Moms of Childhoods Past

Last night, during the bedtime chaos that always makes me feel like a raving lunatic, I looked down at sweet Kate.  "Poor girl," I said.  "I'm sorry you're stuck with Crazy Mom.  You missed that other mom by about a decade." 

As I said this, to my mind came a memory of the mom I used to be, and the accompanying realization that I'm not that mom.  She stood there, sparkly-eyed looking at motherhood spreading before her.  It was a blank slate.  That mom hadn't made a barrelful of mistakes, just lots of plans.  That mom kept her house at least moderately clean all the time, and would have been shocked by how hopelessly behind I am on laundry...ALL the time.  That mom's darling little boy was always dressed in matching clothes with shoes AND socks.  That mom was so much more patient.  That mom felt like she could honestly control everything going on in her house.

I'm not that mom. 

I am this mom.  You know the one.  This mom has made so many mistakes she lost count years ago.   But, this mom has learned from those mistakes.  This mom understands priorities better and that you have to choose.  This mom understands that sometimes you have to sacrifice an immaculate home for time spent with your kids.  This mom understands the love grown from countless nights spent trying to open croupy airways, comfort after a nightmare, or give relief for growing pains. This  mom understands that love means "no" and how hard that really is.  This mom knows that seeing your children's pain hurts so much more acutely than yours ever could.
That mom dreamed of the future but mostly saw the present endlessly stretching before her.  This mom sees the excitement in the future but also dreads it as she sees it hurtling toward her and those endless present days slipping away dizzyingly fast.  That mom thought she knew just about everything she needed to.  This mom is painfully aware of all the things she doesn't know.  This  mom's heart is full to bursting, hurts like it's going to break, and has a bigger capacity than That  mom could have ever dreamed.

This mom is so not perfect.  She really is a little crazy (ok, sometimes a lot crazy), but she also would never go back to being that mom.  And she understands that the mom to come will be so much better.

Holding Kate last night, she smiled sweetly as if to say, "I'm alright with Crazy Mom."  I guess I am too.

Chinese New Year and Playing Dress Up

We celebrated Chinese New Year last night.  A little late, I know.  The Chinese culture is really fascinating to me.  This quick foray has been really fun.  Matt commented a few days ago that we could really spend weeks in each of the places we're visiting.  So very true!  Every week, when our trip comes to an end I feel like we didn't even scratch the surface.  That is the beauty in new years and continued education.  As we continue our cycles through people and places and things, we will gain a deeper and deeper knowledge of all of those things.

 We made some piece meal costumes.  Kids, with their imaginations, are so easy to please.  A few curtains and a bed sheet makes you an ancient Chinese princess or a kung fu master.  A few pieces of tissue paper on the wall and your house is painted enough to keep the demon Nian away.

 

 

 Mary was not pleased to learn that she was born in the year of the pig.  I managed to appease her by telling her that it was the year of the golden pig - during the seventh month no less so, according to Chinese superstition, she has one of the luckiest birthdays in years.

We were given this awesome swing set a few months ago and it has been life changing, I tell you!

 

 

 

 

 Girls after her father's heart.  He thinks headbands are ridiculous too.

Telling Our Story

For our Around the World project in school, I planned it so that we would be stopping off in Sochi just as the opening ceremony was kicking off. The only thing I didn't like about the opening ceremony was the commentators' snarky, political comments.  I get the conflict with Russia, but if we can't step back and appreciate the good in one another, if we can't even take that step, where does that leave us?  The comments aside, I thought it was beautiful and fascinating.  I feel that if you really want to understand a culture, you need to understand their art. What is in their hearts that comes out through song and paint and words? What stories do they tell?

A few weeks ago, I read this article from the New York Times entitled "Family Stories That Bind Us."

Stories are so powerful.  After all, aren't our lives simply a collection of all the stories we've gathered along the way.

My dad is a storyteller.  Our family story was crucially important to his family growing up and he passed that along to us - although we weren't always the most willing audience.  We all knew about the Roberts and the Owens from Wales and their hardships and triumphs. We were taught through their lives the power of testimony, the value of hard work, and the downfall of stubbornness.  Closer to home, we knew about G.G.'s (short for "great grammy") escapades in early Hollywood, and The Car Accident.    My mom wasn't a wit behind.  We learned about great great grandma whose head was no bigger than a teacup when she was born.  We learned of Grandpa working for the ice truck in the late 20's. 

Dad told us the good, the bad, and the ugly.  Mom told us the heartbreaking things and the funny things.  They told us stories of betrayal but more stories of love and loyalty.   Just like that article talked about, we learned that as a family we were stronger than those events that happened to us.  It truly was our shared stories that bound us. 

A lot of people have asked over the years how our family stayed together.  We really went through the ringer.  I don't want to downplay the struggle or the solution, but it was stories.  We knew our stories and we actively tried to write new, more hopeful ones.  And, the most important story of all, the one woven through them all, the one that held them together and helped us to make sense of them was the one that literally binds us to those who went before.  To Hugh and Mary Owen from Wales.  To my courageous and inquisitive grandparents James and Maxine.  The story of the gospel of Jesus Christ.  That truly is that story that binds us and gives us the strength to weather the storms.  That's what this blog is for me.  It is a place for me to share our story.  It may be humble.  It may not be interesting to anyone but us, but it is ours.  And the power comes in the telling of it.

  

 

 

Once There Was a Snowman

Growing up in Utah, I never experienced the elusive holiday known as "Snow Day".  I had heard of these and my friends in Woodland Hills got several a year, but the rest of us just carried on during the winter.  We had enough snowy days that by the time March started coming around the bend every year, we started aching for a little sunshine.  Even so, it always seemed to me like a waste of a beautiful day to have to go to school and work when something so gorgeous and magical was happening outside.  Shouldn't we stop and at least acknowledge this incredible force of nature?

 

Here in North Carolina, we don't get snow often.  In fact, when there is even a hint of snow in the forecast, the whole city battens down the hatches.  Stock up on bread, milk, and batteries!  I find it endlessly humorous, but I do enjoy it.  We all get to stop and watch in awe at the gentle power and beauty of winter. 

This week has been an epoch storm.  In fact, it has been a Utah level snow storm.  And it's still going. The snow totals are probably above eight inches, with close to 1/4 inch of ice from freezing rain.  The kids and Matt are all home.  Last night, Will came in from playing in the snow and said, "Mom!  The snow is starting to bite!  It's turning into sharp and hard things that will knock you out!" An apt description.

So, do you want to build a snowman? 

Break out the mittens and the hot cocoa!  That's what we'll be doing.

   

 

 

 

Ownership and Agency

Between all the snow days, a bout of flu, and another of colds, school has been a little rocky.  But, I have slowly been finding the balance between  requiring various school activities and letting Mary take the lead.  I have not been asking her to write.  It has been a really sore spot with her and I decided to give her some space.  I worried every day about it.  I felt like it was the correct thing to do, but worried that I was crippling her education.  And then she handed me this letter.

She had never written more than a sentence before.  Ever.  But she did it because she wanted to, and she did a wonderful job!  It just reinforced the "reason" philosophy to me.  Make the tools available and then when they have a reason to do it, they will.  Show them the "why."

The quilting square progression also cemented it for me.  For the maple leaf block, I decided which pattern we were using and just had her help me put the different shapes in order.  She thought it was cool...ish.  Then for Ireland, I asked her which of twelve Irish themed squares she wanted to do and then she helped organize it again.  Again, she thought it was alright.
Yesterday, I showed her a tree pattern we could do for Germany.  She asked which country that was for. 

Oh. 

If she didn't know, perhaps I was doing this wrong.  After all, wasn't the whole point of doing the quilt to chronicle what she was learning?  I asked her what she thought of when she thought of Germany and she immediately said, "Castles!"  She chose a picture (the most elaborate - of course) and made a pattern for it (with help), then cut out half the pieces while I cut out the other half and sewed it.  She kept at it for over two hours.  Before, it was like pulling teeth to get her to focus on it for more than ten minutes.  The difference was, she was invested!  She had choice.  She had ownership.

Well, I'm off to go brace myself for "snowmageddon."  We might actually get more than two inches!  Mary asked if it would cover the grass this time.  I sure hope so!

Yes, I Know...

"Whenever I hear the song of a bird

Or look at the blue, blue sky

Whenever I feel the rain on my face

Or the wind as it rushes by

Whenever I touch a velvet rose, or walk by a lilac tree

I'm glad that I live in this beautiful world Heavenly Father created for me."

A wonderful way to start the day. The photos are poor quality, but I wanted to share my trail run this morning. Exercise plus nature is Heavenly Father's natural mood booster. 

Give Me A Reason UPDATED

As I have been homeschooling Mary the last few months, I have been learning a lot. It has been taking time for both of us to get off the conveyor belt that is public education. Mary wants to do everything she feels like she is supposed to do and if she doesn't execute with precision and in a timely manner she feels like a failure and like she is stupid. Reading has been a particular difficult manifestation of this. Mary logic states: if I can't read Shakespear RIGHT NOW then I'm a terrible reader. If she needs to sound out a word she is a failure. If she says a word incorrectly she is a failure. We have had a lot of talks about the benefits of "failing" and the fact that learning is a journey not a light switch. Because of all this I have really backed off on her reading, wanting her to take the reins and hopefully one day enjoy it. Terrifying. What if she just never did?  Am I insane for not pushing for that mystical 30 minutes a day of reading that they propagandize in public school?  I don't want an illiterate child. I have always loved reading. I started reading shortly after my fifth birthday (in preschool) and writing is joy. But, I also got a "d"on several report cards in English because I never handed in my signed reading log. My mom taught at that school and it would have taken all of thirty seconds during fourth period math to have her sign it. I read hours almost everyday, regularly eclipsing the required amount. But reading was mine. Not my teacher's. I didn't want to have to prove that I was doing it. And I don't think I ever once finished an assigned book. Nope. Not once. It was like my English teacher was trying to intrude into my secret sanctum. Oh!  I lied. I finished the summer reading assignment before tenth grade. A Separate Peace. And I actually thoroughly enjoyed it. But I could finish it at my own pace on my own time without weekly reading quizzes. 

My point is, making sure kids CAN read is only one piece of the educational pie. And we're not going halfsies either: one part math, one part ELA. Give them the building blocks and then ignite their thirst for knowledge. Give them something they actually want to read about. 

So, after several weeks of this experiment (by the way, she was reading aloud one scripture from the Book of Mormon with help, each night with the family, so she already had a base) I started to catch her here and there, reading for pleasure. She even asked to read me a story the other day. I am absutely not saying this is THE thing to do. I don't even know how I'm going to do things with my younger three who aren't school-aged yet, let alone anyone else's child. But it is what needed to happen with Mary. And it is working. 

It has been an adjustment for her to realize that we are doing school even when it doesn't feel like school. This morning, I made index cards for learning about refraction. We did several experiments with light and we defined transparent, translucent, and opaque. She loved it and was so excited. At the end I casually mentioned that learning about light is science. 

"What?!"  She exclaimed. "This is school?  I thought it was just experiments! I'm doing school and science!"  Who knew that learning was exciting?

UPDATE Just to be clear. I read to Mary and we have fluency activities. And I encourage reading. I just don't force it.