{Shadow Puppet Shows}

These dark and cold winter nights just beg for some old fashioned fun — snacking on popcorn near a crackling fire, reading stories while sipping hot cider, or hovering over a jigsaw puzzle to press in that final piece. As the winter wears on, however, you might find that you’ve exhausted your resources and could use a new diversion. Why not try a shadow puppet show?

Join me over at The Homeschool Classroom today to continue reading . . .

{Table Talk, Christmas Style}

Last night as we sat around the dinner table, something in my foggy brain snapped and I realized that Jamie and I had become too distracted by our own thoughts to see what was happening. The children had stealthily taken over the conversation which quickly turned into much loudness and rudeness which in turn made my head throb. I don't mind lively children. I do, however, mind lively children who absently drag their hair through the soup or land their elbows in the butter because the level of activity has gotten way out of hand.

It was time to switch gears. We often rely on a "question of the day" when we need to guide the conversation around the dinner table. Because it's the Christmas season, I offered a couple of easy-peasy questions to get the banter headed in a more civilized direction. Each person took turns sharing their favorite:

Christmas song
Christmas treat
Christmas movie

I tried not to frown when Aidan contributed "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer," and Jamie tried not to frown when I called Meet Me in St. Louis a "Christmas" movie (I chose White Christmas instead). But overall it was a merry ending to what could have been a rather volatile evening.

We were even calm enough by bedtime to quietly light the candles for our Jesse Tree devotions. (And by "quietly" I mean that Little Miss didn't shout as she read the Word of God, she just bellowed.)


One of the Family by Frederich Cotman, 1880

{Housebound}

I'd forgotten (silly me) how messy the house gets when it starts to rain. The kids get this housebound, feverish, nervous energy, and it manifests itself in an explosion of LEGOs, blanket forts, papers, pencils (left on the couch!), books, balls, boxes, puzzles . . . you get the drift.

Sometimes I have to remind myself that this kind of messy is a good kind of messy. It's creative, it's productive, and it serves to further develop my kids' relationships with each other.

It's also extremely loud.

And sometimes downright hilarious.

Maybe being housebound isn't so bad, after all.

{Soup Time}

Fall is a whirl of activity, sweeping by like the birch leaves that litter our sidewalk. It's my favorite time of year. I used to think it had something to do with my birthday being in the fall. And then one day I learned that my birthday is not in the fall. It's really on the tail-end of summer. I was a bit discouraged when I realized that. Oh, well. It's still my favorite time of year.

I think of sweaters and steaming mugs of cocoa, the thick smell of smoke rising from the chimneys as I take my afternoon walk, little girls in plaid skirts and Mary Janes, thick books, sharpened pencils . . . and I think of soup.

So last week I hatched a soup plan. You see, I could eat soup every day. And it makes such a great lunch. So I decided that Saturday would be my Soup Making Day. (We shall see how long my enthusiasm lasts.) Last week I made a big pot of Chicken Stew with Butternut Squash and Quinoa. I stored it away in the fridge, and on Monday during our morning break I popped it on the stove. By the time I had returned from my crispy-blustery pre-lunch walk, I had a nice, hot pot of soup waiting for me. It was such a treat, and it saved me a bunch of time.

The kids were divided on this particular recipe (and Certain People omitted the tomatoes, as shown above), but overall they gave it a fairly good rating. Inspired by our latest family read, All-of-a-Kind Family, I served each child a small mug of soup as a "first course." It really is a delightful read. Set during the turn of the century, the author describes the lunch hour when the children come home from school:

All of Mama's family liked soup. They learned to like it because Mama always served it at the beginning of her dinner. There was a strict rule about not wasting any food in Mama's house. This rule had been made into a chant by the children: No soup, no meat. No meat, no vegetables. No vegetables, no fruit. No fruit, no penny.

In order to get the next thing, they had to give a decent crack at the first thing on the menu. (I've done this with dinner salad, too, and it works marvelously. We pretend like we're at a restaurant, and I serve the salad first. Once the plates are empty, they receive the main dish.)

So at lunch on Monday, they were hungry and would eat anything. After they had given the soup a fair shot, they were welcome to either have more soup (Bethie and Aidan took me up on this) or make a sandwich if they still had a rumbly in their tumbly. (They also wondered if they might get a penny. Or perhaps a nickel. Inflation, you know.) 

The soup lasted for three days. I even had enough to bring to my kiddos' piano teacher and her husband. (Yes, they happen to be my parents.) Bethie suggested, "We should bring soup for Noni's lunch every week!" And I agreed.

You see, our whirl of activity brings us to my parents' every Wednesday for lessons. I bring school work for the kids, but one of my favorite things to do is to curl up with my Little Miss for some Beatrix Potter. Today we enjoyed The Tale of Two Bad Mice. She finds this particular story to be quite naughty. (Which means she loves it.) Often, the autumn sun pours through the family room window, casting a patch of light on the floor. I've been known to curl up right in that spot, cat-like, to soak in the warmth as the scales run up and down the piano, with Little Miss at my side. With the smell of soup warming on the stove, it's like a taste heaven.

* * * * * * *

I'm eager to try some new soups as I develop my routine. I might stick with a favorite -- Zuppa Toscana -- this week (oh, so good), but I do love trying new recipes, too. Especially at the recommendation of others. Let me know if you have a favorite, and feel free to share a link if you have one. My tummy thanks you in advance. (And so does my mother.)

{Iambic Quadrameter at Its Finest}

Newsflash: It's SUNNY and HOT in the Pacific Northwest.

I'm aware that "talking about the weather" is about as unoriginal a topic as can be. But. We've had some pretty decent summer weather around here, which has made for some fun excursions.

It's also addled my brain, so I shan't write much. Or well.

Nonetheless, I offer a series of rhyming descriptions. Just for you.

The Pacific Ocean has lots of sand;

I can hold it in my hand!

Brother can float in country or city,
 

While little sister holds . . . a kitty.

Paddling with cousins is lots of fun,

Especially when Auntie and Clara come. 

 Little Boy Blue dangles his feet,

While big brother, Ethan, dries off in the heat.

Two sweet pixies splash in the pool:

While crazy cousins try to keep cool.

The drinking fountain has lemonade;

And dear old Maizy stays in the shade.

The End.

{Anticipation}

I asked them if they wanted to do it again. They lit up. "Yes!" And they started to spout out their dreams for the summer.

Their enthusiasm was a balm to my soul. I started to get excited, too.

I'm dreaming about the books I'll read, the hikes we'll take and the projects I'll finish. I'm envisioning Pinterest projects finally realized. (The girls are excited that it involves their room.)

I pulled out my sketchbook-journal and mapped out the chart. The framework of what may be. It's a blank canvas right now. Hopeful. Waiting. Expectant.

But soon, little hands will scribble their own goals across the lines.

We'll keep the goals realistic. (Sorry, dear, no Disneyland.) Measurable. (Great job knitting that dishcloth!) And fun. (Camping, anyone?)

As we've done in the past, each person will choose three things they'd like to accomplish in each category: Three places they'd like to go, three things they'd like to do and three books they'd like to read. (You can read more about our system over here.) 

This year I'm going to suggest that we each broaden our scope. I'd love to see each person's "to do" section include one area of service and one measurable project completed.

In the reading department I'm going to encourage them to choose from a variety of genres. Biographies are always intriguing and inspiring. (And they have a way of changing us. My friend and I, after recently reading about the unique life of Tasha Tudor, had an irresistible urge to walk around in dresses while sipping tea, tending our gardens and milking the goats. So far the tea sipping is the most realistic part of this dream.)

The sun is bright and hopeful this morning. The breeze dances in whispers across the treetops as Miss Kate plays out back with Maizy. She hollers, "Mom! Come jump on the trampoline with me!"

It's obvious she's been listening to the Newsies soundtrack again. The song she's humming? Seize the Day.

{Bird Watching: How to Cultivate a Family Hobby}

When my oldest, who is now approaching high school, was still a bubbly little pre-schooler, I loved to watch him climb up onto my dad’s lap so they could flip through the bird guide together. He frequently ran to the window, pointed his chubby finger toward the trees and announced, “Look, Papa! A Chestnut-backed Chickadee!”

And that was all it took to get the whole family hooked on birds.


Join me over at The Homeschool Classroom today to continue reading!

{Passing By}

My mom, sister and I compared emotions and goosebumps on Saturday and it was unanimous: Parades are so great. And downright emotional, too.

The ceremony, the precision, the patriotism.

Uniforms, rhythm, flash and sparkle. What's not to love?

(If you ask Miss Kate, she'd say that clowns are not to love. "Noni? Please warn me if a clown comes to talk to me." Noni warned.)

For six years I was in marching band, so I was especially goosebumpy when the schools marched by. Plumed hats at attention, white shoes gliding along the pavement, instruments catching the flash of sunlight overhead.

But the most exciting part about this year's parade is that my Bethie took part.

Her gymnastics team sparkled, twirled and tumbled down the main drag, and it was beautiful. She looked so tall and stately. So confident and poised. My girl.

We screamed and waved. She beamed and waved back.

She continued down the avenue and I wanted to follow. I wanted to walk with her for the rest of the route, watching her sparkle and shine. Watching others watch her.

But that wouldn't do. I knew there would be other friends and family members along the route to cheer her on. She could do this one without me.

So I let her pass by. I reveled in the moment, hastily wiped a tear and returned to the other children. Children who had blue popsicle tongues and sticky hands and bags full of candy.

They, too, will have their moments to sparkle and shine.

Moments where I'll watch and let them pass me by. I won't be able to follow.

But that doesn't mean that I can't scream and cheer, wipe the mascara-streaked tears from my face, and revel in the beauty of a child becoming, a child growing up.

{Time Travel}

It happened again. You know, that thing where I turn into my mother.

We've been living in my "growing up house" for over a month now, and whenever someone asks, "Isn't it weird?" I say, "Yes . . . and no."

It is weird to be "the mom" in this home, and it is weird to feel like I'm living in a land where time warps and plays tricks on me. I'm young and old and in between all at once.

But it's not weird like creepy weird. It's more like a feeling of awe. And gratitude.

* * * * * 

I rest on the lawn with my book and every other page or so I'm compelled to gaze up at the trio of birch trees towering over the house. The trees that my dad planted when I was Aidan's age. Their silvery leaves shimmer in the afternoon sun, a foil against the blue sky beyond. I'm almost certain that if I look closely enough I'll catch a glimpse of the fairies darting from limb to limb.

A hummingbird startles me. She's found the new feeder. I welcome our new guest and return to Dickens.

I wonder who's practicing the cello and inwardly congratulate the diligent young student who keeps at it, even on a sunny Saturday afternoon. And then I realize it's a bullfrog, his sonorous song carried across the marsh. I laugh.

* * * * *

My mother heard these sounds, gazed at those leaves (or, at least the ancestor leaves), and marveled at the same blue expanse.

But the thing that most startled me in this maternal transformation happened yesterday. The kids, hot and excited, jumped up and down shouting, "Can we go to the ice cream shop? We'll ride our bikes!" They've discovered the thrill of having quaint convenience stores and shops withing walking distance, just as my sister, brother and I did.

I agreed that it was a good day to pedal and happily joined them. On my mother's bike. She and Dad went for the more modern mountain bikes several years ago, so I happily inherited the vintage Schwinn (with a seat to die for).

If ever I've felt like my mother it was at that moment. The moment when I trailed in back of three children and followed that same route. The route that we used to take every summer for two weeks to Vacation Bible School.

Equally sentimental is the fact that Bethie has inherited my old bike, lovingly restored by Papa. She pedaled ahead with Aidan and Avery, just as I had pedaled along with Johnny and Krista.

We arrived at our destination and the kids made their selections. There was no hurry, no reason to rush. We sat down and rested in the warm sun, enjoying the dripping cones and neighborhood hum. I waited and let the children make the request to head home.

I suggested that we swing through the old church parking lot, the place where we had lined up for Vacation Bible School and, years later, the place where Jamie proposed to me. For it was there that we met. The children were properly awed, yet eager to get home.

We followed the road toward the birches and bullfrogs until we approached The Hill. I couldn't resist the temptation to zip down that hill. It's a great zipping hill. Once upon a time we had races to see how far we could coast before stopping. It's in my blood. I followed the urge, unleashed, and flew down that hill. I was eight and ten and fifteen and thirty-six all at once. Free, fully me. 

Into the driveway we soared: home. The home where I get to play house -- for real -- and be the mom. A mom who is daily filled with gratitude for the woman who taught her to be one.

{A la Dr. Seuss}

Books are here and books are there.

We would read them anywhere.

We would read them in a group.

We would read them with our soup.

 We would read them in a box.

We would read them in our socks.

On the floor or in a chair,

Books are with us everywhere.

{Wedding Adventures, Part II: In Which We Cry, Hustle and Finally Swim}

My apologies for the awkward lapse in time between parts one and two of the wedding adventures. I was kidnapped by a band of mischievous fairies who have only now released me to my writing.


As we made our way into Abbotsford, British Colombia, my only regret was that I had used the "s" word in Little Miss Avery Kate's presence. This should never have happened, and it haunted me for a full 30 hours. But it's true. I said it: "You'll get to go swimming at the hotel!"

That word firmly lodged in her brain, and throughout our trip every other sentence involved her jumping up and down begging, "When do we get to go swimming?!"

Now, for the adults in the group, the wedding was obviously the main event. It was why we were there, and our energies joyously poured into getting ready for the celebration. But the children were lured by other temptations. Such as swimming. And vending machines.

So it was unfortunate that, on Saturday morning, my sister and I casually mentioned that they could go swimming after breakfast.

It was not one of our more lucid moments.

With only a few hours until the wedding and my sister's involvement in helping the groom's family with preparations, it was ridiculous to think that we could sneak in a swim before donning the wedding finery.

When the reality hit me, I approached Miss Kate with fear and trembling: "Honey, we won't be able to go swimming until later. We'll go after the reception, though! It will be so fun to go swimming at night!" (This with excessive raising of eyebrows on my part.)

She handled it more stoically than I expected. This might have had something to do with Papa's expert iPad distraction techniques.

The morning quickly wore on, and it was soon time to prepare for the big event. The girls were bathed and curled and pressed and primped. Finally, with Dad waiting patiently at the door (I was reminded of the many, many Sunday mornings that involved Dad waiting and waiting at the front door for his girls), we headed toward the chapel.

I have since referred to this part of our trip as a taste of heaven. You know those moments when your heart simply overflows to the point of bursting? It was one of those moments. Friends and family gathered to witness the joining of two remarkable, godly people who publicly declared their devotion to God and each other with clarity and conviction.

The groom, our pastor's son, stood with his siblings and close friends surrounding him, and I couldn't help but feel a sense of pride. Tears welled as I gazed at the beautiful people before me -- people that I had the privilege of babysitting long ago. People who played dress-up and giggled wildly and wore baffling cloth diapers that required the use of pins. People who provided a nurturing environment for a teenage girl to learn about caring for others.

These people, grown. Strong, beautiful and faithful.

And so the bride and groom became one. We laughed and cried as the bridal party made their way toward the reception hall.

It was at this point that I again regretted the use of the "s" word. Miss Kate, squirming from the pew onto my lap hissed, "Do we get to go swimming now?"

I distracted her with Altoids and informed her that we would go after the reception.

We made our way to the reception, settled down at a table and attempted to mingle pleasantly while the hissing continued. "When do we get to go swimming?" She was rather offended when she realized that a reception usually lasts a number of hours. Nonetheless, she persisted in reminding me with alarming regularity that we were going to go swimming right after the reception.

The bride and groom took the dance floor, and my girl was finally distracted. She gazed on the couple with her sister and cousin nearby, and I could imagine their little hearts fluttering with the tender hope of what might someday be in store for them.

When the invitation was issued for everyone to join in, we made our way to the dance floor. Miss Kate adamantly declared that she would not dance and firmly planted herself at the table. And so my sister, mom and I approached the floor with Bethie and Alainna, just in time to learn the hustle. The groom's sister, Sarah, led us all with charming, clear instructions (she's a teacher and truly sparkled in this role) and we attempted to follow.

For some reason I have always thought of myself as somewhat coordinated and at least slightly in shape. This hustle quickly proved otherwise. I am neither. But we sure had a lot of fun.

We made our way back to the table where Miss Kate was waiting. I anticipated her demand. "We'll still be at the reception for a while, honey. But think of how fun it will be to swim after your bedtime! You'll be up so late!" I got some mileage out of that one. We even watched her sneak in a dance with Papa (although she still insists that she did not dance).

At last the toasts were made and the bride and groom were whisked away. I glanced at the clock and was a tad nervous on Miss Kate's behalf. It was 9:30. The pool would close at 10:00. There were still many people with whom I had hoped to visit, but a girl clinging to a swimsuit and a promise is not to be crossed.

We raced to the hotel with fifteen minutes to spare. I felt guilty. Here she'd been waiting all weekend for this moment, and I hand her a measly fifteen minutes. But she slipped into her swimsuit and threw herself into that pool as though she were the happiest creature on earth.

As the girls splashed and giggled, my sister's mother-in-law joined us with a perfect bit of good news. She'd approached the front desk and explained the girls' thwarted swimming plans. The security guard kindly offered to keep the pool open until 10:30. Just for us. The girls were over the moon. A whole pool, all to themselves. At night. When they were supposed to be sleeping.

Needless to say, they thoroughly enjoyed themselves. We basked in the joy of childhood bliss and wedding memories, savoring the splashing little women who will all too soon be creating wedding memories of their own.

Sunday morning dawned and our weekend drew to a close. We piled back into the car, said our goodbyes and headed down toward the border. We weren't quite as nervous about the crossing on this end. The guard feigned displeasure and, upon viewing a back seat full of wild little girls demanded, "Where are you taking these brats?"

I sighed just one perfect word: "Home." And we giggled our way back into the country.