ‘it’s not fair’”.  Because it may not be, but we still have more than we ever deserve.  Better to learn that now.

Anna and Will.  I have no words.  You both adamantly refused cooperation in these photos.  Anna, you sulked for hours because of an imaginary lump in your shoe.  And Will, you insisted that sleep was more important.  For that I am sad.  But, next photo-shoot, we’ll work it out….

The shame in this situation is that the kids were PERFECTLY coordinated.  Absolutely perfectly.  It was almost a moment of tears for me that a ratio of half would not work with me.

But, it is what it is.  And as a friend and I agreed, that is increasingly my parenting-philosophy.

Once upon a time there was a girl.  She was an intense person.  Self-analytical.  Self-scrutinizing.  Very passionate.  For better, and like all attributes, sometimes for worse.  This girl was raised in a joy-filled home, with parents who poured out- energy, money, time, self to she and her siblings.  These parents treasured God above all.  More than any possession or thing, or person.  They loved Jesus large and loud.  And every conversation pointed in and out and all around, to Christ.

“Is that the right thought to have right now?”

“Is that obedience to what God would have you do?”

“Is that how a Christian should live?”

Everything was brought under submission to God.  Everything.  So constant was the dialogue that this girl grew to love God for herself.  As a teenager, something solidified in the heart.  “This living for God.  I must do it.  He is so amazingly perfect.  If I need to follow Something for the rest of my life, it must be this Man.  This God.”

And she gave her heart to him.

There was a cross involved.  As her parents had directed her, find yourself under the cross.  The blood and the love and the saving from sin and self that will destroy your life.  That can be resolved at the cross.

And she handed her life over.

But in the passion and naievete of her young self, she thought the road would be so…easy and self-evident.  Following God.  Surely my heart will lead me.   But her heart didn’t.  Her heart was the problem always.  No matter which direction she turned, there was her heart, leading her away from the cross and relationship with God.  Not toward the perfect blood and the perfect Savior.

And in moments of self, she hurt.  Others, which is the worst part of it.  While simultaneously teaching her little ones to love and be kind and think of others first, she placed herself first.

And she encouraged her daughter to sing.  Sing to God, Anna.  Sing with all that you are.  Grace Flows Down.  And then the pieces came together while she sang and they worshipped God together.  Because while grace reached her daughter’s ears, it reached the ears of her mother too.

Sometimes this girl does not place herself under the cross.  She prefers to stand on a hill watching Jesus die.  But from a safe distance so that she is not affected.  And so that she is not convicted.  Conviction that she is full of sin and selfish thoughts and unkindness.  That is unpalatable. She really wants to think she is better.  It is so much easier to be better.  She can fall asleep at night so easily when she thinks that she is better.

But for a moment, and for a shadow she is worse.  And while it hurts to see and it hurts to cause hurt, she needs to see it.  The levels and degrees of sin.  Because the cross is there for a reason.  It wasn’t just some vague concept we celebrate at Easter.  Jesus really did come to weed out us from us.  We cannot really worship or glorify as long as we are in the way.

So, sing Anna.  Sing to God, and sing so that your Mama will listen too.  We will learn together what this life of following God means.  And while you learn, I’ll learn too.

But always, always stay as close as you can to the Cross.  Trust me on that one.

Disclaimer: Any posts I write based on education are simply there out of context to our lives.  I am not putting down other models, as I love and respect many of our friends who do things differently (and very well). We take our academics year-by-year.  And with the understanding that our “choice” may change from year to year.  But I DO hope to shed light on “another way”, and one which can be viewed at times with perhaps undue suspicion.

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

This afternoon is audition day for Anna’s solo. And so I began the morning with loads of laundry piled up from the weekend….and playing through sheet music.

Emma was entirely upset with me, as she was trying her best to concentrate on Dora Super-Babies. It was not happening for her, and the background noise rattled her inside-out and she kept hollering: “I can’t hear Mama!” Bless her soul, her life-concerns are so small.

I had rifled through the many. many boxes my parents store in our basement.  They believe these boxes are safer and in good hands as they live downstairs.  But we did have a broken pipe burst, shooting sewage through the box-room.  And we did have to towel off a few things, books included.  I’m just saying these two things happened, and you can draw your own conclusions.

Richard’s Wurmbrand’s book was sitting on top of the pile.  Tortured for Christ. Isn’t that the most ominous title of a book ever?  I have long desired to page through this particular writing, but my heart has always been too weak to do so.  I hate hearing bad news.  Or dwelling on suffering that is beyond my control.

Wurmbrand lived through the Stalinist occupation of Russia.  As Communism extended itself through the country, many Christians and even Orthodox Russians were locked up- because they veered from the choke-hold of extreme socialism.  Collectivism and such ideology flies in the face of protestantism and its emphasis on freedom of thought and enterprise.  “We are all the same and need to think and live the same.  And own the same things”. It is oppression to the nth degree, stripping down until all are alike.  So it is no wonder these out-spoken and bold Christians were seen as threatening, as they voiced dissent.

Many kids from Christian homes were made to walk through Communist schools.

As rampant and man-centered thought took over Russia, Christian parents were forced to either send their children to school or to hide their children away.  Circumstances differed, and so some chose the former, some the latter.  Tough choices were made, but God gave discernment to families based on prayer and individual lifestyle.  My interest was heightened by Wurmbrand’s remarks on those who pushed through a very fallen, God-less educational system.

They survived it.  They were subjected to systematic and conflicting thought, and as they emerged, here is what he says:

“During this work we had the joy of meeting brethren from the Underground Church in Russia and hearing about their experiences.  First of all, we saw in them the makings of great saints.   They had passed through so many years of Communist indoctrination.  But just as a fish lives in the salty waters and keeps its meat sweet, they passed through the Communist schools and universities but had kept their souls clean and pure in Christ.  These Russian Christians had such beautiful souls!”

After graduating, many of these believers, went on to further the work of the Underground Church in Russia, using their children as a means of sharing the Gospel with friends and teachers.  My heart gave a little skip at this thought: Believing so much in freedom in Christ that I would risk my children to gain it?  That I would care so much about people and their eternity, that I would place my security and those I would die to protect, in harm’s way, because it was so worth it to me?

I am not there yet: I know this because of how I was inwardly yelling at parents to “Hide them (their kids) away!”.

I pray boldness for my own children.  I pray that they will have more compassionate and bold hearts than Pat and I have.

I do not always agree with what they are taught.  I am not the school district’s biggest fan of Drug Awareness for 6 year-olds.  I am also not sure that children should have much energy committed to sex ed. when they are young.  Hello, they’ll find out as surely as sparks fly upward!  But, this is the world they live in.  These are their peers.  These are the adults they will be friends with.  This is their context now and for the rest of their lives.  It is not how I would like it if I were to re-invent the world, but 2010 is the fallen model I must work with.

We will trust God’s promise that “there is nothing new under the sun”: nothing seen now has not been experienced before.  And God’s Word promises a lot.  It says that “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today and forever“.  So the God who saved and sanctified two generations ago, is the same God alive and well today.  This is my promise and my prayer.  Nothing has not existed before.  And nothing surprises God: He has seen it all.

And so I pray that no matter how we educate, what environment we are in, that when our children have completed their time in school,we will be able to say: They have such beautiful souls!”

I told my friend this morning that my hair is acting like a rebellious child.  It will not lay down, or sit down.  It will not straighten out.  It will not grow in the way that it should.  It will not submit to my wishes and needs. 

There are numerous and telling parallels between my children and the way my hair-line is right now.

For instance, should I be dark, or light?  Since birthing Will, my hair has been asking me this.  Apparently, it has decided that dark is the new light, because it is coming in like mid-night.  Or darker. 

Unfortunate hair

Should I be straight or wavy?  That is another profound question it is asking.  I would prefer straight, but these things are beyond my control.

Should I have bangs or not?  Gross.  My bangs are coming in, but not only in front. They are wrapped entirely around my head!

I used to have an ego that was so sensitive to style and appearance.  But, I have hit new lows lately.

More unfortunate hair

Last night was when the bottom fell out.  I stood in front of the mirror in disgust and said to Pat:

“That’s it.  I am tired of looking like a Mennonite”.  All straight part and hair pulled back.   He actually agreed that my hair-line could use some professional help.  And this was proven by his insistence that I “Go!”.  Course, being Pat he reminded me: “Use the Amex so we can get 2% back on your highlights”.

I am hoping that my ego will be getting more than a 2% raise back.

On Wednesdays, I pack Will up and we go to school for an hour.  I rotate Wednesday mornings between Anna’s teacher and Josh’s.  Generally, there is one hour between “specials” (their art/music/PE classes) in which the teacher is glad for an extra set of hands.  And Will loves an new environment in which to chomp on his squeaky toys- it brings great variety to his otherwise dull teething life.

I am willing to do any tedious task for the kids’ teachers.  Actually, the more mindless the better.  Most days, I am tasked with reading sight words with the kindergarten kids, or photocopying or reviewing standardized test materials with second grade students.  Ms. M- Josh’s teacher- told me last week just how desperate teachers are for bits of extra help right now.  Federal budget cuts have affected schools greatly, and while I see no evidence in the halls or classrooms- as they appear neat and full as ever- I take her at her word: the recession has spared no one.  And those kids: very cute.  There is a booger or two mixed in every bunch, but on the whole they are a great little group.

Today was Ms. M’s birthday.  The kids all drew her cards and were asked to bring in one long-stemmed flower.  Being the over-achievers that we are, we brought her a full plant. 

 Within the hour, poor Ms. M’s desk looked like a botany study.  She is a well-loved woman, and very deserving!  It takes great patience and skill to corral the energy of eighteen 5 year-olds, much less teach them to fluently read letters and numbers.

This is the cafeteria where I come to eat sometimes.  Although truth be told, I have only sampled one item off of the menu in 3 years: and that was too much.  It was supposedly roast turkey, but was textured like marshmallows and so my taste-buds being the tiny snobs that they are, said “never again” and I willingly obeyed.

I also filled out and turned in this application to the front office: an audition form for a Talent Show coming up at school.  Anna has desired to sing a solo, and I am going with it.  She was questioning whether to sing about God.  She said: “Mom, not everyone wants to hear about God”. And I said “fair enough” and let her choose what she wants to sing about.  But I also told her to remember that God has created her voice to glorify Him with.

In the end she decided to go with Grace Flows Down by Chris Tomlin.  About God.  But not a theological treatise either.  She seems happy with her selection.  And I will be her accompanist, which I am trying to be happy about.  I love to play piano at home, but I am not a spot-light performer.

I love living in the south, because I walk in the school and strike up conversation with the wonderful ladies in the front office: “Anna has this sheet filled out for a solo.  But we are wondering how PC the school is about religion.  The form states that no song can be profane.  But, are we allowed to do worship music?” And Annette smiles and laughs and says: “What song?” And I say Grace Flows Down.  And she says: “I like that song.  We had about 10 girls sing Hannah Montana last year, so that will be something different”.

So then I proceed to fax in the lyrics to the song- another requirement.  And I call the lady in charge, who is mother to one of Anna’s friends.  And she says: “Honey, don’t even bother to send in the lyrics to Amazing Grace.  We all know them”. And I insist, because it’s protocol.  But she makes it so easy.  And while we chat we set up a play-date for the girls, and what could have been complicated and political is so low-key.  I do not take that for granted.  This acceptance of religious freedom is something I love about the south.

We are blessed, and I want my kids to know it.

I was so thrilled to find big bags of beads for $1 at the antique shop.  Each girl got her own bag, and when home chose colors.  Anna chose red, and Emma the blues.  I actually prefer Emma’s choice.  Emma was having much more fun spilling the beads all over the floor for our foraging baby to find, so I relocated them to a jar with a lid. 

Much better.

There were these funky little hardware pieces in a basket in the back.  25-cents each or whatever I wanted to pay, as the store-keeper informed me.

They are very cool for Josh’s room.  And in keeping with his vintage, thrifted look.

He has lots of books to store.  I like these wire baskets from Goodwill.

These are mostly non-fiction books, as I have found Josh to prefer learning about “real” people and places, to fiction.

Pat’s old dresser, we painted red.

Shower-curtain for the window.

Another favorite art-piece: Josh brought home from school last year.

A place for all those little pieces.

Original art, by Josh:).  He painted this in the weeks before Will’s arrival.  And it depicts him walking with his new brother.  I will keep this forever.  These canvas tablets are much cheaper than stretched canvases, and easy for kids to work with.

Art by my Dad’s uncle.  Most of my father’s relatives were painters.  So, we have boxes of art-work in our basement and all of my siblings and I have been able to choose through the years which pieces we would like to keep for our families.

Art by my uncle Ron (www.roncowle.com).  Pat bought me this painting a few years back.  It has always been one I admired.  My uncle and his wife are wildly talented.  Check out his sculpture-work… reminds me to pick up Sculpey at the craft store next time I am there.  (That is how my uncle taught his sons to scuplt).  My aunt sews and quilts and raises vegetables and flowers.  And she paints exquisitely too. 

Badminton Raquets I found at an antique store: $1 each.  Turned over they say Made in Japan.  That alone dates them to post-WWII, my Mom thinks.  Imagine a time when mass importing came from Japan and not China.  Kinda hard to believe!

The room is clean for a moment.  A blink of the eye.  

Actually, Josh is my cleanliest-minded child.  He thrives on order, and is task-minded.  His sisters believe in a philosophy of free-thinking with their rooms.  They can happily dwell in an environment of chaos, without feeling stress at all.  And they believe that the more little pieces scattered about for me to step on, the better.

I’m holding out hope that my boys will keep the house straight.  Who would have thought?