replacing my to-do list

My oldest has been asking to "do school" for months. I'm not sure if it's because he has had to field questions from strangers about whether he has started school (he just turned 4, people!), or he recognizes school is the most direct route to adulthood (4 going on 24 as far as he's concerned). I suspect it was heightened when he witnessed me thumping a pair of red scissors, a pack of construction paper, some finger paints, and a few other miscellaneous items in the bottom of the shopping cart a couple months back.

His persistence paid off. Shrugging off the what-the-"h"-am-I-doing and the I'm-gonna'-ruin-my-child-for-life anxieties, we started "school" the Tuesday after Labor Day. Though it took him some time to get over the disappointment that school wasn't all about finger paints and cutting with a scissors, we have settled into a routine. And there's no turning back now. Because once you start letters and sounds, you can't really stop; when you hit the teens in counting, the twenties are right around the corner. Lord, help me.

Though the amount of time we spend doing school is minimal, I've already noticed the floors are a little stickier, the meals not quite as nice. Opening cupboards is a reminder of more to-do's: take out the trash, make a batch of laundry soap, bake more bread.

A friend commented, "I wish some homeschool mom would write a book about all the things she gave up." Though I wouldn't consider myself a homeschool mom (I'm trying that hat on this year), the thought resonated in my heart. It's hard to give up tidy counters and shipshape bathrooms for little ones who enjoy unrolling toilet paper on the floor, smudging windows and fresh paint alike, and squeezing tubes of toothpaste into the bath tub. But if I'm going to thrive in motherhood, let the re-prioritizing begin.

First thing off my list: making laundry soap. Out with grating the Kirk's Natural castile soap; in with the Ecos laundry detergent.

I feel armed to tackle the world already. Okay, maybe just the bathrooms...tomorrow.

write what you know

Much has changed since my last post...over 6 months ago. I marched into a new decade, added another little guy to our troop, we sold our house and are buying a new one.

I like to think that's the reason why I haven't been blogging lately, and it's true. Partially anyway. The bigger reason why is I don't think I have much to write about of value. I stay home full time with my children, and while I realize it is a HUGE responsibility and privilege, it's also a conversation killer. No, seriously.

(Dinner party scene. Moon-shaped clusters of people converse between sips of Pinot Noir and polite bites of crusty French bread topped with smoked gouda.)
Me: (turn to a newcomer) What brings you to the area?
Other: I'm a graduate student at the University.
Me: (food in mouth) What are you studying?
Other: (confidently rehearsed) I finished up my M.D. at Johns Hopkins, and now I'm working on my PhD specializing in pediatric cardiology transplants. How about you? What do you do?
Me: (brushing crumbs from my chest and spot a new red stain next to a faint spit-up one I apparently didn't wipe off well enough) I stay home full time with our children.
Other: (bewildered) Oh.
(Awkward pause. Newcomer turns to talk to someone else, so I do the same.)

Though the scene more commonly occurs in some public place of business or meeting a new person at church (not everyone I meet is working on a PhD), it has essentially the same effect: unless I'm talking to a fellow sister in the trenches, no one asks a follow-up question.

I was reminded of a famous expression to "write what you know" this past week, and I've decided to embrace the experiences God has given me as fodder for my writing. Though I'm not pursuing a PhD in pediatric cardiology transplants, I know sacrifice and sleep deprivation. I know diapers, dishes. I know laundry--piles of it. I know boys. I know messes and mercy. I know fear of failure, fear of man. I know love, loss, worry. I know joy. Hope. And I know Christ--in part, not yet whole.