Why Blog? My (Very) Personal Reason

I spend a lot of time drinking coffee.  Iced, hot, strong, weak, Starbucks, Mr. Coffee or even International Delight (a holdover from my teenage years)--it really doesn't matter to me.  I have also been known to snarl slightly at anyone trying to swipe, sip, or piously criticize my Diet Coke.  But hey, hear me out: I need the pick me up.  We're at that tedious phase where my 21-month-old flies right into traffic, singlehandledly opens the front door when no one is looking, joyfully knocks over careful stacks of laundry, and shoots up the bunk bed ladder and rains down big brother's carefully placed trophies off the nearby shelf.

It's a tiring proposition, raising five kids.

So why would I add a single other thing to my already-busy life?  Why force another cup of caffeine into an already shaky hand?  Why in heaven's name would I be sitting at the computer, as I currently am, at 2:25am?

Simply put: why the blog, lady?

Let me rule out a few reasons. For one, I am not trying to project an image of togetherness (insert laugh, close friends), flaunt my limited writing skills, nor do I claim any superiority in my opinions.  I am fully aware of how mixed-up and poorly thought through numerous aspects of my life are, including but not limited to: my dated wardrobe, my limited ability to accessorize without my stylish sister's help, my general haphazard appearance and beauty products that might assist said appearance, my opinionated parenting technique, and even (gasp!) micro-aspects of my theology.

No, the real reason is this:

back row: Evelyn, JD, Virgil, Cleamon, and Laura Wilmalou (my Lala)
front row: Mimi and Clyde Elmo Pinner, my great-grandparents
(Unrelated: it's an undisputed fact that there were some serious slim pickins in the family name barrel.)

The five children standing in this picture are my relatives.  My grandmother is on the far right, the lovely lady who bravely raised my mother on a remote cotton farm in West Texas. And all five of these beautiful people had Alzheimer's Disease or severe dementia that is currently or eventually led to their demise.

And I suspect, as much as I pray against it, that my future is tied up in these genes and this related inevitability: one day I am going to forget.

And as much as my Lala loves her grands, she is now reduced to only remembering my third child, her namesake, who she no longer calls by her own name, instead loosely and lovingly as "that little girl".

Sadly, sometimes love itself is not enough to help one remember.

And before my day comes, even if it is many decades away, there are a few things that I want to process, review, organize, and articulate.  In writing, I find a way to seal my thoughts to words, words that will remain long after I can no longer remember writing them.  I desperately don't want to miss this chance to share with my children and those I love dearly the personal impressions, sometimes-feeble observations, but most especially the undercurrent of love and tender gratitude I feel for this often-chaotic, frequently amazing, incredibly satisfying life that the good Lord has given me.

So have patience on me when my eyebags look darker and droopier than ever. There's a greater mission on my heart than publishing a blog post.  And I hope in some small way this humble space will leave a legacy in the face of loss, so that if/when that loss comes, a part of the real me remains.

So thanks for reading, y'all.

~ ~ ~

Teach us to number our days, 

so that we may gain 

a heart of wisdom.  

Psalm 90:12

What to Say About Five Kids at Home 24/7?

~ ~ ~

Prologue

Once upon a time, quite some time ago, there lived a fair maiden by the name of Lydia. She had the potential to be pretty, one might say, with her long, brown curls and blue eyes, but years of hard labor had darkened her skin and destroyed her once beautiful hands.

As far back as she could recall, she had been enslaved to the king and queen of France, her home country, and worked countless hours tending to the horses. She did not mind the work at all: she had learned to love it, even if it had provided her with no money. However, the queen grew jealous of her beauty and sought to destroy her sunny disposition by whatever means possible.

So, Lydia was often given more work than the other servants and was not respected at all, and on this note begins this particular tale.

~ ~ ~

One brisk evening, enveloped in the French winter of 1127, Lydia was walking to the stables to groom the horses. She was deep in thought of the previous night, her seventeenth birthday, when she had received a Bible from her friends. She had always been a Christian, and was elated to read it. 

Suddenly, she stopped, and if anyone had been looking on at the scene, they would have been almost as horrified at her expression as she was at the sight before her. There was a new groomer tending to the horses, and she had no doubt in her head that this was the queen’s doing. She had loved this job: in her eyes, it was a small ray of sunshine, a tiny delight in her miserable world. 

Lydia ran. She dodged other servants and dashed up several flights of stairs until she stood in front of the large, wooden door that gave way to the throne room.  She knew that if she seemed upset, the queen would be even more proud of herself.  She realized she had to seem calm and composed, even if she was about to cry.  Lydia opened the door.

~ ~ ~

Wondering what happens next, hmmm??  Me, too!  This is not my writing, but a little noodling around by my eldest, written in about 20 minutes of spare time.  Needless to say, I am very much looking forward to reading more of her words and encouraging in the upcoming months the pleasure she takes in spinning a yarn.  

To summer, which starts tomorrow in our household, I say welcome.

Someone out there just read those words and - upon considering how life might be with five active kids, a large dog, and a perennially tired mom cooped up in the house for the summer - flinched slightly.  I understand how it might be possible to envision tedious misery, squabbling, dirty diapers, and persistently messy rooms.  And to a certain degree, all of those moments will happen, but I do have a plan, and I have learned from hard-fought experience that a plan is key.

What's on tap for summer 2014?  My 12-year old wants to work on writing, so she is starting The One Year Adventure Novel, a curriculum to take her through all the steps of storytelling, with the end product being a self-written novel. She is fired up to begin and has already decided on the setting and era.

We will also be doing Geometry with the oldest two, for which I am detecting a high degree of interest. I picked up the book last week and a certain someone discovered it, whisked it away, assembled a notebook, and completed the first lesson.  The two younger kids will be doing Saxon math with their big brother/sister tutoring team, the cheapest and perhaps best help I could possibly rustle up.

Science also made the list: the whole gang is doing Oceanography 101.  I purchased the text and we have plans for field trips (hey, this is Florida!) as we get deeper in the curriculum.  This topic has particularly captivated my third child, who is a tough nut when it comes to academics but is passionate about shells, water, and anything critter-related.

On the sports front, my fourth child passed his swim team test last week and is officially joining his siblings for swim workouts and meets three to four times a week.  This piece of the plan is a critical way to take the edge off of the abundant energy present in my household.  All four are also slated for triathlon activity, having been inspired by the tri the older kids completed this weekend.  I even found them sneaking a Sharpie and body-marking the baby and themselves, for which they were roundly scolded (although I admit I was extremely amused.)

In between all of this structured brain and body activity, there will be lots of cannonballs in the pool, sleeping in, badminton rounds in the front yard, lego constructions, sidewalk chalk, and pillow forts.  All the while, Kate Middleton will be wondering where in the Sam Hill all her quiet doggie-napping days have gone.

Summer 2014, bring on your happy, hot madness.  This mama is ready!

Grammar Cop

I am a self-appointed grammar cop. 

In college, I proofread books for Thomas Nelson Publishers for fun (read: unpaid internship).  I worked as a copyeditor for a magazine before I realized that one cannot live on a copyeditor's salary. I had a great time writing my master's thesis, published a few art history articles, have kept my orange well-worn Chicago Manual of Style on a nearby shelf for over 20 years, and actually made a side career of grant writing.  Which is pretty technical stuff when you think about it. (incomplete sentence--I know, I know.)



I have been SO tempted to do this. But I'm too nice.
And don't want to get arrested by an actual cop.

So you can only imagine the sheer, self-inflicted torture it is for me to write a blog.  If there is stat tracking on Blogger for "edits," I may be setting the world record.  There is no writing for me--only rewriting, re-rewriting, and the occasional total overhaul followed by a final tweak or two (or 200).   



Yummy.

My honey is a kindred spirit on this matter.  Since we are such like-minded parents (meaning you may live here only if you can properly use an apostrophe), we have taken a three-pronged approach to promote good grammar in our household:

1) Have our kids read great books.  We expect them to produce good writing because they've read good writing.  Input equals output.  Now, I do not let my little people go freely about their literary selections.  I know they have a limited amount of time to read, so I want the content to be something amazing.  The junk-to-good-book-ratio is very high, so a few guided choices help keep them reading books that are written well. (Curse you, Junie B. Jones!)

2) Send them to a school where old-fashioned grammar is taught.  Our classical school teaches proper sentence structure, articles, adverbs, indirect objects, declarative punctuation (that would be a period, folks), dangling participles, transitivity of verbs--you name it, my kids can identify it.  Particularly high on the awesome scale is how they orally diagram sentences.  It is a rare sight on the planet Earth to see 8-year-olds perform this particular trick in unison. Humbling, really.

3.) Give a child $1.00 on the spot for every grammatical error they find.  I have to give credit for this incredibly effective idea to the captain of our squad.  As you can imagine, my kids keep their eyes peeled for typoes, misplaced apostrophe's, incorrect tense, improper use of, commas, and they're their favorite, the good old homophone.  It increases their attention to detail in the printed word (or sign, or menu, or billboard) by shamelessly taking advantage of their desire for cold hard cash.

My kids see this and I'm out three bucks. Can you spot the errors?

The downside of being a grammar cop is that not everyone appreciates you pointing out their mistakes.  I apologize right here and now if you are one of those people.  It's a compulsive, knee-jerk reaction for nerds like me.  But you have to see it from my point of view.  It's a public service, y'all! (Or is it ya'll? Texans--debate amongst yourselves).

Case in point: there's an A+ rated public school right in the middle of town that has a metal sign saying "Busses Only." It makes me squirm thinking about how many of their students are growing up believing that's how you spell the word.  Do you suppose I could send an anonymous letter to the front office?  It's only been hanging there for twenty years.  No?  Sure?  Okay, I'm going to let it go.  For now.



Sorry, I find this hilarious. I'm lucky to be married to someone
who can appreciate my geeky sense of humor. And edit my blog.