You can't be happy all the time.

It's Friday and I feel it in my bones. The day began with baby crying and is ending with me thinking about it. There are many things that could be said about me, but the one I know is true is that I give being a mother 100 percent. The discouraging thing is that sometimes it's really hard to see that it has accomplished very much.
Overall it was a good day. Co-op is so much fun. The kids get a chance to bond and stretch and use the things we're learning at home in new ways. Kurt came along, and neither of us could resist hunting up the kids and peeking in on their classes. I don't know why, but somehow by the end of classes a creeping ennui had me saying yes to a chocolate shake. I associate milkshakes with being sad. We went to the shoe store for the usual chaos of fitting everyone out in new sneakers. We did get them buy one get one half off, which for us is a great savings.
Tomorrow we'll be visiting with family from the east coast, so I won't be able to write. Once we'd unloaded the van, I took off to get my haircut. I made more of a production of it than usual adding the special tea treatment and getting it styled. I don't know why, but sometimes I just hate having all that hair. It's pretty short. After the haircut I went to Barnes and Noble with two goals--one, use up a gift card and two, write something. I failed at both objectives.
I edited the most recent bit I took to group. I counted the almost tens bits of manuscripts that need to typed. I despaired of getting the timeline for the New York trip in order. Then I faced the real issue. I don't think I've done enough to get my kids ready for the world. My childhood there was that heavy axe we all had to grind and as soon as you were old enough you picked it up and off you went. I'm not so clear as to what I want to give my kids. I want them to know God, but I'm not dogmatic about how. I want them to have some knowledge of the many ideas that are the basis of human culture, but it's hard for me to be sure which ones to include and which to ignore. I had hoped to ignite in them a passion for the treasures of literature that have enlivened generations of human beings. At this moment my only victory is an enjoyment of Chaucer.
The problem is probably more about the general weariness than it is about any actual failure, but I'm at the point of being fairly certain I'll send the kids to the local highschool when the time comes. They could use the opportunity to practice making friends and to learn how to navigate the culture that is so very different from our quiet life at home before they are thrown in the deep end in college. I hate the idea even though it's probably the best one. Highschool is when everything gets interesting. I guess I've just flunked myself as their teacher.

From Madam Blueberry to Cinderella

For the first time since my turbo-charged Nissan 200SX that could talk, I'm driving a Japanese car. Previously we've bought American, either Chevy or Ford. We wanted to continue, but neither offered a vehicle that can seat all of us at a price we can afford or a size our garage can accommodate. Originally we'd selected the Chevy Tahoe, but when we went to see the version that seats eight it had no cargo room and no leg room for the final row of seats. We've been driving two vehicles whenever we needed to go somewhere as a family, and the two tanks of gas at this time in history is awful.
We were very frustrated and just googled "seats eight." The Honda Odyssey was the best for us, but it has been hard to think of buying a foreign car. Owning the car is much easier. We took it out for a Sunday drive yesterday, and we all fell in love with our "Cinderella." She has great features including leather seats that have been covered with some kind of super stain resistance. It was nice to ride in the passenger seat and to chat as the countryside rolled by.
We will miss our "Madame Blueberry" but at least we know she is going to a good home. My sister-in-law and her husband have recently blended their families and they need a vehicle that seats all six of them. I hope they love her as much as we have.

Cooperative Homeschooling--how fun is that!

We joined the LMHSC, and today was our first day. It was fabulous. The kids were so excited about the classes, and everyone was on the hunt for friends. The church where we meet was crammed with kids, around 70 or so. There were classes for all my kids even the baby had a place to be. The four class periods moved very smoothly and my husband was able to come over for lunch with us.
When I collected the kids at the end of the day they were all planning for next week, and I have to confess my teacher genes began to itch. I'd forgotten the pleasure of a group of age mates working on a project. The only thing now is to decide what I'd like to teach and when I'll feel up to adding another responsibility in my crowded life. I could ditch my novel--some of my writer's group suggested I should, but every time I decide to do that my conscience bothers me. At this moment that's the only thing I can jettison, so I guess I've got a year to do my planning.
I love planning!

Playing Hide and Seek with the Saints

This fall I'm surrounded by saints. Since we are studying the medieval period and I wanted to add some uplifting devotional material we're reading the biographies of prominent medieval saints. Some of them were on the menu because if your going to read medieval philosophy you're going to read Augustine and Acquinas. The others I added because I didn't thing you'd have a good grasp of the period without St. Joan of Arc and St Catherine of Sienna. The funny thing with the saints though is the sense that somehow they are with you.
As a former Baptist I wouldn't have expected this to be an important part of my spiritual practice, but it is. It all started with St. Zita who even before there was any serious thoughts about converting adopted me. She is my patron saint and sadly overlooked. I discovered her in a book about find your birthday saint. She's April 27 which you might consider my rebirth in some ways, but it isn't my birthday. I was just drawn to the brief portrait of a household servant whose sanctity was universally acknowledged. She came from being one of the most unimportant people in her household to attain sainthood. When I find myself performing feats of household magic I never thought I'd manage I feel her presence.
The rest of the saints we're learning about help out too. My son is not the best behaved child and whenever he is being a real trial in mass I find myself appealing to St. Monica, Augustine's mother. Whenever I think of St. Francis, I always feel sorry for him. We'll be studying him as well, but the sorrow comes from what must be overuse. Here's my little St. Zita with nothing to do, and poor St. Francis, everyone remembers him. Leave it to me to feel sorry for the saints.
For my own personal reading, I'm learning about Mother Theresa. I'm firmly convinced of her sanctity. Her life inspires and frightens me. She is braver than anyone I know, and always effective when I'm afraid.

Cold Weather Socks

The best thing about summer is the lack of socks. If it were up to me, we'd live in a warm climate where I can go barefoot or in sandals every day. My feet are all kinds of rough and I care not. I like to feel the world spinning around under my feet. My kids love summer sandals too. When it's time to go we stick our feet in and fasten the velcro. Thirty seconds later we're in the van and on our way.
Winter is not so simple, mainly because of the socks. At the moment we have three sizes of socks, not that that stops anyone from trying to wear whatever size they find--only the baby's socks are safe. Peter hasn't realized that there is supposed to be a gender difference between the white tubes we put our feet in, so there isn't much hope there either. I don't know why socks are so difficult to organize, but they are.
We begin with bulk discount packages and dire warnings about abusing or losing socks. I've considered requiring a sock oath, but why tempt my children to sin? The first week or two getting socks and shoes on is only two or three minutes longer, but then, somehow, the socks disappear. The rest of the winter is a constant rerun of the following conversation. "I bought you 15 pairs of socks and you are telling me you can't find any?" or its variant "I bought you 15 pairs of socks and all you can find is this mismatched horror I don't remember purchasing--ever?"
I do love the days when the snow falls and falls and falls and falls. I do love Christmas looking like a post card. I do love the wondrous comfort of a hot beverage after a day of running errands or playing with the kids. I just wish we could enjoy all of that in our bare feet.

Diagram of a Woman's Mind

A friend sent this to me. I can't figure out how to post it so it is animated like the version she sent me, but the idea is right on. All those little blue balls are ideas or decisions a woman has to make. We seldom have the luxury of thinking about one thing at a time, so we've made a strength out of managing whatever presents itself. I had a lot of fun with this thing.

Goodbye to Chekov

In my youth I spent a lot of time in my parent's shadow. In some ways it wasn't a shadow, it was a spotlight. If I chewed gum I was in trouble twice before the flavor was gone. Being the child of two teachers at the school you attend is tough. The most difficult thing for me was sorting out friendships. Who was my friend because they liked me? Who was my friend because they liked my parents? Who was my friend because they wanted to find out good stuff for the gossip mill? The other thing I disliked was what I privately called "The Chekov Effect."
My grandmother was a spoiler. She knew my cousin loved Star Trek, so she painstakingly collected a set of coffee mugs through a magazine offer. The porcelain company sent her two Sulu's and two Chekov's, but no Captain Kirk. She had to go through all kinds of hassel to get Captain Kirk, but when she asked them what she should do with the extra Sulu and Chekov? "Keep them" they said, "nobody wants them anyway." In my life, I was always Chekov. You Checked Off that you had him, but his only real purpose was completeness.
Being Baptist there wasn't any real escape, shoot, I walked into my writer's group and found someone I could play six degrees of being Baptist with. Within a few minutes we'd uncovered a mutual friendship that was pretty significant. I tend to end those conversations back in Chekov mode.
I'm not a Baptist anymore. I love all my Baptist friends. I love my parents, but for the first time I'm just an ordinary church member. I have no parental burden to bear. I have no fond memories that I am required to recount. I'm just the rather inept Catholic trying to remember to bow, then put your left hand on top of your right, then say "Amen" then eat (praying you don't sneeze or drop it or something else equally awful) then cross your self while trying to return to the proper pew gracefully and on time.
The lack of pressure was very scary at first, but now I'm beginning to enjoy it. Discovering who you are when you can be anyone is fun. The best thing though has been the general clearing of my ideas about who my friends are/were, and the closeness I feel without the nagging worry about why people choose to be my friend. Thanks to everyone who's stuck by me in the bad parts. Hopefully the good parts are ahead of us.