no boys allowed

Just slip quietly into the aisle, make a quick turn behind a clothing rack, and stay cool.

The furtive glances. The reckless rifling through racks of clothing. The frantic search for just the right size, and fighting panic at the sudden sound of a man’s voice as he's walking down the tile path, twenty feet away.

I’m not shoplifting, I promise. It’s worse than that. I’m...I’m…buying unmentionables. Get me out of here, somebody.

There is a host of other things that I’m completely rational about. I actually enjoy the dentist, and I don’t mind getting my teeth cleaned. Mondays don’t bother me at all. But there is almost nothing that I dread more than shopping for underwear.

Another woman is across from me, one rack over, and we carefully avoid eye contact. I rummage through satins and polyesters (egad), scanning tags for the perfect size, just to be met with a gibbering combination of letters and numbers that only mean something to adorable highschoolers who have never experienced childbirth.

I hear a male voice nearby, and the praise that I whisper for being barely five feet tall and hidden by the rack of hosiery is immediately followed by a muttered curse toward the young woman who brought her boyfriend in.

Well, not really. I mean, probably not. I really can’t remember, it was all so distressing.

34C. 36B. 42A, and on and on. French-cut, high-cut, bikini-cut, and brief. I’m going to need counseling after this.

There ought to be a precise algorithm just for women who have been through childbirth and breastfeeding to assist us in finding the perfect fit and style of undergarment:

Start with the size you were before your first pregnancy. Add x for every childbirth, multiply by y for every child breastfed, divide by the number of actual months nursing. Finally, subtract n times pi for how many years it’s been since weaning your youngest child and proceed to the nearest liquor store.

Lacking this perfect formula (and not in the habit of frequenting liquor stores, anyway), I skeptically grab a few items that look like they might fit a female human and then contemplate my dash to the dressing room…and suddenly realize that I can’t remember where the dressing rooms are.

Blankety blank. I should’ve checked before my arms were loaded with lacy unmentionables.

From between a rack of hideous negligees and cute pajama pants, I peek out and look for the sign. There it is, just to the right. Awesome. Yes! Except…

…under the sign, between me and the dressing room, is the Designated Waiting Area for Patient Husbands. Two men are sitting there.

Oh, expletive.

I grab several more things off the rack next to me – every possible style in four different sizes - just so the pile of garments is high enough that the men won’t see my face and recognize me from school, from work, or, God forbid, from church, and double-time it past them and duck into the hallway.

I survive the dressing room. A few things make the cut, I make the purchase, and make my way out to the car.

I realize that the herbal relaxant I took earlier was probably a really good idea.

Shopping online would have been a better one, though. 

on the same side

I love avocados. They're expensive here, often a few dollars each just for one good organic one - so we don't get them very often. But maybe the real reason we don't get them very often is that Vince thinks they're disgusting, slimy green vegetables that sneak into otherwise perfectly good sandwiches and tacos, rendering them completely inedible. Something like that.

So, in our grand gardening experiment, he was not real impressed when he saw this little guy. The conversation went like this:

Vin: You're growing an avocado plant?
Me: Um...yes.
Vin: This is Alaska.
Me: I know. I'm kinda from here.
Vin: It won't grow in Alaska.
Me: It's okay, we're growing it inside. It's science, see?
Vin: You realize that avocados grow on trees, don't you?
Me: Mm-hmm. I'll trim it...and it will be shrubby.
Vin: And it will grow avocados in the house?
Me: In five to seven years, maybe.
Vin: You're growing...an avocado tree...in our house, for at least five years?
Me: Um...(looks at other small avocado starts that he hasn't noticed yet) Actually...three of them.

Imagine me flashing my most adorable and winning smile. See?

Only one of them is growing so far - it took weeks (maybe a couple of months?) to get roots and a shoot, so we're patient with these other two, also.

Well, I am patient. The kids are patient. Vince is patient...with me.

We tease each other, but really, we are on the same side. I give him a hard time about eating pig guts (otherwise known as chorizo) and we're even.

Teasing each other is okay when the trust level is high. Ours is high...it has been low before, it bottomed out at one point, but half our marriage ago we learned to be on the same side. We're trying to teach our kids the same thing.

They are learning that trust is something that has to be earned, and once lost, it has emptied their tank of credence. It takes many deposits of goodness, sensitivity, and believing the best in each other to earn it back. It takes a long time to refill the tank, and there's no teasing in the meantime. In the mean...time.

It's been a year (or two, or more) of battles, from within and without. We're learning to fight the good fight with many and various special needs and special circumstances, and our family is learning that we have to be a team in ways we've never had to before.

Conflicts come up with our kids. Between our kids, between us and the kids, and this is something we've been trying to teach them: we are on the same side. We're for them. We're not fighting them. They're not (really) fighting each other.

 We're moving from this mindset of being in trouble to being corrected in love, and we both need to remember it. Both sides. Because we're really on the same side.

Mom and Dad are on their side. We're trying. And sometimes, despite that, we still have some convincing to do:

Chamberlain: Look at the bug! Dis is his bottom.

Me: We don’t talk about bottoms.

Cham: We only talk about bottoms in the baffwoom?

Me: Yep.

Cham: An’ we don’t talk about bottoms when we’re not in the baffwoom?

Me: Right.

Cham: Not even about bugs bottoms?

Me: (laughing hysterically)

Cham: Hey! Stop waffin’ at me!!

Me: I’m trying! (stifled laughter, turning into squeaks)

Cham, running off to closet: Now you’re fake waffin' at me!

Me: I’m sorry. (snort, cough) Come here and give me kisses.

Cham, shaking head: You’re still waffing at me.

We're trying to remember that a gentle correction brings a gentle response, so they will learn that a gentle answer brings a gentle correction. Because we're not mad. Because they're not perfect, and we know that, and we're all learning. Together. On the same side.

The sun went down on a brilliant victory for the Confederates. Yet the night brought disaster for them.

Eager to find out what the Federals were doing, General Jackson rode out towards their lines in the gathering darkness...

"The danger is all over," he said carelessly. "The enemy is routed. Go back and tell Hill to press right on."

Soon after giving this order, Jackson himself turned, and rode back with his staff at a quick trot. But in the dim light his men mistook the little party for a company of Federals charging, and they fired. Many of his officers were killed, Jackson himself was sorely wounded and fell from his horse into the arms of one of his officers. 

"General," asked someone anxiously, "are you much hurt?"

"I think I am," replied Jackson. "And all my wounds are from my own men," he added sadly.

As tenderly as might be he was carried to the rear, and all that could be done was done. But Stonewall Jackson had fought his last victorious fight. Eight days later the Conqueror of all men laid His hand upon him, and he passed to the land of perfect peace.

- H. E. Marshall, This Country of Ours

He's been talking to me about this a lot lately.

I wrote a piece recently for another site (scroll past all the linky icons), and it was supposed to be sort of short...er...but it didn't turn out that way, because He's been talking to me about this for a while. Apparently He had a lot to say, and He's still talking. It's an important message and I'd love for you to read it.

The friendly-fire among the family, among the church, among the troops, is born of fear and self-defense. Confusion, insecurity, and panic, and our deepest wounds have been from our own men. But what if our aim was truer because our vision was clear, and we realized that we were on the same side?

We would stop letting fear have its heyday with us.

We would choose to believe the best in each other.

We would trust that He made us for a special purpose with all of our special needs (because we are all special needs) and we would realize that we don't need to fit into either the ideals or the insecurities of someone else. We don't even need to try, and we don't need to apologize for not trying, either.

He gently leads those who are with young...

We would trust that He knows what He's gotten us into.

He's on our side, too, you know. He's for us. He's not mad, because we're not perfect, and He knows that.

the growing season

Forty-two degrees. For some reason, this same temperature feels about thirty degrees warmer in spring than it does in fall. The forty-two degrees that made us shiver and crave hot cocoa on a chilly day in August actually makes us leave our coats behind and go picnicking in April. A little perspective will do that for you.

Snow is melting and puddles are filling. We splash and stir and kick snow into the dry spots to make it melt faster. The trees are just barely starting to bud at our house, and only the faintest bit of green is showing.

I think this is lichen. Does that even count?

We are impatient for budding, sprouting things, so we have a mini garden that has taken over our dining room and kitchen for the last couple of months. Our growing season is short; we have just a few months of great daylight to cultivate something that will be worth harvesting in the fall before the snow flies again.  

It started off looking fairly simple, using a little greenhouse method. Having a greenhouse on top of your dining room table is not terribly convenient, but...

...we worked around it. Here, Frodo is atop some broccoli seedlings, overseeing drills between the allied forces of Lord of the Rings and Star Wars. 

We ate meals around it. (all of us - and no, Gus is not allowed there, but he is sooo handsome!)

We graduated to seedling pots. Our greenhouse experiment resulted in mostly moldy seedlings, so now we have celery, leeks (well, a leek), bok choy, romaine lettuce, green onions, and garlic...and a tiny broccoli that is not doing much.

We've had pretty good success with the growing-from-kitchen-scraps technique that you've probably seen all over facebook and pinterest. Put the saved cutting in water, and let it sit for days or weeks until you feel like putting it in dirt. Perfect.

It has worked for us pretty well, with the exception of one little celery plant that I had just repotted. I put it in the most convenient sunny spot available - which unfortunately happened to be near where Afton was sitting - and I told Afton not to trip over it. He said he wouldn't and then immediately forgot, knocking it over...and the poor little celery never recovered.

 Afton's fine, though. As his shirt says, he does all his own stunts.

The kids are growing and thriving (and yes, pruning), too. We start term 3 of our school year this week, and I'm amazed at how we have all adjusted to new schedules, new routines, and new responsibilities. There's so much...new.

And it's becoming not quite so new, and that is wonderful.

Lots of people ask how school is going for Andrey and Reagan. They are the same age as Afton, but enrolled in kindergarten (he is in first grade), and for the record, we haven't really been doing "school" with them on a scheduled basis (gasp!). Many circles (my own included) recommended this approach for kindergarten anyway. Too much forced academic school at early ages often backfires.

The last eight months have been about learning all of those new routines, limits, boundaries, etc. Teaching them math and handwriting has not been a huge priority when we have to first teach them that they are safe, and teach them to be safe.

They are learning letters, colors, and English. Table manners and hygiene. How to get in and out of the Suburban, and how to buckle a seatbelt. They're learning that these mommy and daddy people are neither servants nor tyrants - they are safe but not spoiled, and this is often confusing, frustrating, and unfamiliar middle ground to both of them.

This term, though, I finally have handwriting and math scheduled. We'll see how it goes. Even with all of the writing, coloring, drawing, and scribbling going on here, they both still need to learn to hold a pencil correctly. Partly it's motor skills, partly it's a variety of diagnoses, and partly it's that one child in particular likes to do things the wrong way on purpose because he thinks he will command my attention longer that way.

We are impatient for growth, for budding. The other day, I was walking around the driveway with the little girls, kicking snow and crunching ice (this is good motor skills, and all sorts of therapy for getting aggression out, for all of us) and Cham kept asking to hold my hand. We held hands and let go several times as we found new piles of snow to stomp and kick, and each time she came back and wanted to hold my hand again. So we walked and crunched and kicked together, all over the yard, all over the driveway, and suddenly there was another little hand reaching out to me - and Reagan said, "Mama? Hand?"

She has never asked me to hold her hand before, unless she needed help getting up or down from somewhere. Maybe she was just copying Chamberlain. Maybe her hands were cold.

Maybe it was just lichen...but it was green. It looked like growth to me.

The growing season is short, and we have years of lost time to make up for. He is in the business of restoring what the locusts have stolen, and we are counting on that to happen in a big way.

The growing season is short, so when it comes to what is most important for each of our kids to be learning, we don't want to miss the forest for the trees. Different kids need different lessons, and while one is reading Longfellow and studying geometry and unlearning bad habits, another is reading Mom's tone and studying boundaries and...well, also unlearning bad habits.

The growing season is short...we have just enough great daylight to get our hands dirty, to cultivate, to prepare for the harvest later. The days when our dining room table takes on a more dignified state will be here soon enough.

the underwear strikes back

Hello, Saturday. We meet again.

Kids are doing chores, I'm doing oatmeal. We're late. It leisurely turns into brunch and we usually finish breakfast by lunchtime, and this happens almost every week. It's okay. This is our catch up day, our finish-the-laundry day, our listen-to-music-and-read-Oliver-Twist-and-play-with-seeds-in-the-dirt day.

I'm chopping apples to stir into oatmeal and the girls are ready, like always, waiting at the table. The boys, like always, are still raising a ruckus in their room, finishing their chores and getting ready to vacuum. Except for the last few minutes it's been...quiet. Strange. That should've been the tip off.

The stillness is suddenly broken by music blaring from upstairs, from the boys room, as loud as the stereo will go. I immediately recognize it - it's the Imperial Death March  from Star Wars (you know it, too, but I strongly suggest you go ahead and click the link to experience the full effect of this).

I look up and...there is Afton, solemnly marching towards us, past us, on his way to the laundry room, with his right arm fully extended out in front of him. Dangling from two pinched fingers of the extended limb, so as to to keep the offending article as far away from the rest of his body as possible, is a pair of dirty underwear.

I realize that the music was for my benefit. It's kind of fun to live with a soundtrack.

The rest of the day putters through with chores and reading and a late lunch that nudges into naptime. I answer a million questions during the day and realize that, oh yes - I also have a three-year-old in full bloom.

"What is God's wast name?"

"What? I dunno. I don't think He has a last name."

"He doesn't?!" Incredulous disbelief. "Does Jesus have a wast name?"

"I don't think so." I consider whether or not I could get away with saying "Josephson" and then decide not to.

"He probwy knows. I fink I know His wast name."

"Oh really? What?"

"Pattycake."

All kinds of questions. A lot of them lately involve underwear, as this is a new development in our lives. Our sweet piano teacher - and anyone else who will listen - gets an earful pretty often about potty charts and new underwear and how many squares of toilet paper you're supposed to use. Also, I undergo regular interrogation about this business of mommies and daddies not having to wear jammies, footie or otherwise, at bedtime like kids do. After six kids I reserve the right to deflect any question I don't want to deal with at this time. Like why baby boys have sticky-outy parts and baby girls are...you know, normal. Ay caramba.

We roll through naptime, quiet time, and Vin comes home. Our weekend commences and we are so excited because it's going to be four! days! long! and we finish dinner with the kids and do bedtime and get ready for our weekly movie date.

It's a fairly lame movie, but the food is good and the company is excellent. The kids are all asleep and we're two-thirds of the way through the movie, and suddenly -

Darth Vader's presence is announced by a full orchestra and approximately eight squadrons of Storm Troopers.

The Imperial Death March is blaring from the boys room. And it's midnight.

One boy is screaming, another boy is thinking about screaming, and another boy is sleeping through the entire Imperial Troop invasion, softly snoring...just like he did when the tree fell on our house. At least some things are predictable.

We fumble in the dark for the volume button, for the off button, for the electrical plug, whatever, and finally, there is quiet. We calm down all screaming and potential screaming. The cats, those lazy feline rubberneckers, wander in to see what all the fuss is about. We discover that while setting the soundtrack for the Great Imperial Underwear March, someone accidentally set the timer to go off again at midnight.

After pushing every button on the stereo in a totally random fashion, we somehow manage to un-set the timer to resume bedtime, resume sleep, and resume our lame-but-almost-over movie. We leave the room and a whuffly snore erupts from the bottom bunk. Still oblivious.

Strong, the force is with him. Question him tomorrow...we will.

testing, testing, uno-dos-tres

The woodstove was glowing, smoke drifting slightly west from our chimney, and the snow was piling up almost as fast as the books on my to-read list. We were almost totally thawed last week until Saturday, when it started snowing and didn't stop until a few days ago. People called it Merry Springmas.  

...WINTER WEATHER ADVISORY FOR SNOW REMAINS IN EFFECT UNTIL NOON
AKDT TUESDAY...

* LOCATION...MATANUSKA VALLEY.

* SNOW...ADDITIONAL SNOW ACCUMULATION 3 TO 7 INCHES THROUGH NOON
ON TUESDAY.

* TIMING...SNOW WILL INCREASE THIS EVENING INTO THE EARLY
OVERNIGHT. SIGNIFICANT SNOW ACCUMULATIONS WILL PERSIST THROUGH
TUESDAY MORNING. MINOR ADDITIONAL ACCUMULATIONS OF SNOW ARE
POSSIBLE THROUGH TUESDAY NIGHT.

This came after the last advisory of 8-14 inches, which came after the alert from Saturday that I can't remember the details of. The total at our house was 17 inches...less than some, more than others.

Our cats curled up together like quotation marks. The grill wore a chef's hat. 

The kids practiced their theatrical skills and tried to convince each other they were waist deep

or more

and required assistance

before they had to swim to safety.

Just a few days before, the streets were dry. Mattie and Iree had testing and the rest of us had time to kill while we waited for them to finish. 

 We threw snowballs at each other,

 raised a ruckus at the library, 

stomped in puddles...

fell in puddles...

...and woke up at 7 am for three days straight and lived to tell about it. Miracles do happen. 

We drank a lot of coffee. At the post-testing celebratory lunch with Grandpa at Sophia's Cafe, I discovered...Greek coffee.

"Greek coffee?" I asked the waitress. "What makes it Greek?"

"Well...I've heard people say that it's like 16 cups of coffee in one cup."

"I'll take one of those."

I just like watching my dad's eyebrows go up.

This week, as the snow is re-melting, falling off the trees like glacial calving when the sun hits it, we've had more testing of a different sort. We had an appointment on Monday that was awesome (yay!) except that in spite of my warnings, our child with the most attachment issues was doted on for a 30-minute gig and we've been reaping the consequences ever since. For example: if a child acts like he's...limping...right after he's has his blood drawn, you can bet he is practicing his, ah, theatrical skills, also. Please. And while that is kind of funny, everything else we've been dealing with post-fawning-appointment has not been. We've been swimming for safety all week.

{Unless you are the parent, gushing over a child with attachment issues is a huge no-no, and those who do it are not the ones who have to deal with the aftermath later. Egad, Holmes!}

We are learning to assert boundaries with people in the community and trying really hard to teach those who need to understand what it is that we are dealing with. We have had to be taught, too, and we are still learning so much. Usually it's wonderful, but this time it wasn't, and we will start again when this blows over.

We did learn some exciting news though. Eight months home, and Reagan has gained 6 1/2 pounds. Andrey has grown almost 2 1/2 inches.

The fact that Reagan has gained so much weight is particularly notable since she lost almost a pound of hair when we cut it a few weeks ago. 

But the real miracle is that she still has both ears and no injuries, because she is quite a...shall we say, mover and shaker? and jerked this way and that way, wings flapping, the entire time. It didn't help that this lady showed up at the back door, either.

 

Reagan was flapping like she'd had the Greek coffee. I snipped some quick layers and put away the scissors for everyone's safety.

It's Saturday as I write this and homemade macaroni and cheese is in the oven for our almost-sacred movie night. The superfluous testing has eased up over the last day or two and this is the first day I haven't had to swim for shore all week. Which is wonderful, because I hate swimming. I'm convinced we weren't meant to do it.

We were meant to walk on water.