Turning My Tent Upside-Down: A Lesson in Camping with Kids

Some families do Disney. Some do Hilton Head or Daytona Beach. Others jet across an ocean because they have the funds (bless them, oh Lord, for I am jealous). Then there are families that camp.

Camping is not for everyone. Sometimes it's a harrowing experience with more dirt and bugs than you can shake a stick at. Other times you walk into a deluge meant only for Noah. Laying on the ground isn't for everyone. But for some, it is the piece de resistance. My childhood was full of that resistance. 

There were multiple summers where we packed our Honda Civic wagon to the ceiling and drove across the country, camping the whole way. A cooler wedged in the middle of the back seat was the only thing separating my sister from myself. But the cooler was narrower than my arm, so it was useless in stopping any fights that involved hitting, poking, or pinching.

Most mornings we would pack up camp and drive for 8-10 hours, only to stop by dinner time and set up camp again. Everything in the car had a place, that had a smaller place in which the place would be set in order to make room for the next place. There was order to the order and it was beautiful. I credit it all to my dad, but I'm sure mom helped. (I love you mom. You make great sandwiches.) We rolled our clothing into tiny cylinders so that we could squeeze as many outfits as possible into the small duffle bags that held our lives for more than a month. Dinners were cooked over a Coleman stove, and lunches were always packed in the morning for quick an easy disbursement at noon. A well-oiled machine people. Clockwork.

It may not sound super appealing to you, but the memory of these trips has reached sainthood in my mind. And so, with that tucked away in my adolescent brain, I grew up and had children of my own. And what better thing to do with five children than go camping? Stay home, you say? Not a chance.

Planning- a.k.a. the part where you are blissfully unaware of reality

Seeing as how I was a child when I was little, I didn't really have an insiders view of the preparations for camping. I saw the results, but not the process that led up to it. With that skewed vision in mind, I began to plan our Grand Memorial Day Camping Adventure. I made lists. I love them, and they make me inexplicably happy. Kind of like straight lines in mown grass. Lists of food. Lists of things to do. Lists of super important, don't you dare forget this because this is the most essential item when camping, kinds of things. 

                           

Packing- a.k.a. the part where you realize just how much your lists have on them

There are seven people in our family. That is a lot of sleeping bags. Two tents. A lot of pillows. It is a lot of shirts, shorts, towels, underwear, teddy-bears, toothbrushes and diapers. When we bought our wonderful mini-van, we did not think ahead like smart people do, and got a not-so-grand caravan. That means that the packing space in the trunk is deep enough for a grocery bag. Maybe a couple of raisins. 

---

Once we were squeezed into our spaces like toothpaste, we made the trek across the state to the campground. Our site was directly across from the playground. Thank you, Lord, and Amen. The kids played in the sandy Michigan dirt while Adam set up camp. Dinner was late and crazy. Ramen with veggies. And all of a sudden it was dark, so off to sleep we went. 

Just kidding. Adam in one tent with four children, and me in the other with the one that cries and wakes up an average of 5 times a night. No sleep.

Breakfast- a.k.a. the meal that should inspire a camper to climb mountains, or at least trade legos

Bacon. Eggs. Poptarts.

Two parts iconic, one part reality.

Oh, and coffee. (See, "no sleep" above)

We spent the next two days boating, fishing, swimming. All on whims. No plans, just wake up and be. 

It. Messed. With. My. Head.

What about my lists?

What about the meal planning that I did?

How is this going to be EPIC if it doesn't go like I planned?

The moment of truth came our third night there. I had packed our super awesome ice cream making balls, and all the pre-measured ingredients in little zip-loc baggies to make some deliciousness. While the kids were boating/playing/fishing, I got them set up. Salt and ice in one end, and cream and sugar in the other. The time comes to roll the balls and there is not a child to be found. I spy one across the playground. Even before he's in earshot he starts yelling a question about going to play a game. He can clearly see the big red ice cream balls under my arms. He does not want to do the quintessential camp thing that I planned. He wants to play. 

No.

But mom, can't I just go play and then come back when it's ready?

No.

Seriously?

No. If you go play now, you will come back and watch us eat ice cream. And I will eat it slowly and make lots of good food noises so that you are certain to regret your decision to go have fun and leave me with all the work. Shake. A. Ball.

(Somewhere in my planning, I forgot to check how long the process takes. Fatal mistake.) 

Mom, is the ice cream ready yet?

No.

How long does it take?

It takes...as long...as it takes!

How long is that?

*flames...on the side of my face*

In the end, I sent them all off to play while I finished making what ended up being sweet cream shakes. When they came back to enjoy the fruit of my labor, the baby was eating dirt, the mosquitoes were attacking, and the mountain of camping dishes to be done before bed was literally falling off the picnic table. At some point, Adam disappeared into the van for three minutes...just to sit...away from the insanity. 

Darkness could not fall soon enough.

As I lay in my sleeping bag, cursing myself and regretting the crazy rabid mama that I had become that evening, I began to think a bit more about the perfection that I had failed to achieve. My memories of camping as a child are so gilded and perfect. I don't know what work went into creating those memories. I don't know if my parents were stressed out trying to do that with us. I don't even know if the memories that I have are fully accurate. I may have created things just to match the emotional euphoria that is etched in my heart from those trips. 

But looking back, it wasn't the meals or the detailed planning that made me love those trips. It was the moments. Snapshots in time. Family intimacy in God's great big beautiful creation. Bugs and all. 

My kids had spent the weekend wallowing in each of those delicious snapshots. Writing those memories into their little souls as beautiful, fun and good. They were seizing the day while I was worrying about planning for the next great memory. 

*face palm*

It really was an absolutely, fantastic weekend. And in spite of my obsessive tendencies, the kids deemed it the best. weekend. ever. Adam and I came out alive, and know for certain that we'll do it again.

 In fact, we've already started planning... 

Singin' in the Rain

There's been a good amount of rain lately. Not so much to make things flood, but enough to give the grass that beautiful deep green that only comes from binge drinking. It means we have to mow again, but I'll take walking perpetual lines in my yard over brown and dreary any day.

Late last week, after driving home through a torrential downpour, we parked the van in the garage and the kids literally refused to go inside. When they were younger, they would inch their way into a situation like this. At first they would beg to watch the rain, then they would ask to get an umbrella and walk around the yard, then they would tentatively stretch their hands out to catch a few drops (watching me to see if I noticed their deviance). Finally, they would look at me with their puppy dog eyes and beg to run around. The umbrella would be relegated to the grass and they would test the water, so to speak.

This day was different. Maybe they've changed...grown a bit. Maybe they've just begun to understand my parenting style a little more and know that sometimes it's best just to ask for the whole cake, instead of one piece at a time. Not sure, honestly. But they leapt out of that van and surrounded me, jittery in their excitement. 

"Mom, can we?"

They dove right in. 

No small steps, just a plunge. 

Outright, into the glory of the weather.

Soaking the rain down into their little souls

Dancing without abandon as cars drove by...

Thunder and lightening drove them inside for a while. One pile of wet clothing in the laundry room, three dry children with fresh digs. 

And then the thunder stopped.

Round 2.

Less water, more earth, but whatever.

I suppose you can't be picky when you're that awesome...

Like I said.  Awesome.

If I were one to write memes, this one would say:

"We don't always get this messy. But when we do, we make sure mom will have to wash our clothing three times to get all the mud out. And we'll leave it all by the back door, because we couldn't possibly carry it any further after having so much fun."

But I'll take it. Because someday -when their children are begging them to play in the rain- they'll remember that I let them do it. In that moment of nostalgic weakness, they'll say yes to their precious kids...and that pile of wet clothing will be their reward. *maniacal laugh*

Anger Mis-management

My mind has been very preoccupied lately. So many different parts of my life are flying in as many directions, and I often find it difficult to be "in the moment". This is a dangerous place to be when five small children are constantly running circles around my ankles and asking questions about life and their pursuit of a mid-morning snack.

Needless to say, it hasn't gone very well.

Take today, for instance. All day I was sitting on pins waiting for a call from our loan officer. The appraisal for our hopeful house was supposed to come back today, and it was ALL I COULD THINK ABOUT. The kids would come up, be completely in my face, and I wouldn't even see them there. I would hear my name being called, as if from far far away in a distant Narnia land, only to realize that their nose was touching mine and they were screaming. Bloody, evil screaming.

So I screamed back.

Bloody, evil, Mommy screaming. Ugh.

Case in Point:

While trying to explain a math problem to one of the older boys today, the younger one piped up with the answer. I asked him to wait so that I could finish my sentence. And he kept talking. No pause, nothing...just kept going. As if the words coming out of his mouth had to be expelled before he could breathe. It was infuriating. After shushing him three times to no avail, I lost it. I started to make this terrible noise. Like the one they teach you to do when you're being attacked. Not a high pitch scream, but a guttural, loud, annoying air horn type of sound. One that might just make you pee your pants if you're 6 years old and sitting at the dining room table trying to do your math.

And this was not a singular sensation today. Granted, I didn't pull out my victim scream again...but seriously, every time that I felt crossed or disrespected or ignored or inconvenienced, the volume of my voice would jump. IMMEDIATELY. No questions asked, just yell.

By 4pm I was certain that all was lost. I just knew that the appraisal would come in low and that we would have to walk away from the house we wanted...that my children would grow up knowing only one form of communication defined by its excessive volume, and that they would need therapy in order to survive...I knew that I couldn't do any of this well enough, not school, not child rearing, not wifery, not housekeeping, nothing. And it was only 4pm, so I just couldn't justify that glass of wine.

*sigh*

There are some days that are just like that. ^

Sometimes things are beautiful, and my children listen and I can just feel God working through me to raise my children. Then there are others where it's lost before 8am and the desire to hide in my bathroom behind locked doors is so intense that I can not resist the fleeting respite, and I sit on the pot with my face in my hands and choose to breathe through the din of the banging on the door.

It's on days like today that I am so thankful for tomorrow.

When my 6 year old wakes up tomorrow, he will look at me with fresh eyes. He will see his mama. His strong, beautiful, morning coffee breath mama, and he will curl up in my arms as if there was never an evil bloody screaming match over a math answer. He will reach up and twist my pony tail and tell me he loves me because, like the God that made him, his mercy for me is new every morning.

hallelujah.

All Grown Up

The other day, I had to take one of the boys in to have a tooth pulled. He's a brave fellow. Always. As my little guy settled down in the chair, knowing exactly what was coming, the dentist looked over at me and handed me the papers to sign so that he could go ahead with his work. Then he said, "Mom, do I have your permission to go ahead and do this?"

In that split second, I felt like the world around me was moving in fast forward. Life in motion, me sitting still. Moments like these bring to the forefront of my mind the glaring reality that I am a grown-up. Some educated dude I had just met was asking me if it was okay to poke and prod and yank at a child's mouth, removing a tooth and cutting up some gums. Asking me! How in the world did I get here? How is it that I hold the weight of that decision -and so many others- in my hands?

Times like these (which happen more often than I should probably admit) make me feel emotionally naked. I fear that the person I'm talking with can see into my soul and is chuckling to themselves, "Look at her, a kid pretending to be an adult! Who let her in?"

I know it didn't happen all at once. Little by little, adulthood grows on you. Some of us start earlier than others, with it thrust upon us when we are yet children through the circumstances of our young lives. Some of us fight it into our 40's. But eventually, whether we like it or not, we grow up.

We pay bills. We stress about committees. We do yard work. We tie the knot. We have kids. We get used to our hands being puked in or pooped on. We have cats. We suck it up and dig the hairballs out of the drains. We deal with the IRS...

Other than the whole cat thing, I've done all of that.

My husband and I have been married for over a decade, and have five children. I would say that we certainly qualify as grown-ups. Yet with the birth of each child, I kept telling myself that I didn't feel grown up. Maybe I'll feel it when we finally buy a house, I surmised. That's what adults do. They buy houses.

So here we are, wading through the paperwork to close on a house.

Do I feel any more grown-up? Nope.
Stressed out? Yep.

Maybe it's synonymous. Stressed Out = Grown Up

I certainly hope not, because if that's the case, hypertension is in my near future, and my fingernails will be a thing of the past. My children will grow up to hate me and eventually refuse to grow up themselves for fear of becoming as stressed as their mother, therefore causing me more stress and creating a vicious cycle and some seriously daunting therapy bills. I can see it all, and it isn't pretty.

Okay, rewind. What I said before, about that feeling in the dentist office...am I the only one? Do you ever get that feeling when you're in the middle of big decisions, or even everyday life? Can you feel your 10 year old self, still tangibly present inside you, and it seems to be more who you are than the grown-up that the world thinks you've become?

I look back at my childhood and wonder if my parents, and parents of friends, and Sunday school teachers, and elementary school teachers, and all those people that seemed so very big and important at that time... Did they feel that way? Did they look in the mirror at the end of the day and wonder what they were doing, and how they ended up being responsible for so much?

I have to assume that the answer is yes. *If you disagree with me here, and have never experienced this phenomenon, you are not allowed to tell me. I do not want to know. Shh. Seriously. Shhh. *

When I wake up in the morning, five small people need me. FIVE. That's still such an unreal, crazy number. Five persons who need me to feed them. Teach them. Discipline and guide them. Every thing that I do is sopped up by their little brains and turned into stock photos of what a grown up looks like. I am their main reference for "functional adult human being".

AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

So, yes. Obviously, a grown-up.

I was thinking though, that it's probably good to keep a bit of that 10 year old around. Me, back then -though thoroughly confused by the world- hadn't yet crossed the threshold into a place of false pretenses and self-importance. There was still imagination and wonder, a willingness to receive correction and an understanding that I didn't know much of anything. That's the beauty of being only a decade out of the womb: you're free to be real about knowing so little, and therefore, free to learn faster and ask more questions without fear of reproach.

Imagination - Humility - Fearlessness

None of those qualities seem like a poor lot to keep in your back pocket.  That and maybe some jacks, your lunch money, and a sparkly gel pen...for signing really important documents.

things that hurt

I love going to the doctor with all five kids.

It's a monthly highlight in my life...schlepping an infant carrier into the office, small hands leaving little prints all over the sparkling glass doors. I watch my children do laps back and forth in the waiting room, refusing to sit and read, choosing instead to tap incessantly on the fish tank and ride the small inflatable creatures like pogo sticks. I'd love to know which doctor bought those for the waiting room. They have a sick sense of humor and I will punish them by bringing all five of my snotty kids together to see them EVERY TIME.

Today was a four year check up for our little lady. Where those one thousand four hundred sixty days went, I'm not really sure. But there she is: tall, and sassy, and four. I managed to haul all the kids out of the house in time. Wearing shoes, no less. (Feeling super proud of that one.) Their shenanigans in the waiting room were actually a little milder than usual. But despite these positive advances in my children's sophistication, my stomach was in a small knot.

I've had three fellas go through the four year check up, and there's something very special about that year. I use special in a very loose sense here. Words like grievous and bothersome are more accurate. The majority of her check up was fantastic. Her interactions with non-family are a coin toss most of the time, but today landed heads up. She was a charmer and show-off: giggling and giving me thumbs up every time she answered a developmental question correctly.

that look, right there.

I smiled back and my stomach turned, still keenly aware that she didn't know what was coming. All the smoothness of the morning was dependent on her ignorance, so I had decided to wait to tell her until it was almost time. After the vision and hearing tests, I sat her down on my lap and whispered in her ear,

Honey, you know how we've been reading about viruses and germs in science at home? *nod* Well, do you remember those special medicines that help our bodies fight those germs fast so that we don't get sick? *eyebrow goes up* Today is a day when you get some of those medicines. They're going to give you four pokes. *silence*

She looked down at her toes, and quietly agreed to do her best. I warned her that I would have to help hold her nice and still, but that it would be over super fast.

The nurse came back in a few seconds later, her tray overflowing with hypodermic horrors, little bandaids pre-opened and dangling off the sides, and purple gloves at the ready. She suggested that the best way to make this happen was for me to be in charge of stabilizing the top half of little lady's body while she popped as quickly as possible through the shots on her legs.

I laid my trepidatious, darling girl on the table, crossed her arms over her chest and held her hands in mine. Nose to nose, I looked down into her eyes. They were so calm, but only for a moment. The nurse wasted no time, and with each of the four pokes I watched my baby girl's eyes change from surprise to terror, and her face pinch as she dealt with the pain. I made it as far as the letter G in the abc's and it was over.

There are many opinions on vaccinations. As the wife of a handsome fella who got his PhD in immunology, we choose to vaccinate our kids because my husband has done all the reading. Literally, ALL of it, and we believe that the benefits far outweigh the risks. I totally realize that this can be a very volatile topic, and I bring it up only for the illustration. Just wanted to get that out there, because my non-confrontational self is super worried that you're going to block out all the important stuff because I used the "V" word. Moving forward...

As soon as the nurse gave me the go ahead, I scooped my baby girl up in my arms and squeezed her tightly. The tears streaming down her cheeks made their way onto mine, and we were there, just the two of us, slowly working through the pain. "You were so very brave."  I whispered.

"I know." she whispered back...

Like I said, four and sassy.

---

Parenting is hard. Watching your children go through something difficult is one of those hard things. The temptation to come to their aid, to defend them, to remove the assaulting thing from their path, is so often strong...but not always best. We do not learn to walk by means of our parents legs. We learn to walk on our own two feet, falling over and over, causing many bruises and many moments of angst in the hearts of our folks. 

Watching them go through something physically painful is even further up the list. I am a firm believer in the magic of bandaids, and I will put as many on as possible to stop the tears. Sometimes the gashes and bruises are a result of their own foolishness, but even though my mouth may chastise them initially for their lack of brain cells, my heart aches that this was the consequence for their actions. Plus there's all the blood. Blech.

Holding them down while they go through something painful that you've given a green light has been the hardest thing for me thus far. As parents, we have a perspective far above our children's that allows us to make those hard decisions...to know when certain pain is necessary, or even beneficial. When our oldest was four, we sent him into surgery to remove pre-cancerous cells from his arm. My husband would tell you that watching the nurse put that mask over that little face, letting him fall into the murky world of general anesthesia, and allowing his helpless body to be wheeled away behind closed doors...was one of the hardest things he's had to do. But had we left those cells there to do their worst...I dare not speak it.

Wounds must be cleaned, bones must be set.

These things are for their good, their benefit. We as parents know this, but it does not make it any easier to watch our children suffer. It does not make the pain any less real, or the look in their eyes any less harrowing.

---

To a four year old girl, getting four shots is a huge deal. She's still talking about it (now two days out) and reminding me that she's barely living through it. Many parents have had to make the decision to watch their child go through much worse than pokes. I am in awe of their courage, and thankful that I have not yet had to be in their shoes. 

With Easter coming this weekend, and Good Friday here already, the idea of a parent allowing their child to endure great pain for the sake of the healing it will bring...is very real. Whether you celebrate Easter with bunnies or crosses, or not at all...there is a universal truth in the love of a father for his children. He had one son. One that did all he asked. And he let him die for all his other children...those that had turned from him, and walked away. I can't even fathom the strength of that parent's heart.

You may not know the whole story. Or you might, but see it only as a moral tale. You may hold it central to your life as truth. No matter where your heart lies in the matter, it is hard to deny that the father in that story has a love for his children that no earthly father could muster.

I, for one, am certainly left in awe. 

A Day in the Life

Last night I ate broccoli. Hence little man enjoyed broccoli milk later on. For a guy who has problems with indigestion anyway, I doomed myself with the first bite. Along comes 11pm, and with it, the first wake-up of a very long night. 11:30, 12:15, 1:30, 2:15, 3:30... and that was the last, because the little broccoli monster stayed awake. It's a good thing he's so cute.

So, yeah. My day began at 3:30am with screaming broccoli burps. Coffee is my best friend.
I finally dragged him back into our bed around 5:30 trying desperately to get a few winks. The back of my eyelids are beautiful, and it's too bad we only got to hang out for a little bit, cause I could look at them all. day. long.

Adam woke up and forfeited his warm spot in bed to a sleepy eyed little lady. Within 30 seconds of her arrival, the midnight beast had awoken to play. Squeals abound. Good-bye sweet, sweet eyelids. I miss you so. I rolled off the bed and stepped on a mountain of blanket and a snoring boy that had made himself comfortable on my dirty carpet somewhere around 2am. That kid can sleep anywhere.

In an attempt to take some of my bed with me, I crawled into my robe and slippers. Plodding downstairs with a squeaking baby in my arms, I realize it's Friday. Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. We can do this.

Slowly but surely, all the children appear like prairie dogs. The snuggles are delicious, the halitosis, not so much. But I'll take what I can get. The coffee is ready, and my wonderful man hands me some fried eggs on a plate.  I look over, and he's eating his out of a dirty pyrex measuring cup. He responds to my raised eyebrow with a shrug. Delicious, but a little weird. Bless him.

The euphoria doesn't last, cause we all know he has to go to work. It's Friday, not vacation.
Once he's out the door, I'm bombarded with the daily question: "Can we watch an episode of Clone Wars...pleeeeeeease?" Historically, I can count on one finger the times that a video in the morning has resulted in a good day of school, but I decide to ignore my instincts and say yes. I was up all night, so my problem solving gears are broken. Smashed, like something that's been...smashed, really well.

Yes. Turn it on. Pronto.

Two episodes later, I make them promise me that when I tell them it's actually time for school, they can't argue...and that if they do, I'll take away all their happiness. And their toothbrushes. Grrr.

Where am I during all of this screen time? Amnesia.  I type this line a mere 8 hours later, and I can't tell you what happened while Anakin Skywalker was saving his padawan. Those minutes have been fully erased from my mind. I would love to say that something got done, like laundry, or dishes...but since both those piles are still there, I'm gonna have to go with 'no'. The force is strong with this one.

Around 10, we finally turned it off and opened the blinds to reveal an absolutely breathtaking day. Hallelujah! Spring is a real thing. Something about those sunbeams transformed all of our groggy brains and put us into hyper-drive. Without a word, each boy pulled out their reading book, curled up in a sunny spot, and entered another universe. It was magnificent. Apparently, they really value their happiness...or their toothbrushes. Either way, there is little that pleases a homeschooling mother more than her child devouring a good book.

This lasted a few minutes, until nap time was over for little man.

Having five kids means that no one lives in silence. One must develop the ability to function and listen in the midst of chaos, or otherwise suffer the defeat of hearing nothing clearly for the entirety of childhood. One child is asking how to carry numbers while subtracting, another spelling out loud, hit, it, bit, sit..., the oldest pacing the kitchen asking for another snack, and someone else yelling from upstairs about needing a wipe. All piled atop of one another, while the smallest continues to squawk and pull my hair and refuse to be put down.

Most days, this cacophony draws me into a very dark place. I have explained borrowing three hundred forty nine times, I already know how to spell, you can NOT have another snack, and wipe your own butt. Today, however, I am amazed at the hope that the sunshine has brought to our dining table. I flit (spelling word!), answering each question without yelling. I wander into the kitchen and clean a counter, come back, answer another question, wipe a poopy behind, glide back downstairs, move on to the next spelling word and repeat the process until they've all finished. I felt like a domestic goddess.

Everything seems better in the light. The rooms are still dirty with the shades wide open, but something about those little dust particles dancing in the sunbeams makes even garbage look beautiful. With the spelling done and the carrying completed, I kicked them outside into the balmy 45 degree day. They chose sandals and sweatshirts (true Michigan-born babies), and rode their bikes back and forth on our block for an hour until lunch.

When they came in, their hair smelled of sunshine.  

That's up there with the smell of newborn babies. Seriously, someone should bottle that stuff and sell it on the black market. So. Intoxicating. And after the snowiest winter in the history of Ann Arbor, I could have parked my nose on one of their heads and left it there for the remainder of the school day. That has great potential for mommy weirdness though...you have to know your boundaries.

So instead I made lunch. --Three boxes of mac and cheese with veggies and meatballs. That snack at 11 didn't make a dent in their appetites. While I'm chopping up the meatballs, one comes in with a joke:

"Knock knock," he says.
Who's There?
"I'm a poopin."
*eye roll* I'm a poopin who?
"No, not I'm a poopin, ihm a poopin"
*still cutting meatballs* Okay, Ihm a poopin who?
"I'm a poopin"
*sideways glance*
"I know mom, I'm just not good at telling a joke."

I love that kid.

All that stuff ^ is now 48 hours gone. There was more, but considering the fact that two days of my life have passed since those memorable moments, I've completely forgotten all of the wonderful and hilarious things they said in the afternoon. Which is sad, 'cause my kids are funny. Currently, two out of those five hilarious kids are throwing up, which isn't nearly as good fodder for blogging...so I'll spare you the details. But it just goes to show that Master Oogway was right:

Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, but today is a gift. That is why it is called the "present."

Escape from Hermitage

We don't get out much.

When my children were smaller, I blamed it on the difficulty of taking little children anywhere. In fact, for the first year we were living in Ann Arbor, I'm pretty sure we did a whole lot of nothing. Not only that, I also avoided interactions with the rest of the universe. Neighbor and child playing outside? Let's stay in. Community event to attend? Um, I'm good, thanks. Moms getting together for coffee? My baby naps during that time. I could come up with off the cuff excuses to stay inside like it was my job.

In-tro-vert.

When the two boys started walking and talking, they made it clear that they didn't share my desire to hide from civilization, so we started venturing out into the unknown. This brought forward another buried fear of mine: city driving. I fully realize that I do not live in a "large city." This does not matter to my unsubstantiated fears. After the country roads of central Ohio, and the winding switchbacks of southeastern Kentucky, the roads here in Michigan seemed crazy busy. Not only that, I had no idea where anything was. Blast it all. The fear of finding myself going the wrong way on a one-way street, finding a parking spot downtown, or trying to navigate interstates, kept us in the northeast corner of town for another year. Thank God for U of M buses. Without them, my children would have remained uncultured swines.

Once we had three children, for some inexplicable reason, it started to get easier. I think I could probably attribute it to the fact that -once you have three kids- you realize that chaos is to be expected. You let go of your preconceived notions of a good day out, and you're willing to accept pretty much anything as a success. Did we cross the threshold into the outer realm? Yes. Did my children learn something/have fun/see something other than our walls? Yes. Did I remember to bring them all home? 

...yes. 

If two out of the three were accomplished, I could chalk it up to a good trip and move on.

Once we started homeschooling, the pressure I felt to get them out was like a gorilla on my back. As one who was both public and private schooled, I understood the value of field trips and group activities. During those months when we would leave home only on Sunday mornings, I feared that I was failing my children...that they would grow up to be introverts like their mother and flounder in the real world. Not to mention the fact that we never got out of our pajamas. Darn it. *Unsocialized homeschoolers.* 

Must...not...support...stereotypes.

Slowly but surely, I've gotten better at integrating these things into our curriculum. It's always nice when it fits in well with what we're studying. But to be completely honest, the best trips have been the ones that have had absolutely nothing to do with a study unit, and everything to do with getting out and having fun.

This last week, we went with some friends to the children's science museum here in town. We arrived just as two buses were unloading 3,000,000 children into the lobby. It was chaos. Orange shirts everywhere, children running in circles, chaperons running after them...bedlam, I tell you, pandemonium at it's finest.

It. Was. Awesome.

math class

music class

balancing chemical equations

no clue...but it's really cool.

...and meteorology. cause it's a science. 

Did we cross the threshold into the outer realm? You betcha. Did my children learn something/have fun/see something other than our walls? Absolutely. Did I remember to bring them all home?

...yes.

Success.

Talking to Strangers

Grocery shopping with five kids isn't for the faint of heart. I do it as infrequently as possible, and always with a list, a straight face, a clenched jaw, and the intense desire to disappear in the wine aisle while the five children run free among the coolers of ice cream and frozen pizza. You would think that -in comparison- shopping with only one would be a breeze. *chortle*

------

When our youngest was born, it was fairly evident within the first week that we had ourselves a crier. Our first four babies had been pretty easy, as long as they were being held.  But this little guy...he would scream and scream, arching his back and writhing out of our arms, no matter what we did, or how much we jiggled. Sleep eluded us at night, and rest during the daylight hours was a phantom. The other kids worried terribly over this, and did their best to help ease my aching back muscles by taking turns walking the floor with their baby brother.

Around 9pm every evening, he would finally calm down for about an hour, only to awaken again with a vengeance and scream for an hour or so longer.  It was during this sweet spot one evening that I decided to go grocery shopping.  I dared not leave little man at home with his daddy, because -even if nothing helped when he was screaming- having mama around always helped the most.  So, I strapped the still screaming baby in the car seat, grabbed my shopping list, and pulled out of the garage.

He screamed the whole way to the store, slowly loosing vigor and sounding more and more like a strangled duck as the minutes dragged on. The moment I pulled into the Meijers parking lot, he fell asleep. Just in time. I strapped on my Ergo carrier, and gingerly lifted his sob wracked body from beneath the straps of his seat.  I tucked him into the carrier and hugged him against my chest in the hopes that the smell of mommy would keep him content.  I breathed a quick prayer and shut the van door. 

As I was grabbing the diaper bag from the front seat, another van pulled in beside mine, and a young mom hauled a baby seat from the back and plopped her happy baby into a cart. I didn't stick around to chat or even smile.  I was on a mission...but beyond that, I didn't want to talk to anyone, and certainly not to a mother whose small child was easy. Not tonight. 

The first thirty minutes of my quest through Meijers were peaceful. I was stopped more than once by sweet old ladies who wanted to peek into the carrier, or know how old he was, or tell me how cute he was.  I started to relax a bit, and slowed my step...I even looked at things that weren't on the list. Hooray, I thought to myself, I can do this.  

It may have been the cold air that woke him, but the peace abruptly ended by the frozen chicken. There was no slow crescendo. It was a sforzando of mass proportions. I pulled him out of the carrier and jiggled and hushed and rocked. Nothing. Switched to the sling. Not having it. 

My grocery cart, full to the brim with slowly melting food, could not be ignored any more than my siren of a child. All that could be done was to finish the trip in record time and blood-curdling glory. I tucked him in my arm and under my chin so that I could push the cart with one hand and my hips and then proceeded through the last three aisles, grabbing anything that looked like it might alleviate world hunger. 

A moment before, the store had seemed empty. But now, every soul had emerged from the shadows and was staring. I could feel their eyes burning holes. Some eyes spoke pity, others anger, some disdain. But every one of them was on me, the woman with the screaming infant in the grocery at 10:30pm. What a terrible fool.

I made it to the check out, and pried every item one by one out of my cart while he screamed in my arms. Eventually I stopped apologizing to the people around me and just kept my eyes on the floor. The longer I waited, the more he screamed, and the more they stared.  And low and behold, there she was, three rows down: the mama with the silent happy baby, checking out at the same time as me. 

shame. anger. frustration. hopelessness. 

The cashier took pity on me and sent another employee along to help me get to the van. Once the groceries were in the trunk, I slumped into the front seat with the screaming banshee. Diaper change, gripe water and nursing were all futile. Nothing would stop him. Nothing. I sat there, staring into his squinted eyes, wondering what I had done wrong...how was a mother of five fully incapable of calming her baby? Why had I been foolish enough to bring him along, to take this risk?

Then she came out.

Baby still tranquil, grocery shopping done. She was there, in all her maternal glory. As I sat in my car, just trying to breathe, she calmly unloaded her food and set her happy baby in his spot in the van. She climbed into the front seat and started the car. But she didn't leave. She just sat there looking down.

I looked away, and tried not to notice that she was still there...until I saw out of the corner of my eye that she was no longer in her van, but was approaching mine. I glanced up to see her standing outside my window with a napkin in hand. 

I rolled down the glass, she handed me the napkin, and I heard her whisper, "Hang in there."

Choking back sobs, I nodded, and she walked back to her van, and drove away.

I looked down into my clenched fist, and through my fountain of tears, saw this:

There are many different types of crying. Some tears are joyful, others not. Some cries are shallow and short-lived. But some cries, and the ones that do the most good, come from deep down in your toes. I sat in that front seat and sobbed, with each breath reaching back to support yet another wave of release. Minutes crawled on, as little man and I shared our burdens through our tears with only the angels to hear us. I cried out of exhaustion, and sadness, and frustration.

But it was more than that.

I cried because, in a moment where I felt that all was lost, and there was no light to be seen, God made it very clear to me that He had not made any mistakes. Through the words of a perfect stranger, God had spoken to the depths of my mothering soul: words of peace and comfort that pulled back the dark veil of despair and filled me instead with something I had lost. Hope.

Eating Words

A few years ago, my sister gave our kids a book called "The Incredible Book Eating Boy".  It's a fantastic, adorable story about a little guy who eats books instead of food, and discovers...well, you should really just read it. *wink*  Anyhoo, he eats books.  Lots of books.

(The Incredible Book Eating Boy, by Oliver Jeffers)

Lately, I've been thinking about eating words.  

The other day at our home school co-op, I had a meandering discussion with a few other moms.  As our babies crawled around the floor or slept in our arms, we talked about our other children and their shenanigans. Someone mentioned the fact that two of her children -put together- might wear a whole outfit around the house: one in just pants, and the other in just a shirt...and she could care less. (We all giggled and nodded agreement.)  Then we proceeded to discuss the joys of getting and keeping children neatly dressed, and how all of us have given up the struggle.  It's just not a battle worth fighting. 

"Before I had kids," said me, "I used to see people out and about with their bedraggled children and think to myself, 'I will NEVER let my kids out of the house looking like that!'  And now...my only requirement is that they pick clothing without noticeable holes."

Those words from my youth have been chewed and swallowed.  In fact, I'm pretty sure that they are fully digested by now.

I think we're all aware that the certainty of our youth slowly disappears as we age and experience life. However, during each phase we tend to come to the conclusion that we are SO much wiser than we were before.  We risk superlatives in our speech and let loose our judgement on generations that are not yet our own, and condemn thoughts and actions that we couldn't possibly understand from our limited vantage point.

In elementary school, I worked pretty hard to be the best.  I was really well behaved, I did all my projects all the way, read extra books, kept my desk extra special neat and tidy, and loooooved my teacher.  Mrs. Haught was so awesome, and I made sure that she knew that.  I was also pretty sure I was her pet, even if I wasn't. But...next to my amazingly clean desk, donned in "thank you" cards and glory, was the desk of a messy little boy.

His space was catastrophic.  Papers were lost for months, and pencils held captive beneath the bedlam that occupied the belly of his school desk.  One day he couldn't find a worksheet, and I volunteered to stay in with him at recess to help him clean out the desk and find it.  This was not an act of mercy. It was the ploy of one who was unsatisfied with the way her neighbor's space was negatively effecting the property value of her own. I remember telling my mother after school that afternoon that I would never let my things be that messy. Never.

*gulp* Moving on...

see? peaceful sisters.

My childhood home was one of peace and order. My dad loves to clean (or was just trained to like it by his mother), and both parents are quiet(ish) people. Two kids, both girls.  That's all. We had the occasional sister fights, but in general, things were silent and there was no risk of bodily harm.  Potty humor was confined to the bathroom. Literally. And most importantly, there was nothing gross. 

This same boy that challenged my notion of proper desk etiquette also blew me away with his uncanny ability to be a lethal combination of crazy, gross, and extra special crazy.  He wasn't the only boy who did this to me, since -because I had no brothers- I had no concept of what little boys were supposed to be like. I only knew that this dude was nuts.  He was able to fart, talk about poop, pick his nose, make fun of girls, and break school rules all in one sentence. I vowed I would NEVER share a space with someone so hideous as him. Eww. Never.

That, folks, is my wonderful third child. (Be sure to turn on the sound to get the full effect.)

-Words eaten.-

Last night, he did that^ for 10 straight minutes while my husband and I laughed until we cried.  I have not only eaten my words, they actually tasted good going down. I am amazed, and slightly jealous of his armpit farting ability. Wow.

In high school, I knew everything. And by everything, I mean that the emotional universe and understanding of life and its purpose were completely within my grasp.  You could tell me nothing new, unless you were also in high school and possessed the same innate understanding of existence...in which case, you were permitted to speak. I'm pretty sure that I don't have room to write all the words I've eaten from that period of my life. Some of my assumptions were more embarrassing than others, but the ones I regret the most were my conclusions about other people and their actions.  

I would never act like her. 

I would never date a guy like that. 

I will never want to be around my parents.

College was a whole new realm of misunderstanding. For the first time in my life, I felt pretty stupid. The liberal arts education tore me down to a basic scaffolding of thought and rebuilt me in a manner that suited an atmosphere of learning with an open mind. This sounds like a good thing.  It pulled many of my assumptions out of their holes by their underwear. After much kicking and screaming, they gave up the fight and were eaten, only to be replaced with more postulations of a very different kind. 

I won't be dependent upon anyone.

I don't need God.

My abilities will carry me through life.

High intelligence is superior to all other things.

Following your desires is a good thing, no matter which direction they lead.

Eaten... every last one.

Since then, with marriage, child bearing, child rearing, and life in general, I've had my fair share of misguided superlatives:

I will follow a career path in music.

I couldn't possibly be a stay at home mom.

I will never have an epidural during childbirth.

I will never turn into my mother.

Homeschooling is ridiculous, and only weird people do it.

I will never use cloth diapers.

I will always make my baby food from scratch.

I will never give my children sugar.

I will never use disposable diapers again.

McDonalds is off the menu.

It goes on and on, back and forth. Over and over I speak something, only to realize down the road that -though that may have been true for that moment in time- it was not an eternal truth. 

There are some words that I never intend to eat. I will always love my children (even when I disagree with their choices or actions). I will never leave my husband except in death. I love and follow a great God that hasn't abandoned me, even when I've been severely misguided in my assumptions, and never will.

Everything else? Well, I've decided that from now on, I will do my best to make statements that don't preclude my need to change, learn and grow. I'm certainly wiser than I was a decade ago, but (God willing) I have so many of those left to live. I sincerely hope that 20 years from now, I'll look back at my 33 yr old self and chuckle at the foolishness and misguided thoughts. But between now and then, I have no doubt that I'll be feasting on my own words, and getting full on the goodness -and craziness- of life lived into wisdom.

The Un-favored Month

"Many hands make light work."  This is true.  And when I feel like doing a good job being a mom and preparing my children for the real world, our kids help with pretty much everything.  14 hands can get a lot done in a very short time.  It's a lot of hands.  However, those little hands are connected to bodies with more energy than I am able to comprehend with my immense brain.  All put together, they could pull Paul Bunyan backwards across Minnesota on any given day, and they have no problem wearing me out before noon. Needless to say, these small bodies -confined to sunless, tiny spaces over a few months time- do not make my work light...or pleasant...or possible.  

Despite the fact that it has the fewest number of days, February is always the longest month of this confinement. December is just delightful with all the anticipation. January has the residue of holidays, and March has the naive and misplaced hope of spring.  

February has Valentine's Day.  

That's like giving your middle child the last sip of your coke after all the other kids have had their turn, and all that's left is carbonated, caramel colored spit.  

...Poor, middle-month February....

And here we are.  Treading water in the dregs left behind by all the favored months.

As I type, my children are lined up in front of Netflix, arguing about which show to watch. One child is making strange squealing noises (not the baby, oddly enough), another is giving unsolicited advice to the squealer, one is demanding the remote control, another is sucking her thumb and rolling her eyes at the general state of things, and the baby is overdue for his nap...and wet.  Oops.

So, how do we cope?  Well, we don't always sit in front of a screen...but they certainly crave it constantly, and would become fully consumed by it if I allowed.  Some days I can force them outside into the cold.  Other days, even grocery shopping provides a reprieve from the confines of a stale house. And let me tell you, after the chaos of navigating THAT labyrinth with five kids, trying to stick to the list and avoid a tantrum in the cereal aisle, these four walls feel like a haven.

This February, however, there was hope.  My parents decided that their Christmas gift to the family would be a weekend away.  A respite in the dead of winter. A shelter from the storm.  A beacon of... {okay, I'm done}. So off we went.  A hotel with a pool, no cooking, a long awaited movie, and a circus.  Extra hands to help with -and love on- our dear, completely insane children.

What an amazingly well-timed gift.

Was it a crazy weekend? Yes.  Did my kids have too much sugar?  Probably. 

Are they currently in withdrawal from all the stimulation?  Oh yeah.  

But wow.  It was so. much. fun.

There are still 18 days left until I can begin dreaming of spring.  I am fully aware that February will still try to torment us with more snow and sub-zero temps and perhaps a stomach bug or two. But my tank is full, and as the Lego Movie so brilliantly proclaims... 

Everything is awesome!