{Incontheivable}

She bobbed her hair and lotht her two front teeth. And now sheeth turning theven. I jutht can't thtand it.

{Candor}

A rare, quiet moment crept its way into my evening. Inspired by the Olympic athletes who proved again and again the potential of humans, I determined that I, too, would choose that moment to somehow better myself.

I escaped to the living room, dug through the basket of books and papers next to the piano, and found some sheet music that I had worked on years ago under the tutelage of my mother. Yes, a little music to soothe the soul, strengthen the mind and exercise the fingers. Just the thing!

I carefully and slowly worked my way through Bach's Air, pleased with the way certain strains came back to my fingers almost automatically. I relaxed and found peace.

And then Miss Kate entered the room. She was not as inspired. "Ahhh!" she shrieked. "It's scary when you play the piano! It's not normal!"

The lamb then covered her ears.

My chord came to a screeching halt. And I instantly recalled why I seldom sit down to play in the first place.

{Reinforce Literary Elements With Original Board Games}

This winter my six-year-old daughter and I thoroughly enjoyed reading Winnie the Pooh together. As we vicariously traversed the Hundred Acre Wood with Pooh, Piglet, and the gang, it occurred to me that the scenes and events in the story would make an excellent board game.

So we decided to make our own. As we did so, I was thrilled with the way it helped reinforce literary elements such as character, setting, and plot.

Continue reading over at The Homeschool Classroom.

{Day 25} :: I Think It's Working

Remember yesterday? The day that I joined my Little Miss Avery Kate at the piano? Well, she noticed.

And she liked it.


Guess what happened this afternoon at about 4:30? "Mom! I'm going to practice my piano! Can you sit down like you did?" My effort yesterday had felt so small. So seemingly insignificant. But to that child at that time, it was perfect. It was exactly what she needed.

I'm sure you can guess what I did at about 4:30 this afternoon. I sat. It was just as giggly as ever. Although I did notice that she avoided asking me to play the duet. I wonder why?

Read about the thirty-one day challenge over here.

Day 10: Choosing Rest

I was again faced with a decision. Rush or rest?

It seems so obvious when printed out. Who would choose to rush when they could choose to find rest? Well, to be honest, I would. It feels productive. Efficient. It means that there are more checks on the list. It looks . . . impressive.

But it's also exhausting.

This morning, as I rushed the children through their school work and prodded them to follow their checklists, I glanced at the empty boxes on Little Miss Avery Kate's "to-do" list. She still needed to do a reading lesson. I could call Drew over to sit with her. I could ask Bethie to do the job. Even Aidan would gladly set his math aside for time with Miss Kate. It would free up some time for me to get in some serious rushing. And then I'd feel really productive. Efficient. Exhausted.



I called my pixie over and set a few books out on the table. "Why don't you come sit on my lap, Sweetie?" I not only knew it would be cozy, but I also figured that having a child on my lap would keep me grounded. I'm not tempted to jump up and fold laundry when weighted down by a six-year-old. (This is perhaps a poor illustration. I'm never tempted to jump up and fold laundry.)

She gladly climbed up and snuggled in. "Which book would you like to read to me?" I questioned.

She cocked her head and said, "Read me a story."

I smiled. "Well, sweetie, I'll read to you in a minute. But right now it's your turn to read to me."

She erupted in giggles. "No! I want to read, Read Me a Story!" When I finally figured out that it was a book title, I too, joined in the belly laughing.

But we kept going for the fun of it. "No, sweetie, it's your turn to read . . . " More belly laughs. It was good, good laughter. The kind I almost missed out on in order to rush away.

We finally stopped giggling and settled in with our book. She read and read as I kept my arms wrapped 'round her waist. I kissed her head, felt her toes curl around my legs. I savored the moment. And I chose rest. It was the right decision.

It usually is.


Read about my thirty-one day challenge over here.

Day 5: When It's Actually a Challenge

This afternoon I did a quick bit of math and calculated that every Wednesday I usually spend between 80 and 120 minutes in the van. I have piano lesson and youth group commutes to thank for this interesting use of time. Now, don't get me wrong. I'm so very grateful that my children have these activities to enrich their lives.

However. Two hours just seems a tad excessive.

Because Wednesdays are so packed, I rarely take time to sit in quiet. Yes, I sit in the van. But it's certainly not quiet and focused. (Unless you count me trying desperately to focus on the vehicle in front of me while tuning out the piercing shrieks with which Miss Kate somehow feels compelled to communicate.)

So sitting? Yes. Peace and quiet? Ha.

I realized that I'd have to be particularly intentional today in finding my focused sitting time. It wasn't automatic. I had to stop myself in my tracks and say, "No. Don't clean. Don't organize. Sit with your child."

Bath time with Miss Kate turned out to be one such moment. Rather than toss her in with the vague promise that I'd check back at some point, I chose to kneel on the floor, pulling myself completely into her presence.

As I scrubbed the little knees and lathered the shampoo, we decided to play "Talk through the day." It was simple but meaningful to recall the highlights of our day, especially from her perspective. We made our way as chronologically as possible, from the moment she first woke up to the present.

I looked into her eyes, I listened to her words. I waited patiently as her mind took off on a dozen rabbit trails. And a dozen more. Because I'm realizing that that's the sitting that really matters. And I'm eager to do it again tomorrow.

Your Six-Year-Old

I just read about a series of books that highlight, year by year, the developmental progression of children.



Starting at age one and continuing through the teens, parents can learn about each stage in order to understand how to best relate to their child.



I was not surprised to find that the sixth year book was entitled, Your Six-Year-Old: Loving and Defiant.



I will be picking up a copy tomorrow.

Mummies, Panda Cake and Patrick Henry

My Little Miss Avery Kate loves to read. She has thoroughly enjoyed the challenge of taking part in the summer reading program through our local library. Each time we log her reading minutes online, she has an opportunity to share a brief review of books read. I found her most recent summaries to be rather entertaining:

Mummies Made in Egypt
by Aliki

"They take a dead person and then they put it onto a table and then they cut the person that's dead on their belly, two cuts, and then they put some sort of cloth in them. And then they leave it and it dries up."

(I like her distinction here. They cut the person that's dead. Not some other person.)



Panda Cake
by Rosalie Seidler

"A mother panda was going to make a cake. And then she asked her boys to go to take some food so she could make some cake. And then the baby pandas, they left and then the recipe was apples, bamboo shoots, honey, eggs, cherries, sunflower seeds and then that's all. But the younger cub went off to the fair! Without spending any of mama's money to buy the food! And the other baby panda spent mama's money on the fair. He got no cake."

(I'm not sure which is a worse fate. Two cuts in the belly . . . or no cake?)



Now, lest you think I have two children named Little Miss Avery Kate, I will confirm that this sweet book-loving girl is indeed the same child who often puts up quite a fuss at bedtime. Yes, there are times when she crawls cheerfully into bed with a stack of books at her side. Alas, these nights are few and far between.

The other night was definite proof that this mama needs to be in earnest prayer.

Miss Kate's eyes narrowed, revealing a pair of steely beads. Arms folded tightly across her chest, hair framing her red face like a wild mane, she stomped her foot and shouted, "Give me liberty, or give me death!"

My pixie got no books that night.

Enough is Enough

I'm not quite sure why it is that children ignore the need to use the bathroom. I suppose they're just so caught up in what they're doing at the time that the hassle of leaving the room and taking care of business is just too much work.

I had an interesting conversation with Miss Kate yesterday about the importance of regular visits to the powder room. It went something like this:

Me: "Avery, I want you to be sure and go potty right away when you feel like you need to go." And, feeling the desperate need to include a consequence I added, "If you keep yourself from going potty, you could get an infection."

Miss Kate: "And?"

Me: "And we'd have to go to the doctor."

Miss Kate: "And?"

Me: "And you'd have to take some medicine to get better."

Miss Kate: "And?"

Me: "And isn't that enough?"

Miss Kate: "Not for me it isn't."

This girl likes her information, and she wants as much as she can get.

Lately we've been praying for several friends and family members who are struggling with illnesses, disease, emotional turmoil, and even death. It's been a season of aching as we carry the burdens of so many to the Lord. Miss Kate's little ears have been perpetually perked up to catch any details that she can. She's fascinated by specifics and asks us to tell her the stories again and again, especially if it involves a child. She wants to see the pictures, learn about the procedures, understand the process. A pat answer is never enough.

Hmmm. Sounds familiar. I've been processing Psalm 46:10 for months now. It's a familiar verse, yet the more I think about it, the more complex it becomes: "Be still and know that I am God . . . ." Upon first glance, I am comforted. I picture the gentle mother lulling her fretting baby, "Hush, my child. Mama's here . . . . "

Yet when I read the words in my New American Standard version, I find that it carries a very different tone: "Cease striving and know that I am God . . . ." I no longer picture the gentle mother. I picture the God of the universe with something that sounds almost -- dare I say it -- like a reprimand: "Stop trying so hard! Don't you know that I and I alone am God?"

And I know it's so. I'm trying too hard. I'm trying too hard to be good, to earn points, to keep my ducks in a row, to keep control of the situation. Like Avery, I'm given a single piece of information: "Trust me, child." And, like Avery, I'm not satisfied. I strive and ask, "And?" What else can I do? What else can I know? How hard can I try? It can't be enough just to trust.

But if I strive against the trusting, where does that leave my faith? I run the risk of living a life that suggests that perhaps God isn't to be trusted, after all. The work He has done, the things that He has promised, the words He has spoken . . . are not enough. I strive. And in so doing, I try to replace God.

This is a terrifying place to be.

I continue with the Psalm to gain some perspective, to get my feet back onto firm ground: "Cease striving and know that I am God. I will be exalted among the nations. I will be exalted in the earth." Do you see it? The confidence? The promise? "I am . . . I will . . . I will . . . ." Our God is not timid or passive. His glory and honor do not depend upon my acknowledgement or upon my trust. They will remain forever regardless of my actions. And I am a fool if I suggest that anything or anyone else deserves such exaltation.

The words of Spurgeon come back to me with a healing affirmation of that which I've always known to be true:

My faith rests not upon what I am, or shall be, or feel, or know,
but in what Christ is, in what he has done,
and in what He is now doing for me.

His track record is perfect. He is the God of the universe, and His desire is to wildly live and love through my simple little life.

I can cease striving. I can trust. That is enough.

My Flibbertigibbet

Miss Kate appears to be hatching a plan once again. I'm not sure what will come of the hammering and taping and digging-through-of-Mommy's-desk. Perhaps she's not even sure. But once she gets started, there's no stopping her.

It only adds to the charm that she's wearing a pink smiley-face leotard and humming, "How do you solve a problem like Maria" in a remarkably shrill voice. (This is much easier on my nerves, however, than yesterday's experiment which involved Miss Kate answering all of my questions in a horrific, monotone singing voice. It was a true test of my endurance.)



Oh, wait. The hammering and singing have ceased. She's now moved on to the Perler Beads. The plan is to "decorate my whole room with Perler Beads!"

(two minutes later . . .)

Scratch that. It was apparently a short-lived dream. Now she's heading out the front door . . . . If you'll excuse me, I have a tornado to catch.

Ain't We Got Fun?

The other night at the dinner table, Little Miss Avery Kate ranked our family members according to funniness. I was a tad nervous to hear the results. Daddy, of course, was the funniest one of all. I've forgotten the ranking of the others, but I certainly haven't forgotten mine: Last. Dead last. I'm the least funny person in the Lawson home. Leave it to a five-year-old to tell it like it is.

I figured I'd try and gauge her system. "So Daddy is super, super, super funny, Aidan is super funny . . . and Mommy is just regular funny?" This was not her system. She wrinkled her brow and looked at me as though I was terribly misinformed. "You're not funny."

Oh. Not funny at all.

I'm slowly recovering from the blow. It still rankles a bit. She wasn't being mean. Indeed, I get frequent reminders that I'm her "best mommy ever!" I'm just not a "funny" mommy. But aren't "best mommies" supposed to be just a little bit funny? Maybe they're not necessarily supposed to make weird noises or quote Nacho Libre with flawless accents, but still. Ain't we got fun?

This weekend, I got my chance to be a fun mom. Jamie took the boys out for the evening. Inspired by a couple of friends who are super creative when it comes to pampering their daughters (hello, Heidi and Kelly), I decided that we would have our very own, at-home spa night. I really built it up. And they were excited.

A bubble bath was first on the agenda. The lights were dimmed, and I served the girls ice water as they soaked in the tub, surrounded by candles and classical music. Doesn't that sound nice? You would think so. But you're forgetting about Miss Kate. "I don't like this music. I want Bach." We listened to Bach.

I asked if the girls would like a towel rolled behind their necks and brought in dishes of sliced strawberries. Doesn't that sound nice? You would think so. But you're forgetting about Miss Kate. "I just wanna play. Like a real bath." I eventually convinced her of the merits of a relaxed soak.



I wrapped their little heads in towels and escorted them downstairs for massages, manicures, and a movie. We started a cute Shirley Temple film . . . . "I don't like this movie." (We watched Little Women instead.) I massaged their arms and legs with lavender body lotion, I painted their nails a dark color, and I put Avery's hair in sponge rollers, Bethie's in french braids so they could wake up in the morning with lovely hairdos.



For the grand finale we enjoyed strawberries dipped in chocolate. Bethie was aglow. And Miss Kate, you ask? Well . . . . Maybe I wasn't quite clear with her in the beginning about what a spa night would entail. She found it to be . . . lacking. "Where's the other stuff? I thought you said we were gonna do lots of stuff."

I was under the impression that we had done lots of stuff. I was also under the impression that we had fun. Actually, we did have fun. It was a wonderful, girlie kind of night. I bet even Miss Kate herself would not be opposed to taking part in another spa night sometime (assuming certain criteria were met . . . .)

So maybe I'm not a "funny" mom. Not funny at all. But that doesn't mean I can't be fun, right? I'm working at it. (If the zip line isn't proof, then I'm sunk.) In an attempt to increase my fun-ness, I would love to hear from you. How are you a "fun" parent to your kids? What makes them laugh? Are you a wild and crazy mom? I need some ideas. And quick. Miss Kate is starting to cry.

Perspective

There are many things that bug me. Many things. For instance . . . .

1. When walking through the kitchen in my socks, my foot unexpectedly meets with a puddle of water. This I don't like.

2. When entering the kids' bathroom, I see a brand new tube of toothpaste half squeezed out. This I really don't like.

3. When brushing through my child's hair, I find a nest of gum. This I really, really don't like.


Shift.


There are many things that delight me. Many things. For instance . . .

1. Understanding that the puddle of water was created by an ice cube that fell out of Miss Kate's water bottle. She likes her water to be so cold: "As cold as Neptune!" So she calls it Neptune juice. This, I like.

2. Understanding that, in her excitement to move on to something else, Miss Kate accidentally leaned right on top of that toothpaste tube: "Honest, Mom!" This, I really like.

3. Understanding that the gum will come out. It's come out before. It will come out again. And this time, big sister offers to do the job. From the peanut butter smearing right down to the thorough bathing. This, I really, really like.



All it takes is a shift.

Vignettes

The elephant on the roof was the first indicator that the weekend might be a tad unusual. I offer you, here today, a series of weekend vignettes.


(This has nothing to do with the elephant on the roof. Just some cuteness I wanted to share.)

Scene One: The Purple House

I should clarify that I already knew there was an elephant on the roof. But Little Miss Avery Kate did not. And she didn't believe me, either. Now, Miss Kate prefers to stay home. In her jammies. This is not always conducive to productivity and errand-running. So sometimes mama needs to say things like, "It's okay! We'll get to see the elephant on the purple house on our way home from gymnastics today!"

It happened to be April 1st. She was, understandably, rather dubious. But, I kid you not, we passed the purple house, the roof of which is adorned with various large safari figures. The elephant's trunk is raised as if saluting the nearby crocodile, while the tiger is posed charmingly in the corner. We craned our necks long enough to catch sight of a gorilla. We all looked to Avery, expecting her to clap with glee. Her response? "It wasn't very funny. Not funny at all." I'm not sure what this child requires in order to be amused.

Scene 2: The Park

Saturday morning dawned bright and promising. I proposed that we head to the park to enjoy the surprise sunshine. Drew and Bethie were away for the afternoon, so I bundled up Aidan and Avery for the jaunt. Naturally, we wore our winter coats. Because that's just what you do in the Pacific Northwest. By the time we had biked to the park, the wind had picked up. Considerably. I pulled my hood tightly over my head, but it kept blowing off. Avery complained about the hair in her face. Her legs were tired. We stood there, disoriented. Thankfully I had remembered the Law of the Wild which, according to Annie Dillard is, "Carry Kleenex." We wiped noses, attempted the swing, and finally found shelter behind the bathrooms. Going to the park should not be a painful experience. We went home. Just before it started to hail.

Scene 3: The front yard

After the hail subsided, the sun shone once again. Miss Kate informed me that it was perfect kite-flying weather. So she made her very own kite. The diamond-shaped paper was criss-crossed with an extremely sturdy crayola marker frame which was very liberally taped in place. The pink yarn tail was adorned with Kleenex, pinched just so in the middle in order to form lovely, frail little bows. But the best part was the "Watch me, Mama!" that issued from my girl's lips as she headed out the front door in her coat, scarf and hat. Up and down the sidewalk she dragged that merry kite. Cheeks flushed, head tossed back, sheer joy personified. It was contagious. Cars passed, passengers pointing and smiling. Joy caught. Joy shared.

Scene 4: The Family Room

She announced that the parade was about to begin. We took our places on the couch (it was raining again) and waited eagerly. The familiar strains of some ancient VBS album floated through the room, and in came the star of the show. Clad in a pink leotard, she reached into her shoulder bag and began to throw note cards and rolls of toilet paper at the applauding audience. This is a perfectly normal thing to do if you have been raised in a town that boasts a paper mill. Every single parade that Miss Kate has attended has featured rolls of toilet paper being hurled violently toward screaming fans. It's a sight to behold. The note cards, in case you were wondering, were individually penned, "Evry buty hav a good time."

Scene 5: The Kitchen



I've been trying to say "yes" to my children more often. This means that strange things often happen, such as marshmallows being roasted over the stove or plum pits appearing nonchalantly alongside clay figures. I'm a bit nervous about the pocket knife that Drew nearly landed on when going to bed last night, however. Apparently little brother was on the top bunk whittling away at a stick or something. Will need to do some investigating into the matter.

Scene 6: The Boys' Room, 1:50 a.m.

Of all the unusual things that have happened in the last few days, perhaps the most remarkable is the fact that this wee boy



suddenly morphed into this young man:



It happened at 1:50 a.m. this morning. He became a teenager. This boy who used to call me "Mother Bear," this boy who used to be obsessed with dump trucks and garbage trucks, this boy who used to sleep with the Field Guide to Birds of North America and the yard debris schedule tucked under his pillow, this boy who casually dropped comments such as, "The isopod is a parasite that lives on swordfish . . . ." at age six. This boy, now thirteen.

I've been told by the wise women that it goes by quickly. I've been told to enjoy these days, because they are fleeting. I've been told that I will look back on the diaper days with fondness and longing. I'm here to tell you that those wise women were absolutely right.

But I'm also here to tell you that I'm thrilled at what lies ahead. True, this child no longer pretends to be an aardvark or Thomas the Tank Engine. Instead, he hangs out with his friends, dribbles a ball non-stop and has an appreciation for electronics. But this same young man also makes his mother tea. He reads to her. He tends lovingly and creatively to his volatile little sister, expertly distracting her when the "tantrooms" threaten. If this is any indication of what's to come, I say bring it on. I welcome with open arms, Drew, my teenage son.

Yes, it was a good weekend.

I Love You More

She always said, "I love you more than you love me." We laughed and argued back, "No, Mommy! I love you more than you love me!" The volley continued until she trumped us with the final, "I loved you . . . before you were born . . . ." And that settled it. She always won. But never was a victory so precious to the "defeated." We knew we were loved.

I've grown since then, and now the volley continues with my own children. They insist that they love me more. Aidan tries to prove his point with an impressive boast: "I love you an infinity and ninety-nine!" Drew helps him out by defining a googolplex. Bethie relents and says, "Oh, Mommy . . . ." And Avery insists that she loves me more because she cries for me. I answer back, grinning, with the challenge, "Well, I cry for you, too . . . ."

She thinks I'm being silly. But she doesn't understand.

She doesn't understand that I really do cry for her. I cry tears of joy for the beauty in her. I cry tears of agony for the trials she must face. I cry tears of anger over the conflicts we experience and then I cry tears of frustration over the war I must wage to defeat my own selfishness.



But I also cry tears of thanksgiving. Because I know that there is One who loves her even more. This same One who trumps all because He loved me . . . before I was born. He wins the game every time. He, the triumphant King, holds her tenderly in the palm of His hand and calls her by name. And He does the same for me.

She and I, we sit together in our Father's presence, both loved more than we could ever imagine. Beyond infinity and ninety-nine, beyond a googolplex, beyond a ba-zillion. We are always loved . . . more.