Ryan is not the most naturally obedient or reverent (it's just the truth) of my children. He likes to push the boundaries and question rather boldly what some of my other children accept as fact. This can be trying at times, and sometimes I even wonder, in mother-fashion, where is heart is and where it will end up. But every once in awhile, he shows us a glimpse of the inner workings of his mind and heart, and what we see leaves us speechless.
This past Sunday morning, I encouraged Ryan, along with the other kids, to wish Dave a Happy Father's Day. They all started to pile on Dave, but Ryan stopped and challenged, not a little reproachfully, "But I thought God was our father!"
After a moment of stunned silence, I offered an explanation, but he wasn't satisfied with any of it, so I finally suggested he just wish Dave a "Happy Dad's Day," and that seemed to be acceptable. But what incredible theology, expressed with simple conviction, from a four year-old!
Later in the week, and just a couple nights ago, I tucked him in bed and was saying my good-nights while leaving, when he called me back to his bed.
"I have a secret to tell you," he said, so I leaned close to him. "I had a dream about God."
Now sometimes, he invents some rather elaborate dreams, so I'm sure I assumed a bemused expression as I asked him, "Oh really? What did he look like?"
Ryan smiled serenely. "He looked like a father."
If I was indeed wearing that bemused expression, it vanished, washed away by a flood of some powerful unnamed emotion - and tears that instantly sprang to my eyes. I couldn't say anything, but Ryan added matter-of-factly, "Yeah. He loves me."
I think that says it all.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Monday, June 22, 2009
Return Home - and "Big Boy Camp"
Aimee and Drew returned home from camp on Saturday, both tanned and tired, but both reporting a great week. I asked them if they were ever homesick, and Aimee replied, "Yes!," then added, "I really missed Duchess [her kitten]." Drew waved his hand nonchalantly, "Well, I tried to be, but I was too busy." While my mother heart felt a slight pang, I rallied, knowing it was okay, and just the way it should be. Camp is a place for spreading one's wings. But at the same time, they did seem glad to be home. Aimee gave us an exuberant account of her week, until she finally crashed from exhaustion, and we encouraged her to enjoy some space in her room for a little while. Drew, male-like, had to be prompted for every detail, but from what I gathered, he really liked his counselor and cabin-mates, and tubing was his favorite activity. They both went to bed early, and are still getting readjusted to being back home, but it is good to have them back.
While they were gone, the little boys and I had "camp" of our own. I suggested once, without thinking apparently, that we call it "The Little Meesters Camp," and Ryan instantly recoiled in disgust. "NO!" he protested. "We'll call it "Big Boy Camp," so that's what it was. "Big Boy Camp" began with Ryan's pick of cartoons in the morning, to his great delight, followed by a quick dip in the kiddie pool before heading off the library for preschool story time. We went to the 2 year-old version, and as we settled into our spots in the room, I immediately realized that Chase was a different kind of 2 year-old than the vast majority of his peers there. That isn't meant to sound like mother-pride at all, especially because I didn't know at first if that was a good thing or a bad thing. I am reporting it now as a completely neutral observation, hoping that it will be taken that way. The fact is that Chase has never physically looked like a toddler, in the first place. He went, as my mom said, straight from being a baby to being a kid. He's never had a toddler's physique or gait. He's always been lean and lanky, and proportioned like a much older child. In the second place, at least since he's been mobile, he's always assumed he's one of the big kids, and I suppose that's just from being a fourth child. We have, in turn, treated him like everyone else, so he's never had the strictly toddler or preschool experiences (in TV shows, the preschool variety of which I do admit I purposefully avoid, or going to storytime, etc.). He absorbs most of his information from sources directed to older recipients. So as we sat there among the other moms and little ones, I wondered if perhaps I had cheated him out of something. I also realized that many of those mothers and their more typical toddlers would probably be intimidated by him and his -ahem! -rougher style of play. We were, for better of for worse, rather out of place, and Chase was bored. But later, after thinking it over, I felt, as I mentioned above, that it was probably neither one extreme or the other - it's just who he is, and that's okay. While I don't think there's anything wrong with the preschool experience, I also don't think it's absolutely necessary. How many children, all over the world and throughout time, have grown up into their family circle and society without a number of activities and stimulation carefully directed toward every stage of their childhood? And that with no ill side-effects or stunting of growth.
After a nap and quiet time that afternoon, we grabbed a pizza and ate it outside by their pool. No mess, no fuss - which, by the way, was admittedly a plus during the week. They were game for just about anything, unlike their older siblings, whose burgeoning independence sometimes resists spontaneity and flexibility (i.e. sometimes there's alot of complaining!).
Later in the week, we went to the zoo, where we rode ALL the rides. I let them ride the train, the pony rides, and the carousel - in short, I completely let the zoo rip me off, but for half of what it would normally have cost me. The boys thought it was great, though, to get to all the things that requests for which are usually met with a resounding NO. Another day we had lunch at McDonald's, and on the last day, we went swimming at a friend's house before coming home to get everything ready for Dave to come home, and then the kids the next morning. We were happy to see the other half of our family, but it was also sweet to have a whole week with my little boys.
While they were gone, the little boys and I had "camp" of our own. I suggested once, without thinking apparently, that we call it "The Little Meesters Camp," and Ryan instantly recoiled in disgust. "NO!" he protested. "We'll call it "Big Boy Camp," so that's what it was. "Big Boy Camp" began with Ryan's pick of cartoons in the morning, to his great delight, followed by a quick dip in the kiddie pool before heading off the library for preschool story time. We went to the 2 year-old version, and as we settled into our spots in the room, I immediately realized that Chase was a different kind of 2 year-old than the vast majority of his peers there. That isn't meant to sound like mother-pride at all, especially because I didn't know at first if that was a good thing or a bad thing. I am reporting it now as a completely neutral observation, hoping that it will be taken that way. The fact is that Chase has never physically looked like a toddler, in the first place. He went, as my mom said, straight from being a baby to being a kid. He's never had a toddler's physique or gait. He's always been lean and lanky, and proportioned like a much older child. In the second place, at least since he's been mobile, he's always assumed he's one of the big kids, and I suppose that's just from being a fourth child. We have, in turn, treated him like everyone else, so he's never had the strictly toddler or preschool experiences (in TV shows, the preschool variety of which I do admit I purposefully avoid, or going to storytime, etc.). He absorbs most of his information from sources directed to older recipients. So as we sat there among the other moms and little ones, I wondered if perhaps I had cheated him out of something. I also realized that many of those mothers and their more typical toddlers would probably be intimidated by him and his -ahem! -rougher style of play. We were, for better of for worse, rather out of place, and Chase was bored. But later, after thinking it over, I felt, as I mentioned above, that it was probably neither one extreme or the other - it's just who he is, and that's okay. While I don't think there's anything wrong with the preschool experience, I also don't think it's absolutely necessary. How many children, all over the world and throughout time, have grown up into their family circle and society without a number of activities and stimulation carefully directed toward every stage of their childhood? And that with no ill side-effects or stunting of growth.
After a nap and quiet time that afternoon, we grabbed a pizza and ate it outside by their pool. No mess, no fuss - which, by the way, was admittedly a plus during the week. They were game for just about anything, unlike their older siblings, whose burgeoning independence sometimes resists spontaneity and flexibility (i.e. sometimes there's alot of complaining!).
Later in the week, we went to the zoo, where we rode ALL the rides. I let them ride the train, the pony rides, and the carousel - in short, I completely let the zoo rip me off, but for half of what it would normally have cost me. The boys thought it was great, though, to get to all the things that requests for which are usually met with a resounding NO. Another day we had lunch at McDonald's, and on the last day, we went swimming at a friend's house before coming home to get everything ready for Dave to come home, and then the kids the next morning. We were happy to see the other half of our family, but it was also sweet to have a whole week with my little boys.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
The Path to Contentment
OK, maybe it's more like "a step toward contentment." I am trying to remember to "give thanks in all things," so here goes. I am thankful:
for my outdated ecru refrigerator;
for our dogs and their...well, for our dogs;
for always feeling short of money;
for not knowing whether or not we'll be making enough money in, say, September;
for the weeds that thrive in my backyard (they are such a lovely green, at any rate);
for unfinished projects,
for the indelible pen marks on my leather couch...
I don't think there's always a reason for every little thing that happens, but on the whole, I am thankful for all these things because I am forced to accept that I am not perfect and cannot maintain perfection. I am forced to choose between letting myself go crazy with ceaseless striving against the air, OR trusting the Lord for things that seem improbable or even possible. If I had everything I wanted when I wanted it, I would be the most insufferable snob. And I would not have the opportunity to come anywhere near the elusive state of contentment. So here I am, trying to make the most of an opportunity.
for my outdated ecru refrigerator;
for our dogs and their...well, for our dogs;
for always feeling short of money;
for not knowing whether or not we'll be making enough money in, say, September;
for the weeds that thrive in my backyard (they are such a lovely green, at any rate);
for unfinished projects,
for the indelible pen marks on my leather couch...
I don't think there's always a reason for every little thing that happens, but on the whole, I am thankful for all these things because I am forced to accept that I am not perfect and cannot maintain perfection. I am forced to choose between letting myself go crazy with ceaseless striving against the air, OR trusting the Lord for things that seem improbable or even possible. If I had everything I wanted when I wanted it, I would be the most insufferable snob. And I would not have the opportunity to come anywhere near the elusive state of contentment. So here I am, trying to make the most of an opportunity.
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Camp Update
Yesterday I delivered Aimee and Drew to camp, as planned, and I left them both looking happy and well. I dropped Aimee off at her cabin first, and she was fine with me seeing her in, but was immediately ready to get the good-byes out of the way. I asked her if she wanted me to make her bed for her and help her get her things settled, and she said, brightly but firmly, "No thanks. You can go now." Her counselors, one of whom went to camp with one of my sisters way back when, seemed to be a good fit for her, and some of the other girls from our church were in her cabin, so she was set almost immediately.
I took Drew over to his cabin next, and there was no counselor there. My sister and I got Drew and Tiernan's things set up for them, and tried to make sure they knew where everything was, but the boys were so excited and distracted there's no telling if they actually hear anything we said. Finally I just told Drew that if he needed anything it would be in his bag, and if couldn't find it right away, he should just look harder. Still, I wouldn't be surprised if most of his clothes go untouched all week, and the bars of soap are never opened. Even Aimee, who is more concientious, came back her from her first year having only used one pair of the shorts I packed for her and having only taken one shower. I don't think her hair had been touched all week. After all that freedom, she was like someone who had been abondoned on a desert island for a time - a little wild and nearly untouchable. But gloriously happy. It's a good thing, I think, for everyone to enjoy a little freedom from whatever hum-drum rules encumber them, which is why it would never do for me to be one of Aimee's counselors, as, mother-like, I would probably insist on things like showers and hair brushing. As for Drew, who requires even less maintainance, I envision him coming home smelling not so fabulous - but his clothes still clean - afer a week of all the activity and general "boy-ness" he can handle. I only hope he's ok at night, when things settle down and he might have a chance to think about being homesick. I'm glad his cousin is there with him, to take the edge off any of that, if he should feel it at all.
So here we go. Ryan is up, and Chase will soon follow. When we arrived back home from camp last night, they were WILD, and I hope it was just a reaction to a long, hot day filled with hours of sitting in a car - and not an indication of the week to come!
I took Drew over to his cabin next, and there was no counselor there. My sister and I got Drew and Tiernan's things set up for them, and tried to make sure they knew where everything was, but the boys were so excited and distracted there's no telling if they actually hear anything we said. Finally I just told Drew that if he needed anything it would be in his bag, and if couldn't find it right away, he should just look harder. Still, I wouldn't be surprised if most of his clothes go untouched all week, and the bars of soap are never opened. Even Aimee, who is more concientious, came back her from her first year having only used one pair of the shorts I packed for her and having only taken one shower. I don't think her hair had been touched all week. After all that freedom, she was like someone who had been abondoned on a desert island for a time - a little wild and nearly untouchable. But gloriously happy. It's a good thing, I think, for everyone to enjoy a little freedom from whatever hum-drum rules encumber them, which is why it would never do for me to be one of Aimee's counselors, as, mother-like, I would probably insist on things like showers and hair brushing. As for Drew, who requires even less maintainance, I envision him coming home smelling not so fabulous - but his clothes still clean - afer a week of all the activity and general "boy-ness" he can handle. I only hope he's ok at night, when things settle down and he might have a chance to think about being homesick. I'm glad his cousin is there with him, to take the edge off any of that, if he should feel it at all.
So here we go. Ryan is up, and Chase will soon follow. When we arrived back home from camp last night, they were WILD, and I hope it was just a reaction to a long, hot day filled with hours of sitting in a car - and not an indication of the week to come!
Monday, June 15, 2009
Camp
This morning I am preparing to drive Aimee and Drew to camp. This is Aimee's third year, and I don't think there are adequate words to describe her anticipation and excitement. When camp ends each year, she comes home and tells us about it for at least six months, then the next six, with some overlap, she talks about how much she's looking forward to the next year. Since this year is the first year Drew has been eligible to go, she has been pumping him up for months, telling him everything to expect - pretty much coming close to laying out his whole camp itenerary for him (which I think she would do for him if they let her). In addition to being excited about it on his own, I think Drew has never even been allowed by his dear sister to think about the possibility of not going. Dave and I have explained everything overnight camp entails (usually out of Aimee's earshot, so she can't weigh in), and he does seem to be making a conscious decision on his own accord, so we let have let him proceed with plans to attend, although I confess I am more nervous for him than I ever have been for Aimee. But even though he is not GIDDY with excitement, he is matter-of-fact about this whole camp thing, and seems to carry his own brand of confidence. But will he ever brush his teeth, and will any of his clothes make it home? Aimee has been working on her packing lists for weeks; I showed Drew his yesterday, and he said, "Yeah, yeah," but I know he'll never look at it.
So because I am having a slightly harder time sending Drew (not because I love him more, of course - just because he's a different kind of person than his super-confident and outgoing sister), I offered to be part of the church caravan down to camp. I'll have my little ones, and several of the boys who are going, Drew and my nephew Tiernan (coming in from out of town) included. I used to attend this particular camp when I was younger (like 19 years younger, was my first year - yikes!), so I will be greeted with a rush of memories, mostly happy, when we get there. But I don't think I'll have too much time to indulge in those, as I get the kids to where they need to be. Aimee, though, while happy that I am taking her this year, wants to be clear that I am NOT to fuss over getting her settled in, and, heaven forbid, I am not to linger. And I'm pretty sure that Drew will be caught up quickly in the fun of a whole cabin full of boys his age, so I probably won't linger there, either. So then the little boys and I will hie ourselves home to a week of just us three. I'm sure I'll be posting about that later this week!
So because I am having a slightly harder time sending Drew (not because I love him more, of course - just because he's a different kind of person than his super-confident and outgoing sister), I offered to be part of the church caravan down to camp. I'll have my little ones, and several of the boys who are going, Drew and my nephew Tiernan (coming in from out of town) included. I used to attend this particular camp when I was younger (like 19 years younger, was my first year - yikes!), so I will be greeted with a rush of memories, mostly happy, when we get there. But I don't think I'll have too much time to indulge in those, as I get the kids to where they need to be. Aimee, though, while happy that I am taking her this year, wants to be clear that I am NOT to fuss over getting her settled in, and, heaven forbid, I am not to linger. And I'm pretty sure that Drew will be caught up quickly in the fun of a whole cabin full of boys his age, so I probably won't linger there, either. So then the little boys and I will hie ourselves home to a week of just us three. I'm sure I'll be posting about that later this week!
Sunday, June 14, 2009
A Crisis
To celebrate the anniversary featured in my previous post, Dave and I have plans for a weekend getaway later in the month, so we weren't expecting to do much of anything on our actual anniversary. In fact, we were expecting that he would be out of town, as usual, only returning that evening. But it happened that we enjoyed the whole day together, and that an unusually quiet one, which was a blessing that came to us in a very roundabout way - and here's how.
(Many of you have probably heard this already, but for those who haven't...) Over the course of last week, the three older kids had each in turn come down with some mild virus that produced only a fever and the general ill feeling that comes along with a high fever. Each child recovered within 24 hours with rest and some Motrin. On Thursday morning, everyone was well, so we went to a LLL meeting, followed by lunch at Chick-fil-A, then came home for naps and quiet time. Chase woke up from his nap about 3:00, still perfectly well, then sometime around 3:30, he began to feel warm became, as if he didn't feel well. I tried to give him some Motrin, but he was unusually cooperative, so I let him rest on the couch , hoping he would be more willing to take his medicine shortly. He drifted in and out of sleep, and I read books and entertained the older ones, and at about 5:30 or so, he woke up and asked to be held. He felt really warm by that point, and I thought about the Motrin again. I should have insisted on it. A little later, he asked to nurse, and I let him, but only after about a minute, he slipped off, much like he would if he had fallen asleep. But when I looked at him, his eyes were open, and he was looking off to the side. As I was looking at him, his lips, and then the rest of his body began to tremble - just slightly, but enough to catch my attention. Something looked wrong, so I said his name. He didn't even look at me, and that prompted the first stab of fear. I stood up with him, and shook him gently, saying his name more forcefully, and he still didn't respond. I noticed then that he wasn't breathing or swallowing, and that his lips were turning blue. I panicked, because I didn't know what was happening. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wondered something about febrile seizures, but I didn't know what they looked like. All I knew at the time was that he was clearly unconscious, and worse still, he was not breathing. I held him close, and heard a breath sound, to my relief, but it still wasn't normal, in-and-out breathing. He still wasn't responding to me. I grabbed the phone and called 911 - in near hysteria, I admit - instructing the other kids, who had come out to see what all the commotion was about, to stay in the back. The 911 operator told me to be calm at one point, and that was a little like a nurse telling a laboring woman to not make so much noise, as it doesn't do any good - "He's not BREATHING!" I yelled in that poor operator's ear. Sometime in the middle of the call, Chase came out of it - I don't know any other way to describe it. He began to to breathe more normally, and was responsive again. Shortly afterward, the paramedics arrived, listened to what happened, and told me it was probably a febrile seizure. They asked if someone could come for the kids so that we could take Chase to the hospital, and I called a friend from church. One of our neighbors agreed to watch them until she arrived, and with the kids dispatched, Chase and I were loaded into the ambulance. When we arrived at the ER, several nurses and then a doctor came in to check him and hear the story, and I cried every time I told it, even though I knew he was okay. Some of them were sympathetic, others were less so, and I can't blame them, really - I'm sure they see all kinds of things there, and from a medical perspective, Chase was just fine. They gave him some Motrin, took a chest x-ray, and waited for him to improve. At about 8, he began to talk again, and by about 9, he was laughing and playing. Another hour after that, they let us go home, with instructions to see our pediatrician in the morning.
Friday I was exhausted, I think just from the emotional stress of the day before. But my Mom had come down and taken the other kids back home with her, and Dave, who had rushed to the hospital, was home, so we were able to hang out with Chase and with each other. I took Chase to the doctor that morning for a recheck, but by then he didn't even have a fever. Later in the day I discovered just how much energy he bounces off his older siblings. It was tiring! I don't think he remembered anything from the day before, so, as it often is with mothers, it will be I alone who will be left with the memories of those harrowing moments. Ah, well. But it's enough that he is perfectly fine - for all that, it wasn't at all serious, and even his bout with the fever was shorter than anyone else's.
(Many of you have probably heard this already, but for those who haven't...) Over the course of last week, the three older kids had each in turn come down with some mild virus that produced only a fever and the general ill feeling that comes along with a high fever. Each child recovered within 24 hours with rest and some Motrin. On Thursday morning, everyone was well, so we went to a LLL meeting, followed by lunch at Chick-fil-A, then came home for naps and quiet time. Chase woke up from his nap about 3:00, still perfectly well, then sometime around 3:30, he began to feel warm became, as if he didn't feel well. I tried to give him some Motrin, but he was unusually cooperative, so I let him rest on the couch , hoping he would be more willing to take his medicine shortly. He drifted in and out of sleep, and I read books and entertained the older ones, and at about 5:30 or so, he woke up and asked to be held. He felt really warm by that point, and I thought about the Motrin again. I should have insisted on it. A little later, he asked to nurse, and I let him, but only after about a minute, he slipped off, much like he would if he had fallen asleep. But when I looked at him, his eyes were open, and he was looking off to the side. As I was looking at him, his lips, and then the rest of his body began to tremble - just slightly, but enough to catch my attention. Something looked wrong, so I said his name. He didn't even look at me, and that prompted the first stab of fear. I stood up with him, and shook him gently, saying his name more forcefully, and he still didn't respond. I noticed then that he wasn't breathing or swallowing, and that his lips were turning blue. I panicked, because I didn't know what was happening. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wondered something about febrile seizures, but I didn't know what they looked like. All I knew at the time was that he was clearly unconscious, and worse still, he was not breathing. I held him close, and heard a breath sound, to my relief, but it still wasn't normal, in-and-out breathing. He still wasn't responding to me. I grabbed the phone and called 911 - in near hysteria, I admit - instructing the other kids, who had come out to see what all the commotion was about, to stay in the back. The 911 operator told me to be calm at one point, and that was a little like a nurse telling a laboring woman to not make so much noise, as it doesn't do any good - "He's not BREATHING!" I yelled in that poor operator's ear. Sometime in the middle of the call, Chase came out of it - I don't know any other way to describe it. He began to to breathe more normally, and was responsive again. Shortly afterward, the paramedics arrived, listened to what happened, and told me it was probably a febrile seizure. They asked if someone could come for the kids so that we could take Chase to the hospital, and I called a friend from church. One of our neighbors agreed to watch them until she arrived, and with the kids dispatched, Chase and I were loaded into the ambulance. When we arrived at the ER, several nurses and then a doctor came in to check him and hear the story, and I cried every time I told it, even though I knew he was okay. Some of them were sympathetic, others were less so, and I can't blame them, really - I'm sure they see all kinds of things there, and from a medical perspective, Chase was just fine. They gave him some Motrin, took a chest x-ray, and waited for him to improve. At about 8, he began to talk again, and by about 9, he was laughing and playing. Another hour after that, they let us go home, with instructions to see our pediatrician in the morning.
Friday I was exhausted, I think just from the emotional stress of the day before. But my Mom had come down and taken the other kids back home with her, and Dave, who had rushed to the hospital, was home, so we were able to hang out with Chase and with each other. I took Chase to the doctor that morning for a recheck, but by then he didn't even have a fever. Later in the day I discovered just how much energy he bounces off his older siblings. It was tiring! I don't think he remembered anything from the day before, so, as it often is with mothers, it will be I alone who will be left with the memories of those harrowing moments. Ah, well. But it's enough that he is perfectly fine - for all that, it wasn't at all serious, and even his bout with the fever was shorter than anyone else's.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
A Decade
Yesterday Dave and I quietly celebrated our 10th wedding anniversary. 10 years! It's cliche, but the time really has gone so fast. We met less than 11 years ago, at the new Wal-Mart as it was just being built - Dave at the Tire and Lube Express, a job he secured right after moving down from New York to be with his recently transplanted family, and myself at the Vision Center, a job I took while taking a semester off from college (it's been a long semester!), and one that proved to be very interesting, actually. The rumor mill at the store had me convinced he was engaged - the blonde I saw him with in the store was his sister, but I didn't know that then! - so I met his first attempt at asking me out with cold rebuff. With fact sifted out of the fiction later, I agreed to go to lunch with him, and the next week to a UNC basketball game (they lost embarrasingly, but that was the beginning of his indoctrination in the Tar Heel way). After that, he began simply spending time with my family; in fact, he spent every evening at my house. I'm sure we were different in countless ways than just about any other family he had known before, but he must have liked us, and somewhere along the way, fell in love with me. I, in turn, was taken with his down-to-earth sincerity, and when he asked me to marry him just a little over a month of getting to know each other, I wasn't surprised - or opposed. I said yes, and amazingly, my parents said yes. (While it worked out for us, I hope my daughter doesn't expect the same kind of understanding.) Six months later, we were married. One of the perks of being the oldest (oldest child, oldest grandchild) is that everything you do is novel, and everyone shows up for it. Everyone (except for my grandfather, who I had once hoped who give me away, but who had died four years earlier) came to my wedding, and that was fun - my extended family is pictured above. All the girls I loved, representing friendship from various stages of my life, stood with me, and even though I had my own - ahem - bride moment, for the most part, everything was perfect.
Since then we've certainly had our share of mistakes and hardships, but we've also accomplished quite a bit in this decade. Fortunately we both believe that children are worth far more than money, and so we have invested a good deal more in the former than in the latter. Four children in a decade is not too shabby, certainly. It's funny, though, that in some circles, people are astounded by that figure - it might as well be fourteen, for their reactions - while in others I am quite behind the game. In any case, we are proud of our lively crew, and of the home God has provided for us. So, to my husband - I love you, and thank you for these ten years!
Monday, June 8, 2009
A Daughter
At almost exactly this time nine years ago, I was in a hospital room in Greenville, SC eating pizza (yes at 11:00pm - I had been famished for hours) with my parents, my sisters (minus the one who was working in Romania at the time), my husband, and a brand new little person, just a few hours old. She was small (at a dainty but healthy 6lbs. 10 oz.) and perfect - she even came out perfectly clean, and had the sweetest, most perfectly shaped head. She was Aimee Perrine from the first - small, precise, in charge, and entirely sure of herself. She has sprouted into long limbs (where did those come from!?) and a sparkling (at times, fiery!) personality, and she is no less adored than when she first arrived, and even more so, in fact, as the brothers who followed her wouldn't know what to do without her. I love it when we ask the boys a question about something like what they're going to do when they grow up, and they immediately look to her for the answer. And it's sweet when she goes somewhere and they spend the entire time asking when she's coming home. She, of course, basks in this kind of adoration with self-assurance - and also with kindness (most of the time).
Happy Birthday, Aimee.
Happy Birthday, Aimee.
Monday, June 1, 2009
A Few Good Reads...
These are too good to be lost to the side of the page, where they will probably not be seen...
Every once in awhile I look through the recommended reading lists from some of my favorite catalogs (Veritas Press, Sonlight) and make sure the kids have covered the books from their respective age ranges, and recently I brought home a stack of such books that Aimee and Drew hadn't yet read.
Aimee offered a beautiful recommendation for one of the books I gave her - she said of In Grandma's Attic, a collection of true stories from somewhere around the turn of the century, that it gave her good dreams. I haven't read the whole thing myself, but from what I have read, the stories seem to be wholesome and pretty, without being saccharine.
On the other side of the spectrum, Aimee also offered high praise for a book my dad suggested for her, The Forgotten Door by Alexander Key. It's a science fiction story about a boy from another world, who accidentally falls through a door and lands in a rather unforgiving stretch of our planet. He meets up with a family, who helps him, and who he, in turn, helps in ways of his own. This wasn't a school read, but after she finished, we had a good impromptu talk about things like origins, government, and the state of humanity (Is it possible to achieve a "perfect" world where laws and leaders are unnecessary? Are we more civilized than our earliest ancestors, or less? Or is that really a moot point, since sin causes almost instant degeneration?). At any rate, Aimee said it was one of the "best books ever."
For Drew's grade level, Barry the Bravest St. Bernard is a great true story. All the boys, including Chase, were riveted as we read it on the swing yesterday morning.
The little boys listen to everything, although this is something of how it goes when books, such as the Barry book referenced above, are being read aloud:
Me, reading, "The robbers ran forward..."
Ryan - "Let me see the robbers!"
Me, resuming,"They pulled at the heavy doors. The doors opened, and fourteen huge animals leaped out..."
Chase, grabbing at the book, "Lemme see they leaped out!"
Me, "Their mouths were open. Their teeth shone in the moonlight..."
Ryan and Chase, together, "Let me see their teeth!"
Ryan, "Why do their teeth shine in the moonlight? Where is the moonlight? What is the moonlight?"
I try to turn the page, and move on, but Chase shrieks, "Lemme see the doggie picture!"
You can imagine that reading heftier literature aloud, such as Peter Pan, is an even tougher challenge on the nerves. I've made a deal with Ryan, that allows him to ask as many questions as he wants as long as I can get to the end of a page first. Chase often requires a little bribery with something like chewing gum.
But some shorter picture books they've enjoyed (with no fewer questions, however) have been The Bats at the Library and The Bats at the Beach. Well written, beautifully illustrated, and...well, with bats, which the boys find darkly irresistible.
I have a harder time discovering great new books to read. I am a stubbornly loyal reader, clingingly faithful to the authors I love (which really just masks a fear of trying new things!). When I was a girl, Louisa May Alcott and L.M. Montgomery were the Ones. I read all of their works, down the to most obscure, over and over. I did read some other books by other authors at times, but with reluctance and only in desperation, because I really did love to read. But I was not one for perusing the library shelves and trying out just anything by just anyone. When I was older, I fell in love with Jane Austen and Daphne DuMaurier, very different, but always dependable. I also liked to dabble in reliable fantasy or science fiction, usually provided my dad, so works like The Hobbit figured in at times as well. I did also enjoy Shakespeare, classics by authors such as Victor Hugo, and all the writings of C.S. Lewis (have you ever read 'Til We Have Faces? Amazing!) but I hardly ever tried out a modern author. And let's face it, many, if not most, books directed at modern teens are fluff, at best, and even trash, at the worse. Bleh. There were always Christian novels, but often those are poorly written and sickly sweet, I'm afraid. My mom and I did enjoy the series written by Bodie Thoene, and I would still recommend those, because they were actually well researched and well written, and the characters were real people. At any rate, as I moved through teen years into young adulthood, I also discovered, and truly loved, books by Madeline L'Engle, who wove such compelling stories that I couldn't read two in a row because they were so deep and affecting. And one of the greatest things I have always admired about her books was that I would get to the end, and realized that she had never once mentioned what the heroine looked like, and yet, I always had a perfect picture of the characters. Too many authors go into far too much detail in describing everyone and everything, which is tiresome, and when the writing is good, unnecessary. All this to say that I have a very critical eye when it comes to approaching new books. When I have run through a trusted author and want something to read, I am apprehensive as I stroll through the library aisles. I view the "new books" section with distrust, and generally avoid the bestseller lists like the plague. One of the last times I tried to overcome this, I selected a slim volume (I love that phrase) with a story set in the WWI era, which I thought was promising. But it was so drenched and dripping with metaphor and simile that it was like...no, I won't get caught in that trap. It was laborious and heavy, like... no, I catch myself again. But seriously, the poor heroine couldn't even walk into a room without observing that the "beams of sunlight pierced the room like needles." Every sight and sound symbolised something about her gloomy tale. In reality, sometimes - most of the time - things just happen that have nothing to do with anything; you know, like the way sunlight enters the room. So reading that book was a forgettable experience, and I felt a little like I'd been betrayed. More recently, I did venture into the world of Twilight - I was curious, and while it wasn't great literature, it wasn't bad writing, either. All in all, I confess it as my guilty pleasure. But that done with, what next? I like historical biographies, and I had put Georgiana, The Duchess on hold so that I could read it on the place to New York a couple weeks ago, but it was late coming in. Disappointed, but really wanting something to read since I would have all that time to myself, I picked up a copy of Big Stone Gap, by Adriana Trigiani, that my mom had at her apartment. Set in the Appalachian mountains in the '70s, I wasn't sure it would be my thing, but it was such a good story that I found it captivating. I read both the sequels later, then ventured into her other books, which I've just now wrapped up. They were fairly good, but all just variations of the same pattern, I thought, and I'm not sad to be done. So this really long ramble about my reading preferences gives you this recommendation: she is a good author with some good reads, the Big Stone Gap series at the best of her writing, I think.
And now the dog has broken a glass, eaten food off the table, and gotten into the cat litter while I've been writing this. I don't want to see what the kids have done elsewhere in the house, but it probably needs to be cleaned up as well.
Every once in awhile I look through the recommended reading lists from some of my favorite catalogs (Veritas Press, Sonlight) and make sure the kids have covered the books from their respective age ranges, and recently I brought home a stack of such books that Aimee and Drew hadn't yet read.
Aimee offered a beautiful recommendation for one of the books I gave her - she said of In Grandma's Attic, a collection of true stories from somewhere around the turn of the century, that it gave her good dreams. I haven't read the whole thing myself, but from what I have read, the stories seem to be wholesome and pretty, without being saccharine.
On the other side of the spectrum, Aimee also offered high praise for a book my dad suggested for her, The Forgotten Door by Alexander Key. It's a science fiction story about a boy from another world, who accidentally falls through a door and lands in a rather unforgiving stretch of our planet. He meets up with a family, who helps him, and who he, in turn, helps in ways of his own. This wasn't a school read, but after she finished, we had a good impromptu talk about things like origins, government, and the state of humanity (Is it possible to achieve a "perfect" world where laws and leaders are unnecessary? Are we more civilized than our earliest ancestors, or less? Or is that really a moot point, since sin causes almost instant degeneration?). At any rate, Aimee said it was one of the "best books ever."
For Drew's grade level, Barry the Bravest St. Bernard is a great true story. All the boys, including Chase, were riveted as we read it on the swing yesterday morning.
The little boys listen to everything, although this is something of how it goes when books, such as the Barry book referenced above, are being read aloud:
Me, reading, "The robbers ran forward..."
Ryan - "Let me see the robbers!"
Me, resuming,"They pulled at the heavy doors. The doors opened, and fourteen huge animals leaped out..."
Chase, grabbing at the book, "Lemme see they leaped out!"
Me, "Their mouths were open. Their teeth shone in the moonlight..."
Ryan and Chase, together, "Let me see their teeth!"
Ryan, "Why do their teeth shine in the moonlight? Where is the moonlight? What is the moonlight?"
I try to turn the page, and move on, but Chase shrieks, "Lemme see the doggie picture!"
You can imagine that reading heftier literature aloud, such as Peter Pan, is an even tougher challenge on the nerves. I've made a deal with Ryan, that allows him to ask as many questions as he wants as long as I can get to the end of a page first. Chase often requires a little bribery with something like chewing gum.
But some shorter picture books they've enjoyed (with no fewer questions, however) have been The Bats at the Library and The Bats at the Beach. Well written, beautifully illustrated, and...well, with bats, which the boys find darkly irresistible.
I have a harder time discovering great new books to read. I am a stubbornly loyal reader, clingingly faithful to the authors I love (which really just masks a fear of trying new things!). When I was a girl, Louisa May Alcott and L.M. Montgomery were the Ones. I read all of their works, down the to most obscure, over and over. I did read some other books by other authors at times, but with reluctance and only in desperation, because I really did love to read. But I was not one for perusing the library shelves and trying out just anything by just anyone. When I was older, I fell in love with Jane Austen and Daphne DuMaurier, very different, but always dependable. I also liked to dabble in reliable fantasy or science fiction, usually provided my dad, so works like The Hobbit figured in at times as well. I did also enjoy Shakespeare, classics by authors such as Victor Hugo, and all the writings of C.S. Lewis (have you ever read 'Til We Have Faces? Amazing!) but I hardly ever tried out a modern author. And let's face it, many, if not most, books directed at modern teens are fluff, at best, and even trash, at the worse. Bleh. There were always Christian novels, but often those are poorly written and sickly sweet, I'm afraid. My mom and I did enjoy the series written by Bodie Thoene, and I would still recommend those, because they were actually well researched and well written, and the characters were real people. At any rate, as I moved through teen years into young adulthood, I also discovered, and truly loved, books by Madeline L'Engle, who wove such compelling stories that I couldn't read two in a row because they were so deep and affecting. And one of the greatest things I have always admired about her books was that I would get to the end, and realized that she had never once mentioned what the heroine looked like, and yet, I always had a perfect picture of the characters. Too many authors go into far too much detail in describing everyone and everything, which is tiresome, and when the writing is good, unnecessary. All this to say that I have a very critical eye when it comes to approaching new books. When I have run through a trusted author and want something to read, I am apprehensive as I stroll through the library aisles. I view the "new books" section with distrust, and generally avoid the bestseller lists like the plague. One of the last times I tried to overcome this, I selected a slim volume (I love that phrase) with a story set in the WWI era, which I thought was promising. But it was so drenched and dripping with metaphor and simile that it was like...no, I won't get caught in that trap. It was laborious and heavy, like... no, I catch myself again. But seriously, the poor heroine couldn't even walk into a room without observing that the "beams of sunlight pierced the room like needles." Every sight and sound symbolised something about her gloomy tale. In reality, sometimes - most of the time - things just happen that have nothing to do with anything; you know, like the way sunlight enters the room. So reading that book was a forgettable experience, and I felt a little like I'd been betrayed. More recently, I did venture into the world of Twilight - I was curious, and while it wasn't great literature, it wasn't bad writing, either. All in all, I confess it as my guilty pleasure. But that done with, what next? I like historical biographies, and I had put Georgiana, The Duchess on hold so that I could read it on the place to New York a couple weeks ago, but it was late coming in. Disappointed, but really wanting something to read since I would have all that time to myself, I picked up a copy of Big Stone Gap, by Adriana Trigiani, that my mom had at her apartment. Set in the Appalachian mountains in the '70s, I wasn't sure it would be my thing, but it was such a good story that I found it captivating. I read both the sequels later, then ventured into her other books, which I've just now wrapped up. They were fairly good, but all just variations of the same pattern, I thought, and I'm not sad to be done. So this really long ramble about my reading preferences gives you this recommendation: she is a good author with some good reads, the Big Stone Gap series at the best of her writing, I think.
And now the dog has broken a glass, eaten food off the table, and gotten into the cat litter while I've been writing this. I don't want to see what the kids have done elsewhere in the house, but it probably needs to be cleaned up as well.
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