Later May Never Come

There’s a never ending merry go round of thought stuck inside my brain.  Every time there is enough courage to know I can do something and the peaceful quiet within my soul to conjure a few lines on a page, I spit up the first paragraph about the fact that I don’t write enough or it’s been a long while since writing and oh, I have thoughts people, I have thoughts.  

Who cares?  I care.  Maybe you'll care, too.  Something will resonate and be helpful.  Maybe.  

These are the last things people want to hear or read, rather, and rightfully so. 

The baby dumped out the beans in a furious cascade of defiance.  She proceeded to pee on my beloved piano, yes, she literally peed on my *electric* Roland piano to the point of it dripping through holes on the underside.  My heart hit the floor(can the mom of the family have and keep anything for herself?!) while she proceeded to hit someone in the head, my life of days is a stop and start event, pretty much every five to ten minutes of telling her no and it was a Jonah day for me yesterday.  I cleaned all day and dealt with a toddler who is clearly from Mars or some planet designed to dole out absolutely no mercy to its creators.  I cried.  My kids hugged me after I cried and not before.  I made my accusing rant slash case against them and they were unmoved.  Smart kids...they know baloney when they smell it.  

Accusations never work by the way for anyone, the giver, the receiver, no matter how convinced you are that you are right in your accusing.  Don't worry.  I told them I was sorry.  Always say sorry when you're wrong.  That's a hard one to do but one of the most rewarding things you can do especially when done faithfully.

There are other things that caused such an overwhelming reaction on my part, some worries plaguing my mind about one of my other children and also...what if the baby wakes up before I finish writing this?  Big, honking deal, right? 

But, no, really.

Everyone is fast asleep on this rare occasion and it feels like heaven and that's the big whoop for me.  A few chores in on my part and typically, they (meaning her first) are up and running and this morning I got those chores in, coffee brewed and the sitting in silence to write.  I felt like I had conquered Mt. Olympus, Mt. Rushmore, oh, what's that dang mountain...Everest, I conquered with those beautiful elements of joy colliding!  Minus the dog fidgeting next to me, well, and now the extra reasoning of a seven year old trying to make sense of the stories she is reading out loud, things were set up for perfection.  Mom, how can they ride dolphins in the ocean without being eaten by sharks and stung by box jelly fish?  Good question, kid.  I’ll talk about it with you later.

And as always with her usual radar perception the toddler knows when I wake up in the morning and comes crying to find me with such accurate and concise precision, she knows no bounds, well, this morning she does.  But how does she do that?  You know...the part where she knows when I am up and that she needs to find me asap?

And I worry about that never stopping.  Then when it stops I worry about it never beginning again...this need for me, for mom in her life.  But reality predicts something else and it always does.  Our fears versus reality...it's a huge struggle, isn't it? 

Never having the ability to pursue all the things I was made for and not just some of those things.  I do fear this.  The whole mothering thing is my life.  Am I ungrateful right now?  Am I whiny?  Am I just down right annoying?  And, hey, these were my choices, right?  Nobody held me at gun point to have all these kids.  I wanted everyone of them.  I would have more if my body would let me.  Yeah, you heard right.  I know...I am good and crazy. 

Maybe, maybe not.  

It occurs to me in any event that the ability to pursue one’s dreams, aspirations and goals while having so many children is an ebb and flow experience.  I have peaks of time where I can peruse my singing, my playing, my writing, my, well, and my how about making money curiosities.  So there is hope in the midst of the bellowing chaos that walks before me each day in the form of demands, my children’s education, their well-being, my availability to them all when they need me most and knowing who needs that first at the top of the other heap of priorities, my relationship to their dad and myself and God?  Well, that good old time for me is in there somewhere.  

Some people say...you should love yourself first, put yourself first, and pay yourself first.  I don’t know what they are talking about.  If I get a special something for me...I feel bad and immediately want to give it to my children.  If I sit down and there is a take care of self or them question, it is usually them I choose.  This is my life.  Is it the better choice and always?  I sure don’t think so necessarily or I wouldn’t be writing all this. 

This.  

Maybe I need to make some changes and maybe I don’t.  I’m not solidified in that choice.  It just is what it is.  I do feel resentment at times, but I never want to resent them, my kids, full of life and love and crazy and chaos, so maybe some changes need to be sought when the toddler grows up.  The number three has had a record of bringing a little more maturity in this home.  I have had five others turn three and that magic number always brought a sigh of relief and the number four even more until one day you wonder how they were ever as crazy as they were, maybe not as a complete rule but for some part of the whole.  I am a bit crazy even now as such an older person than they, so crazy can’t possibly be all bad, right? 

I remember being a happy go lucky child despite my circumstances.  I was told by my brother that I was tough, but happy.  I would dance and put on shows for people and crack every one up.  I was a ham.  What I was like as a toddler?  Hmmm...I don’t know.  I will have to ask my mom or siblings.  

“Goooood morrrnnniiiing!” 

Wow, is that my son?  And the questions are coming already again.  

He says and I quote, “Here’s what I don’t understand...why does my hair stand straight up when I get up in the morning when I can’t even get it to do that during the day with hairspray?”  

Good question, kid. We’ll talk about it later.  Later is almost here.  Later is almost gone.  Later may never come.  Later is a bad word maybe.

And why in the world is he up so early?   You don’t even see, smell or hear the man child until after lunch during the summer.  

And she is up.  The she from Mars or wherever ya’ call it, that planet place she comes from.

If she gets up, we’ll all get up and it’ll be total anarchy.  

Well, hopefully not.

The God that is to be Seen

There's something to be said for a lot of things.  There is something to be thought and felt.  There's a moment to ponder here.  Waking up to life today I was met with the wonderful demands of getting things, people and stuff together to head out the door to a family gathering.  Shoes on, I hope, my herd heads to the car.  And just for the record, leaving the house is an epic event and the earlier the departure the more daunting the task no matter how worthwhile the destination.  Did everyone wash the morning crust off their face and look somewhat respectable?  I took inventory of the way my crew looked and it was good enough to allow them to slide out the door and into the car to take the 50 minute drive to grandma's, *cough, cough*, Mimi's house. 


The pool, the white washboard of drawings erased, a game well played, lot's of laughter and good words, the best food this time of year, tiny feet, newborn skin, sacrificially giving of time, resources and space.


The little things made this day stand out so well.  The look on Aunt Marcia's face when this little group of kids stared in wonder at the fireworks outside the old country church we have been visiting since my children were babies.  She didn't know I was looking at her, but her grandiose smile made me grin right along with her.  The little, delicious bits of food that begin to overwhelm your stomach.  The eating.  My, the eating.  The longsuffering folks standing over the grill.  I wouldn't say that was little, but maybe somewhat overlooked.  The little things children say that make you laugh loudly, make you youthful again. 


Brief moments meant to be remembered later down our well beaten roads.  The thoughtful family that stop and take the time to play games with the children.  Conversations that wrangle you in your chair and keep you listening longer than you usually do.  These beautiful, little things all add up and remind us of the God that is to be seen.  What He has set in motion can be relished in and enjoyed to life's fullest extent.  There's no doubt in that fact for me.  I will forget the distasteful songs that my life sometimes plays and focus on the this fleeting moment because these are the times in which I am whole heartedly reminded that there is a benevolent Father watching over us all.

Out of the Way

No more blame shifting.  I have a good life.  An excellent life.  My life is so sadly comical right now.  I won’t begin to tell you why, because I am trying to overcome this whole complaining a lot problem that I have.  I am here, an imperfect mother to six children and an even more imperfect wife.  The cherry on my cake is the fact that I homeschool, although that fact becomes more skewed every year.  A fact?  What does homeschool even mean?  I don’t want “to do school” at home with my kids.  Looking back now, I had a short stint of “doing school just like they do in school” routine.  That did not go very well.  They should call this process of having your kids at home (and away, away with other, too, all kinds of people much away) every day, but not really every day, but most days all of them, all of the time, they should really call all of this cleaning and feeding kids while you randomly learn the things that interest you while you feel guilty and then have whole day sprees of traditional schooling crammed down your kids throats.  Those kids, they were having a great time until I got in the way and keep getting in the way.  Yeah, that’s a really long title for what homeschool really is, but that’s what they should call it... me getting in the way. 

 My kids are supposed to be in grades, they are supposed to be measured, if they fall short in a given area when they leave this house...I guess I get in trouble, I guess they won’t succeed?  Yet all those other areas that they are thriving in get ignored.  Kids thrive.  That’s what they do until people get in their way, until their environments are forlorn with useless and unwarranted drama or trauma.  They’d also like to explore all on their own until they accidentally kill themselves, too, so people must be around to protect and to guide.  I get it.  Some of them like to climb the rooftops when mom’s not looking.  A little word of wisdom arises, bellows, for real, to get them down.  It’s needful, that direction and sort of guidance is seriously much needed.   

Times tables come hard for one of mine, but there is baking, and nurturing, crafting, sewing and making and gentleness and cooking and, and, and things that this child of mine can do.  A natural empathy.  Where does all of this get measured in the world of traditional schooling?  How does it fit with society’s great race toward expansion and progress?  We give kids a free ride into college based on grades, grades, grades in things that we think can be measured in a lab on a piece of paper, in a book, by a soulless, wayfaring breed of monotony, what we define as being the only things that can be considered worthy of being measured.  And who gets to decide this?  I am so not sure.  I have things I expect from my kids.  No picking your nose in public and for pity’s sake don’t run people over.  I have standards, you see.  I sent the eldest in to get a snack on his own with my debit card into the grocery store and he came back with a bag of cookies.  I snapped.  Unfortunately, I didn’t take that one well.  It’s clear to myself that I have measurements and I should get to decide what those are for my kids because I know my kids really, really well.  I have been with them 99 percent of their lives they have lived on this earth.  The other one percent were times in which I ran away for a weekend and then I’d usually have at least one of them with me.  The other part of that percent were times they were with their dad without me around, other family or friends.  But really, the other 99 or is it 97, 96 or something, I don’t know, I’ve been with my kids like crazy.  I know where all of their birth marks are.  Period.  I’m in the know.  I know what they like and are like.  I know what they hate.  I know what kind of underwear they like to wear.  

And who they are shine through to me and everyday things become a little clearer, but oh, so muddy.  Having kids is a muddy, messy, cause worthy ordeal of wonder.  Truly, it is.  So through and in and around all this work, don’t I get to decide how much control a system, group, establishment or government can yield over my kids, my family? 

Opinion alert*****  

The SAT/ACT is dumb.  It just is.  My kids are amazing and not in the way they should be, but in the way that they already are.  The sitting all day at school for 12 years minus Summers and weeks of vacation is even dumber.  And the way that kids all around are measured is just downright the most dumbest.  Mostest dumb.  Dumb and dumber, all of it, all of this.   Bad, bad grammar.  Incomplete sentences on purpose to prove a point. Point. Period.  Point. I hate all these green and red squiggly lines underneath my words...microsoft, we have a love/hate relationship.  You get a lower case.

I’ll never forget a story I read to my kids about Winston Churchill.  Winston was away at a boarding school and his parents came to visit for an end of the year gathering to showcase all that the children have learned and also award the peace keeping do-gooders who followed the curriculum to a “T” without question and without failure to regurgitate.  Churchill not only missed out on being awarded a scholarly medal but was ratted out about how awful he did on tests and at his school.  His father was simply livid while his mother showed a bit more sympathy and enquired as to what had gone wrong.  He whispered to her, “They only asked me what I didn’t know on the tests, mother, instead of what I do.”

This thought has stuck with me.  

If we really gave a test to kids on what they did know it would be a basis for encouragement, growth and support, so much so that what they had already learned would be a foundation and a boost towards what they had not yet learned.  Kids will learn everything they want to learn.  I repeat there is nothing that kids want to learn that will not be learned by them in some way, shape, form and given enough time.   

  

Some kids are so street smart and have intense resilience despite their circumstances.  Others grow with and also overcome physical restraints.  They walk, they crawl, they stand, they sit, they reach, they reach all around for everything and anything within their grasp, they can’t wait and nobody told them how.  Go ahead, test them all on what they are knowing, what they have known,  what they have learned thus far, it’s unbelievable what they learn and want to learn all on their own, given support and encouragement and tools and sheer availability and nothing can stop any of them.  Absolutely nothing. 

Stand Up Comedy Routine Material: Day One

2/16/15

It was seven in the morning this morning.  I wished to the heavens that I could sleep in for once.  The sleep was uninterrupted and restful.  Truly it was.   SO, that was good, very good.  Very, very good.  The last child has stirred and is begging for that one thing...to be set free from the confines of her bed, her crib.  Not sure if she wants me or if she just wants to begin another day of holy terror.  Yup.  Terror.  It’s my fault.  I don’t blame her much.  You’d think I’d know by number six how to reign in a two year old but alas, alack, I do, do, do, do not know how to do that.  It’s been five years since I’ve had a two year old and oh, my, holy, crud I don’t know how to get that child to do what she is supposed to do and keep her from doing what she is not supposed to do.  I shrug my baffled shoulders up once again.  Oh, well.  We’ll muddle through.  She’s up.  There’s no rest now...forget it.  Just forget it.  I’ll have that next year.  Maybe.

Jacob is up.  He falls fast asleep hard and early each night so he’s usually the third one up in the morning.  The others were snoozing harder than logs, harder than hogs, oh, they were out.  Yesterday was busy with Mardi Gras parades and a national park visit that has an old fort.  And speaking about the two year old...she ran yesterday and she ran and she ran.  I ran.  After. Her.  I felt good.  Thank God or I’d be cursing the sky and wondering what the heck I’d gotten myself into.  Not at God, of course, God, not at you.  The birds...oh, anything.  I’d be cursing.  Really.  This old lady ain’t what she used to be. In many different ways.  Okay, I’m not old, dang.  I’m young.  I’m 37.  I’ve got an almost 15 year old, a 13 year old, an 11 year old, a 9 year old, a 7 year old, a 2 year old, two dogs and a partridge in a pear tree.  Yeah, it feels like Christmas, funerals and Mard Gras parades going on all at the same time every single, interesting day.  There is drama.  There is fun.  There are tears.  There are fears.  There are, there are.  Whatever *it* is we have it every. Single. Day.  I laugh, I cry.  I smile.  I frown.  I am angry.  I am happy go lucky.  Here it all is.  Every day.  

Back to this day...stubbed toes.  Tears.  Soccer in the backyard.  Fun.  Running baby and the whole family running after her, taking turns.  She’s great.  She is so terribly bad.  Oh, my.  She is so bad.  And that is really bad.  Staying calm is key.  Keeping calm is even more than key it is absolutely vital.  Bike rides.  Running baby.  She’s still not tired.  She had a bath and lollipop to get her in that direction.  Hey, don’t judge me. 

We had some old furniture to burn on the pile out back so I lit it up.  We are here in Alabama country so I can do that.  Boy, did it burn.  We all have a little bit of pyro mania in our blood so we have regular bon fires.  The land lord can thank us later for clearing out all of his brush for him from his woods.  

Am I really googling how to get a toddler to listen to you?  To me?  

Me and Jake made spaghetti together.  We all sat down for ten minutes and the kids woofed.  They were hungry.  On to the next activity.  Cleaning up.  I’ll let them loaf a little for today.  They have a friend over.  Tomorrow will be a different story.  Cleaning, feeding, cleaning and feeding.  Oh, and school.  They are supposed to be learning something, right?  Let’s see...what did these crazy kids learn today? They learned mad soccer skills from their very adept friend.  One learned how to ride her bike.  They all learned about fire safety when mom yelled to get the hose quick and for heaven’s sake untangle it so the water can come out.  Yeah, that little bon fire went up pretty crazily.  Let’s see.  They cooked.  Well, because some of them know how to cook and quite well at that.  One had a bottle of water spilled all over their book bag.  And important papers and drawings were soaked.  He learned how not to freak out when things go wrong, because, let’s face it.  It doesn’t help a thing.  We learned how to be disappointed and angry without sending mother’s blood pressure up for three days.  Truly.  I thought some kid fell out of a really tall tree with those reactions.  Another went on to polish his blog, writing, hammering, drawing, collaborating with others, thinking, writing or drawing something over again because it wasn’t quite right.  One watched the baby the better part of the day.  Playing, cleaning, changing.  She’ll get paid for that.  I got a whole lot done, too.  

I sorted through our food supply to organize it all.  My fridge and cupboards were a big, fat mess.  We are going on a long trip in two days so I am trying to pack us all up.  Work.  I try to find their best clothes.  Rifling, sorting, packing.  Busy, busy.  All that and it's only one o'clock. 

The cherry on top is that the baby is in her bed.  Just being honest.  Love her much and I love her just as much when she is in her bed asleep.   

All is quiet.  

For now I can catch my breath long enough to sweep floors, pack and do laundry and then go at it again.  

Don't worry.

It's just an average day over here.  It's all good.

Passing Perspective

Created to be more.  Created to do more.  Created to feel more, created to feel less.  Existing.  These thoughts roll around and around in my mind like a child having nightmares while they sleep.  Anxious, restless, angry even.  I don’t know why.  Something in me wants to come out, something in my heart wants to explode.  I’m unhappy.  I’m happy.  I am tired.  I feel no rest.  I want to feel secure with who I am.  With what I am.  But I am not.  I am not.  Complaining.  No, not complaining.  Tired of being below where I want to be.  Tired of striving for things, stuff, people, arenas, processes totally not worth the effort.  Wanting more but getting less.  Less of what I want.  And what do I want?  Fully, I don’t know.  Partially, it’s a different place, a different experience, maybe live on a different planet with different people or maybe just a different country, seeing different people.  I have everything I need physically.  My clothing is much.  My food is much, too much.  My shelter is much.  My work is much.  My effort is much.  My family is much.  Much of my time and it should be.  

So what is it...?  Is it wanting to do more or just something else?  Something for others.  Something for me or for both at the same time?  I’ve tasted something recently that fills part of my heart that caring for my family does not.  Is that bad?  Am I bad?  I feel bad for saying that, for feeling that.  It is a huge restlessness for me just to take care of my family.  That’s a horrible thought, but for me it is true.  It’s honesty.  I should want to just care for my family.  Shouldn’t I?  Be available, cook those dinners, help out with every need and desire.  Shop, teach, clean, wipe that pile of barf up one more time, be a good example, being a bad one and then trying to do better.  Oh, I’m exhausted.  I’m tired of it.  Maybe I shouldn’t be, but I am. 

And I think too much.  That's always been one of my problems.  I wish I could turn it off.  I’ve tried.  Oh, just do it, won’t you?!  I can’t.  I’ve tried thinking happy thoughts, thinking positive thoughts, praying, blocking out how I feel.  I’m tired of feeling like just an ignored cog in someone’s wheel or not even a cog, just feeling like a nobody when I know that just can't be true.  And maybe it’s just a feeling.  I wish I could turn those off, too.  I am always trying to be for others, do for others and for my family without much of a take away for self.  I don’t want to quit altogether, but I do want more.  More of what I want.  Not all of what I want, but just some more, even a little more.  There is a place for self in all of our lives.  There should be a place for self for me.  I want a tiny space that is all mine.  Just a tiny one.  I’ve been having this conversation with myself for years.  I want something that fulfills me in a way that other things cannot and will not.  I have now tasted something and I’m hungry for more.  More.

So I began teaching music classes at church, something small.  Then I began teaching the kids at church songs and eventually led the church children in song this Christmas and I will say that has filled a space in my heart that makes me rejoice greatly.  And I felt worth something, I felt productive.  I felt helpful.  I felt useful.  It may seem stupid to think that this made me feel the way I should feel every day at home.  This experience brought such joy to my heart and I can't explain it fully.     

We learned a couple of choir songs that were a little difficult, coupled with three easier songs and they did it.  With much work, effort and practice, they did it.  And the biggest joy to my heart was to see the faithful neighborhood kids come and sing.  Every.  Single. Week.  The most rewarding aspect of all of this practice for me was really this.  *This.

No parents to bring them to church, to practice in some cases.  And maybe no one to be there when they get home or at the Christmas program they were working so hard on.  Maybe not as bad as that, but so much is said in their faces.  Those unspoken words.  The non-verbal communication.  My desire to draw more words, more interaction out of them, but not achieving it breaks my heart.

Some of those children with holes in t-shirts with stains on them and almost a hallow look in their eyes.  They sang.  Engaging them verbally, attempting to reach down into their souls as I see them in passing or on the playground at church...my attempts have been feeble at best, but in song those hallow eyes grew large with interest.  They opened their little mouths in such a way I’ve never seen.  They recited a poem, sang a solo and in a choir with us together. 

Black, white, poor, better off, Latino.  They sang.   They were together.  They did it together without fighting, without fear, without the world’s racial clash.  There was no greater gift to me in my heart this Christmas tide with all the news you wish you could ignore, but can’t and shouldn’t.  So much sadness in this world and hate, bitterness and rage.  

The times they came up to me spontaneously at church and burst into song, proud to know the songs that I had taught them or asked for the words to bring home so they could practice more.  We connected in a way I never could achieve in passing before.  They were so elusive.  Some were bored, too, in the beginning, but even the bored ones pulled through and did it. 

I’ve led kids in song before but not much, sadly.  This.  This. It was something magical for me.  I want to do it again and again, but I know that is unreasonable.  Unreasonable.  Or maybe not.  I see myself having an after school and Summer program for all the kids in the church neighborhood who have nothing to do but get into trouble.  Singing, learning music, everything about music, instead of wasting time or being ignored or getting into loads of trouble or simply a place and time to escape from reality.  Something to build these children up, their families up, provide a kind of family and build this tired, distressed community up.  Up. My heart is big and I want more.  More for these kids and a fulfillment in my soul I can't receive elsewhere. I'm tired of closing my eyes, heart and soul away from the part of the world I can and want to help in my own way.    

This is my restlessness, and I see that it has been satisfied, relieved in a way by these moments with these kids. 

But I do. 

I realize that this restlessness is also my consolation prize.  It keeps me from a place of mediocrity and disparity.  It will and it has.  That is what I see now.  I see it.  I do. A light bulb...it’s on and it’s blinking bright on this very frustrating day.  I am human and I didn’t see it at first glance, but now I do.  I do.  I see.