Small Scribbles

I like Barbie movies becaus thay are relistik, Claire writes for a language arts lesson. I correct spelling and ask, "Realistic? Why?" "They do real things." "Yeah, like fly," says John. "Hush. I really want to know what Claire thinks. What about the love parts, Claire? Are the love parts realistic?" "Yeah. One saves the other and after he does the saving he gets to keep her." Hmm. And this, "Mary was about our John's age when she had Jesus? You can have babies when you are a teenager? Wow! I can't wait!" This from Faith who has her whole heart set on a house filled top to bottom with children...a mom waiting to happen. "Well," she plans, "when I'm about seventeen, I'm going to Wal-Mart to find a boy who is nice to people and if I like him, he'll be my husband and I can hurry up and be a mom." These are the children we are entrusted with. These we must shape into suitable life partners. ...

Her children rise up and call her blessed. Yeah, right. Maybe someone else's children do that. Not mine, and I wish they would stop rising so darn early. That would be a blessing. The thoughts that churned in this mother's heart when it beat stronger and surer a half decade ago when I was up to my eyeballs in diapers and sippy cups. Today is Mother's Day. To celebrate, Claire drew me a card on a piece of notebook paper in church where she was informed by today's sermon that it is a significant day. Happy mothers Day, Mama! A bouquet of flowers drawn underneath. For lunch, we hit the McDonald's drive through (where the cashier wished me a Happy Mother's Day) and then went to Lowe's for home improvement materials (where an employee operating a fork truck said the same). It has been a great day. I do mean this. Around here, every day is Mother's day. Not the saccharine, stress-inducing, sainted, card-bestowing, mother-worshipping kind of day. Thank go...

Come. I've moved aside some selfishness to make a bit of room for You, here in my heart. Come. Join us at the breakfast table. When I remember You, we'll crack open your Word and search for treasure. When I remember. I remember until a fork clatters to a stop in front of me and then I forget. YOU DO NOT THROW SILVERWARE! SET THIS TABLE LIKE A LADY! I toss the fork back and it hits a water glass, and water and ice cubes spill out. The silverware tosser bursts into tears and loud cries, and I hear the words of my heart voice, Your voice, "That's not My way." And it's not. I dry tears and mop water and fill the glass again. Come, heart dweller. Sit with me on the sofa. Feel the press of a warm, wiggly little boy body. Listen to the story sounds and the giggles and the "Read Move Over Rover again, Mama." Hear the interruption, "I can't find my spelling book." And my irritation, "I am tired of looking for your school books! When you ar...

Day Five: Speaker Phone Prayers "Mmm. You look nice," Stuart said into my neck this evening. " A little sleep, some makeup, and a change of clothes will do that for a girl." Stuart stayed at the hospital with Charlie last night and I came home to get some rest and spend some time with the other kids today. I should have gone right to bed but instead, I stayed up into the wee hours of the morning updating the blog. Then I climbed in my big comfy bed with my big comfy comforter (ahhh!) and watched the end of Return to Me . Woke up at quarter of eleven, visited with our next-door neighbor , made lemon-raspberry muffins, did a little laundry, trimmed my hair and gave my son, Absalom , a full fledged haircut. Comforted Claire. This separation has been the hardest on her. The kids snacked this morning and we finally sat down to eat breakfast at three this afternoon! This confused the kids. They didn't know whether to do their after-breakfast chores or after-lunch chor...

Day Four: Psalm 91 The big guys have been holding down the fort off and on this week. Neighbors pop in to check on them during the mornings and in the midafternoon they ride with Stuart to the hospital. They've been impressive. I got home last night after being gone for five days to a CLEAN house. Laundry washed, folded and put away; dishes done; rugs vacuumed; beds made... They've helped each other with their school work and have put in about three full days this week on their own. The chore chart and family schedule have helped to give their days structure. The thing that has impressed me most is that they have come together for Bible study all on their own each day. We're beginning to see fruit. Hallelujah! Every morning around 9:30 or so, I called to help them get organized and to supervise as best I could via speaker phone. "John, no media this morning. Faith, use a small bowl for your cereal, that way you'll waste less. Claire? Is your bed princess worthy? Go...

After story hour, we sat with our knees above the little table in the children’s section, one young mother and I, surrounded by our broods. The children pounded salt dough flat and squashed cookie cutters into it to produce lumpy vehicles. They dangled their creations inches from our faces so we could admire their work. Charlie squashed and tasted. “Yuck! Charlie! Don’t do that!” He peeled off another tiny piece of dough and tasted again. “How many children do you have?” the young mother asked. “Five.” I said it the way I always do. Nonchalantly. She answered with a typical response. “Five! How do you do it?! You seem so calm. You look too thin, too young to have five children. Five?! I puffed up, just a little, though she couldn’t see, and responded truthfully, “We are having the time of our lives. The children are at the best age. I am treasuring every moment.” We said goodbye a few minutes later at the library desk. Her children checked out a handful of books and I stood behind her...

Charlie wants to be big. Big people doing big things tower over him and he wants to join in. He sees the girls climb on the swing and pump themselves skyward. The swing is too high for him to reach and he doesn’t know how to pump. “Lift me! Push me! Swing me!” he cries. Sometimes we do and sometimes we’re busy. When we push, he cries if we stop and when we don’t push he cries out of sheer frustration. He knows too much about how the world works because the big kids show him. But often he can’t join in just because he’s three. It’s not easy to be three when everyone else is six and seven and higher numbers than he has fingers to count. We’ve bent a lot of rules to accommodate this youngest child. All of the other kids had to be as tall as Stuart’s waist before they could chew gum but how do you pass out six sticks of gum and say, “No, Charlie not until you’re as tall as Papa’s belt.”? He gets to stay up late, too, because the sounds of game playing and story reading would make him c...

Two swim noodles will support one mama quite easily. They will also support five children... ...but not for long. This was my last day in the pool as the temperature of the water has dipped below 95°. That's just too cold for me. But, it will still be awhile before we have to trade flip flops and shorts for long pants and tennis shoes. I love the South! Wordless Wednesday

A crowd instantly collected. Yells are very unusual at bazaars, and every one was intensely interested. It was several seconds before the three free children could make Mrs. Biddle understand that what she was walking on was not a schoolroom floor, or even, as she presently supposed, a dropped pin-cushion, but the living hand of a suffering child. When she became aware that she really had hurt him, she grew very angry indeed. When people have hurt other people by accident, the one who does the hurting is always much the angriest. I wonder why. The children were gathered around the coffee table with coloring books and draped across the floor and the sofas in the evening lamplight as I read these words aloud from E. Nesbit's book, The Phoenix and the Carpet . I read on to the end of the chapter but my mind stayed on these words… when people have hurt other people by accident, the one who does the hurting is always much the angriest. I don’t know about you, but for me this is true. I ...

Eight thirty-five. I glance at clock on the stove. Church doesn’t start for twenty-five minutes. Surely we can make it on time today. It’s a fifteen-minute drive to church from our house. We have been driving to this little church in the country every Sunday for the past three months and we have been late every. single. time. It’s the only place that we go where arriving on schedule matters and yet we can’t do it. I’m an organized person. In the days of diaper bags and car carriers, I would lay the children’s clothes out the night before. Bibles and backpacks went out to the car on Saturday evening. Stuart and I rose early on Sunday morning and got ourselves ready. We fed the children in their pajamas because they always spilled and slopped and dribbled and then hustled them into their clothes. We held small hands, balanced a couple of little ones on our hips, buckled them in the car and arrived at church about ten minutes before the service. Those were the days. The children are spre...

ROAR! In my house, baking is announced with the roar of the grain mill. Pancakes for breakfast. Little feet come running. Quick as a wink, two stools are pushed up to the counter and two eager children scramble up on them. They hold their hands over their ears and then take them off again. On. Off. On. Off. What are they doing? I try it. The grain mill says “waa-waa-waa-waa” when I do. We three look at each other and grin. We look ridiculous clapping our hands on our ears. The sound from the mill goes up an octave. The wheat has become flour. I shut off the machine. Kid sounds fill the vacuum of silence. “I want to measure!” “I want to crack an egg. Can I crack an egg, Mama?” I measure out the baking power. Claire and Charlie take turns adding it to the bowl. Charlie tries to shove Claire off her stool because he wants to pour in the salt. “No, Charlie. Here. You crack this egg.” I’m brave with the eggs. My sister taught me how to scoop out shell bits with a shell half. It’s easy and s...

"Get down, Charlie. That nice lady doesn’t want you to climb on her mobility scooter.” We were in the freezer section at Wal-Mart. While I was looking for the spinach, Charlie had noticed the gears and levers on a scooter that rolled by. Hmm. A video game here in the freezer aisle? I must check this out . And so he did. He climbed up on the running board and reach over to work a few levers. The “nice" lady looked like she would like to run him down. “I’m sorry m’am. My little guy thinks you're driving a rolling arcade.” I smiled my most winning smile. Charlie grinned. "Hmmph!" The scooter occupant glared and sped ahead to the frozen dinners. Whoops. I guess we need to add that to our list of shopping behavior: 1. Put your hand on the hood of the car while you are waiting for everyone to get out. 2. Don’t climb the toilet paper display 3. Don’t play on occupied mobility scooters. (Charlie's list of grocery store ettiquette is so different from the rules tha...

The house is just beginning to stir. I balance a load of laundry on one hip and tiptoe toward the laundry room. I pass Claire on my way. She is dressed and rummaging in the pantry in search of a pre-breakfast snack. My early morning girl. Lauren, still cozy under her covers, turns the pages of The Indian in the Cupboard . I peek in on her but she doesn't notice. Faith sits up in bed and pushes tangled curls aside. She dangles her legs over the side of the bed and rubs her eyes. The sun pushes through the curtains and makes patches of light on her feet and on the floor. I pause at the boys' door and scan for dirty laundry. The room is dark. The sun will not make its way to this side of the house until the afternoon. John's stack of midnight reading and his flashlight are in a heap. I pick up a shirt and a pair of shorts and add them to my basket. John and Charlie are sound asleep. John sprawls on his back tangled up in his red fleece blanket. His arms and long legs stretch o...

I confess. I have become a couch shouter. My brother-in-law, Rob, created this term after he spent a deafening week with his extended family. Couch Shouter noun 1. One who parents from the sitting position. A parent who sends her voice to do a job that she is too lazy do herself. Lately, too much of my parenting has been done from the sitting position. I sit with a child for school. "Claire, you read this paragraph. I'll read the next one... Charlie, don't take Faith's Polly Pocket... Try that word again, Claire. Remember what does ou say?... Charlie, give Faith's Polly back to her. " I listen as Claire finishes her paragraph... "Charlie, do you need a spank? Give the Polly back!" And on it goes. I am amazed at how the lack of discipline has crept in and taken over. The scales tipped toward justice at the beginning of this parenting journey. These days, grace and mercy are the tools I reach for. Justice has been stuffed in the back of the closet. To ...