By Thursday of last week I knew that I needed some rest and my kids needed some fresh people to play with and love on them. So, given my perceptive Mommy Logic, I decided we should just take a tiny road trip to the next state over. I had plenty of time to think, on the three hour drive there, and also the three hour drive back. Not to mention, while we were there I took a long bath without anyone seeing me naked, asking me questions, or screaming at me.
This can only mean one thing: a total mess of random in my head. Which I will now subject you to.
It’s hot, dangit.
While we were gone it got hot, ya’ll. Really hot. And I thought it in my head forty times this morning while outside with the kids, but I was determined not to complain out loud. But I’m saying it now. It is really really really hot outside.
- This morning I watched Ezra delight himself with nothing but spit and construction paper. He sat and sprayed each piece of paper in the entire stack with a nice raspberry and was heartily entertained.
- He repeatedly asks me to draw “Bah- Pah”. You know, “Back Pack”? From Dora? And no matter how many times I scratch out a pathetic rendition, he gets really excited and turns the page and asks me to do it again.
- Ezra turns the dust buster on its side and picks up the crumbs and manually feeds them to it. At least they are getting picked up!
Location, Location, Location
Someone I love dearly said something to me this weekend that really got me thinking. Our family is home oriented. Home school, home church, home birth, home business. It’s just oozing. It’s not just our home that we are obsessed with, but the home in general. Anybody’s home. Just the home. You cannot have home church in a building or facility. You just can’t. Hence the term home church. You cannot have a home birth in a hospital. You can’t. I’m sorry, but you can’t… so don’t try. You might hurt yourself.
This one is from the archives, but I wrote before about the dynamic of a home church. It can never ever be matched, once it is taken out of the context of the home. You cannot possibly irritate one another if you meet in a sterile environment, such as a “building” or “facility”… unless someone lives there (at which point it would be considered a home). There is something special about going house to house. Getting in each others faces, seeing each others dirt- you really know a person after you’ve spent time with them in their home and vice versa. This doesn’t happen outside of the home. I’m not saying church outside of the home is bad. We attend an institutional church right now. I’m just sayin’ I like it at home. Okay?
And you can’t have a home birth in the hospital. Those aren’t your germs, they belong to whomever was in that room before you (gross!). Those aren’t your friends and loved ones, they are nurses who are paid to be there. Those are not your sheets, your bathroom, your lights, your comfortable environment, or your food. Your children probably are not there, sleeping in the next room, playing around you, reminding you of why in the world you are having another baby in the first place. Regardless of how secure one might feel in the hospital environment, it’s not your home, and it makes a difference whether or not you are aware of it. You are not in charge of your hospital birth, no matter how much you’d like to be or think you are. At best, they are going to let you think you are until they can’t stand it anymore. I’m not saying hospital birth is bad. I’m just sayin’ I like it at home. Okay?
Are we raising kids or adults?
This might be a trick question. We like to say that we are “raising children”, but we really should say that we are raising adults. Because I’m certainly not raising my children to act like they are 5, 3, and 1 for the rest of their lives. I understand that they are children, but I am raising adults. This means that I expect more out of my 5 year old than just “5 year old behavior”. It’s not acceptable for her to wipe her boogers on her sister, to put her food in her hair, or to stomp her feet when she is angry. Adults don’t do those things. I expect her to do them from time to time, because she’s a child and she’s foolish. But my job is to teach her to act like an adult, and not a child. So I have to patiently teach her and train her and expect more out of her than she would naturally be capable.
The really painful part of this is that I have to act like an adult if I’m going to raise adults. Boo! No fun! I have to respond calmly when Charis cries for the four hundred and eleventieth time over something really ridiculous. I can’t stomp my foot at her. I can’t whine about how she cries too much. I have to speak rationally and slowly and communicate to her that her behavior is not acceptable. I have to talk to her like an adult.
What happens to my house when I leave?
Pardon my French, but it smells like a big fart. That is what happens to my house when I leave. Three days. I was gone for three days. And I can’t blame it on Brent, because he was gone every single day at work or church or play. He didn’t know what to do at home without us, so he avoided it. The house just wasn’t so pleasant when we got back. The dishes in the dishwasher were smelling mighty funky, the water in the toilets was going stagnant, the soap room was humid from being shut up for so long, a watermelon plant died from the heat, etc. The bulk of our morning was spent reclaiming our house and making it a home again. Comfortable and orderly and nice smellin’.
Does anyone else shudder when they think of high school?
My little brother started his first day of public high school this morning, as a junior. Poor guy. Hopefully he won’t succumb to the foolishness that his older brother and I did when we embarked on such a journey as freshmen. His nervous comments throughout the day on Sunday reminded me of the stress of high school. I’d just about say that high school was one of the most stressful times of my entire life. Will he be able to park without a parking pass? Where is home room? Where is his locker and how does he even get one? What classes is he taking and where the heck are they? Do you remember that feeling? The bell rings and you know you have precisely three minutes to find your classroom before that bell rings again and you have to walk into the room in front of everyone after class has already started. When you are 16, that is some stress that will make you break out in a sweat! (I’m 28 now and totally comfortable walking into a room full of people late- usually with spit up or food on my shirt, ungroomed toe nails, and an embarrassingly stained diaper bag at that.)
I did encourage him by explaining how stupefied he was going to be at the ignorance of everyone around him once he got there. I was raised in private school before I was plunked down in public high school, just like him. As a freshman, I took classes with Seniors. I wouldn’t consider myself an academic person by any means, and I was way smarter than everyone else. It was almost annoying to have to sit there all day. Hopefully, that raised his confidence some.
My high school reunion is this September. Ten years. Ten Years?!? I’m not going. But I am thankful for the opportunity to remember how bad high school stunk and to really appreciate the direction my life has taken since then.
They have an undeniable urge to smell my prenatal vitamins at every meal and wrinkle their noses and gag a little. They sniff them because they know they stink. I’ll just leave you with that one.