Remembering our Royalty

The days are dominoes. Slipping softly one after another or clanging loudly on top of each other aggressively. I am fairly passive in this process. My mold for each day, stuffing minutes like play-doh into the shape I want it to form, is gone. I tossed the mold at some point or maybe it exploded when the minutes became combustible. Entering the world of teenagers and middle schoolers has pretty much annihilated my game plan, and made me very very tired. I grab after laughter like ointment, the only thing that heals my chapped optimism, and I talk. I talk late to my boys. I see this world through their eyes and I feel the confusion and temptations that come with growing into manhood in this culture. I lay my time and heart out in mothering like I never have before and, yet, I can't guarantee anything. I pray for a faithful heart that doesn't grow weary.

Our new couch was a little bit bigger than I anticipated it being!

Earlier this week I found a few minutes to curl up on our new couch with a magazine. The door opened and I saw my mom come in. I continued to read until I sensed an undercurrent of excitement in the room. Now, I love my mom, but her undercurrents of excitement usually stem from things like discovering that peanuts are solely responsible for obesity in America. (MOM, what have I told you about clicking on those ads on the computer). So I hesitated to look up, finding the magazine much more safe. I lifted my eyes to see her fidgeting at the edge of the couch.
I braced myself but not enough.

"I just found out that we're related to King David."

Just found out? As in angelic messenger? As in an old genealogy hidden in a secret compartment in Grandmother's jewelry case?

"No, my sister got a new app on her phone that traced us all the way back. She just kept pressing the back arrow and there was King David!"

That's a lot of back arrows. I tentatively asked, "How can they know the lineage that far back?"

"Oh, they kept very good records of royalty." She swished back out the door and I could almost hear her purple robe trailing behind her.

I love this woman. I want to throw in the towel and howl and she's content with knowing that she's royalty. And she is, she is God's daughter, whole-heartedly, and she never forgets it.

She reminds me, that I too, am of the generation of faith. I have a cloud of witnesses who lived this life faithfully before me. I may or may not have the blood of King David running through my veins, but I do have the same Spirit, and so do my children.

So I smile and ruminate that the royal line wouldn't be intimidated by the tactics of the enemy.
I open my Bible, ready to form a new game plan.
I continue to lay my time and my heart out in mothering like I never have before and I have faith that the words and actions I lay on this alter of love will help shape a generation, one life at a time.

Later, I go upstairs to tuck in my little daughter and I can sense an undercurrent of excitement in the room. I try not to groan, but an undercurrent of excitement in Rose usually stems from things like telling me how many scoops she got out of the litter box that day.
So I braced myself, but not enough.

"When I start my period will you get me a bunny to celebrate?"

I tuck in the slightly shorter version of my mother into bed and get my royal self downstairs.

Braving the Mosquitoes

I once read in a book a scenario where a young man longs for Venice. When his dream is finally realized and he is cascading down liquid streets in a gondola...he is nearly eaten alive by mosquitoes.

I cocked my head, golden-retriever fashion, when I read this at the ripe age of 20. Was it sarcasm or cynicism? I have learned some in the last 20 years and I don't think it was either. I think it was just life. Just this side of Heaven. Just a longing for a garden pre-fall.

I remembered this little book tidbit last week when my head was throbbing. My whole entire life I have dreamed of having a grand piano. When I realized that we needed a piano at the cottage so the kids could practice while they're up there, I had a GREAT idea, which I sprung on Dave when we were driving up to the cottage. Why not buy a grand piano for our house and move the upright piano to the cottage. Win/win. Dave tried to tell me that we could save our backs and our bank account by getting a keyboard for the cottage, at which point I broke into tears. "But I've always wanted a grand piano," sob. My strength is obviously subtlety. My good, dear husband turned the car around and drove to the piano store.

And the piano came. Glossy and black and beautiful and loud. Yes, loud. Loud as in I can hear nothing else but piano. All day. I am learning to read lips. Loud as in Rose's piano teacher gave her an Indian war song to play and I hear the drum-like chords pounding in my head for long hours into the night. Loud as in, I break a sweat at the thought of Christmas music.

The kids love to practice on it, and I smile wry at the realization of this dream. If I could hear anything at all, besides Indian chords, I'm pretty sure I'd hear mosquitoes.

As I've mentioned in a previous post, Grant is 13 with a vengeance. I noticed the other day when we had friends over that he didn't participate in the sword fighting. Asked about it later he replied, "I tried to keep the warrior in." I have spent whole Bible studies learning how to make my son a warrior. I have read several books on raising a knight. But the mosquitoes are hungry these days and for goodness sakes keep.the.warrior.in. Let your warrior mature before he comes out to defend the innocent.

Rose and I home schooling together is another gondola moment complete with whining, bloodsucking insects. I love this child. I love home schooling. But something goes wrong when I try to combine the two. When Avonlea and Grant were little I used to ring a bell to begin school. They would come running down the stairs yelling, "Yay! School! What are we doing today mommy!!" (Completely legit here). This no longer happens. Rosy and I resemble wrestlers circling each other in the ring. I try to take her over her flashcards and she listens for "voices" which tell her the answers, giving math the atmosphere of a séance. The "voices" are more often wrong than not and I begin to lose my patience with the "voices". Why couldn't the "voices" belong to people who were good at math? Yesterday during flashcards as I inhaled deeply trying to keep calm and loving, Rose put her hand on my arm and said, "It's worth it mom." Mosquitoes galore in that moment.

Sometimes I can believe the idea that this life is all mosquitoes. But it's not. I actually made it to Venice. (Literally and figuratively) I love my family, my friends, my home. I love my God. There is beauty all around me. It's a little bit different than I imagined it would be, but that's what Heaven is for. It's foolish to think that life should be perfect, because if it were, what in the world would I laugh at?

And although it's humbling to hear it from my eight year old, Rose is right. It's totally worth it.

PS Rose passed "Little Indian Brave" and is on to "Beaded Moccasins".
I'm pushing for politically correct piano books.

Artistic Therapy

I know I am an artist because I like to make smoothies that match my outfit.

Today I coordinated with cherries, vanilla yogurt, and a banana.

I sat in the sun on a reclining chair sipping my hot pink drink (out of a straw) that matched my light-weight hot pink sweater, and I was comforted.

I needed comfort because hot pink is a trying color for my complexion. It brings out the bags under my eyes, and in general, my face is not perky enough to compete with hot pink.

This last month has been a harrowing kind of month. An analogy may be helpful. Today, on my way to pick up the oldest two from Algebra 1/2, I noticed a flowering tree that I particularly enjoy the scent of. I got excited, for a moment my face matched my sweater in general cheerfulness, I inhaled deeply. I inhaled again. Then I realized that I was in a car, going 60 mph, and the windows were up. The tree was about 1/2 mile behind me when this realization hit.
Ah yes, I am going too fast to appreciate anything!

May is a wild, bronco bucking kind of month. I find I hold on best by indulging in artistic vents.

I have recently put in a large order for tablecloths from April Cornell. Tablecloths which will go on the outside table next to the reclining chairs. Tablecloths which are smattered with large hot pink roses. If you drive by my house in May, you will probably see me sitting there in my hot pink sweater, with my matching drink and tablecloth and sunglasses (did I mention the sunglasses?). Please look the other direction, I will be normal again soon.
Relatively speaking.

Monday

Okay so he's not the most musical child. But he's cute and he just lost his other front tooth today, 6 days before Christmas. Gotta love it.

Avonlea lost TWO teeth today. My day was spent mixing salt water and cleaning blood splattered sinks. Really....three teeth in one day...the tooth fairy needs a raise.

Speaking of fairies, we (Dave, I, and our gum gnashing clan) went to the Nutcracker tonight.

Rose was in ballerina heaven. Grant endured until intermission when he asked loudly, "Is it half time?" We are obviously lacking culture....
During the aforesaid intermission Rowan pointed out a blond girl sitting in front of us to the right. She was maybe 13.
"I think she's beautiful. I like her shiny gold head."
I give a scared smile, nod weakly.
"I bet she's nice, too. Although," he pauses long enough to give me a shwed glance, "just because they're beautiful, doesn't mean they're nice."
I find my tongue, "NO, it does not."
"Do you think I could hang from the balcony by two fingers?"
He changes the subject and I breath freely once more.

Really with laundry, Rose throwing up on the kitchen floor, three teeth extracted, people calling to get the kittens, the Nutcracker and beautiful girls, the tooth fairy is exausted and a little stunned.

Good night.

Kittens and Harps

I was incredibly nervous yesterday. Nail-gnawing, leg itching nervous. Avonlea was to play her harp at the antique store downtown last night. I was nervous for her.
Fact: I am not nervous when I get up to sing, or speak, or dance, or recite. I've always loved being on stage and could only look in wonder at people who got stage fright.
But for some crazy, sick reason, I was nervous for her.

I didn't need to be, she played beautifully and she looked sweet.

She played for an hour and had a good crowd inside and out.

When she was done performing, she came to me and said, "I love it!"

She wondered wide-eyed at my nervousness.

And I couldn't help but think, "Wait, my girl, till you have a daughter! May she bring you as many moments of nail gnawing delight!"

We came home and  celebrated with ice cream and the movie "White Christmas." We all snuggled on the futon and each child had a kitten in their lap. Dave and I met eyes over the tops of four little heads and I said to him, "I never want this moment to end. The kittens and kids and harps and us."

I'm pretty sure the kittens didn't share my sentiments.

To be honest, I didn't share them either in about 20 minutes. Bedtime.

Isn't it amazing how many emotions we can journey in a day?

Sustainable Living

We have just completed our third week of company.
There is high energy as siblings and their children weave in and through our day.
There is conversation, laughter, dancing, and prayer.
And I grow weary.
I'm in the kitchen cooking another mammoth meal, I'm pretty sure there are mash potatoes in my hair.
My eyes, roving the counter for a spatula, happen to land on my tea cup.
I feel the thirst in my body and soul. Tea time, in the afternoon, is when I meet with God. My Bible comes out of it's special drawer in the kitchen table and I sip and read nourishment. It's been a while and I'm needy.
Unbidden, and unwanted if truth be known, comes the thought, what are you imbibing for, if not to expend the energy? That rings of spiritual gluttony and I try to focus on the beans.
But I can't.
The Bible, that I read daily, speaks more of battles and races than clinking china.
Ecclesiastes 3 speaks of, "A time for war and a time for peace," and implies that there will be both.
So I get back to work with a will, in faith, knowing that God will use those quiet days of study to articulate His will.
Knowing that the deep draughts of tea and truth have a battle cry at their core and it must be uttered.
Knowing that though my body is weary, my soul is most at peace when in the fray.
And when quiet comes again, as it will, I will embrace it, but only as a means to an end.
This, my friends, is the secret to sustainable living.

Really????

I'm a tired mom.
So when my four-year-old beckons with a bed she's prepared for me on the couch, I accept, gratefully.
And when she tucks me in and rubs my head till I fall asleep, I bless her devoutly.
So when I awake and find that the little louse lulled me to sleep only to carry out evil designs, I am shocked!
I am also shocked that several people came in, saw me, and took pictures of me in my degraded state. Shocked. Did you get that? Scandalized.

How she managed to get an eye patch around my head and a revolver in my hand is utterly beyond me.

It's a sad, sad, day when a tired mommy can't get a little rest without waking up a pirate.

Naughty!

Silent and....Sweet?

I've been trying not to complain lately, but the truth is....I'm so much more interesting when I vent. I'm slowly learning to hold my tongue and it's very tame......to say the least. Tonight for example....I was at worship team practice and a new guy asked me a question. An obvious question I felt, he asked, "Do you like this sort of thing?" Being inclined towards transparency, I looked at him not altogether kindly. (Why would I be there singing for hours on a Thursday night if I didn't like it????) Anyway, he replied (to my look), "Well I don't really know you at all. We've never had a conversation." I so so so wanted to say, "Oh well I can just tell you that I'm really nice. And cute. And I'm funny. And I like to sing which is why I'm at church for hours on a Thursday night." BUT I DIDN'T. I said nothing...several times over.

When Avonlea informed me on Monday that she forgot how to multiply and divide over Christmas break, and as a finishing stroke told me it was my fault because I gave them three weeks off instead of two (!!!!!!!!!!!!) I thought of several things I could utter. BUT I DIDN'T. I said nothing...several times over.

When my mother told me my new coat looked too small............

I could go on.

And I will. There are two situations frustrating me right now.

Situation One: I am trying not to drink tea because the caffeine is bothering me. I don't like the taste of decaffeinated tea and I'm not fond of herbals. I miss floating through my house with my tea cup in my hand. I miss the sweet tasting warmth of tea. I miss the unmistakable air of a tea party that pervades and enlivens my life. I feel ugly without a tea cup. Is this too much information?

Situation Two: We have five Persian cats. Three of them have been mating for a YEAR and we have yet to have kittens. The vet suggested a gene specialist in Portland take a look at them. Do people really do that? All this mating with no reward! The yowls and stances that jar me.....for nothing (in my opinion, I'm sure Lewis would argue this). Every time one of these furry felines walk by I cringe, hope deferred personified.

All this without a husband here to soothe and comfort! Dave is working long hard hours and I miss him. And I suppose that is why I'm sitting here talking to a computer.
This probably isn't healthy.
I vented and now I will go back.......to saying nothing.........several times over.

Cherries

I'm pretty sure that if I were Eve, and the naughty tree happened to be a rainier cherry tree, we'd be in the same sinful predicament.
I love them.
White meat protected by dusky red skin. I eat one with both hands, wrapped, like I'm playing a harmonica.
My mother buys them for me. My husband buys them for me. My friend brings me a bag home from her farm. Too bad my birthday's not in July.
On my wedding morn I soaked in a bubble bath with a bowl of cherries. It was quite romantic.
I look forward to this time every year and I get, really, unutterable joy from cherries.
Can anything be more poignant than a bowl of cherries?