We were finishing dinner last night when a quick summer thunderstorm began. Two-year-old Eileen stood on her chair with an expression of horror. "I'm scared," she repeated between bites of macaroni. "I'm scared!"
Four-year-old sage Maureen offered a bit of comfort, "You don't need to be scared. We all love you and take care of you and kiss you."
The perfect summary of family life!
Eight-year-old Marie was talking to her sister Margaret about my upcoming Socialization book. I managed to catch a snippet of their conversation in which Marie was announcing:
"And on the cover page, Mommy's going to have an asterisk with teeny, tiny letters at the bottom saying, 'RESULTS MAY VARY.'"
Maureen: I can't find a bandaid, and Eileen has the biggest cut in the world!
Mom: That's OK, honey. Why don't you just comfort her with your presence?
Maureen: I don't have any presents!!!
Moments ago, I was sitting at the computer, when five-year-old Patrick tried to squeeze in on my lap. I was just finishing something and space was tight, so I responded absently, "There's no room, honey." To this, he let out a dejected sigh, lamenting in the most pitiful voice, "Oh, I wish I were the wipes box!"
It was only then I noticed for the first time that the box of wipes was in the coveted spot, with my elbow resting on it.
Needless to say, the boy is on my lap now--and I'm signing off!
Well, enough about picnics and broad pink brows. Six days ago, I promised a point, and by golly, I plan to deliver. (Soon.)
Our first Monday in San Francisco dawned with the only promise of blue sky in four days. The weekend had been so gray and cold, I was beginning to despair of anything but gloom in the City by the Bay. With light filtering through long lace curtains, our manse seemed grander than ever--I was half expecting a lace-capped chambermaid to curtsy at the door, ready to plait my hair.
The place was still feeling a bit sunless in another respect though. Not having a proper phone or internet connection in a new city was a bit like being alone on a highly ornamented desert island, my varied thoughts a message corked in a bottle, hurled to the obscuring tide never to be found. Fortunately, I had something any castaway would give his eye teeth for—a cell phone.
I managed to reach Lissa for an update from the mainland. A Promise Kept was appearing that day on Catholic Exchange, and I was eager to know if it had been well received. “Ooo, there are already quite a few comments,” she said, rattling them off one by one. The reviews were mostly positive, but one thread of conversation fascinated me—the impression a few readers had that the author was a “rich” attorney.
How can I express to you the surreal feeling of hearing oneself called “rich” while lounging in an opulent room appointed with soaring ceiling, gilded chandelier, and tasseled draperies? The term certainly felt apropos, so much so that I could almost believe it. Can’t you just picture me, eyeballs spinning, repeating, “I am Elmer J. Fudd, millionaire. I own a mansion and a yacht.”
Sure, it’s true I hadn’t seen my name on a paycheck since 1993. Yes, my only piece of haute couture was a tablecloth (and, truth be told, I was beginning to wonder if the tea cozy might not make a jaunty beret). Granted, my personal sense of style and fashion was closer to Jane Goodall than Jane Austen, but wasn’t my job description at least somewhat comparable to hers? [“Observing, nurturing, and photographing a playful group of primates in a familial setting in hopes of eventually training and communicating with them.”] Besides, that errant chambermaid hadn’t been around to dress me yet! Good help is so hard to find.
Meanwhile, the children were entering a fantasy of their own. I hung up the phone to find my “middle littles” (Marie, Patrick and Maureen) crowding by the front window, waving madly. A tour bus, cunningly disguised to look like one of San Francisco’s iconic cable cars, lingered outside the house. Visitors of every description lined the open passenger seats, smiling broadly, and waving up to the kids—several even snapping pictures. A highly amused tour guide was saying something through a microphone, no doubt with a bit more material added to his repertoire that day than usual.
“Well, what do you know?” I said, chuckling and vaguely embarrassed. “Our house is a stop on the tour of the City!” By this time, nine-year-old Margaret had joined the others and was speaking in awed tones, “Wow, I can’t believe it. Do you think they think we are rich kids?”
“I think they think The Beverly Hillbillies just rolled into town, “ I quipped mercilessly, standing back from the window for cover as the impostor cable car resumed its uphill grind, adding, “If they come again tomorrow, we can send Patrick down with his baseball cap to collect change.”
“He’ll be like an organ grinder’s monkey!” Agnes called from the next room.
As if on cue, Maureen, who (unbeknownst to her generally watchful mother) had been discreetly twisting herself in a twelve-foot lace curtain, gave the thing one last toddler-ish tug, bringing reams of fabric cascading down on top of herself. No damage was done, but the tension rod could not be replaced without a ladder, leaving a gap in the panels to the front bay window as conspicuous as a missing tooth.
Musing to myself, I could picture the owner wondering what had become of it. If he knew about my adventure with the tablecloth-formerly-known-as-a-shawl, he would undoubtedly assume I had enlisted the curtain for use as an article of clothing—perhaps a billowy skirt or frothy nightgown. Then again, maybe he would imagine a certain Germanic father of seven striding through the door in the evening and roaring, “Do you mean to tell me that my children have been roaming about San Francisco dressed up in nothing but some old drapes?”
These hills are alive with us around—that’s for sure.
three year old Maureen, who just observed that these two look an awful lot alike.
Once again, Patrick reminds us that he plays a bit differently from his sisters.
Yesterday, I found him locked in a desperate struggle with--of all people--our normally mild-mannered friend, Raggedy Andy. When I came upon the fray, I asked Patrick what was going on, and he said, "Oh, Andy's just kicking himself in the face. Look, there's the fat lip and two black eyes."
Such odd behavior. I guess Andy doesn't hold his liquor well.
[Postscript: When Marie heard this report, she exclaimed indignantly, "Fighting? It was Patrick acting him out! He would never do such a thing!"] 
Patrick (looking glum): Mommy, today [a neighbor] said I was a crybaby.
Me (sincerely): You most certainly aren't. Why did he call you a crybaby?
Patrick: Because I was crying.
Me: Well, why were you crying?
Patrick: Because he called me a crybaby!
*******
The best part: That last line was delivered with a giant grin, and the two of us burst out laughing. To quote more Shakespeare, "All's well that end's well"!]
Marie (cuddling next to me and sighing deeply): Wouldn't it be great if Life was all just hugging and kissing your Mommy?
Patrick (in the kitchen): Maur-reeeeeeennnn, STOP!!!
Me (calling from the next room): What's the matter?
Patrick: Maureen was teasing me about the Top Ten Healthy Foods!
*******
Well, all righty then.
If you would like to see the list of the Top Ten Healthy Foods, something I have obviously discussed with the children since reading it--although I did not figure it would lead to mockery--check out Kristen and Suzanne's cooking blog, The Virtual Kitchen.
"Were you there when they crucified my Lord? Were you there when they crucified my Lord? Oh-o-o, sometimes it causes me to tremble, tremble, tremble. Were you there when they crucified my Lord?"
--Negro Spiritual, sung each year at our parish Lenten Pageant
The Children's Living Stations of the Cross at our local parish are as anticipated a part of our Lenten season as ashes, palm, and purple. We are blessed with a director who truly loves the project and participants, treating all the children under her direction with infinite kindness and care.
This year, eleven-year-old Theresa was especially excited, musing more than once, "Wouldn't it be great if they asked me to play the Blessed Mother?"
"If they do, you will play the role perfectly," I told her with frank mother's admiration, adding, "but please do not be disappointed if they don't!"
"Oh, I won't," she assured me stoutly, "I'll be happy with whatever part I get."
The evening of the first practice rolled around with a flurry of snowflakes and flutter of anticipation. By the time we arrived, the three younger children were dozing in their carseats, and I decided to wait outside, giving one last instruction to the girls: "Please keep an eye on Marie, and, whatever you do, remember we are team players. Be happy with any parts you get, and make them the best they can be." With nods of assent, my four young actresses took off, and I spent a quiet hour jotting ideas in my journal, praying part of a Rosary, and wondering how the girls were making out.
Before long, four figures emerged from the church. Theresa and Margaret, beaming with excitement, raced ahead of the others to the car. "I'm playing the Blessed Mother!" Margaret announced in joy mingled with a note of amazement, adding, "Can you believe it, Mom?" Theresa looked perfectly happy, chiming in with honest pride, "Isn't she going to be great?" I was glad for Margaret, but not a little surprised. She is only nine-years-old, and the part of Our Lady is usually reserved for a sixth grader. "Margaret, honey, that's fantastic," I assured her, still wondering how such a thing could have come about and scanning eleven-year-old Theresa's face for traces of disappointment. It was not long before a story unfolded.
When the girls first arrived, the director had greeted Theresa with the good news that *she* would be playing Our Lady. Theresa was overjoyed, but, within a few minutes, it became clear that this might not be a perfect arrangement. The Pageant did not have enough taller children signed up (and very few boys), and Theresa was the only one the right height to fit into the costume . . . of a soldier! The director asked her if she might switch parts, leaving nine-year-old Margaret as the next in line for the role of Mary. Remembering my admonition about being "team players" and glad to see her sister in the coveted role, Theresa cheerfully accepted this change of fortune, trading in the promise of a flowing blue mantle for a clanking coat of chain mail.
How can I reflect upon this unexpected turn of events? My little girl (no longer "little" in reality, but forever so to me) has shown what it is to go beyond talking about Lenten sacrifice and self-denial, and to live it out willingly and unflinchingly, in a spirit of obedience and love. The bud opens its first petals to reveal the color of the rose it will one day become.
I am looking forward to seeing Margaret play Our Lady, and my pride in her cannot be overstated, but you may be sure my camera will be clicking wildly to capture the pretty soldier standing tall behind the Cross.
Patrick: Did you know that Quetzels live in the Rain Forest?
Maureen (adamantly): No, they DON'T, Pat--they live in the kitchen!
Patrick (after a moment's pause): Are you talking about pretzels?
Maureen: Yes!
Five-year-old Patrick: "With Eileen, everything's fun. Without Eileen, nothing's fun!"
The title of this piece might make it sound like a comedy, but truthfully, it is more an evening rumination and hand wringing than anything else--the late night shudder of a mother thinking back upon the bullets dodged in an average day.
I was standing near the stove lining up ingredients for pancakes and engrossed in Margaret's opinion of Otto of the Silver Hand when I heard a subtle hiss, an empty sound like a tire spewing a crisp quiet stream of air. Looking to its source, I saw little Maureen poised in the middle of the kitchen with the nozzle of a can of WD-40 in her *mouth,* pressing down delightedly as if expecting whipped cream!!! I was upon her in an instant, checking her tongue and throat, calling indiscriminately to find out how such an article could have made its way into our toddler's hands, and relieved to find that her feeble baby fingers had not succeeded in releasing the wretched stuff inside her mouth. I could just make out the "DANGER: Keep out of reach of children. Harmful or fatal if swallowed" notice as I squirreled the dreadful can away to top of the refrigerator.
Hours later, during our peaceful evening story hour, Agnes read aloud from Anne of Avonlea. She was just getting to the moment in which Anne tells Mr. Harrison she has sold his Jersey cow, when I gasped to see Patrick, beaming with delight and wielding a weighty Duraflame log (not lit, fear not) toward his giggling sister Margaret. It was part of a lively game to which she was an encouraging participant, and he had no intention of actually hitting her. What he did not realize, however, as he pretended to hurl the hefty weapon toward his foe, was that another little one was at hand. Eight-month-old Eileen, so new to crawling she is still a bit of a surprise to us all whenever she turns up, was teetering on all fours beneath him, her fuzzy head in a plumb line beneath Patrick's haphazard burden. I sounded the alarm and Margaret caught the log just as my string-bean-armed little guy was beginning to lose his grip directly above the Eileen's head.
And so, my dears, these are two scenes from our Ash Wednesday, and I must say, it feels as if God is sending a gentle but timely reminder that the status quo is fragile, and trouble could sweep in in an instant. An unremarkable day is perhaps His greatest gift to us, a gift His holy angels work overtime to provide. May I never forget to give thanks each time I kiss seven healthy children good night, and may my heart never desire anything more in life than this.
Deo gratias!
*******
Addendum: For a beautiful reflection on the life of a child and thankfulness for the everyday, please do not miss my dear friend Beck's Twenty Two Months Old.
Maureen (puckering her lips and looking wistful): Mom, I wish I could kiss my head . . . but I can't.
Friday it was cold, extremely cold, mind numbingly, bone chillingly cold.
Saturday it was warmer, cheerily warmer, ice thawingly, mud meltingly warmer.
Today it was Springtime, bright blessed springtime, birds singingly, pipes burstingly springtime . . . .
That's right dear friends, the theme for this week is: MASSIVE DESTRUCTION.
It seems, horrified readers, that a pipe froze on Friday, thawed on Saturday, and proceeded to rain down on our furniture and books for, oh, about a day and a half.
The girls had been looking for a diversion this afternoon and asked permission to go next door to the cottage to make fairies. Moments later, the ill-fated party returned bellowing and breathless, barely coherent with cryptic ejaculations of "hissing sound!" "ceiling down!" and "sopping books!"
Dh and I sprang to our feet and were standing amidst the wreckage in a trice, not believing our eyes. Part of the ceiling had collapsed, the paint on the walls was bubbling, my wooden furniture was peeling, and our school books, notes and projects looked like noodles in a can of Campbell's. I think if the Superintendent of Public Schools could have shown up at that moment (preferably toting a chainsaw, or maybe just a really rusty pencil sharpener), we would have had all the elements of the perfect homeschooler's horror movie.
Here are some spine-tingling previews of the would-be flick now:
Here is a bit of melodrama for you: Do you see the soaking white pouch on top of "The Wheels on the Bus"? (Bottom Left.) It is one of the bags from "A New Beginning."
This Hail Mary Angel was a gift from our beloved neighbors when we moved from our old house. With a bit of cleaning up, she will return to her rightful place of honor in our learning room:
The funny part is--and I do not know why--this does not bother me! Yes, I was sorry to lose the books, particularly the children's projects (a year's worth of Agnes' artwork for example, not to mention a book of religious poetry inherited from my father), but isn't this really why Our Lord said:
"Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and decay destroy, and thieves break in and steal. But store up treasures in heaven, where neither moth nor decay destroys, nor thieves break in and steal. For where your treasure is, there also will your heart be." Mt. 6: 19-21.
Honestly, I am not at all trying to sound saintly or sanctimonious. (Truth be told, much of my calm comes from the naive belief that a good portion of this will be paid by our insurance company. Believe me, if my photo albums had been on those shelves I would have cried like a baby.) Still, maybe I am becoming a bit more mature. Perhaps, after thirty-nine years of seeing objects come and go, I am finally figuring out how not to put too much of my heart into things that are passing away with all speed. Seeing my husband set to work hauling and hefting, mopping and airing, all I could think about was the blessing it is to have a sturdy and steadfast husband--my prayer is that our problems may always be this inconsequential!
As for the books, I was starting to feel that our curriculum lacked pizzazz this year. There is no doubt--none whatsoever--that, freed from the bondage of certain Math, Language Arts, and Spelling standards, we will have more time to pursue the things we *love,* and learning will go on. It will flourish like a tree newly pruned.
I am seeing lots of Montfort, Montgomery, Shakespeare, Homer, Comstock, Caroll, and Keats in our future. Rejoice with us!
*******
A word to MacBeth: Do you see that sopping pile of books? The ones on the very top of the right hand bookshelf in the first picture? Well, that's the Jacques Cousteau trilogy you sent home with Patrick last Halloween. We will not be returning them, but I think you will agree that at least they met a fitting end.
Most hilarious phrase choice of the day: A dear friend called to see if we would still be getting together tomorrow. I told her my sob story, and she was very understanding. "It's OK," she said, "we'll take a rain check!"
Mom: So, Patrick, do you like The Long Winter?
Patrick: Nope.
Mom (surprised): Really, why not?
Patrick: It's long!
*******
Life imitated art in the cottage tonight.
To begin with, I served the family a meal to mirror the one we had been reading about in The Long Winter by Laura Ingalls Wilder--pot roast, pan gravy, mashed potatoes--it was everything a snowed-in pioneer family with dwindling provisions could desire. The girls, bless their hearts, instantly recognized my purpose, entering right into character. With one or two pointed remarks about "running low on flour," "the train from the east" and "burning straw," dinner was passed most pleasantly, although we all missed Pa who was apparently out in the stable tending to the stock.
Later on, Ma was washing up with Mary and Laura, when Mary remarked upon how determinedly cold the kitchen seemed. (Blindness sharpens the other senses.) The indefatiguable Laura looked wide-eyed and shivery, and even Ma had to admit that the sink water was running rather icily.
Sure enough, our heat was out--in real life--and no crisis has ever been better timed!
With all the gravity and unflappable level-headedness of Ma, I told the children we must pass the time as best we could until the heater could be fixed, ordering them to wear their warmest nightclothes. [They change into pajamas every night--why is it that tonight the process seemed--and was--magical?] They were back in a flash and all smiles, with Marie sporting an ensemble that could best be described as a "get-up": a too-short red plaid nightgown, stray ballerina pajama pants, and a lamb-studded pink button down sweater. Crowning the effort most emphatically was mommy's brown felt hat, absurdly cute when worn by a seven year old and tilted just so. Our intrepid girl looked as if she could have held out until Spring and quite possibly intended to do just that.
Still in character as Mary and Laura, the older girls swaddled Maureen (our Grace) in toasty blankets, and we all huddled together in the big four poster bed upstairs to read. The advancing chill added to the ambiance, so that it was a joy to begin each new chapter--The Wheat in the Wall, Not Really Hungry, For Daily Bread, Four Days' Blizzard--surrounded by those bright-eyed blanket-bound listeners. Patrick and Maureen dozed on a pillow next to me, and the older girls lounged comfortably on all sides. I half expected to hear Pa's fiddle ring out in the distance or perhaps the windswept whir of a storm brewing, but the next sound we heard was a smart rap on the front door.
No, gentle readers, it was not Mr. Edwards or even Almanzo Wilder, but only the oil burner repair man. The moment his unmistakable poundings met Ma's ear, she thrust baby Grace (by this time played by understudy Eileen) to the nearest empty-handed girl and bounded off to let him in, returning to 2007 by way of the front stairs and ending our little fantasy for the night.
But, oh, it was fun while it lasted!
As I was tucking her into bed tonight, two-and-a-half year old Maureen mused about the morrow, asking, with a typical toddler's grasp of reality, "Mommy, in the morning, can we go to the pet store and get Patrick a fish? And then get Marie a doll? And then get me a doll?" I grinned to hear her generous, yet self-serving scheme, but before I could utter a word, baby Eileen beamed with shining eyes, clapped those two dimpled palms together for joy, and rang out a long note of assent clear as a bell, "Yayyyyy!!!!!"
Now I ask you: Does "Yay" qualify as a first word? 
Here are the two dear little planners in a photo taken today. And, that's right folks, we here at the cottage obviously do not believe in wiping children's faces after they eat!
As you may be able to surmise from recent posts, Patrick is going through a bit of a scissors phase. I forgot to tell you that several days before Christmas, we caught him contentedly attempting to cut one of the wires we use to ensure that the tree does not tumble down from its perch on a coffee table.
I gave him a bit of a speech about it, turning to my husband with a note of nervous humor, "He's just going to cut a wire a day until the whole thing topples over."
Without missing a beat, Margaret quipped, "It's his Advent Calendar."
Margaret has decided she wants to begin harp lessons. She loves the delicate beauty of the harp and already imagines herself dressed as an angel and strumming this ethereal instrument for next year's Christmas Pageant. She was so excited when I found her a harp teacher and absolutely cannot wait to get started this week. In her enthusiasm, she kept saying things like: "I can't believe I am going to play the harp"; "Maybe Theresa can play a duet with me on her violin"; "Are you going to buy me a harp, or will we rent one?"; "Did you ever think about harp lessons when you were younger, Mom?"; "Why do they always show angels playing harps?"; "Do you think the harp will be hard or easy to play?"; "Where do you think we will keep my harp?"
After about a day or so of this, Margaret mused to Agnes, "I can't wait for my first harp lesson," to which Agnes deadpanned, "That's great, Margaret, but could you stop harping on it?"
Mom (putting on Maureen's pajamas with mind wandering to some of the more challenging moments of the day): Honey, you were a bit rambunctious in Mass today.
Maureen (beaming): Thank you!
Seven-year-old Marie (sitting down to breakfast with a mournful expression): Mommy, last night, I had the most horrible nightmare in the world!
Me (genuinely concerned): Oh, honey, I'm so sorry. What was it about?
Marie: Alright, Mommy, since you asked, I will tell my tale of woe. (Buoyantly jumping upon a chair) Lights, please!
"Am I not here, who is your mother?"
--Our Lady of Guadalupe to St. Juan Diego
Yesterday afternoon, Marie sat gazing out the front window. "What's that in the bush?," she asked, pointing. I pressed my face near the glass and could just make out the outline of something pink in our dormant rose bush. "Margaret," I called to one with better eyes than mine, "can you see what is stuck in the rosebush?" She squinted to get a better look and announced, "It looks like a rose."
"A rose?" I said, doubtfully. "It would never be a rose this time of year."
"Well, it looks like one," she insisted.
Sure enough, it did look like a rose, and within a moment one of the children suggested, "It is a rose in December--just like Our Lady of Guadalupe!"
Unlocking the front door, the children all went sprinting out. Theresa was the first to reach the bush, plucking off a perfect, pink silk rose. "It's one of the roses from the wreath," she called across the gray-brown flower bed.
As she held the rose aloft, I readily recognized it as part of the pretty pink wreath no longer on the door. The landscapers had been by to do the winter cleanup in the morning. Evidently, one of them had found an errant rose lying somewhere and stuck it in the bush for safekeeping from the leaf blowers.
I was laughing at this point and feeling a bit silly, because, quite honestly, a part of me had become excited over the prospect of having a full blown rose in the front garden on the Feast of Our Lady of Guadalupe. Standing next to me, Agnes noticed my reaction and asked, "What would you have thought if it had been a rose?"
"I would have thought Our Lady had sent it to let us know how much she loves us."
Agnes considered a moment and asked, "Well, couldn't Our Lady have sent a silk rose?"
[And there you have it, dear friends. As usual, the eyes of children are open and ready to see what we adults too often miss.]
"Yes, Agnes, yes, I do think Our Lady could have sent a silk rose," I smiled, draping an arm around her as we walked back into the house.
Me: Maureen, is that a bump on your forehead?!
Maureen: Yes.
Me: Where did you get it?
Maureen (turning to gaze out the window with a haunted expression): The world.
Yesterday morning, I was at the top of the stairs toting my coffee and baby Eileen, with Marie, Patrick and Maureen close behind. Almost-seven-year-old philosopher Marie assessed the scene and commented: "This is how every mother should come down the stairs in the morning--with a coffee in one hand, a baby in the other, and a trail of kids following behind!"
This morning, Margaret was in a bit of a bad mood. The reason escapes me now, but she came down to breakfast decidedly out of sorts. Ever the sensitive one, six (almost seven) year old Marie began to sing:
"Deck the halls with mel-an-choly, Mar-ar-ar-ar-ar-ar-ar-ar-gret!"
What to serve on a balmy, late Autumn day? Hot chocolate with ice cream, a treat for all seasons!
Friday afternoon, I made the children hot chocolate, only to discover we were out of our customary whipped cream. No one minded a dollop of fudge ripple ice cream in its place though! Sipping her hot chocolate/cold ice cream with evident satisfaction, Marie murmured, "This is a very comfortable day."
The perfect praise!
Yesterday afternoon, two friends of mine were lounging with me in the yard, contentedly sipping coffee as our children frolicked in the late day sun. One of the moms paid an enormous compliment saying, "Alice, I am so glad to be here, because I always feel that your children are such a good influence . . . . "
This was Agnes' cue to shout from the far end of the lawn, "MOOOMMMMM!!!!!!!! Margaret is on the second floor landing of the cottage throwing streams of toilet paper down, and I can't get her to stop!!!!!"
I found this post at Agnes' blog just now. I can't link to her, but the text and title are copied in full below. I thought you would appreciate its simple message:
StopBefore you read any further, say this prayer, at least once. Try and memorize it.
Eternal Father, I offer thee the most precious blood of thy divine son, Jesus, in union with the masses said throughout the world today, for all the holy souls in purgatory, for sinners everywhere, for sinners in the universal church, those in my own home and within my family. Amen.
This is the Prayer of St. Gertrude the Great. It is such a powerful prayer that it will release 1000 souls from Purgatory. I recently memorized it from a holy card.
Yesterday was the Feast of the Holy Souls, or All Soul's Day. I can think of no better prayer to commemorate this feast than this one.
This morning, I was cuddling Maureen (2) in my arms and couldn't resist gushing, "You are adorable! God was so good giving you to me!" Without skipping a beat, she replied, "And God was so good giving Eileen to me!"
Seeing Maureen's heart so full of love for her baby sister has been such a joy. Two days ago, I brought the two babies to the doctor for well visits. Maureen was affronted to receive a pair of shots, one right after the other. Moments later, it was Eileen's turn. As the doctor made ready to administer Eileen's vaccination, I noticed Maureen watching solemnly from her chair, her two great blue eyes still red from her own traumatic experience. When she realized Eileen would be getting a shot, she blessed herself in a left-handed toddler triangle, folded her hands, and began praying for her! It was all I could do not to run past the doctor and scoop Maureen up into my arms right then and there to cover her kind little face with kisses.
Baby Eileen could use a few extra prayers, by the way. She has a long dent in her head where two plates do not seem to be joining evenly on both sides. The doctor thinks it will probably be just fine, so I am not all that worried, but he is going to be watching her carefully during the next few months. The worst case scenario would be corrective surgery down the road.
Flourescent light becomes her, don't you think? : )
Patrick (to Marie): You're being mean! I will never play secret agents with you again!!!
Marie (in a conciliatory tone): Please let me play secret agents.
Patrick (chipperly): O.K.!
Marie (confidentially to me): Boy, he recovers quickly.
*******
This little exchange reminded me of Suzanne's insightful post on the uncomplicated and endearing nature of our precious boys: What You See is What You Get.
"Truly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child shall not enter it." Mk. 10:15.I think our pious little two year old just may have found the perfect friend.
My sister Margaret, ever the Latin scholar: Let's conjugate 'stupid'! 'Stupo, stupas, stupat, stupamus, stupatis, stupant.'
(Later . . . )
Mom: Margaret, time for your Latin recitation.
Margaret: But, Mommy, I alreadly did my Latin! I conjugated "Stupid!"
Mommy (grinning): Don't you mean "you conjugated stupidly?"
Me (reading Mother Goose to Patrick and Catherine):
"What are little boys made of?
What are little boys made of?
Frogs and . . . . "
Patrick (earnestly): No, Mommy, they are made of the love of God.
Every once in a while, I raise my heart to Heaven and remember to thank God for the gift of home education.
Usually, the prayer bubbles up at an unexpected moment--like when four-year-old Patrick blurts out an emphatic, "I love nature; I love science; I love YOU, Mommy." When eleven-year-old Theresa attends to Algebra, unconsciously cuddling baby Eileen on her lap. When the entire family dissolves in laughter remembering the lines to a favorite Ogden Nash poem. When twelve-year-old Agnes begs permission to read on ahead in The Iliad, because she simply cannot wait for the rest of us. When four dear young girls cannot think of a thing in the world they would rather do than sit round a table fashioning spoons into saints with their mother.
Would that I could go back in time and pay a visit to my younger self--that twenty-something Mommy with the two-year-old and the newborn and the outrageous, but unshakable, desire to home school them. First I would kiss the two-year-old and the newborn, and then I would tell her, "Don't worry. It's going to be great!"
Marie (age 6): . . . . As I was saying before I so rudely interrupted Margaret . . . .
This morning, four year old fish-lover Patrick came over to me reporting, "Mommy, I gave my fish to the Star of the Sea."
"What?" I asked, glancing toward the table with the sample project still displayed, "Did you draw a fish on the project?" [Patrick draws fish on anything and everything.]
"No, Mommy," he replied, with emphasis, "I gave the Blessed Mother my fish."
Here is the project, new and improved, with one of Patrick's favorite fish toys:
I think Our Lady likes it even better now, don't you?
Marie, age 6 (rousing her half dazed mother at 6 am with several ragdolls in tow): Good morning!!!
Mom (muffled): 'Morning, honey.
Marie: Did you hear any strange noises from Agnes and Theresa's room last night?
Mom: No, why?
Marie (alight with enthusiasm): We all had so much fun! Margaret and I snuck into their room to play Besieged Castle. Agnes' bed was the safe inner court of the castle, and Theresa's was the outside wall where we battled with the enemy!
Mom (amused, but trying to sound disapproving): Is that so?
Marie: Yes, and Raggedy Ann was there too. So were all my ragdolls.
Mom (interested): Poor Raggedy Ann! Was she very frightened?
Marie: Oh no, she was too busy pouring molten lead on the besieging forces.
[Here are the brave defenders now. Have you ever seen a more rag-tag bunch of warriors?]
Theresa (pointing to Maureen's face): What's this?
Maureen: That's my eyes!
Theresa: What's this?
Maureen: That's my nose!
Theresa: What's this?
Maureen: That's my mouf! [mouth]
Theresa (pointing to Maureen's forehead): What's this?
Maureen: That's my name of the Father.
Agnes was reading L.M. Montgomery's Anne of Avonlea this afternoon when six-year-old Marie approached her. "So," asked Marie, eyeing the worn pages with some interest, "Is 'Anne of Beverly Hills' a good book?" Agnes laughed, looking up momentarily to say, "Not 'Beverly Hills,' Marie--Avonlea." Shrugging her shoulders, Marie ran off to tend to Raggedy Anne.
About an hour or so afterwards, all six of the children were outside taking advantage of the warm spring weather, when Marie called out, "Agnes, will you push me on the swing?" This time, not even looking up from her book, Agnes replied absently, "Sorry, Marie, not right now."
With that, Marie was left with no choice but to pump herself on the swings. As soon as she had worked up enough momentum to establish a pendulum-like rhythm, she began singing her own accompanying ditty, the likes of which I have not heard since "Bread and Jam for Frances":
"Agnes doesn't swing,
Agnes doesn't swing,
Agnes never swings,
Because,
She's too immersed*
In Aaaaannnnnne
of BEV--EEEEERRRRR--LLLLYYYYY HIIIILLLLSSSSS!"
*pronounced Im-maws-ed
I was sitting on the couch with Patrick and Marie the other night when Patrick made an observation:
"Mommy, each of us has something we talk about all the time. I talk about fish. Marie talks about dolls. And you talk about God."
I began some much needed spring cleaning today. Just after lunch, I overheard six-year-old Marie dictating a passage for her journal:
"Dear Diary,
Today, Mommy vowed to clean all the rooms. Unfortunately, she did not get very much done."
Baby Maureen either has a lofty perception of me or she plans on trading me in.
Yesterday afternoon, she picked up a copy of "What Makes a Leonardo a Leonardo," thumbed to the page with the image of the Mona Lisa and began signaling and squealing animatedly, "Look! It's Mommy! Mommy! It's Mommy!" following up with a cascade of kisses to the famous face and devoted murmurs of "I love you, Mommy!"
By the way, but for the brown hair, there is no resemblance whatsoever--except, of course, that we are both beginning to crack with age!
Me (calling up the stairs): Marie, are you dressed?
Marie: No, not yet.
Me: Why not?
Marie: All I can find in my drawer is a Halloween costume!
Baby Maureen: Mommy, I tired.
Me (very surprised): Really?
Maureen: Yes. I need chocolate.
Baby Catherine marched into the kitchen this morning, her little arms laden with at least six or seven rag dolls. Six year old Marie gaped at her in mock disbelief and exclaimed, "Are these all yours?!"
Patrick was using the couch to climb onto a windowsill and inadvertently stepped down hard on 8-year-old Margaret's leg.
"Careful, Patrick," she quipped, "these are stockings I'm wearing, not chain mail."
Lately, when I ask baby Maureen what her name is, she says, "Treasure."
And right she is!
Marie entered the kitchen this morning and announced gleefully, "Look, Mom, I have a chat room!"
(Click on this photo for a better look at the participants.)
Mom: Marie, why is Maureen's hair soaking wet and standing on end?
Marie: Because she wanted to be my styling head.
Agnes wrote this poem today:
The Christmas tree was taken down
At ten o'clock last night,
I'll miss its glowing ornaments,
I'll miss its radiant light.
The Wise Man that I bought for mom,
The little stable, too,
The pleasant little manger scene
I've grown accustomed to.
Gone are the days of my piano
Playing "We Three Kings,"
The pageants and the evergreen,
I'll miss these little things.
But God has given us a Son
To help us here on earth,
Our joy should not be any less
The month after His birth.
And though the ornaments are packed
We shall not shed a tear--
For Christ is still beside us now
To guide us through the year.
Marie (mischievously): Look, Margaret, someone left the Roboraptor on all night!
Margaret: No they didn't--I just saw you turn it on!
Marie (aghast): You did? I didn't see that!
Two days ago, Margaret came down wearing a sea green and lavender knit sweater and skirt I hadn't seen on anyone in a long time. She looked lovely, so, as a joke, I said, "Hubba! Hubba!" (Sounds dumb as I type it, but what can I say?)
Instantly, Marie appeared from out of nowhere looking interested, "I wanted to see the Horror, Horror person!"
I usually wear contact lenses, but every once in a while they start to bug me. Remembering my glasses were in the upstairs bathroom and not wishing to drag my expectant self up the stairs unnecessarily, I looked for a volunteer.
"Who's got nimble legs?" I called, hoping for a show of hands.
"I've got Nibbles' legs!" exclaimed Marie, thrusting up her stuffed bunny to expose his four floppy paws.
Here's our friend, "Nibbles," now. And, fortunately, he made good time coming back with my glasses. The lenses look a bit cloudy though . . . .
You know you are a homeschooling family when . . .
The most frequently asked question of the day is:
"What are you going to name your part of the fungus?"
The best idea of the day is:
"The directions say 'Store in the dark except during periods of observation.' I'm keeping mine in the dollhouse."
And the most valid concern of the day is:
"No!!! The many-headed slime will scare the dolls!"
