Musings of a City Family Going Country

The Hardest Thing About Being the Mom

2009-07-26T20:54:00.000-07:00

I can safely say that I have made a choice that will forever alter the lives of my children. One that will cause both big and small ripples for the rest of their lives. It was the hardest decision I ever made for me. But one that irreparably changes the course of their lives... and they had no input. They are not very used to that being the case.

We are not a democratic family by most standards. But we do have an egalitarian societal view. Our family utilizes the thought process of everyone having a voice and being heard. Ultimately the children don't necessarily have a vote. But they have the opportunity to speak, raise questions and assess their stand in decisions which effect the family as a whole.

Many times this is a free for all of sorts. As each member has their own talking points and of course, point of view. Amazingly, there are also those humanitarian and generous views to protect and preserve the other members. This has worked throughout the course of the development of our brood. Until now.

I have circumvented the tradition and destroyed the opportunity. I became and am very selfish at this point. Ultimately my decision was for the best of the family and its preservation. But no child would have made my decision nor would they have swayed it at this point in time.

You see, I single-handedly am destroying our family as they know it. I have asked and filed for a divorce. It was not without agonizing choice deliberation. It was not done in haste. But the decision that loomed and hung over my head for the last several years like King Kong about to scale the Empire State building has finally climbed off my back. It has been made.

For many of my children this has ended their youth. It has forced them to acknowledge the truth about our lives that I worked so very diligently to hide, or spin or make better by working long hours, fighting to keep things looking normal, or pretended that being "just us chickens" was enough to be the representation of the family of which they so wanted to be a part. I had done it for so many years, in such an effortless fashion that they no longer saw the anguish it caused to make believe our family was whole. They could see the struggle. They could see the fatigue. Many nights they heard my sobs as I fell exhausted into bed. But that was seen as how we do things, rather than something wrong with the way things went in our house.

The kids are not to blame for calling this normal. I made it so. I made it seem that exhaustion, sleepless weeks and months, hollowed eyes, migraine headaches that went on for weeks, and endless back pain that caused me to snatch breaths between cries were normal modes of operation. They forget those times most days. They look beyond them into the seasons of relief. The times the struggle appears more like the lives of their friends. They see their lives in terms of seasons just like this. Because the workload shifts and the temporary relief slides in for the moment and erases the pain.

There have been accusations of living manufactured lies. There have been stories of plotting to hurt everyone for the benefit of one. All these things may be resultant of the decision. But none were the motivation. The reasons are private but not very invisible to onlookers. Surprisingly I have been told that there were no surprises about the ultimate demise of my marriage. For some, they even said it far out lasted most expectations for its life expectancy. It not only hurts to know I could not hide its dysfunction, but angers that everyone was willing to sit back and speculate and watch the suffering without comment or question. Understandably their silence can be explained away as knowing I would not have heard them because it wasn't time. But I know I doubted my life and marriage for much longer than anyone was made aware. I thought that was the mark of a dedicated wife and mother to keep silent. To place everyone above herself. To make constant the promises made during the wedding ceremony. To preserve every aspect of the life I had worked to create that seemed normal. I held on to the promise of things getting better and being normal like a bull dog with his favorite bone because it looked and felt like that was what everyone told me to do to be a good christian wife.

I cannot help but wince when I hear those comments. I thought I hid things better. I thought I manipulated the truth enough to hide from it myself and to keep it from the public eyes. I prayed that the children did not have an awareness of the unhappiness. But like my marriage, I failed to keep private what was killing me inside. I allowed what was killing the marriage to show through all the shiny paper I used to wrap our marriage into the perfect package, so no one would know that neither of us was happy.

I listened intently to counselor and pastor alike, who told me to wear out my knees. Pray harder. Put my children and marriage first and God would bless my efforts and give me the desires of ny heart. That there would be a day I would look back on the tough times and see the shift in our lives due to my devotion. I wish I could say that I saw that time. God did indeed answer many of my prayers and blessed us with beautiful and bright children. But the marriage never felt the blessings of God in the same way. I was and am alone.

I prayed to God to make it better for me, for him, for the children, for the sake of our parents and for God. I changed my dress, my job, my likes, my dislikes, my music interests, and my everyday to do list. I prayed harder, I didn't pray for myself or my marriage, but only for others. I worked more, I worked less. I became the contortionist of renowned abilities trying to fit into the hole that our marriage had become.

Exhausted, angry and betrayed, I have finally given up. I am to blame for the unhappiness and anger of my children. I am to blame for their confusion. I have taken away their idea of what our family is and have now replaced it with what it will and has become.

I am sorry I cannot possibly go another day working to make the fit into the way of life I wanted for my children. I wanted them to come from a happy, long marriage and family life. I wanted them to look with pride at their parents' marriage and say how much they wanted their lives and marriages to be like ours. If I had stayed, I would be making them into liars. Despite the anguish and hurt, they know it as well as I do.

I want for them genuine, happy and fulfilled marriages. The kind of marriage that trust and love are inseparable and inherent. I only hope that the pain I have caused them will force them to look harder at what they want in marriage and from their partners. Because they deserve as children to know happy, loving parents who love each other unconditionally. They didn't have them.

I can only ask that when the dust settles that they see the human parents they had and allow for the forgiveness of their mistakes. I also ask that they forgive us for not being adults to end a hurtful, angry marriage before it hurt them. We were children in adult clothes for the longest time. We lashed out. We called names and hurled insults. We made our children into the observing adults at times they needed us to be grown. We couldn't begin to muster what they needed. We were pitiful. I also desire that they allow time to heal the hurts and anger we caused them to feel over all of this.

I cannot change the course of the current steps I am taking. They are painful. They are arduous. They are miserable. Each day seems to rip the scab off another once healed wound to cause additional pain. The quiet anger, and unsaid hurts each of us carries seems to beat away at the calm I so desired by staying in my home. The place that once seemed the most peaceful and comforting. Each day as I waken on the bed tossed onto the floor, I cautiously climb off of it and realize the chaos hasn't ended. It seems to have grown again. The calm has disappeared and the turmoil grows with the silent anger of picking up undone projects and endless bills. That untangling the last few financial knots is like unwrapping the last presents at Christmas and discovering only underwear you don't like.You cannot send it back and you cannot hide it once it is opened. It all takes up space you don't have and energy you didn't want to share. But it is what it is.

Each morning I get up knowing I have another set of anguishing steps to take. I face the reality of wanting a change for the better and realizing that better may not be here. Copable may not be here. But the steps of the next part of my life face me and they must be taken to get to the other side.

She Gets Everything She Wants and Has Her Nails Done Too.

2009-05-28T22:13:00.000-07:00

I have been inundated with questions about what I think about Jon and Kate Plus 8 over the last year or two since they came into existence on TLC. Like many mothers of many children, we are asked how they manage or what we believe is the trick to raising that many children. Some people want a direct comparison to their household and to ours.

Well frankly, there cannot be one and there isn't one. First of all, they agreed to have their lives documented by camera persons nearly 24-7. But oddly, they are not just filming, they seem to be developing a place in the Goslen family. Secondly, Kate has more help with 8 children than I had with nearly all of my brood regardless of their age and numbers. Plus I also worked a full-time job when we had the most help and was building a business. Half of that time I was raising 5 children and pregnant with the 6th child and Barry lived 4 states away. We thought we were moving, so the house cleaning was done nearly daily and there were so few toys the kids thought that Santa Claus had confiscated them.

The other thing about Jon and Kate- despite their different parenting styles, their struggles suddenly no longer include money, or house size or help to do things they want to do. Their level of celebrity has afforded them several solutions to everyday issues that most mothers and fathers of many face every minute of the day. It can be quite a struggle to give to each child according to their need and yet manage to juggle the completion of the laundry. (But I hear that little chore no longer is one that Kate or Jon deal with now.) None of the people I know can afford to have their nails done professionally every week. None of them have their hair done professionally more than 3-4 times a year. Most of us trade a friend with the skill of hair cutting for something else we do well. We adapt our lifestyles to our budgets and our goals for our family.

I had a good laugh as during the season premiere, our heroine, Kate, wanted some extraordinary recognition for planning the birthday party of the sextuplets essentially by herself. She began with talking about the theme, then stated the kids mutinied and wanted a jumpy theme. As she took all the children with her to purchase decorations and the grab bags for the party , she was more concerned that the "P-People" would take their pictures than the task at hand. I understand the press has infringed on their lives, but she asked for the celebrity. With the money and filming comes the responsibility of protecting your children. Another of those pesky every day occurrences for responsible parents-- we are here first to raise and protect our children.

As she wandered the store to find her party items, she ran a commentary on the behavior of the kids. They were indeed well behaved, but that is as it should be. They no longer are 2 or 3 and they have been to school. They should be expected to represent themselves, their family and other large families well.

She seemed to believe that no one had ever done that before, or had the distinct privilege of doing so without an entire entourage of several adults. Sorry Kate, I have grocery shopped with 11 kids and not enough money to buy the desires of their hearts. There were no other adults present other than the scores of people remarking about our large family and the overflowing shopping cart. She was too busy buying everything they wanted to notice that the other families there were counting the number of plates, the total invitations,the kids desires, and the ideas were scaled to a budget they could afford on a salary. Kate was focused on a budget that was scaled for the show. Do you really need four jumpies? and four pinatas? With all of that why did she include a magician? How much is enough? She wasn't spending much time showing the little ones which ones they could afford vs what they wanted. She was just placing everything they touched in the cart.

It was almost surreal to hear her attempt to identify the great behavior of her older daughters as they tried to help mom put together the numerous folded boxes. As the 20 year friend of my daughter commented, "I feel so sorry for the older girls, they are almost always invisible. She never sees what they do right." That much I can tell you is a challenge of mothering many. We get focused on the bad behavior because it can take away from all the other good behavior. It is a reality and a curse.

The saddest portions of the show, were the points in which Kate sought more sympathy for the stresses on their marriage and relationship. Jon mentioned his "side" but the most verbal was Kate. Although she was among the millions of mothers who have heard the babysitter's name come out of her child's mouth first, she was shocked to find out that person had created a strong impact on their children. Reality, again, has been her worst enemy. There was never a question whether the children would acknowledge a caregiver, there was just the question of when. If you have a real job and place emphasis on it, your children eventually suffer. Fact or fiction does not change the reality. One of the hardest choices of a mother that feels the need to supply for her family.

I am not an anti-Goslen fan. I am truly in the corner of the extraordinary children of the relationship. I would love the opportunity to meet Kate and maybe make a few suggestions. I realize I have no celebrity. I am not an expert on raising children. I have and continue to make mistakes that hurt my children and myself. But I believe I can show her ways to be a better working mom. Give her pointers on organizing the fun with the work, and raising kids with a sense of responsibility to each other and the family. I do know I have experience with that.

I would love the show to have Kate meet other moms of many who homeschool, have 8 or more children, have no help other than their children and husbands, live within a budget and manage to raise brilliant children without a tv crew or producers. What an interesting conversation that might be!!

Good Luck Kate and Jon-- I hope you don't become so much of a celebrity that you miss the magical moments. I also hope that you can look beyond your own selves and see what your children need from both of you - whether you are together or apart and that you both rise above your own limitations.

May Crowning

2009-05-06T21:27:00.000-07:00

Today was Kirsten's triumph and Anya's torture. Kirsten was chosen to crown Mary during the May crowning ceremony. Our merry band of children separated and sat with Catholic instruction teachers and younger ones with me. Each younger child spent the first few minutes looking for their friends sitting with their own families.

Father John entered into the church with his biggest smile, as he once again could lead the new communicants in another step of their newly found demonstrations of faith. Anya's second grade class sat in the front once again in their first communion best and with their families. She was left behind with us. Again on the outside watching her friends.

Kirsten sat quietly behind us during the Rosary and waited with her classmate to go and place the crown of flowers on the head of Mary. They headed to Our Lady's place of honor to place the crown of flowers upon her head. Each one of them walking slowly and with their heads bowed as they reached Mary. They turned and looked at the congregation and groups of moving children carrying more flowers in honor of the Holy Mother. The two girls smiled so sweetly as they came down from the front of the church.

While we had waited, Aidan had fidgeted. He swung his legs and quietly mumbled and sang throughout the entire last four decades of the Rosary. I scolded. I touched his shoulder. I held him in my arms as we stood. I waited for him to stop the noise. I practically hung him by his toes to make it through the mass. All the while Anya sat and watched her class.

Sadly, Anya who so much wanted to be a participant this night and Sunday had to sit with her family. Not because she had done something wrong, but because we had. We as adults had not made plans in advance and she could not participate with her class during first communion. Despite the benefits of being able to join with her family once we become confirmed members, she felt left out. She was disappointed on Sunday to the point of tears. She so wanted to have the beautiful dress and the veil and stand before Father John to take the communion bread and wine. She had studied and knew all about the host and the way they did it. She was proud of her ability to recite the Our Father and the Hail Mary. She knew what they were to do. She was ready. It was the adults that were not. Even as they took pictures of the First Communion Class, she stood off to the side to be able to talk to her friends. All of Sunday, she walked around quietly looking off away from the family -- you could tell she was pondering what she had done wrong. The answer again was the adults did not plan.

So today, I write about one child's joy and another child's sadness over the same evening. How Anya watched as her class once again was in front of the parish to receive their scapulars and she sat with her family. How she marveled at the object and listened to its meaning. All the while as Kirsten glowed with the honor of crowning Mary. We sat as a family and said the rosary to Our Mother. We spoke in unison and individually, so that our prayers could be heard. Even the smallest children began to recite with us the decades. They quickly learned the prayer and began to understand the ritual.

Anya had been given her first rosary for this night. She stood still and held each bead with each recitation of the Hail Mary. When our eyes would meet she would be smiling from ear to ear. She was proud to be trusted to hold the rosary and to be old enough to stand with us as we said it. You could see her determination to fully understand what God intended this time to be.

This must be the greatest challenge of being a parent. The torture of watching one child shine at the moment another fades with disappointment. So I am writing about it, in hopes that someday the memory will be soothed by the writing and acknowledgment of the disappointment. All the while, writing about Kirsten's honor will keep the memory fresh for her as she gets older.

I also hope, that Anya will never lose the longing desire to be able to commune with our Lord. That she will always thirst for him as the doe pants beside the waters. I pray for both of them that this night and all its firsts, will signify the start of something greater for both my daughters despite one's triumphs and the others disappointments.

Surviving and More

2009-05-02T20:55:00.000-07:00

We had lost contact with Kirsten's godmothers and godfather. They are all a part of the same family and we had grown quite attached to them in Edmond, OK. The story of our friendship was odd at best. We met during the time we attended a mission church for the Lutheran church. A small congregation of about 120 people. Everyone knew everyone else and we kept our lives intertwined throughout our stay there.

Perry and Anita were special people. Initially we were drawn to them because their daughter, Lisa and Anita seemed captivated by our band of merry little ones. Even more so as Anita realized that she and Ariel shared the same birthday. Lisa could be found every Sunday surrounded by the small ones shouting her name, "Lisa, look at this. Lisa, did you see me?" Soon she became the favorite babysitter, despite her entrance into teenage years and activities. Anita was one or another of the childrens' Sunday school class teacher or vacation bible school teacher. There was always a Coleman in her class.

At the time, Perry had been diagnosed with Hodgekin's lymphoma. He was battling fairly well, but as expected, had good days and bad. They often were in each of the focus groups we were in. We began to add them to our newly found family, sharing holidays, Sunday afternoons and nights and general days of fun and talking. There was always a celebration of something- but mostly it was life!

We found out we were pregnant with Kirsten in August of 1994. Our surprise was marked by disbelief and down right fear. Barry had been laid off and we were far from our home state of Ohio. We had moved to Oklahoma only 2 short years before and were just then finding our way to breaking even from the move. Overwhelmed, scared and unable to look beyond the immediate sense of being swept away, we numbly followed each other through the next months of the pregnancy.

We found out not long before Kirsten's birth in April, 1995; Anita had bone cancer. Not one with a protocol of treatment, but one that the only protocol of treatment was for 65 yo black men. They were at a loss. Besides being the second parent for Lisa to have cancer, they were overwhelmed there was no established treatment. It is one thing to battle something you know, another entirely to battle more of the unknown. The search began for doctors, hospitals and the cure. Friends and family began the battle of prayer for the best results and answers to the dilemmas they faced.

Much time was spent going to doctors and seeking opinions. The best chance treatment was determined to be bone marrow transplants. One question answered, another search to begin for the best donors. We were all hopeful and prayed for the search to be short and fruitful. After many testings, and prayers there were none to be found. The small group of close friends tried to close in around them to shelter them from questions, from fears and from being overwhelmed with everyday tasks.

The next alternative was using her own bone marrow and killing off all the bad cells. Once it was removed and healthy, they could destroy the cancer within the marrow and then use the healthy, good cells to replace it. Sounded like a plan. But would it work? With much prayer she began the process. I cannot tell you how long she was in the hospital. I only know it seemed like forever.

She was there through most of November. Perry and she had been hopeful she would be home for Thanksgiving. The news was not so good. She seemed to be getting worse despite the prayers and successes. She lost her hair. She began to lose more and more weight. We would take turns going to see her. Groups of people, friends from church, the neighborhood all went to see her. Rarely was she the one in poor spirits. More often than not, she was the one cheering us. She always had something to tell us about her God, her faith and her belief she would be healed.

The worst of it came near her birthday. I managed to run away from home that day to see her. When I got there, everyone had left for the day. There had been a few visitors earlier in the day, but reports from church had been very limited, and very dismal. Even the pastor had begun to lose faith in her ability to fight the disease. I remember as I walked into the room, I could barely breath. I was struck by the silence of the hospital floor, and the overwhelming machines that stood around her bed.

She lay there with a damp wash cloth covering her bare head. Her skin was drawn and yellow, almost translucent. She was barely 80 pounds at that time. She had been on a ventilator, but now only had oxygen. Her chest seemed to heave up and down under the demands of just trying to breath. There appeared to be so little life left in her. She woke up and looked at me, but seemed to look straight through me. I was so taken back, I fought back tears. I could hardly face my friend who had been so full of life not two months before. I was failing her, by my own limitations and by my own fears.

I finally found my voice and began to talk to her. It was then my eyes came to rest on the pictures taped to the arm of her tv. As I could stop my racing mind, I could see where she had them hang the picture of our children, next to Lisa's smiling face. I slowly started to chatter about the kids. She would smile and attempt to talk and ask questions, but she was truly to weak to do so. So I would sit and talk about the room, the gifts of flowers, and stuffed animals, the pictures and the cards all placed on on top of another in attempt to fill the room with cheer. I tried to fill the room with noise. My endless and meaningless chatter rang empty in the small room. It was overwhelmed by the silence of the hospital floor late at night.

I rinsed out her washcloth, but the cool water seemed to evaporate the moment it was placed on her head. Her skin dry and thirsty for the moisture, quickly removed any hint of water that had been in the cloth. Her lips were dry and seemed somewhat cracked at the corners, the lip gloss or chapstick left on the bedside table useless to stop them from drying out.

I looked at myself in the mirror and then through the reflection to my friend. Surely she was too tired to go on. Surely God would soon stop her suffering as some of out friends thought he would. How could she possibly survive this torture? I also asked myself how could we ask her to keep fighting? Even with the knowledge that she would leave a husband and a beautiful teenage daughter, how could anyone expect her to have the courage to continue to suffer more in order not to leave them? Did we have the right to ask her again and again to have more faith in the healing powers of God, than we who were not sick could manage to believe in?

I quietly walked out of the room and approached the nursing desk. I asked the medical questions you ask about every dying person. What were the labs? How old were they? How much weight had she lost? Was she able to eat? Was her input and output consistent or was she losing the battle? Finally I saw a familiar face from my previous years of working at the hospital. There stood one of the nurses that had befriended me during my time there. I knew she would answer me honestly, frankly.

As I waved to my friend at the end of the hall, she began to walk toward me. She smiled and asked what I was doing back at the hospital. Then the look on her face showed shock and then disbelief. She realized then, that the pictures of the blonde children throughout Anita's room were pictures of MY children. That the little cherub faces she had seen and discussed with Anita were the faces I kissed good night each day. She started to cry as the realization came to her, that there was less distance again between her work and her everyday reality.

Lisa, the assistant director of nursing for the oncology floor had found herself attached to my friend, Anita. She had become more than a patient to her. Anita, as always was her custom, had become a friend and confidant. Anita, when she was well had shared her life, her family and her faith with Lisa. They had joked about her sharing her name with Anita's daughter. They had laughed at Perry's bad jokes and endless puns. She had shared in the oohs and ahhs of dance dresses for Lisa, Anita's daughter. She had been introduced to the family of friends that trouped in to see Anita each week. She was learning about the lives and concerns of each of these people as Anita prayed and worried for each and every one. But Anita rarely worried for herself.

As we stood and put together stories and pieces of Anita's struggle against the beast of cancer, Lisa shared details of how the beast had come and fought Anita's every step. She told of her weakening body and immune system. How certain drugs fought her system to the point of causing her to go into respiratory failure. How Anita had times of lucid conversations and then times where she created an entire world through the mirror in her room. Her mirror had become her window into our house and our family routine. She knew every detail of the day as she told the staff of the children in the mirror. The nurses would be able to judge how sick she was by the stories she told of dancing with the children in the mirror. Or how she would ask for one or more of the children to come and sit on her lap to tell her a story. Both of us wept as we realized that the mirror was her escape from the relentless power of the beast that sought her life.

This was when my heart broke for my friend. Again I began to question God, his wisdom and his power. The nurses informed me that no one had asked Anita if she was tired. No one had dared allow her to choose between the torture of fighting the beast or closing her eyes and not choosing to wake up. The labs, the breathing, the fight had begun to be more that she appeared able to bear. But no one would ask her what she wanted.

I made my way back into her room. Without asking permission. Without calling anyone else or talking even with Perry, I asked the question of Anita. "Are you too tired to go on fighting?" Tears ran down my face. I was the coward. I was the faithless. I was the one arguing with God about the fate of my friend and her life.

She smiled at me, despite my tears. She shook her head "NO" definitively. I tried to ask more questions. She slowly shook her head "No" again. I smiled and took her hand. I then apologized for my lack of faith. She smiled back and closed her eyes drifting off to sleep.

I watched her sleep a bit longer and then made my way home. Not two weeks later, I came back with friends to sing Christmas carols at her bedside. By this point she could sit up and enjoy the company. But sadly, the voice of the angels that had once been hers was silent. She would smile as she attempted to sing the high notes she had previously met with ease. They just weren't there. But she shook her head and answered that no matter, they would be back as soon as she left the hospital.

There had been some damage to her feet during the really sick times. The circulation and oxygen levels had been so low, they found a need to remove a portion of both of her feet. They did so, but she was not as aware as they had decided to do the surgery. As she became stronger, Perry began to realize that she feared never walking again. He tells the story of sitting beside her as she was in the whirlpool to rehab her feet. She was saying how she worried about needing so much help and care now that her toes and portions of her feet had been removed. She was very serious about the impact she felt it would have on their lives if she were unable to walk. Perry with his usual wry wit, quipped back, "I don't intend on taking home the sloth woman. It won't be long until you are walking." Anita's response was to throw a wet washcloth at him. That was when we realized just how strong she was.

We waited for her to come home. It took week upon week for her to be able to make her way back to their house. There were good days and bad. One doctor's appointment rolled into another. A trip for blood work or a therapy appointment. Despite her weakness, the appointments were again stacking up. But Anita would conserve her energy for church on Sunday.

As soon as she could beg, borrow or steal the opportunity, she was at church. Arriving with her 2 quart thermal cup and small bags, she would work her way into the church. She would come in and be surrounded by people from every direction asking how she was, or sharing prayers. She glowed despite the sense of endless tired.

As the spring came, Anita's strength improved. She was stronger and more vibrant each week. She was out among the people she loved. She went to the church she valued and continued to want to give back to the people that loved her.

All of us should have Anita's spirit and faith. Today she continues to work with others that are facing similar crisis of health. She has taught reading as an adult tutor to countless numbers of people. She volunteers and gives of herself over and over again without thought of getting anything back. That just isn't her style.

One of my saddest days was leaving her and her family. Although we are states apart, I recognize that she will always have my heart and best interests. I hear she is a grandma for the first time this year!!! I can only hope the baby girl can keep up with her Grandma!

Bad Mom Day

2009-05-01T21:35:00.000-07:00

Today was another very stressful day in a string of several hundreds -- okay so maybe only 7 or 8....alright somewhere about 3-4. It began with the "state" arriving at work on Sunday. You know, the day of rest, the dedicated sabbath, family day for heaven's sake!!! We work to keep as many of the kids at home as possible. We make a decent family meal. We try to sit down and discuss what is going on in our lives. See a few good tv shows (alright another obvious exaggeration). But we cherish the time to be together for the most part.

It also is a day to play catch up with laundry, find missing clothing, track lost dance tights, work on coordinating the calendar, bake the occasional cookie and pretend that I am not a working mother, but an everyday stay at home mom with time on my hands to enjoy my children and working to make a better home.

Ultimately I hate Sunday nights. They arrive way too quickly, and I rarely have all the things I want completed done. That makes me pretty cranky. Alright-- it makes me a raving demon. I feel what my grandmother would refer to as "really out of sorts". I begin to transform into this mythical person as soon as the afternoon begins. Reality sets in that there are not enough hours in the weekend to meet my need to complete things. It is like I have lost a part of me when things are not getting to-done from my to-do list.

This is not a recent problem, it has been that way since high school. I would begin to become nervous as Sunday would come to a close. Worse yet, was that I would have the panic attacks in Sunday evening service. No amount of prayer could take away the sense of impending loss.I have hoped as I got older the feeling would ultimately disappear. No such luck. Not only is it here to stay, it now seems to follow me into the beginning of the week and is closing in on Fridays.

So when the ladies came from the state to audit our little corner of healthcare, I was summoned to attend the gala event. In fairness, their job is a necessary evil in our business. After working several years (no I am not admitting exactly how long), I can recognize why their job is necessary and what places won't make the grade. Their arrival however, is actually quite stressful for most administrations, and does indeed cause fear among staff. They are on their toes and working very diligently to provide the best care they can. I am blessed that that is the case everyday where I work. There are no bad nurses, assistants, or therapists. We are honest, hard working people who love the patients and work their job with dedication.

That does not necessarily translate to less stress during this event. Because of our dedication, we worry. Sometimes too much. We manage to add our own stress to the week they come to audit. I find myself doing just that. I may look cool and confident on the outside, but not so much on the inside.

I can say that I have never had a bad audit for my work or any of the work of therapists I was directly supervising as a regional manager or a director. I was blessed with good staff and team members throughout my work experience. I currently work with one of the best teams I have ever worked with. They make my job easier as a therapist and more enjoyable as a person.

So why was the week so bad? Honestly I am not sure. We had way too much rain. The temperature dropped. I did not get much sleep. All those things combined with stress of the audit and some general money issues left me with exacerbating fibromyalgia.

I know better, and know the signs of what is next to come with this stupid illness. I had been afraid it would happen earlier in the year, especially after I fell on ice at work. But I had done some serious avoidance techniques, like increased my massages, taken more medication consistently, and even tried to find possible alternatives to work other than what I do right now. I need to lower my stress and increase my sleep.

My work hours are becoming longer and longer, and I am feeling more guilty not being with my children like I feel I should be. Genevieve seems to have developed anxiety attacks in crowds and cries and quakes at increased noise even in familiar settings. She wails at the thought of unfamiliar events- there seems to be no signs of it until it is full blown and then she is unable to be comforted. As her anxiety increases- so does mine.

I have been waiting for God to send a lightning bolt upon my head or drop anvils past my shoulders as I walk past tall buildings to catch my attention. No such luck. God apparently is thinking I should know what to do about this dilemma. But I cannot say that I do. I have been contacted with opportunities to change jobs, but the knowledge that I work for one of the better companies and have a wonderful team to work with, keeps me from making strides to leave.

I have been angry at the kids, at Barry, at appointments that I cannot make or go to, at bills that never seem to go away, at the angst of the 18 year old who at his own admittance, has a chip on his shoulder the size of Texas. They frankly are ALL on my last nerve. I don't even have it in me to defend why we have 4 cats and 4 dogs. I am tired, somewhat bored with the stress, and angry that there does not seem a good remedy for any of the things that are causing the discomfort.

There are not enough pills to stop the pain in my head, my neck, my back, arms and legs. The ringing in my ears is due to the medication and growing louder. Quite frankly for the moment I am a physical wreck. The only sleep I am capable of getting involves being awakened by noises 1-2 times a night and to attempt to seek another or any comfortable position in the bed. It has become the last resort torture of the illness. Bamboo under my nails is beginning to seem like a treat rather than the aching muscles of my body.

The headache accompanying the body aches just means no tolerance for noise, or light. With our crew, that means they walk on eggs. They, themselves are tortured by my illness. I don't smile much. I talk even less and they dare not try to climb on my bed for fear that I will scream out in pain or bite my lip with tears streaming down my cheeks.

The kids tiptoe in to ask permission for things, offer to rub my back or bring me food or drink. They are aware that small sounds send me into writhing pain, and some loving touches mean I recoil in deeper pain. They lose the mama they love. They have instead, the wicked witch of the west. I have returned to "get my pretties". I am sending hordes of flying monkeys to capture them and scare them into frozen silence.

It is unfair that they must lose their mama to this dreadful exacerbation. I don't have much coping power with it anymore, or perhaps lately. This is not at all the life I want for them or for me for that matter.

It is very difficult to explain even to adults what this illness can do to you. I hate the fact that I must acknowledge its existence. Today a physician told me I must be doing fairly well with it because I am only taking certain lower level drugs to assist in coping with it. I am not so sure he is correct. I take those medicines because they have fewer side effects, and less taboo about what they are. I take those medicines because I don't want most people to know about the disease. I do without having a pain free day because I think I should cope better with the pain.

I thought back to my last pain free day- it lasted about 4 hours during and after the birth of Aidan by c-section. The spinal block stopped the constant throbbing in my ribs, allowed my hips to lie on the table long enough to take him out and sew me up. The doctors and nurses remarked at how fast I could move my body and get out of bed in that 3 1/2 hour time frame. They marveled at how well I moved, but what they didn't know was that I did it so that I could somehow survive the following day without massive amounts of pain killing drugs. I knew the stagnant inactivity would cause more pain than even the recovery pain could cause.

Some days I can work through the morning pain, and eventually find myself pain free. Other days the pain creeps up on me like a gorilla scaling a tree. As he climbs higher, his weight bears down more and more on the limbs. Each one trying to bend and not break. But the weight pins down the branches and stops the flexibility of the branches. The age factor is one that keeps coming into conversation. How much longer can I handle the work load at my age? You would think I was 65. Those are the very worst days.

Sadly, the patients are beginning to see my pain and lack of sleep. They are now worrying about me! They ask why I work such long hours, or why didn't I sleep the night before. Some of them teasingly offer me the bed beside them for a quick nap. Promising to hide me from the nurses should they come in. But they are adults.

The ones that don't understand anything about why mama is not the same today are my children. You cannot tell a child about a disease that only has aches and pains occasionally and expect them to understand. So instead, I look like the bad mama that only comes out of her room and screams at their loud noises or seems to demand from them more obedience than they should be asked to have. They are of course children, not robots. They deserve the right to be loud, and rambunctious, but the bad mom days seem to steal this away from them.

Tax Time Drudgery

2009-04-25T22:53:00.000-07:00

Today I tortured myself doing something I hate. Quite frankly, I despise completing all the rigors of tax preparation. It is not because I lack the skills, but rather because I am not able to look at the end result without anger. I always have the feeling that somehow we should have earned less or perhaps ate less? maybe needed less health care? Whatever we should have done to keep the cost of living our lives to a lower level -- we should have done that. Okay-- I do draw the line at selling extra children, or renting them out as fake families to single adults.

But I hate the work. It takes me about 24 total hours to complete the task with the end result being sent as work to our CPA. He is actually quite good and we have definitely benefited from his services. But he is too far away for my tastes anymore, and we have developed an unresolved game of endless phone tag. We constantly have new questions, new issues and need additional planning since we both do some private practice work, and now we have the farm.

The fact that the farm has become the bane of our profitable existence over the last few years is a source of great discomfort. There is an end in sight, we just aren't that close yet. We keep pouring money into it with the end result being -- no real profit. However, it allows us a few notable deductions. Another aspect of the tax work that takes additional time, additional documentation and even additional planning. We tend to have some issues with successful planning.

The start of doing the taxes is known to the kids as the day Mama starts to yell and cry over paper. They are very happy to be able to go anywhere away from me when I start to lay out the mounds of papers and begin to add things up. Despite the colorful paperclips and happy sounds of shuffling paper, they know that the job does not make me happy.

I am a saver of paper. I have receipts from nearly every purchase ever made for the farm, the house, the cars, the kids, the animals, our small businesses, the thought of any other purchases... I have a pile or envelope full of them. Barry on the other hand, has a greater amount of difficulty locating the receipts. He may have them in his car, his check book, a drawer at work, or even above his car window visor (a pet peeve of mine each time I am hit in the head with the balance of his collection). This obvious difference in our style of organization has caused many long, and loud discussions. Let's just say we have reached an impasse so often, that we avoid each other successfully in order to sidetrack the argument.

To sort and organize our mountains of bills, papers, school information, applications for school, college, and other opportunities, medical receipts and bills, new purchases, maintenance agreements, etc. takes the better part of a weekend and a clean surface that can be held captive for the balance of said weekend. I have tried many tactics to solicit help from Barry and the children to reduce my attention to the task, to no avail. It seems that sorting and stacking bills chronologically, and alphabetically are not the tasks that draw their highest level interest. I was so very shocked to realize that no one else in our family wanted to spend quality time attending to the early phases of the organization process.

Unfortunately for Kyle he won the lottery this year as the number one helper. After he started complaining about needing FAFSA information, he began to throw comments that clarified how he thought I had been remiss in my civic duty and proceeded to declare me un-American because I was dragging my feet at losing a weekend to headaches, endless paper clips and paper piles. I must say that my retort was less than pleasant and I stomped off to be alone. Once I did speak again,I did, however, invite him to the sorting party. Unwillingly he accepted.

Saturday came and he was busy avoiding his senior prom. With no real plans before his carefully scheduled stint at the pizza parlor, he was pacing about the house. I inquired as to his afternoon plans. Stating he had none until work I begged his indulgence to lessen my workload. So he joined me at the 10 foot kitchen table as it became blanketed with bills and receipts. He began to scrutinize each of the piles, and seemed to be adding the dollars spent to provide he and his siblings with a roof over their head, food, and clothing.

with the addition of each Tractor Supply and feed store receipt, the cost of livestock care and animal feed was mounting. This was very distressing to him because it happened despite his efforts to grow feed, or allow the animals to graze. I actually think it was impressed upon him that the money we discuss not being available for other endeavors had been spent on worthwhile things. He could recognize the value of the purchases, despite the frustrations at being told we couldn't afford what he wanted.

He seemed less antagonistic about the length of time it was taking to complete the task once he began to look through the piles to find each bill. He was genuinely caught off guard by the number of places I had stacks of papers. He had no idea that we had that many sources for the deductions or that many bills for different services or goods. As we finished one grocery bag full, he started to leave the table. I went and found another two piles and bags of paperwork that had been stored in my bedroom. Kyles eyes widened, but he said nothing and began to sort though the bag.

He would glance at the amounts and make no comment. I on the other hand, had a remark for nearly every bill. Sometimes I said things matter of fact, sometimes angrily. I hate needing to juggle paying bills, or paying people because of the limits of our salaries. We have worked two jobs at the same time, worked overtime, done without luxuries and everyday conveniences at times in order to pay bills. Kyle knows this and has made sharp remarks about the time we have lost together while working to get things paid off.

We try to keep our children as children as long as possible. We have told them there are restrictions of money, but never attempted to explain in detail why or how they occur. Additionally, we work greater amounts of time or take on extra jobs to offset any shortfall we experience. The children don't have a strong idea about what our finances entail or what we actually make each year. Because of this, Kyle was beginning to see balances and bills he had not acknowledged before. I also believe Kyle was adding up some of the unpaid balances in his head. You could see him attempt to reconcile our perceived wealth against the balances. He was quietly overwhelmed.

I pointed out some of the obvious costs of living. He recognized the electricity and propane, the cable and phones. They seemed to be matter of fact charges to him. Despite his awareness of increases in gas and food costs, he hadn't quite gotten a handle on some of the other bills. The cost of health care staggers even my mind and we have good health coverage.

By the end of the weekend I will have organized and scrutinized our bills, and ultimately the profitability of our last year. Unfortunately, I already know we are operating in the red for now. There are too many things that need repaired to make our small operation profitable yet. There are too many things that we need or too many parallel activities that are costly which will not allow us to move to the next step for our businesses.

I know that next week will begin the tag-team phone calls between the accountant and I. Barry will attempt to answer questions, but really he is not that aware of the process. I am fearful that I may miss some deductions. I am fearful that I have added wrong or misplaced figures. Regardless of the number of years that I have done this, I always seem to find two or three receipts after it is all said and done. This year we just cannot afford any mistakes of any kind.

Like everyone else, I will finish the project and PROMISE faithfully that next year will be different. I will pledge to have all of the things together and ready to file long before December 31. But when the year ends again, we will still be putting away Christmas and waiting on last minute W-2s.

Next year there will be a difference. Kyle will have a different outlook about our income and the taxes. He will have a new idea about the work it takes to keep up the bills, and still be organized for the taxes. Knowing Kyle, he is aware he learned to procrastinate the more complex tasks from me. He also is a perfectionist and hates to feel inadequate when he does things. But he now has the idea of why the task remains undone at times, despite its urgency.

This year Kyle was the one to learn the facts of tax season and what it requires every month to keep it current. He had heard the discussions and argued against the lost time to the family. But now the impact is felt by him directly. I hope this means I have a partner in the process. Like I said, I hate doing the taxes.

Images in the Mirror

2009-04-22T22:20:00.000-07:00

I have a hard time identifying with the woman that looks back at me from the mirror. Especially first thing in the morning, when I am not really awake. Okay, so I can be a little scary first thing. The hair is disheveled, mostly curling back upon itself and standing in rolls up on my head. One side of it looks more squished than the other. Occasionally I have those lovely indentations of every crease and fold of the pillow case or the palm print of my right hand across my cheek.

The prettiest mornings are the ones that show my "after the allergy hits" face. Swollen eyes, running nose, and itchy skin patches all over my face and arms characterize this distinctive look. If I had braved make-up the day before, the raccoon eyes develop Alice Cooper drips down my face and add to the intensity of the contrast of my generally pasty white pallor and the leftover make up smears against my skin. Those tend to be the days that even small children cannot help but ask if I am okay.

But yet those days are not what make me question who the woman in the mirror actually is. I began having conflict with identifying with her after I turned thirty. Somewhere that woman had become a mother to three beautiful children with one on the way. She had a husband, lived in a two story house, worked but wanted to stay home, and had two cars- a minivan even!

She rarely bought clothes for herself, and had lost track of the last time she had gotten her hair cut and highlighted on a regular schedule. She even had traded her regular beautician for the latest Great Clips close to home. That woman bought nail polish and forgot to do her nails. She had jewelry, but generally had left some or all of it beside the bathroom sink. She even struggled to keep her wedding ring on, because it was starting to feel tight on her hand as her fingers swelled with another pregnancy. So she opted to put it away for a while. Besides, everyone knew her as someone's mom. She was definitely taken.

The lady in the mirror looked a bit tired as the days passed on. Her mind seemed to be racing miles ahead of herself and preoccupied with today's list of things to do. You could see she had the grocery list, children's medicine, soccer practice and ballet class, church functions, work projects, the dry cleaner pick-up, and school assignments revolving in her mind. She didn't seem to have much time to notice that her hair had begun to gray beyond her temples. She could glance in the mirror, but really not see herself. She was just brushing away the hair from her face and contemplating where the scunci was to hold her hair back in a quick ponytail. At this point, it didn't make her look younger anymore, just preoccupied with other things than the latest hair fashion.

For the longest time, she had sold and told the latest fashions. She had a closet full of the latest new things, because she was in tune with the perfectly dressed sales associate. It was part of her job and she loved the opportunity to wear the latest. But the things currently in the closet are not the latest. Some of them are even re-runs from the last time they were popular. They don't look or fit anywhere near the same. Shopping no longer was as fun. It had become a chore to find something, anything that fits the body of someone who has had more than four children.

Why can't the lady in the mirror look like the lady in my mind? Why is this such a relatively cruel joke? The woman in my mind still looks relatively young. Not as naive, but confident. She has an air of optimism about her. Something that draws curious looks and friendly faces to her. She is not afraid of anything- though she might benefit from a little caution at times.

The mind lady has goals that seem to fit every situation. She has the solutions to most of the issues that cause sleepless nights and days fraught with frustration. The mind lady is a good and tireless mother. She looks forward to days and evenings spent with her children and never seems to tire of the joy of working with and for them. She loves the challenge of keeping everything current, the cleaning, the laundry, the house, and the homeschooling. Really she appears the little dynamo that never sits still. There can be a disgusting air of perfection about her.

For a few years, I kept this woman to myself. Slowly as I became more and more familiar with the lives and thinking of some of my elderly patients, I would venture to question them about how they saw themselves. Many of them had easy answers. For some of the women, they appeared almost heartbroken when we would talk about giving up the household chores of laundry, cooking, cleaning, and gardening. They could not fathom a lifestyle that did not allow for them to continue those everyday tasks that had reinforced who they were and what they stood for and took pride in. They wanted to continue their daily lives as they had for every day before.

For others the transition was like the proverbial rolling off a log. They did not see themselves any different than the family or staff members they talked with every day. I struggled to reconcile this difference between each of these groups. I asked more questions. I sought subtle and blatant differences between education, careers, or housewife duties, healthy or dramatically ill. There was no great "ahah" moment to explain why there could be such a difference between the lady in the mirror and the actual image of ourselves for some women.

I asked more questions and grew older myself. I had hoped and prayed for more wisdom to accept the stranger's image I continued to see in the mirror. The only answers I have found are these. I was the happiest back when I had my first children. I felt I had a true purpose and optimism about who I was becoming and the destiny of our family. I had faith that God would show us his path and his ways, so that we could delight in them and serve Him. I was comfortable with myself, my life and with my God despite the challenges back in those days.

Please don't read this to mean I was not happy having more children. There is nothing further from the truth. We asked God for each of our children and he gave them to us without reservation and we received them with great joy and pride.

What has happened is that I have become saddened by the losses of life after having our first few children. With every new pregnancy came a greater awareness of what a tight rope life is stretched between the beginning and end of the future for our children and ourselves.

I have become more wise and perhaps more jaded. I trust fewer people and fewer opportunities. I sit in much lengthier deliberations about choices for our family and for myself, sometimes agonizing for night after night seeking the best answers. The woman in the mirror reflects my fears, and deliberations. She seems to live tenuously at best. She shows evidence of having seen too much at times during her life.

Occasionally the woman in the mirror seems sad to the core of her being. She shows the signs of having cried herself to sleep for not having all the answers or all the resources. Her cheeks have the stains of floods of tears at the loss of 3 miscarriages and the fear of never having another child. Sometimes she seems to be searching for answers to questions that have no answers, but they continue to be questions she cannot let them go.

There are times the lady I see is happy and busy. She seems to suffer the "shiny bauble" distraction, as she half heartedly runs a brush through her hair. She is daydreaming as she dashes out the door to work in the garden, or see the marching band at the football game, or meet friends at knitting. Those times she can be scattered in a happy way. Too consumed in the joys of life, of having things to do, and people and family to share them with.

I have seen the woman in the mirror look thoughtful and concerned on the days she is driving a child to their first day at school, preparing to drive for the ballet audition of a lifetime, dressing to sit and watch a graduation, or going off in search of the new dorm for college across the state. Pride underlies all of her concern as she plans, and rehearses to herself in the mirror the supporting role she must play for each of their children as they grow up and away from the family.

I wish I could better know and like the woman in the mirror. I find her aloof and afraid of her own shadow sometimes. She tends to be overly self-critical and rarely measures up against the other women she sees. She wants to be thinner, prettier, smarter, more faithful, and sometimes even younger than the other women she finds herself surrounded by. Not because there is a real competition, but because perhaps if she were some how different, she could somehow be enough to each of the people in her life. She could solve problems, heal wounds and comfort sorrows better than she has been able to do up to now. She somehow would be able to leap small buildings in a single bound and still be ready and willing to be with a child or her husband. Whe would be all she dreamed and wanted herself to be.

Jesus and the Easter Bunny

2009-04-16T21:24:00.000-07:00

Easter as a holiday can be quite the event at our house. Because we engage in the tradition of donning new clothes, white shoes, dress pants and ties, along with the occasional hat, the going to church thing on Easter Sunday is a big deal. The getting of new clothes is not an unusual thing, but the number of people getting new clothes for Easter is the monumental thing. I, of course, make this a greater issues trying to get everyone to match to a color theme. I have even gone as far as a design theme. Sometimes I have taken this to greater heights of stress by making the dresses, vests,pants, skirts, etc. to match with my own hands. (Another contribution to my last post on sleeplessness.)

We are faithful in our beliefs and teachings to the children about the story of Jesus Christ and his life. We teach the beginning of his life at Christmas celebrating his humble arrival and beginnings. We follow the rest of his life through seasons of preaching and gathering of his disciples and believers. We enter Lent to acknowledge and contemplate the end of his life. The weeks before Easter are times of fasting of meat, the giving up of treasures and pleasures for Lent, and the awareness of what we must reconcile to God to grow closer to Him.

Easter week also has become for our household a grave and somber time of reflection. We attend church more frequently and discuss the life of Christ during that time frame before his crucifixion. There is much discussion of the Last Supper and the washing of feet. How Christ humbled himself to his disciples and showed his servant heart. We include all the children in the conversation, young to old. The younger children are the most interested in the stories as they are new. Even the youngest, Aidan is captive to the unfolding story.

We also plan for the meal of Easter Sunday and the coloring of Easter eggs. The meal planning and egg coloring are tradition. Although this is somewhat time consuming with the number of children awaiting their turn to color eggs. We begin the ritual by boiling 2 or more dozen eggs. The boiling potatoes and eggs symbolize the start of the Easter weekend to the kids.

Soon they are gathering newspaper, and crowding around the table in the kitchen. Each one reaching for the dipping sticks or package of coloring pellets. Each one planning stickers, colors and designs for their assigned number of eggs. They get louder and louder as the coloring solutions are created by the fizzing pills. The older children trying to trick the younger ones by changing the color pellets in the bowls before their eyes.

We would not be coloring eggs without the sound of a dropped egg, landing solidly on the table. Shouts of "I'll eat it!" can be heard as they all thrust their hands to grab the broken egg from the spot it landed. Pushing and fussing begins as they see each egg being placed in the coloring bowls.

There is laughter and chaos. Each one of them trying to color the number of eggs they have been assigned. The shades of color are beautiful. Almost like make believe, the newly dipped eggs creating a rainbow in the basket as they are placed. Each of the artists proudly picks their favorite and shows it off to the onlooking older brothers and sisters.

Baskets and candy have been bought and hidden from their inquisitive eyes. Generally in my closet, but this year in plain sight. Early this year discovered that the field mice had invaded the shelter of the closet. Yet none of the kids had uncovered the hidden treasure. The arrival of the fabled Easter Bunny would bring the candy and small gifts for the day. Each child had shared their hopes for what candy the tricky rabbit would bring. Their anticipation was growing as Saturday night came to a close.

Easter morning came and the traditional coffee cake breakfast came with it. Every hungry belly ran to the kitchen to find their baskets. Laughter rang out as they could sneak chocolate for breakfast along with their coffee cake. Two treats in one day!!! More than they could remember having from every other year. Loud cautions of don't eat too much candy and no candy in your Easter clothes could be heard repeated over and over. The noise masked the meaning with giggles and shouts.

A parade of happy faces entered the single family bathroom to shower, comb and put up clean hair, view new clothes, and brush teeth. The line on this day seemed to be endless. They were behind yet happy, even as we herded them to the van. Each one again searching for the perfect seat to ride to church. Each one hoping to plan their seats in church.

As should be expected, church was crowded. More so than we had ever seen it. So full that we were encouraged to take our places in auxiliary seating at the back of the sanctuary just as mass got started. Among other families of three or more children we took our places. The mass began and we were blessed by the priest in acknowledgment of our baptism. We began the story of the resurrection and the glory of Christ's rising. The children again heard the story they had been shown throughout the week.

Shortly after mass ended they changed their clothes and sat down to the dinner we had planned. Happily eating ham, and sharing stories of their week and short vacation from school. They were excited about later in the day. They would go and hunt Easter eggs at the home of a friend. A tradition we had continued for nearly 20 years once Lyndsay had become big enough to participate. They were extremely excited about the opportunity, and it became the focus of joining our friends.

Generally Aidan had been interested in finding the eggs, but mostly for the joy of the candy. Other small trinkets had been included in the plastic packages, but he rarely showed an interest. Hurriedly he would find an egg, and open it to discover candy vs trinket. Candy would be popped immediately in his mouth. Trinkets occasionally had been cast aside like the paper that covered the candy. This year was different. He showed much more directed attention to the task of egg gathering. He was counting the number of eggs, and not opening them for their chocolate treasures. He was discussing how many of each color and pointing out their differences.

As he came home, he was still holding onto one or two of the plastic eggs. He chattered about what he might find inside them. He had found true treasures.

On Wednesday, we took the crew to their normally scheduled CCD classes. Aidan and his brothers and sisters each went off to their classes. They enjoy the classes and generally come home with treats and stories of what they have learned. Excitedly each one will tell of a story, prayer or the revelation of the meaning of a Catholic symbol or religious tradition. As the stories and explanations slowed, Aidan was very thoughtful.

Climbing up onto my lap, he looked very seriously into my face as I asked what he liked about the evening's class. Holding my eyes with his steady gaze, he said they had talked about Easter eggs.

"Oh", I said. "What did the Easter egg mean?" I was not sure what he had been taught. The older children had been taught during a children's sermon many years ago that the egg symbolized the tomb. The symbol meaning that life came from the tomb as chickens come from the egg.

Aidan looked at me very seriously. "Jesus died in the tomb." Never wavering he repeated, "Jesus died."

I asked if he knew Jesus rose from the tomb. He nodded. Again, very seriously, he said, "Jesus is alive." I smiled and agreed.

He stared at my face, then said, "He died for my sins." I was awe struck that he had remembered any part of the story. But to know, that my four year old had heard and remembered the story of the risen Savior definitely surprised me. It made me again aware of how important each day and opportunity to teach the children our faith actually was.

I don't take credit for all that Aidan, or any of the children know about our faith. They are taught and encouraged by many dedicated friends, family members, and fellow parish members who donate their time and share their faith. They do so without reservation or limit to their dedication. We are blessed by their steadfast faith.

But this year for all of our children, not only did they remember the Easter Bunny, but all of them claimed in their hearts the risen Savior.

Thanks be to God!

Making the Switch

2009-04-13T22:24:00.000-07:00

I am becoming convinced that I have made my life too hard. Perhaps by my own design, I have added obligations, outrageous sized work caseload, occasional personal appointments, and general things to busy up my world. I thought at one point that I had set my sights on being a more philosophical person. Almost transcendental with my approach to the rearing of the children and the balancing of my job. I wanted an ebb and flow of energy to make each day successful and rewarding. I like the challenge of work outside the house. I love the rhythm of a well-organized day. There is something zen about the flow of organization and planning done well.

Unlike most people, I am happiest when I have a plan for most of my day. The start to finish kind of plan that allows for rest, moments of reflection and rejuvenation, and some flexibility, but shows progress at the end of the day. For that reason the simple everyday tasks of laundry, cleaning, and homeschooling are indeed some of my favorites. There are fruits of the labor no matter how short lived they are.

For me to take mountains of dirty, grimy laundry from wadded messes shoved under beds, tied in knots, and hurled across rooms in four foot stacks and convert them to clean, neatly stacked and hung clothing feels like a significant accomplishment. When you consider that the average amount of laundry for our household consists of 7-8 loads per day in order to eliminate a hallway full of 4-5 baskets of clothing, the task takes on a new meaning.

My day job also has accepted piles of monumental work. Weekly notes and summaries for every patient. Evaluations and discharges for completed work, not to mention the assorted staff training for specific tasks. Each person to be seen for treatment for the prescribed time. Maintaining the continuum of collaboration with other professionals within the daily time frames becomes an added challenge. There are always newer ideas, and varying descriptions of treatment plans and diagnosis. If done well, the pace of the job can become demanding and obsessive.

Varying complexities of patients and their needs are added hurdles to meeting the care of the patients. Changes in documentation regulations and adherence to insurance demands alter the reams of the documentation. The alternating availability of the patient due to schedule changes compounds the day's scheduling conflicts. The give and take among the three therapies to best meet the patients' needs also creates the occasional conflict. It has created a vacuum on my time away from home. A sense of never being done, a festering frustration of imbalance.

Home has its own issues. As a parent, I am to understand and mediate the differences between children. Master the schedule of schooling, play, activities and diligence tasks. I am to plan the day to meet everyone's needs to the best of my abilities and with the assistance of other members. I was to maintain the household similarly to when I was at home. The current vacuum of time has changed my ability to meet that level of involvement with my own children and household. For my husband, Barry, this has changed his duties more and more. The complexity of the task slowly growing as he attempted to re-connect as "Dad" to our growing brood.

The original plan was for him to step into my shoes temporarily in order that I might work more to pay off more bills. The plan was a short term fix to eventually shift my schedule to less structured time away and less dependence on my portion of our income. Barry thought he would easily be able to work a later shift and keep up with the children during the day. Ultimately, as soon as the bills were caught up, I would again be the one responsible for the rhythm of the household. Barry would be the main income earner. A return to the most fulfilling arrangement for our marriage and family life.

He entered into the role with a strong desire to complete the everyday tasks, have time to improve upon the organization, experience the homeschooling, enjoy the kids, and hopefully, end up with the occasional needed nap. The task seemed straight forward enough. We had a plan of sorts and he had experience from past years when he was laid off. Then there were only seven or eight children, but fewer older children. A decided trade off of numbers and maturity. That of course, was pre-farm era. The children initially were cooperative to the change. No anticipated problems were seen on the horizon.

Thank goodness for a sense of humor. Thank God for grace. Thank heavens for the ability to step back and laugh at one's self and each other despite your anger and frustration.

Since our switch out, many days the poor man has been shouted awake to the frantic call of "the cows are out" or "the pigs escaped". With only two or three hours of sleep, he begins to rise from the comfort of the bed. Climbing from the fog of recently entered REM sleep, he groggily fumbles for his pants and shoes. Stumbling and kicking bed legs, he growls as he turns the corner of the bed to race out the kitchen door clutching a coat around his shoulders. Slightly dazed by daylight, he lumbers in the direction of the barn and shouting voices.

The cold and generally wet air hits his face with a slap to waken him. No longer dazed, he begins the chore of cornering the errant animal toward the pen or barn. Yelling to each child the directions of where the food should be located and how they should angle the stubborn beast back to their rightful place in the safety of the barn.

It is comical to look out the back windows as children clad in nightgowns and jeans tucked into work boots are running with their gowns waving in the wind. Their waving arms and shouts of excitement occasionally scaring the animals they chase. Their cheeks flushed and red both with the energy of chasing the animals and the bite of the wind. Once cornered and secured, the animals return to feeding. Heads hanging as if to acknowledge the chaos they created.

I can surely say, this is only the illusion of hope of some level of remorse for their actions. They don't seem to be at all intimidated not to attempt the next daring escape at a moment's notice.

In come the children, laughing and talking excitedly about the escapades of the current foiled escape. Talking loudly they outline for any missing assistants, the way in which they managed once again to herd the head strong steers back to their field or the stubborn pigs back to their pen.

Behind them walks their father. He is tired and still flushed by the chase. Cold and sleepy, his only desire is to return to the comfort of his warm and somewhat cozy bed. But the children have seen him. He is now in their minds - awake. He has no hope of returning immediately to his deserved rest. They don't intend on torturing him with the thought of sleep, they do it naturally.

Once they have seen the whites of his eyes they are set on him as the target. Calling for everything from permission to referee, his name is in the air. Grumbling, yelling and quiet responses rarely quell the din of children calling his name. Reluctantly, after trying to fall back into the bed with muddy pants, and exhausted sighs, he once again struggles out of bed.

They love those days. They are the days of eggs and bacon. The pancakes and sausage days. Where oatmeal and brown sugar flow from the microwave intermingled with the scent of the world's strongest coffee. Coffee so strong the cup could be dropped and the "liquid" would not be displaced. His elixir for forcing his tired and weary body awake to "be the dad".

They love watching tv in his lap as he pretends not to be napping; sleeping sitting up on the couch once they won't allow him to return to his bed. They revel in climbing all over him, chasing each other, kittens, puppies and toys across his stomach. He tries so very hard not to be too tired to smile and appreciate their play and devotion. But he is worn out.

I sometimes get angry about this. I am angry that we cannot make ends meet without my income. I am angry that I cannot do more for each and every one of them. That my full energies are taken by my job and my patients. I am angry at times that things are not organized and done "my way" because I understand them better that way. They seem simple to me and reasonable.

I get angry that he is forced to try to be a part of me that I am not ready to give up, and that I cannot find the energy in me to be. Because he is unfamiliar with the ways I do some things and the reasoning behind them, he, too, is angry. Angry that what I think is easy, to him not only seems like rocket science but also rocket science in a foreign language. He is angry right now, that he cannot change how much he makes. He is angry he cannot make me stay home and say we will make it regardless.

He also is angry that I, too, am worn out. That our weekends are lost as I climb into bed and find myself hurting so bad that I cannot move. That I can sleep away entire days without eating or talking to him and the children. That the medication that once held the pain at bay, is not as effective. He has a right to want more from me. But right now I am unable to give it.

Values of Truth

2009-04-12T16:02:00.000-07:00

Truth apparently has many faces and values. It must have a range of levels of effectiveness. Apparently there at least five theories of truth that I have overlooked. I must have missed that somewhere in my limited cognitive development. Was that a lecture I slept through in college? Or a group lesson I skipped during high school?

As I have no familiarity with a wide range of the concept of truth, I am stuck with my singular definition. My construct is one fold. Accordingly my instructions to my children on truth are direct and simple. A lie is a non-truth. The truth has no variations from its origin or content. I am fairly black and white about the concept of truth. Either it is the truth or -- yeah you guessed it --it is NOT.

For our current society the limited definition of truth has met with a great deal of controversy. The growing belief is that the lie of omission is not a lie whatsoever. Just a mere oversight of fact. An extension of the truth you might say. For me that just doesn't work. If you knew about it and did not tell the whole and accurate truth - well frankly my dear, it is a lie. It forces the entire piece of information to come into question. Beginning to end it is a lie.

The stretching of the truth is also a lie. If it is intended to change someone's perception about a situation or person, the lie has some degree of intent. This is called "spin" in our society and seems to have gained additional value. People are paid great amounts of money to re-create a favorable reality from the truth. It is an everyday part of life, just watch the news. I guess I didn't get the memo.

I was once told by one of my patients that when someone lies, contrary to their protests, the only person they are protecting is themselves. They only seem to care about how they are perceived and how the lie will effect them. An indication of their short-sighted view is the developing realization that the lie only preserves them for a short period of time. That is where the situation becomes almost desperate. The liar seems to react like a trapped mouse jumping to scale the walls of lies closing in on them. Liars begin to spin more and more lies to extend their sense of safety from the truth.

That suffocating and claustrophobic feeling is the one liars hate to experience. What they do not realize is that the "lie-ee" (for lack of a better term) has the same heart thumping, cold sweating, nausea feeling as they realize they trusted again and were taken advantage of. It develops a fear of rejection that ranks up there with the fear of being taken advantage of. The "lie-ee" does not have the security of being able to take back control of their input to the relationship as the power is apparently held by the liar.

The recipient of the lie is left feeling vulnerable, and cheated. They feel foolish even though they did not perpetuate the deception, or volunteer to be a part of it. For adults, the act of being taken in again not only is painful, but devastating as it usually involves someone with whom they would desire the greatest amount of reciprocal trust. Trust is hard to come by in any situation. Trust is something not given easily, especially in our day and age.

As I was growing up the majority of business transactions involved a handshake and few contracts. A man's word was indeed, his bond. There were few complaints or frauds. The world functioned with the Golden Rule. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Some businesses tout the motto Platinum Rule. Do unto others as they would have you do unto them. They both honor the same consistent sentiments, to treat others fairly and honestly.

It seems overall society has left that level of thinking. Whether it is omitted fact during a verbal presentation for satellite television or the omission of not completing a task that one was asked. They are both defined as lies. Again, a breakdown in the economy of life. No good faith exchange. The lack of trust destroys the transaction.

Throughout the last few years of raising children the challenge of teaching the truth has had its ups and downs. The use of the white lie to avoid hurting some one's feelings or avoid uncomfortable situations has become obsolete. The fact that truth is paramount begins to tear away at false gestures of compliments or carefully veiled dislike. Children are not very forgiving of adult variations of the premise to keep societal face.

Older children seem to have a unique perspective on truth. They have the belief that they should be knowledgeable about every aspect of their parents' lives regardless of its direct impact on them. They, on the other hand, have the pleasure of sitting within judgment of each situation without regard to how it impacts themselves and others. They tend to be very harsh judges. Although, they again are seekers of mercy rather than justice when the opportunity arises for their own definition of truth to come into question.

Our household really has a thing about truth. Overall the belief is shared that lying is bad. The concept is generally challenged by age 4 or so and then, the correction seems to eliminate the issue for most of our charges. However, there have been a few standouts of insubordination.

Rarely do we deal with black and white blatant lies. More commonly we deal with the veiled lie. The subtle near truth that cannot be easily detected as a lie. The almost truth that shadows all edges of truth in order to allow some one to continue upon their desired path. It will propagate who they are to the family and others outside of the family. Seldom in their haste, do they look at the collateral damage to relationships within the family and outside of it.

Sometimes the children are lead astray by others, both adult and child alike. They are encouraged to hide a portion of the truth from one or both parents. Overall the deception is generally short lived. Sometimes it is rather innocent. Other times it is with great and ugly intent. The ultimate challenge to override the decisions of the parents. It is quite amazing how fast news is able to travel about the party on Friday night, or the last minute trip to Taco Bell that was not on the original agenda. It seems being an informant has a greater value than keeping the secret.

It can be extending the work day by an hour or two beyond the schedule to allow them to go with friends, or "forgetting" to tell someone the game/practice was canceled. It can be the use of situations to allow them to accomplish what they want without fully acknowledging the intended goal. Or it can be the obvious choice of ignoring the rules because they believe they are grown and above the rules. Their outward success is hidden as the goal becomes a side show to the stated direction identified.

Adults outside the family seem to view this in a variety of ways. I often hear the adage that boys will be boys or all children go through the stage of lying. Without question I am not easily swayed by the apathetic acceptance of the beliefs. Children and adults, alike, are not exempt from abiding by the rules of conduct. They are not excused from the rules based upon age or gender.

What concerns me more about those ploys for leniency is the reality that our country seems to recognize only the shades of the truth. That we, as a constituency, have come to expect there to be multiple versions of the truth. We don't condemn politicians for their lack of truthfulness or the spin they place on their choices. But rather, we expect and allow for the spin in every aspect of campaigns and everyday workings of the government that is supposed to represent us as a people.

The lack of concern for lying and its impact on the structure of our society has shown many flaws in the development of our recent affairs. Look to the the "Bail Out" bill and decide for yourself if we were given enough of the facts to have our opinions heard. Ask yourself if you believed what the news stated about the economy or the change of political status by the everyday media. If we have no concern for the truth we have lost a general tenant of the foundation of our country. We no longer strive to be the trend setters but merely the blind followers to the deceptive tune of the spin doctors.

Give A Kid A Break

2009-04-10T00:04:00.000-07:00

Sometimes my children are terribly disappointed that they are not always given a fair chance at sharing their ideas, excuses, explanations or general information to me in order to avoid my parental determination. They are quite accurate that being the parent, I have the uncanny and recognizable ability to be annoyingly judgmental and indeed, downright punitive. Often, as pointed out by a very good friend of mine, they are met with justice when they were actively seeking mercy.

I have however, had a week in which I am not the person suffering from quick parental judgments. I am now in an area of unfamiliarity. I am currently the one hoping that mercy should be extended to one or more of my children.

As you read this, you must be asking yourself why I am asking or actually beseeching mercy rather than perhaps justice? Because some times it is merciful to allow children to be children and have seasons of poor judgment and the making of many mistakes. The age and severity of their poor judgment can vary. The result of their judgments can be either permanent or temporary-- annoying or devastating. There really is no consistency in the matter, but there is the realization that any one decision can ultimately change the course of one's life. Hopefully that decision is the right one.

Some decisions are the result of ignorance or arrogance. Not enough information to make the most appropriate decision. Others are the result of believing one has all the answers. Those decisions made from these levels of poor judgment usually have human effect as well as a lasting effect on the consequence of the decisions. Some of them again, are mere annoyance. However, many of them result in the devastation of some one thing or person.

I have struggled throughout the time we began raising our children to show them the natural consequences of their behaviors. Some times I am as level headed as Solomon as I levy both the discipline and explanation of their consequence as deemed by their choices. I am stronger and more precise when the offense appears to be intentional and defiant. I am calculated as I hand down the penance for their wrong.

Defiance in our household is a strongly punishable offense. We are not very tolerant to the child who's selfishness seems to force them into the wasting of the resources of the family. The choice to boldly stand against diligence tasks, family values, or ignore the moral integrity they were raised with will ultimately cost the children pleasures such as toys, lessons, or rewards. We generally are not lenient when it comes to waiting for them to correct the issue of their own accord. We expect expedient results, without comment, without question, without delay as noted by Ted Tripp in his book. We work to strongly encourage their obedience to the ways of the family and ultimately the will of God.

It is the transgressions that appear to be unintentional or collateral damage that leave me to doubt my skills as a parent. They occur as the result of ambivalence to the consequence of the action. These flaws of character are those that resist correction. They seem to happen by circumstance. Example: The bathroom was not completely clean of dirty clothes, dirty counters or trash by bedtime. This occurred because everyone got up late and was leaving for an activity in a hurry as no one was ready on time. The larger problem is the lack of follow-through or planning with adequate time. The result was an even greater deficit of incomplete work. Multiple things which make up the maintenance of the bathroom were not completed.

Assessing the collateral damage sometimes is the fastest and straightest line to add the checks and balances for the tasks. The summary of what did not get done may not be the accurate description of the impact of the missed chores. The incomplete tasks were actually a by-standing influence. The actual transgression again pointed to arrogance and selfishness. No one was available to do the right thing. Everyone was busy with what they wanted, but not available to do the work needed.

Sometimes the transgression is an act of humor gone wrong. The attempt to be funny can cause pain. In this case it has raised the question of being true to one's upbringing. There was no evil intention. There was extrapolation. The person responsible for the remark was not the one to fully suffer the impact of the over-generalization of the remark. Even sadder is the realization that the original person making the remark was too young to understand the statement.

How does this extend to someone else and their interpretation? The remark caused shock and created aspersions of less than honorable intentions. The aspersions have caused hard feelings. It has created a rift between families, children and adults. Some of them my children.

No ill intent was designed by a four year old who made a comment everyone thought humorous. He was and is innocent. Because the story had been told and re-told without misunderstanding and with the full awareness of its meaning, the belief was that EVERYONE knew its origin and its harmless meaning. Well, that was what was believed.

I am someone who seems to give innumerable chances to people. I always think they will rise to the occasion - no matter how many times they have not made it before. Sometimes I am very wrong and hurt. Other times I am allowed to bask in the shine of their success as if it were my own. I love those moments. I live for them. One of those moments can make up for every unsuccessful attempt in the matter of seconds.

Although my first instinct is to be hurt and angry, I eventually convince myself that there was no intentional harm done. That the damage was an occurrence of the collateral influence of another intention. I am indeed a master of deceiving myself. It has become a way of life and a survival technique. I cannot bear to think that most human beings are less than benevolent.

Because of this quirk of personality, I tend to look for the good intentions of most people. I can look for the motivation rather than the actual action which caused the hurt or consequence of pain. It has allowed me great insight into most situations. But it has not helped me with this one.

Another child carried forth the story of the four year old and his crush. His statements were quite funny. His sincerity even stronger. Adding to his story is the fact that he competes for the attention of the young lady with his older brother. But that story has an even more uncertain ending.

I only know that there are well educated, honorable young people in this story. They were raised well by their parents. They are mutually loved and cherished by their parents. The hope of their parents is that they will court some one who will become the love of their life.

As one of their parents, I hope they do it better. I hope they wait longer to get to know each other and their dreams, and aspirations. I want them to learn to love and respect each other as God's children and faithful Christians, no matter their church. I want them to understand that the union of marriage is truly among God and two people. That it is not to be entered into lightly and requires full knowledge of God and His word to make the commitment to each other.

I pray that they have the opportunity to find their beliefs and possibly find each other. But I acknowledge I do not know all about them. I believe they are good, strong Christian children who may find in each other their life mate. I believe they can bring out the best in each other and themselves by being together. I choose to trust their judgment about who they are and what they stand for. Because they need the growing room to find out for themselves what they are and can be.

Hard for me to do, is not fight against someone else who may see them differently. Someone who has a difficult time letting them develop mature relationships with others and each other. The struggle of a parent that never ends is the opening of the hand to let go or the clutching to draw them nearer.

Building the Next Business

2009-04-06T22:34:00.000-07:00

Our family is starting a group of family businesses. We are in the process of developing our independence. There are two businesses we have started to make that happen for our family. One is the website we are planning to launch this spring. the other is the greenhouse. We will be growing mums and poinsettias because of the blessing of the greenhouse. Which is truly a great and wonderful gift. The thought of the greenhouse meant a great deal to Bill, the owner, myself and to our oldest daughter.

Lyndsay can see the idea of promise of the greenhouse and the possibilities of the future of the greenhouse. For her the greenhouse is another way to explore her love of flowers and plants. It is a way to make our family grow like her flowers and all the things she loves to make grow. Because she is older, she can see the bigger picture of having a family business. She sees how the family business means that we can work from home. Her enthusiasm for the project was contagious with every one of the girls.

The first needed step was to move the greenhouse. There seems to be one problem. The greenhouse is a behemus!!!! About 27 feet by 70 feet with only one actual end with a door and the other part is attached to a garage that we are not actually moving. Although there are no actual pieces of glasses, there is a frame for what should be multiple panes of glass from one end to another. The whole idea of moving it from its original space to our small 5 acre farm sounded simple enough. But I am told I am beyond optimistic.

The greenhouse sits on the land where Bill, the orignal owner, is trying to sell his house. It is not considered by most prospective buyers as a sellng point. Moving it becomes important to the sale of the houses. Having it on the premises as the house is being shown complicates the sale. It would help to have the building moved. That puts another layer of pressure on the project. Another point of frustration in the project management of the household and the movimmng of the family businesses forward.

The greenhouse originally was covered with heavy plastic sheeting, which had a few significant tears. But each of the sheets seemed to have a salvageable portion for use once it was moved to its new location. Mother Nature had another consideration. Shortly into the new year, there was another strong wind storm. This storm lifted long streamers of plastic off of the wooden frame to dance in the wind. Multiple shreds of plastic hung in declaration of the rough storm of the night. It was another set back in the moving forward of the business plans.

When Barry, and the crew arrived to begin to take down the greenhouse. Barry began the project with some hesitation. He felt overwhelmed by the massive frame and yards of plastic. He wanted a blueprint for the move. Something to make the complex task more simple. To be honest, I had hopes that once the tear down began the enthusiasm to move it and have it set up would fuel the process. I said I was optimistic.

A good friend of ours, Phil, had arrived and began to plan the order of events and the ultimate way to move the greenhouse. Phil has a way of making each project, regardless of the work, a can-do thing. The two boys, Sam and Kyle, worked with the two men to make the dream move forward. Phil and his good humor gave the project a nudge. Despite the conflicts of work schedules and practices of other children, the work moved on. They worked until almost dark.

We, girls were at home working on things at the house. Well, to be honest, I had actually spent a good part of the day lying in bed with a headache. During their time away we worked to do laundry and plan dinner.

Laundry always seems to steal time from all other projects. Two or three loads were run through the cycles. Clothes folded and put away. Rooms were dusted, and floors scrubbed. Dishes washed and put away. Dinner was planned. Okay, dinner ultimately became carry out pizza- but it was a plan.

The sky slowly darkened and in they came, cold, tired and frustrated with the work. Barry looked to me, and told me the work was far from done. His frustration written on his face. He knew how much the moving of the building meant to me. He knew that the plans for our family seemed to hinge on the building. The thought of working for days to tear down the building in order to move it to our place seemed somewhat useless. My optimism was soon slowed with the reality that one entire cold and windy Saturday was spent primarily in the removing of the plastic and planning the order of unscrewing of the frame. Not nearly as far as we hoped it would be. Barry grumbled that I had no idea how much work was left. Most likely he was right. But it needed moved.

Kyle came in tired and cold, not anxious to return to the site to move the building. He supported Barry's thoughts of how much work remained to be done. Kyle was also frustrated that he had other things that needed to be done in the barn, and chicken coop. This was not where he wanted to place his energy. Not where he would choose to spend his time.

It was Sam that was excited about the project. Sam told of taking off the plastic, unscrewing the plastic from the frame and having the opportunity to work with his dad at something important, shown brightly in his eyes. His excited face spoke volumes of what the experience meant to him. He was suddenly near grown-up as he recounted his day to us.

Only Sam seemed to be interested in doing more. He somehow felt a part of the project. He wanted to help make this happen and make it happen very soon. For being 10 years old, he seemed to understand how important moving the greenhouse was to me.

A few weeks later, the greenhouse still stands on its original spot. We had hoped for good weather. Instead this week we had snow - in April! Another slow down in moving the business forward. A delay in the finishing of the first step in the plans.

A call came in and theBll's house is being shown to prospective buyers. The greenhouse needs to be moved even faster than before. His daughter called to say the buyers were interested in the house. Another push to make the project happen.

Being "Done"

2009-04-03T22:22:00.000-07:00

A day or two ago I read a post on "Larger Families" about a writer who recently had another child and posed the question when does the more logical side step in and say "Okay - that's enough". She asked if anyone else suffered baby lust immediately after their last child was born. Inquiring how each of the other moms to large families dealt with what she believed might be unique to her and her husband.

The post actually made me cry, well cry again. For me that feeling remains and seems to be growing stronger each day since our last child was born nearly five years ago. Now we have been told directly, pointedly by friends and family alike, that we should be DONE. We should feel a great sense of satisfaction and pride that we have the family and diversity of children that we have.

Somewhere that fills a void for everyone but us. We have decided that we are not done. We are blessed by our family. They are everything people tell us to be proud of and look forward to their maturity. They have been both blessing and inspiration since the day each of them was conceived. We trusted that God had knit each one together in my womb. We have worked to place them in the belief that they are on earth for God's good purpose.

But that does not stop the yearning for the sense of completion of our family. Many hours of prayer and reflection have been placed on this subject. So much attention to it, that I have a hard time being around babies without tears in my eyes. I not only ache for another child, but mourn the loss of the ones I miscarried. The sorrow is deep enough that the older ones see it in my face despite my work to hide it. It has become something that Barry struggles to help me with at each wave of grief. The sorrow can last for what seems like a lifetime.

In order to understand our lives, and our desire for more children, people have inquiring minds. They ask us how we can afford our family? They ponder the mountains of laundry, the hours of homework and study, the miles we log on our cars going from home to soccer, to dance, to school, to church, etc. Some worry about the size of our vehicles. Others focus on the cost of food, clothing, toys or electronics. There are times we struggle. There are times when there is not enough money. But those times occurred when we had two, three, or four children.

We can be criticized for our trust that God will eventually provide for some of those things in His time. Sometimes the wait can be agonizing, like when we needed a new van and could not find the right one for months. The struggle to go anywhere as a family was immense. We had never relied on two cars to travel before. But God found the best deal and the right van. We just needed to trust and He provided.

God gave us each child in His time. They came when He alone planned them. Even after we were told there might never be one child. God sent all of them to show He had dominion over us, over our family.

The sheer number of children can intimidate some people. We don't see their numbers. We look at each child so individually, that we can not process them in the group everyone else sees. As the older ones manage to leave for college and their independent lives, we feel even less complete at times. Their roles are so diverse that we look at them as the arms or legs of the body of the family. As they mature, having the whole family together has become harder and more scarce.

Our economy within the family is very interdependent. Each one of the children has their place in work, in fun, in worship, and in learning. They bring to our family their independent personalities which are alike and different to each other all at the same time. So much so that times we rely on their talents can bring sorrow. Smaller children seek out the wisdom or empathy of their older siblings during good times and times of sorrow. There is no consoling of a small sibling when they are 'homesick' for the voice or presence of their older brother or sister.

Much credit to Ohio Bell, "reaching out and touching someone" has become the lifeline of the cell phone. The careful dialing of a newly memorized cell number has soothed troubled hearts and angry kid sisters and brothers. The cool mediation of an older brother or sister has solved many fights and hurt feelings between their siblings.

So how can we feel a void? I am not sure that I have the words to express the knowledge that God has the number for our family in His heart. That I believe that we may add to the number of our 'born' children with the hearts and lives of other children once we have a slightly larger house. We recognize that this is not the choice of other people. At times it is not the choice of our friends and family for us. But it is our choice.

The Glory of Sleep

2009-04-03T21:56:00.000-07:00

Over the last few years, Barry and I have entered into a realm of sleepless nights and days. Like "youth is wasted on the young" from It's a Wonderful Life, sleep is the gold of parents and the bane of a child's existence.

We began the cumulative sleeplessness somewhere about child number nine. After surviving all the other odd sleepers and non-sleepers, Chloe began to create a challenge for both of us. Initially after she was born, Barry was laid off. I returned to work when she was about 4 weeks old. Note to mothers of advanced maternal age (anything over 35) this was not my smartest idea and I am still suffering the consequences of that decision. There is strong family sentiment that the demise of my sleeping cycle began in that year.

Our lives became eat, work, feed, run other children to activities, sleep or not sleep. Repeat and repeat again. Sometimes we might change it up a bit and add a nap. On weekends, as I soon became pregnant and also very sick with an infection I caught at work, I began spending hours at home in bed on Saturday and sometimes Sunday. After work each day I would wonder into the house in a coma-like daze and climb the stairs to our bedroom. As I would begin to shed my work clothes, I would directly put on some version of pajamas and sweats, crawling head first into our king-sized bed.

Miraculously food would appear. I would attempt to eat, take medicine, and nurse the current baby. The time for baths would arrive and the parade of freshly laundered bodies and pajamas would crawl across our bed seeking attention. We would wrestle and chase across the room, and settle into quiet right before evening prayers. On good nights I might nap between rounds. On the not so good nights I would be lying in bed begging for peace and quiet and some semblance of rest.

Along the line I lost a way of catching up on my sleep. There were days that I drug myself out of bed, crying for the comfort of sleep and quiet. Those days were full of physical pain and psychological torture at times. Hurting from every moment lost to wakeful periods and restless nights. God, more than once, heard my prayer for super human strength as I was on my knees crying as I showered each morning.

Some days were numbly tolerated with no real emotion expended. Sleeplessness is almost like an opiate when it allows you to see and hear things that do not exist, see and hear things that do exist, but keeps you from reality as you drift in and out of your day.

For many years baby cries were the source of our disrupted sleep. We have somehow left the majority of sleepless nights be-fraught by the cries of babies in the last year or two. The outward cries we hear now are generally those of sick children or fearful nightmares. The fumbling footsteps of the once sleeping child are heard outside our door and miraculously the child appears within the warmth and comfort of our bed.

This of course, meets the immediate need for comfort of the child and our bed transforms into the torture chamber of the adults. When we were younger the adding of a small, freshly bathed being into our bed was at times comforting. But as they grew, there was nothing loving about having one's body kicked mercilessly multiple times in the rib cage by the pointed heel of a sleeping child. Nor is there rest from repositioning yourself around a fitfully nightmaring child.

Despite all attempts, the child becomes the champion of space on even the largest beds. Parents pushed and crowded to the edges, with a spread eagle child sprawled diagonally across the middle domain of space can attest to the discomfort of sleeping with the restless child.

Occasionally the nights are pierced with cries of sleep walking and talking. Loud yells of anger, bursts of laughter are heard by adults but don't waken the dreaming child. We crawl out of bed to check each noise and investigate the source. What happens to me after those attacks of nightmares, is even less sleep. I lay in transient sleep waiting for the next round of yelling. Jerking awake at the first hint of kitten feet walking across the wooden floors. There I am poised tensely lying on my side hugging the edge of the bed waiting for the next cry of distress.

As each child has cycled through this stage, we work to re-establish a rhythm of sleep. Sometimes the season of night terrors is short. Other times the terrors are re-lived over and over again, even within the same night. But by now the odd hours of work, and the years of disrupted sleep allow the season to continue to plague even the quietest of nights.

We recently spent an entire weekend together in a hotel-- key word here-- ALONE. No interruptions. Not even a call from the children on the cell phones. Utterly blissful, relaxing quiet. Most people would find the quiet and alone time soothing and restful enough to lull themselves to sleep. Not us. Neither of us managed to sleep comfortably either night. I laid awake one night until 3 or later in the morning.

I was comforted by the sighs and noises of my darling as he slept. I even avoided the urge to nudge him to roll over and try a new position to quieten his noises. But still no rest. We mentioned the issue of sleep to other couples on the weekend. They too, were sleepless on those nights.

Day by day we are working to re-capture the bliss of sleep of our youth. Generally with no success. Our oldest daughter had remarked that sleep is over-rated, and "there is plenty of time to sleep when you are dead". I am beginning to think she may be right.

Today's Challenge

2009-03-25T20:25:00.000-07:00

Today was one of those days that challenges even the most even people. The type of day that starts out with minor issues such as no milk for your coffee, or the missing shampoo. Our household is no different than any other. There are always things missing from their rightful places throughout the house. They seem to sprout legs and run to hide from their owners at all the inopportune times.

Most families relate to this with a screaming baby on one hip, while they are crawling around on the floor blindly thrusting their hands under furniture in the hopes that somehow the missing binky is miraculously playing hide and seek under the couch. We think that if we angle ourselves closer to the furniture and try not to look-- that the leprechaun or poltergeist that managed to wrestle the priceless pacifier from the baby's mouth with grant us the gift of finding it in the nick of time as the baby is about to come completely inconsolable and unglued from its absence.

Sadly, the reality is-- it ain't gonna happen!! Not for all the tea in China. The slow boat going there also ate the missing sock or shoe of the 3 yo. who suddenly is screaming to go bye-bye at the door. No matter how carefully we return the item to its appropriate spot---viola' - it has disappeared.

You can bet this is going to happen with 50% of all the permission slips, please excuse notes, letters to the teacher, etc. My all time favorite item to lose is the prescription you carefully folded and put into your wallet or checkbook at the reception desk of the physician's office and try to refill. No luck!!! because in all your responsibility you have put it up so safe that it is lost from your mind!!!! Not that you are crazy-- just a tad crazed.

The reality of being a mom of 1-20 kids is that things are always out of our control. A well known fact to most of us, but much less popular in its acceptance among us. We live in a society of primary control freaks. We feel better if we believe everything we do and have contact with is within our control. We are time maniacs-- everything within a schedule. You have 15 minutes leeway either way. We write things in our agendas- put things in our PDAs. We even place sticky notes on our children and their books and lunches.

I realized I had left a poor example of how hard I was trying to control our lives with notes when I walked into the room of our then 4 yo daughter. I was first angry at the three digit number of sticky notes that were lined across her mirror, her dresser, the wall and the headboard of her bed. Each one had a small mark or picture on it. How dare she take them from me to put in her room as toys or playthings. She had them so precisely laid out end to end on every surface. Each one with a slightly different picture or mark-- but connected to the previous one. It was a stroke of luck that I had taken a step back. From the corner of my eye, as I was about to yell for her to come explain herself, I caught a glimpse of my room.

Down that long and narrow hall you could see the headboard of our kingsized bed. Next to it the small table with the phone, and message center where I tried to make all business, bill, medical calls to keep everything together. Oh was I stopped dead in my tracks. Struck by my daughter's view into our room. There they were. Several different colored lists and notes on sticky notes lined up end to end perfectly across my headboard. The one or two on the lamp beside our bed. The stack of notes where they always were right beside my phone. There the two pens were. My favorites lying beside the pads.

I walked into our large master bedroom and turned to the dressing area. To my left was the 4x7 mirror above the double sinks. One for her father and I. Each side with 2 - 10 index cards of bible verses, more sticky notes and reminders, pictures, and stickers from children. Each one had been carefully chosen for its meaning. Each one had a special place and time it was meant to answer. We had them out in plain sight. We sometimes re-read them with all the concentration and energy you give an exciting story. We read them sometimes with half-hearted energy because of our own doubt or disappointment. We would refer each other to them in times of joy and anger. But they were always there as badges of honor worn on a uniform.

I had to come face to face with the behavior we had modeled. We had taught our family to place before themselves the words and things they valued most. Some of them pictures, some of them words. Each of them symbolic of what they could control in their lives.

I called our daughter to her room to ask what all the sticky notes meant. She at first was reluctant to share them.... afraid that she would be punished for wasting them. Although that had been my first impression, I was past that. I wanted to know what she saw in her post-its. She took a long breath and began to tell the story of her writings and pictures. Each picture telling another page of her self-made book of her life. I could see when she wanted me to be serious about the story and when I could laugh at her thoughts. I tried to be very attentive and ask the right questions about the story.

There were times when this was the hardest to do. But what I learned from my daughter was how much she wanted to control her world. To have a handle on the everyday things that happened to her. To play and sing and dance whenever she wanted. As I listened I realized we were very much alike. For her at that age, that was a good thing, even comforting thing.

I try to remember how much she worked to control the things she could control in her stories and life. I noticed she struggled then. She struggles now to hold everything she desires and tries to do in a schedule and order for her life. I have chided her to allow things to happen as they can. To enjoy the journey as she arrives at her destination. All the while knowing that she learned to hurry and get there from the family, from myself.

I see her plan and plan. Re-arrange her current school schedule. Mull the advantages and disadvantages of a class or course of study over and over. Questioning each decision and each turn for every moment. She also learned how I agonize over most decisions, scarcely able to sleep while I work to make the best and perfect decision. I taught her to second guess her every move. I tortured her with the possibility that there could be a better way. Not by criticism, but by hypotheticals. The ever challenging thought of something better, something more.

It is hard to write your failures-- but this one is mine. One of the greatest. I have taught my children that working to be perfect is a vocation. That challenging your decisions over and over is the litmus test for good decisions. I arranged to make the acceptance of the "best decision at the time" to be the greater effort of sacrifice. I wrestle to accept things each day as they are. I strive to control some of the smallest things with the greatest efforts. At times I look quite silly. I have grown to accept more of my own mediocre ways of doing things.

Hopefully I am setting a better example of acceptance of the reality of everyday living. Ultimately it is the example of the happiness with ourselves and our choices. Living in the moment rather than in the future or the past. I want my children to see the beauty of experiencing each day and smelling the roses, rather than the struggle and despair of controlling less and less of their lives and the disappointment of failing to do so.

The Encountered

2009-03-24T20:03:00.000-07:00

Most of my musings have been about the family, the farm, and my struggles with raising rambunctious children-- but this will be different.

Our lives have been very chaotic. They have been beyond down right busy-- they have suffered from sleepless nights, too many bills, sick kids, endless juggling to make ends meet, and every other imaginable stress. We have sat back and dedicated time to causes, charities, school programs, soccer, baseball, softball, church, health issues, helping friends, going to relatives, and the endless list could go on. None of which included work, which is an evil and necessity to our existence of substance.

We, Barry and I, were entering the limit of what we could address as a couple. We love our children. We love our families. We love our church and friends. But we were no longer content with our lives. Part of why we moved to Troy started that path. I was no longer content to live among a greater number of neighbors. I was frustrated by neighborhood "rules" that indicated how the yard or house should look. We were not willing to stay in town and have limited storage and small spaces for the kids to kick up the noise and enjoy things.

We still needed more. We have spent many years apart lately. For Barry to travel and work elsewhere had become a strain. We weren't working as a couple. We had become married singles. Two people living their lives in the union of a marriage without committing to the beliefs and actual dedication of marriage. We got up in the morning rarely saying three civil words and went on our individual ways only exchanging logistic information for the children. We were EXCEPTIONALLY good at it.

It is not so hard to make decisions without the help of someone who is out of state. It is easy to forget to make a phone call to address the current small crisis. Neglect to identify what the next major purchase is going to be-- just make sure the change is paid for and installed as you see fit. Why wait to buy Christmas gifts as a couple-- just send an email that the list is done. Ask for input about discipline, but think better and handle it your way-- despite the agreement to do it differently. Say "yes" or "no" to the child who called to circumvent the other parent-- not an intentional slight; but it sends the same message. Mom and Dad are not on the same page and they are easy targets for manipulation. They recognize it and readily use it.

All these small things added up to the slow and purposive disintegration of our marriage. We were living single. Angry at ourselves. Angry at each other. Angry with the children who guilted us into silence as we would be hollering above the clanging voices of each sibling as they demanded their time for our attention.

We would leave the house for work exhausted and frustrated. Steaming in the car, wanting more time to solve the current problem. All the while knowing it was a symptom of the reality we had created. We were lost.

So far lost that every attempt to quietly work things out resulted in one screaming match after another. Hoping that we could drive the other from our presence so that we could be alone and left in peace. Our personal perception of having "won" the battle. But there were NO winners. Everyone was losing. The children, our friends, our church, and lastly, ourselves.

Together we became accomplices of lies. We supported the illusion that the blame was the other person. That the money items were tearing us apart. That the distance kept the silence. That once we had this or paid for that the pressure of our loneliness and despair would be relieved.

We were quite comical and sad. So sad, that mutual friends would be afraid to ask how things were going, because they prayed we had been able to make a change, but saw the patterns of hate were becoming comfortable tracks that we rode daily without fail. They saw the sadness on our faces and heard the desolation in our hollow voices. We were shells of the couple we had been when we were dating.

For most couples, the arrival of their first child can be the most traumatic. They can be driven apart by the demands of the bundle of joy that has no other choice but rely heavily on the energies of their parents. We were not that couple. We seemed to thrive with our first child. We clung to her and developed more of a relationship. Neither of us was anxious to "get away" from the baby. People would have to literally pry her from us so that we could go out and do adult things. We shared her with family and friends, but didn't really desire to be away from her.

Actually, we were like that with most of our children. We were criticized that we spent too much time with our children without getting out to enjoy ourselves. Rarely would we go to dinner or a movie using a sitter. As the family grew the opportunities lessened and lessened for us to go out. People were definitely intimidated by the sheer numbers of our children. We had fewer and fewer times to go out. There was less and less money. Then we began to have small medical issues with the kids that again limited the pool of babysitters. We hid away from each other and the silence we suffered when there was no one else there but us. We busied up.

We learned to do without going out. We began to sneak time together during naps and short encounters while a DVD played. But we rarely noticed how the other felt. We were running at each other with empty tanks, hoping twenty minutes alone would recharge our batteries enough to keep us moving.

We spent more nights in a family bed than a marriage bed. We originally thought there was a season of this. The seasons grew to years. The time we spent together focused on each other became limited.

We soon began to overlook holidays, anniversaries, birthdays. I drew the line at Christmas, only because I wanted the children to see someone else deserve and receive a gift. But our hearts weren't in the giving.

Barry and I had created the most lonely existence in a crowd that could exist. We had friends we liked, but given up on having people over and sharing with other people. We had become everything we hated. We were lost to ourselves and to each other. Both of us could hear the distress in each other's voice and basically walk away as if it did not exist.

Last weekend we took back our marriage. We once again returned to something we knew could work- but the question remained would we allow it to work? We had done a Marriage Encounter Weekend about 23 years ago. (Okay that DOES make me feel old!) We remembered the time commitment. We also remembered the activities. Barry was still willing to go and eagerly told me to do the registration.

Ironically, we fought with such determination the entire week before- we nearly did not go. We were so consistent, that we arrived late. Held up the start of the first meeting. Entered the hotel with a cloud of anger, frustration, and disbelief in a process that we both had determined was one of the last hopes for our marriage.

From that first session on Friday, to the last circle on Sunday we were blessed. God and his workers helped us to once again remember why we were married. We surprised each other with how close our plans, our thinking and our dreams for our family had come full circle. We were more blessed by the couples we met. We found ourselves with others who realized why they were there and could count on what they had received from their time.

Two nights in a hotel without interruption has a calming effect on most people. But we were energized. We found ourselves playing and laughing at things we had as our secrets back when we first were together. We encountered who we were and still are.

There are many things we brought home from the weekend. Mostly, we brought a better protection of our marriage and of each other. We once again brought back our commitment to the marriage and Christ in our marriage.

We were asked which Marriage Encounter was the best for us. I can say that it was this one. We were young and selfish the first time. We tried to attempt to complete the dialogues and daily connections, but I was the harsher of the two of us. I wanted us to be perfect and keep things in a fairy tale bubble. I was naive and unrealistic.

My only regret is that we waited so long to do it again. I cannot change yesterday or my choices, but I stood before everyone on that Sunday and said, "Don't make our mistake. There are too few days to take back what you may have given away. Make the step to come back to another encounter. Remember that you have the most essential basis for your marriage, Christ Jesus. With Him and through Him, you can have the marriage you have always wanted."

So I would say to you as you read this-- Have you ever been encountered???

The Greenhouse

2009-03-16T23:45:00.000-07:00

I was blessed with knowing a man by the name of Ed Elliot. I owe quite a bit to this wonderful, generous and holy man. When we first met, we both knew we would somehow be friends. There was a connection that we could not explain. I was drawn to his bright eyes and looked forward to that part of my day that I could share with him. His easy smile always brightened my long and sometimes trying days.

I was first struck by his faith. Ed truly believed and practiced what it meant to be a Catholic. He attended mass and vigil. He prayed daily the rosary. He tithed. He spent much of his unattended time in meditation and wonder of the Lord. Often, I would come upon him and find him in deep meditation. He would tell me he was talking with his guardian angels. Other people may have doubted him, but I knew by the glow of his eyes that he was in the presence of an angel. He did not claim any great miracles or predict any events, he just knew things.

Often we would find ourselves talking about God or our faith. He patiently would answer my questions about how his beliefs were developed or what the Catholic church believed about specifics we might be met with. Ed not only spoke from his own experience, but he could answer me based on his encounters with Father Angelo.

The story of Father Angelo should be saved for another time, but it can be stated that Father Angelo sits in the presence of angels with great regularity. He and his faith are recognized as local authority of the Catholic church without question. He has served his home parish for many years and near lifetimes faithfully and without any reservation.

The subject of the greenhouse came about during one of those times I spoke with Ed about what his life had been like when he was younger. At those times, he would lean back and smile as he recalled his life with his love and helpmate, Verna. Ed would talk about how he and Verna planned each year the number of plants they would grow and how they worked side by side. Each one with their schedule of jobs and duties. Both important to the task, not one more significant than another.

He spoke with pride as he told me he sold poinsettias to most of the churches throughout Miami county. Shyly, he would describe how he decorated the altar of the church with the blooms. The bright red color of the leaves shining against the walls and wood. He spent hours on the task.
I spoke with many people who recalled the beautiful plants at Christmas. There would be so many that the altar appeared to float on the leaves.

He spoke with authority about how to best trim and cultivate the plant to create more blooms or generate a larger plant. He again with all his patience, would demonstrate where to trim a plant to grow starts for a new plant. Using his thumb to find the joint, he would tell of where the cut should be made and how to place the end in root developer as you placed it in the soil.

Many hours were shared in the task of passing down the knowledge and the hope of growing another year of poinsettias. We laughed at my foolish ideas. He challenged my silly plans or ambitious thinking. But he supported the idea that this plan could take root.

The most daunting part of our plan has been the moving of the greenhouse. Not only is is large, but the commitment that comes with it is also large. There are many ribs of the house. The spans of metal are connected to make a seventy foot long side with twenty-seven feet of width to be filled with potting tables, growing shelves, fans and watering systems. Heat is another issue to be tackled for early plants for the first part of the growing season. Ohio winters and springs are far from predictable.

Once the frame is taken down, it must be carefully re-assembled close to the barn for electricity and water. Far from the animals and their renegade escapes. Then the sheeting needs to be attached to withstand another year of rain, wind, and generally unpredictable weather. Exhaust fans need hung, the wood burning stove needs vented. The work seems monumental.

Barry sees this as a mountain. His right and left hands, our oldest boys, both either gone off to college or busy with plans and auditions. He struggles to be supportive with the vision, but is daunted by the task of details. There is some fear. Another way for our family to risk more time and money. We need this to be successful. We need it to ground our family business. To make our lives more solid in our home and our community.

Ed and I shared the blessings of what this could mean to our family. It means work and hard work at that. It means a chance to have and continue a business that once worked well to provide for Ed and his family. It gives Ed a chance to pass down what his patience and dedication gave to him. There is a sense of calm and worship in his story. There is the wonder of God's glory in the plants and their blooms. There is the blessing of being able to serve his church through giving back his means of making a living in the most visible way possible.

I hope that we can serve our community, our church, and our God with the same dedication. I pray that God will give us the strength to create a clean slate as we develop this dream of our business. It has been odd how we know that this greenhouse is the beginning for aspects in all of our lives.

Our eldest daughter, Lyndsay has once again discovered her love of plants, shape, and form. She has always used them to create a quieter, more beautiful world amidst the chaos of growing up and becoming a woman. She loves the dirt and the opportunity to watch things grow from sticks and seeds. Each thing growing to bloom at the encouragement of her hand. This greenhouse will be another part of her way of carving out her next steps in life.

It is not just a greenhouse, it is a house of new life.

You Grow Them and Then They Leave You

2009-03-15T21:11:00.000-07:00

We are about to graduate another student from our brood of imaginative and occasionally challenging children. They are quite the rambunctious bunch at times with thoughts and energy beyond my small little mind. They can tend to run circles around us at the busiest of times.

Someone told me that it would get easier to watch them grow up and develop their personalities and different interests. They encouraged me not to look back, but forward to embrace the rapidly passing days and the ultimate time in which they leave our house. I can say it most definitely does NOT get easier.

I struggle with their maturation. Not that they should always be little children in need of our guidance. But that they want so desperately to be grown before their time. They want to cut and burn the apron strings that held them to us, rather than slowly untie them. The kids don't understand that those strings are not to tie them up so tight they cannot leave, but rather to slow their descent in case they should lose their footing. A safety net as it were.

I understand that after the age of say, 12 years, they have developed a sense of right and wrong. They should have the foundation of beliefs we have in our home. That somewhere amidst their own form of rebellion, we still are a part of their lives - even though it might not be apparent to either of us from the outside.

Seniors and juniors are faced with so many seemingly life and death decisions about school, their education, and their futures. They are overwhelmed by the enormity of the decisions and the endless group of deadlines. I cannot keep them straight. I do not know how they can. I am supposed to be the keeper of time and dates, and plans. I am overwhelmed.

My level of overwhelmed begins with wondering if I did a good job. Was I the mother they needed me to be? Will they feel we prepared them well enough to go their own way? Are they running away? Can they plan their next few years with confidence or with fear?

With each child that leaves our house, a piece of my life and heart goes with them. There is no practice in saying, "Go and lead a good, productive christian life." It is something that must be said and prayed in practice. They have heard me say over and over that our job is to raise strong, responsible Christian adults who leave our home to create strong, Christian homes and families. But that thought has a sense of heartbreak. They no longer live here among us.

They visit, but they are somehow seperate from us. They are forging their own lives away from us. But we cannot help wanting to make their lives somehow better, despite our own limitations.
We cannot heal every hurt. We cannot make better every hard road they travel. There are times we would desire to remove the trials of everyday studying or work loads that plague their journey to being accomplished adults. But it just is not possible.

I dread the decision making of what college? What major? How much money is too much money or where is too far? I hate the inquiring questions of other parents so that they can share the decisions they have chosen for their children. Some only for the opportunity to brag, others solely for need of seeking solace from another struggling parent.

My heart aches as the senior year ends. Was this the best year or was this the year to be endured? Did the choices we made this year make things better for going away? Or should we have somehow done it sooner?

Once again in raising our clan I am left feeling inadequate and unsure. No matter how many times I have been on my knees and asked for guidance I know I am ill-equipped to say good-bye at the right time. My heart will again break.

Where are All the Servants?

2009-03-13T21:35:00.000-07:00

Tonight has ended another long week of work. It has been several long weeks in order one after another filled with many patients and much work and drive time from place to place. Not all of the time is mine, however. But the time is time away from the house and away from the needs of the family.

Guilt!!!! overwhelming and never ending has crept into my mind as I watch the younger ones shy away as they hear my voice state the obvious undone items as I walk through the house trying to shed my work hat and clothes in order to put on the sweats of being home as mama. They know the strain in my voice when things are undone and left out of place. That is not the favorite side of mama they had hoped would meet them at home.

I work to settle into the more relaxed Friday night routine and find myself struggling with a slow computer connection and the missing "I" key of my laptop. Piece of mail after piece of mail is opened to show me that I have not found a solution to several issues that needed tied up this month. I still have work to do for myself and for my job.

Despite being good at my job, I no longer enjoy it. I am not happy with the paperwork and the second guessing of the day. There are many issues that make each day a tiny bit more complicated than the next. There is no one to delegate the frustration or small details to --- I am that person. No assistants. No fellow therapists. Just me and today I am not enough.

Home has this sense also. Where are the extra hands that scoop up the laundry on the floor of the single bathroom shared by 11 people everyday? Who is the monitor of the toilet paper, water salt or tissues? Where is the person who folds and puts away the laundry left in baskets after loads are switched out from the washer to dryer?

The flow of a household generally requires everyone to pitch in. In some circles this is referred to as "slave labor" for the children. I am intrigued that that same level of commitment and completion is not seen as being slave labor when provided by a parent or other adult. It is accepted practice.

Balance. Our lives are to create a seamless dance from work to home that has no glitches of turmoil in our own minds and in the lives of our family. As mothers, wives and workers, our lives are to flow effortlessly one identity into another. Only when we "allow" the interruptions of our day do we, ourselves, destroy the flow. We dam the waters of the stream. We stop the success on all fronts.

What a calling we have?!! We must work to control the uncontrollable. From child to impatient adult we are greeted with the demands of needy relationships. Some of them of our own choosing. Others are thrust upon us due to position or circumstance.

The solution? Oh that is the million dollar question. Is it the extended vacation or the elimination of the greatest stress? Where do we place our trust in the solution? Who has the magic to cut the strings of responsibility?

I don't have those answers. I know just a few things. We are called to have the hearts of servants. For most of us the calling distracts us from ourselves, our lives and our other callings. We desire to give more. Sometimes beyond our own reach. We do that in answer to falling short in our own eyes in our every day lives.

We need to teach and lean on the servant hearts of our families. What happens if the laundry isn't done our way? What are the implications of unfolded laundry vs dirty laundry? Does every task need to be completed the day it was asked? What happens when everything waits until the weekend?

We need to show who we are, how we feel and where our energies are best spent. Martha spent many hours waiting on Christ and the men at the tables in her home. Mary dared sit at the feet of Christ to learn whatever she was able to learn. Was one better than the other? Only if your goal was eternal life. But Christ remained gentle and explained to Martha what she needed to change. We need that servant heart to teach our children and ourselves.

The Christ we ask to be in us is the Christ our children see. When we are called to use our hearts and hands for Christ we are doing His good purpose. We are Christ incarnate for our families and for our jobs. That level of super human strength comes from a place deeper than we ever imagined.

So the sleep I need is to allow me to work again for the good of my family. The purpose of my job and the wisdom to draw lines of containment to allow me to do both jobs without feeling overwhelmed and taken advantage of.

Just One of Those Days

2009-03-12T21:23:00.000-07:00

I hope every family has those days where not everything seems to go perfect. It somehow begins with a late start. Then things you thought were ready or finished were found undone. There are loose ends for another project. You struggle to get out the door and find yourself at your destination with more undone and unanticipated delays.

In my line of everyday work, half or more of the work related delays are due to human nature. The patients also have sleepless nights, additional or unexpected pain, late meals and are waiting on the over worked and under appreciated busy staff member struggling to go from door to door to meet the needs of everyone she is assigned to. Add administrative duties and paperwork- the well planned day can go awry in the literal blink of an eye and somehow grow to a 12-hour nightmare with overflow into the next one or even two days.

The trick here is to live on what I call "Plan B thinking". Always have an alternative idea to make things work better. The business world calls this "thinking out of the box". The mother and household manager of any size family can tell you substitution is the solution to most problems.

I work with cognition or ways of thinking - our buzz word is "re-framing and problem solving". My professors thought they were part of a new and upcoming innovative field of thought for the management of lost thinking abilities. In reality, they projected common sense and "Plan B thinking" as the most innovative solution to re-learning thought recall and problem solving. Most of them should have talked with mothers of large families. We accept missing information and needed resources which are absent as everyday simple occurrences. We look at the end goal and make due with what we have. Normally and without apparent distress, we make things look easy.

Sometimes we do that all on our own power. Other times we recruit the strength and time of our spouse or children to accomplish the needed goals. I will put in print and deny my belief, that the fact one or more of the teenagers in our family now drive and can transport to many locations and appointments, has provided me with a level of freedom that nearly approximates having a nanny again. They even help remember sports equipment, fees, homework and permission slips! Plus they are known to volunteer just to be able to drive. Wow what a help and what an occasional worry as they still are young drivers.

But even with all the help and shared responsibilities of the older children and my husband, the "one of those days" pattern can show up at any given time. It is always worse when it involves money and lack thereof. When you thought things were covered and discover that somehow you missed something. It is magnified by sick children and upcoming deadlines.

Mothers of large families seem to take this to heart as their ultimate failure and weakness. We don't need reminded that we are behind with less critical payments, we already know. We suffer great amounts of guilt when we discover the shoes of a child rub blisters, or their pants don't accommodate a five inch growth spurt. We suffer when we see the look of disappointment when the new dress does not meet the wow factor of the tween child.

It goes without saying some days that the necessary paperwork does not always make it in by the deadline and the piles of reading and information sent to the house nearly stops the sun from entering a bedroom window when stacked for a week or two because you couldn't sort it all.

It is not a money issue, it is not really a time issue. More likely it is an overall resource issue. A sign of our busy and complicated lives. The live demonstration of not being able to remember and juggle every minute of the day and every detail of the moment. We become numb to the outside influences and even become staggered by the inside situations when we are tired and overwhelmed by every aspect of our lives. Once we hit the wall of overwhelmed - the plan B thinking we are known for seems to fade and leave us without our handful of re-framing tools and opportunities.

No longer can we call our difficulties challenges and put a positive spin on them. We have little or nothing to use as a means to provide a workable solution. We feel like failures. Our greatest error of thought is to believe our own fears. We are capable. We do manage. Most of all, we can find the right solution given time to think and ponder the alternatives.

So stepping back, taking a deep breath and looking away from the problem can be the best answer now. Resting and coming back to the issue with wise counsel can allow the solution to develop. Trusting our abilities and our choices generally lets the problem solve itself. Let's hear it for Plan B thinking!!! It puts the "One of those Days" pattern back into perspective so that it stays only One of those days.

You Know You Are in the Country When

2009-03-11T21:48:00.000-07:00

Most people wake to alarm clocks and the possible light of the sun peaking in your window as it casts its glow on your face. You know you are in the country when you hear at least one crowing rooster and the mooing of the cows calling you to the barn for feed.

The average household requires cleaning of the front porch of the leaves, possible loose trash and accumulation of outside equipment. You know you are in the country when the porch has "mud" or other globs of goo lurking across the steps, there are at least two pairs of tall rubber boots thrown helter skelter across the porch and at least one piece of equipment has a long handle that may be mismatched. You see piles of buckets, and pails full of chicken scraps and there are bowls of cat or dog feed. There also is an outside hook where barn coats and winter overalls are hung once the work is completed and you don't want to get yelled at dragging barn yuck through the house.

You know you are in the country when you have to call about the chickens getting too close to the road. In the city you worry the dog may have gotten loose.

You hear traffic and car noise in the city. You know you are in the country when your house shudders as the semis thunder past the house early in the morning and late at night with their head lights beating through the drapes of every window from a half mile away.

Night sounds in the city may be the music of the next door neighbor, the sound of an outdoor party, the boombox of the neighbor's kid as he cruises the neighborhood or the scream of an emergency vehicle racing to the site of the next news at six report. You know you are in the country when late at night the sound of crickets singing lulls you to sleep, or you hear the cry of the coyotes calling to each other in the fields. The ultimate sound of the country is the quiet of the night as the full moon rises high in the sky as night blankets the earth with silence.

You know you are in the country when a John Deere tractor is the only toy a boy wants and he isn't sure what a gameboy is. When farm clothes with the John Deere logo are the best loved clothes of your boys rather than American Eagle or Gap. When Carhart overalls mean more than a leather jacket. When work boots mean that steel toes beat dress tennis shoes.

City living looks for every piece of porch furniture to match and color coordinate with a theme in the house. Country life allows your great aunt's table to have its honored place on the porch so that every picnic reminds you of family gatherings on her screened in porch and the value of porch swings.

City life means fashion and design can sometime beat function. Country life means that function is occasionally lucky enough to have fashion and design.

Country life is loud and obnoxious play and work, with some foul smelling by-products. City life is the ultimate scent of today's marketing ploy from the tv commercial to create an ambience.

You know you are in the country when you are waiting behind a large piece of farm equipment and the farmer doesn't seem to notice there is a long line of waiting traffic behind him as he works to make his living. Living in the city you hear the horns and insults shouted at the driver that slows the progress on the road for each important individual inconvenienced by their road interruption.

You know you are in the country when you hear kids talking about tractor races, chasing cows that broke through their fences or just plan lighting a bonfire of collected brush to share with their friends. You know you live in the city when the talk turns to going out cruising, sitting in the park waiting on friends or going to McDonalds as the meeting place.

You know country life when you accept dirty windows as a part of life and the occasional smell from the barn as a sign your efforts are about to be worth it as you stock your freezer with the fruits of your labor. Your city dwelling life lends itself to corporation smoke and the occasional pollution. Your nose sometimes smells exhaust and barbecues, while the only thing that stocks your freezer is what you bought at the grocery stores.

You recognize the country life in the kids who worry more about the type of animal or farm equipment over the city kids who may only recognize the fancy cars and stereos. There can be a greater sense of responsibility for the animals, the crops, and the equipment from the kids on farms that kids in town may not have the opportunity to learn and develop.

The country raised child learns in most houses, that money buys the next piece of equipment, the latest trial of farm animal and the feed to keep the livestock alive. They always seem to see the juggling act that occurs in order to keep everyone, livestock and family included, fed and sheltered. Kids raised in the city tend to see only the struggles of feeding themselves and keeping a roof over their heads.

Country raised kids meet up with the reality that the work they do to raise the livestock can result in the ultimate sacrifice of life on the part of the animal to feed the family. They view the lives of their farm animals as seasons of their own lives. This is not the easiest life lesson to learn. They learn to accept death and loss through their experiences.

City raised kids are not always allowed to make the connection of this cycle of life. Sometimes they never see the sacrifice of the livestock in order to keep food on the table. They miss the understanding of working toward the goal of butchering for the sake of the family. They don't always comprehend dealing with sick animals and choosing which treatment is the most cost effective and when it is time to put the animal down.

The hardest challenge for the country household is to keep the house clean while you maintain the barn, the livestock and the gardens. You begin to accept that slightly dirty floors mean that chores got done outside today. You recognize that everyone should have a front door mat and they should check the bottom of their shoes. Country households make walking through the house without shoes a family rule, rather than constantly trying to keep the floor scrubbed during the muddiest and busiest seasons. Most city households have the no shoes rule because the carpet may get dirty.

There are many comparisons that fit the changes we made when we turned to this simple house out on five acres. We made adjustments to our travel into town for food, milk and every day items. We planned more about our everyday activities because there was more for us to do to keep up with the livestock and the gardens. I learned to allow more messy shoes, boots and outdoor clothes. I learned to laugh when I could overlook chickens tucked under someone's arm carried through the house without batting an eye.

I have managed to become almost organized and capable of doing several loads of laundry in the kitchen because there is no laundry room. I taught the girls the value of hanging clothes on the line and saving energy and money. I have found ways to store fresh vegetables and make meals with fewer store ingredients. We have developed short cuts for most everyday tasks during the busiest of times. We have learned to live comfortably with less and focus more on the end result. We are working to create the appreciation for the journey not just the destination.

The country life has its ups and downs like any other life, but for our family this change to a quieter, more simple life has made each day more complete.

The Family Meal

2009-03-10T22:37:00.000-07:00

Sundays are referred to as "family day" in our house. Originally it was to slow the rapid exodus of older children to the farthest corners of the world and have time to re-group. We thought we might be able to plan the week, do some organizing and have some fun with the kids.

The thinking was to revisit the afternoons we had spent at our parents' homes during our first years of marriage. We spent long, lazy evenings catching up with them and their busy lives as they watched with astonishment the latest achievement of the children and babies. We always had a meal.

Food has always been a temptress in our home. Simple basics or fancy fair, the meal and dessert have held captive the minds and stomachs of our family. At one time the responsibility for the planning, shopping and creating of the meal fell on my shoulders. There were occasional days of help from Barry as he would make his chicken enchilada casserole, lasagna or barbecue. But ultimately I was the orchestrator of the meal. There must be a memorable main course, at least two vegetables and ultimately a dessert. Generally with a theme or sense of familiarity that is recognized by everyone present. Each family generally chooses their favorite dish at one time or another and begins to plan their special meal.

Because I have an unusual quirk that demands that Sundays, holidays, parties and birthdays should all have an intense memory for them, the planning can be somewhat tedious. Additionally, the stress of creating the "perfect" welcome home dinner or back from college fair has once again demonstrated my unreasonable stress and its retaliation to anyone who interrupts the flow of creation before its completion.

When we entertained Daniela Stallinger and her crew last Sunday - there was no difference in establishing the family meal. Truly, I am blessed that Kyle, our second son, has become the consomate budding gourmet chef. He is known by family and friends alike for culinary skills that would be the envy of most women and men. Very few of his creations fall short of delicious. This last Sunday was no different.

Kyle decided that he should be the Top Chef for the luncheon we planned. So off to the local grocery to pick between baked poultry or barbecued ribs. It should go without much question or worry, the ribs won. They are truly one of Kyle's greatest accomplishments. That teamed with twice baked potatoes and the kitchen became a buzzing center of activity.

We have always enjoyed having all the family contribute to meals. There are plenty of tasks to be shared. Someone to wash potatoes. Someone to make the salad and cut the vegetables. Someone to steam the green beans and asparagus. Someone to cut the fruit. Someone to bake the dessert.

Oddly enough, February/March, September and December are filled with birthdays for our family. Even Rory found a girl with a birthday in March. Celebrations for them have been low key and held off until we all could be together. So there was a distinct need to make the appropriate dessert for each celebrant. That created a smorgasboard of brownies with M and Ms for Rory, golden cake with chocolate icing for Jess,and Lyndsay's favorite layered marble cake with vanilla pudding layered wth raspberries and strawberries topped with chocolate icing.

Thank goodness for the two ovens. Every counter was full and guarded by someone working diligently on some part of the meal. Even guests volunteered to help with fruit or vegetables. Laughter and noise filled every corner of the kitchen as elbows and feet struggled to make their way across a packed room to the other side of the busy work center. Shouts of "look out" could be heard as hot plates and full hands rushed to fill ovens and stove spots.

Not to be left without a contribution, even the smallest ones hurry to find napkins, cups, plates and silverware to put at the table. As the salad was set out, bottles of salad dressing crowded the table as testament to the many different tastes and loves of our family. Little faces pushed their way to the tableside hoping to pick the best seat. Each one working to find their favorite plate and cup. As they scrambled to sit and begin eating, they were reminded to thank God for their food.

From somewhere in the bustling group a voice could be heard singing " Oh the Lord's been good to me" in an unusually low voice. The family quiets as we joined in our familiar song of thanks. Something easy for the young ones to remember and simple for the older ones to use in place of hard thought open prayers. At the end of the prayer we all looked around for who started the prayer. Gillianne chimed in to say it was her. Again good natured teasing begins to ask when she began singing baritone with her brothers, as each of her sisters struggled to carry the tune.

Our guests marvel at how the children sit and eat the food. Even green things can be found on each of the younger ones plates. Daniela, Erica and Mark tolerate the endless chatter and questions that the younger ones pour out at the meal. Aidan manages to sneak beside Daniela and corner her attention throughout the majority of the meal, as he plots his dessert manuevers. You can tell he is working to charm our guests in hopes that he may acquire more strawberries or cake.

The children mingle back and forth with the waves of food being carried to and from the table as the oven sends forth its creations. Kyle stands behind the stove supervising and fussing over each rack of ribs until he is certain they are cooked to his level of approval.

Each child has made his contribution. Each one has put forth his choices. The hum of their chatter fills the air. The chaos of their laughter nearly deafening as the meal progresses. Clanging dishes, and shuffling feet soon head toward the kitchen counter. The air fills with shouted thank you's to Kyle for his efforts and suddenly the room grows quiet.

Again a mass exodus has occurred into the next rooms. They have hurried to find something to keep them busy. Each one in a rush to be found too busy for the last and dreaded chore of the family meal.... the dreaded clearing of the table and dishes.

This day they had a head start. Because I could not bear to think of the clean and shining counters of the kitchen to be full of clutter, I have started to load the dishwasher. With only a slight grumble the dishes are unloaded and the next load begun.

We say goodbye to our guests and wish them safe travels. They hurry off to catch their flight Full stomachs lead us to our callng beds for quick naps. In every corner of the house, someone is asleep or resting. Quiet on family day has begun.

The Failing Mother

2009-03-09T20:12:00.000-07:00

I have worked to avoid this post.... but it appears it cannot be ignored any longer. First let me say that I love my children. I would walk through eternal fire for my offspring. Fight endless attacks that threaten their lives and well-being. There is not much that I would not do to make their lives better.

I hate the fight to complete diligence tasks. I hate the disorder that we are left with when they are not completed. I have begun to hate enforcing the tasks, and have contemplated leaving work to come home to be the housekeeper in order to have more order in our home.

That being said, I hate the reluctance my children display to complete diligence tasks and their refusal to recognize the necessary place they have in any family, not just ours. I hate the repetitive means that are required to instill the need of diligence tasks in a family.

The purpose of diligence tasks or chores is to allow the family to propel itself forward in the daily and weekly work of existing. Simply put, it is the boring things that make homes functional and keeps them ordered.

It seems rudimentary to most adults that things are required to make the co-existence of human beings possible. The follow through of task completion of the daily chore list is rather simple and mundane. There is some sense of comfort in the simplicity of chores. They have a familiar rhythm of life. They create order. They create peace. They allow us to make peace with everyday needs.

Somewhere my children missed that understanding. Chores are odious interruptions to their day. They steal away the joy from play. They trounce independence from their family. Corrupt their ideas of fun. Destroy their sense of self and enjoyment. In the words of at least two of our children, they ruin their social lives.

Our children missed the concept of any job worth doing is worth doing well. The idea is evidently lost on our brood. I have worked this idea through endless teachable moments. Despite trying to find their developmental windows for the concept, I have failed. Speed and incompletion plague our household tasks.

There is nothing more defeating than recognizing your children cannot grasp what you are attempting to teach them. Is it the complexity of the concept? Is it the absence of witnessing the proof in their parents' work? Are the building blocks for the concept too large or clumsily presented? At each failure, I analyze and scrutinize the merits of the lesson. I plot out the next creative lesson for the goal of teaching the dreaded responsibility of being a member of a family.

Where do you look for the outline of teaching to the goal of self worth developed from hard work? I recognize that it is not a single lesson idea. It is the development of a hierarchy of steps that create the understanding of desire to complete the task well. It is that same development that allows us to accept hard work to meet the demand of the assigned task. The task creates its own sense of skill and due diligence required to fulfill its obligations to completion. There should be a sense of satisfaction of working hard. Both a relief and sense of relish at the accomplishment.

My frustration is my greatest failure. Failure to accept their selfish ways found in being children and a symptom of being young. Failure to convey the need for them to realize they are an important part of the family and the family relies on their contribution. Failure to show them their worth in the economics of the family. They don't acknowledge the "value added" feature of being the member of the organization of a family. They mistake their participation as a member for the value of life it actually holds.

Perhaps that is the most crucial place we fail. Mothers recognize the economics of the family. One person's contribution can mean the difference between no meals or meals for each day. It can allow the hands of a parent to hold a crying baby, or solve an algebra problem. It can mean that someone who just needs their time with mom or dad, can take a walk or sit in a room to share a fear or tell a story or ask for permission without interruption. It can mean that someone has their hair done for a recital or prom, while another is given the gift of a game of catch before the next play-off.

The economics of the family divides the work. It can make small, mountains of laundry and allow them to be folded and put away by less tired hands. It can load dishes without fatigue and back aches. It makes sure that there are spoons and cereal bowls for the next morning's breakfast after ice cream the night before. It shares the load among many despite the number of people who immediately benefit.

There is a give and take to every aspect of life. Sometimes that give becomes like breathing, second nature. The ebb and flow of everyday housework, laundry, transporting of children to lessons and practices, all require someone to share themselves to allow them to occur. Simple, quiet, boring jobs that make the house content and functional.

Why do children miss the concept? Because they see them as simple., quiet, boring tasks. They see the effortlessness of our movements and thought as we push through each and every task to make our children's world possible. We forget the work they actually take. We even underestimate the time they take in order to allow us to do more to make the function of our lives move forward. To commit ourselves to one more act of compliance to the family, no matter how small.

Have we failed them? Have we made the effort seem easy for us to do these tasks? Have we become too busy to divide big chores into smaller steps and follow up on the completion of them?
or have we just thrown our hands up in exasperation and done them ourselves? I know I have done all these wrongs. I have failed. I have become tired. I have lacked the consistency. I have failed even more by not asking God's help to be better at what I do everyday, be a mother.

I am not sure I can alone, be the better mother. I doubt that I have the patience, alone, to begin to fulfill the calling to teach them to "be strong and do the work". I absentmindedly look beyond my bible and my beliefs and fail my children, because I am not choosing to "be strong and do the work" I am called to do.

I have tried many, many unsuccessful ways and theories to further my cause. Some worked for a short time. Some never worked. Ultimately I found myself in the same place. I was to be a better parent. I was to seek wise counsel, I was to seek God's face and favor. I sought the answers n many well written and acclaimed works.

Perhaps the lesson was to show me my lack of attention to my own task of diligence-- to seek God for my guidance for my family? To allow my ultimate commitment to make our family a more functional, reverent family to please God be the diligence task where I placed my energy and effort. Perhaps once again, as I sought to plug the splinter in the eyes of my children, I discovered a log in my own. We all need to focus on our calling and be diligent to guard our hearts to the ways of the Lord.

Redbook and Pandamoniam

2009-03-08T21:12:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wonder why I say "yes" to anything. There must be a certain level of instant insanity or amnesia that overcomes most mothers at times when they are asked if they will volunteer for anything. Maybe it is a "mom weakness" or a constant desire to please or make things a little better for someone else. Occasionally, I find that I say yes because I want some sense of having more time on my hands to do things I believe I will enjoy.

In this case, the "yes" was to what I thought would be a simple interview on how or why we had allowed our family to grow to include eleven children. Really the answer seemed simple or the task seemed simple. I just did not recognize there could be anything beyond the interview.

I wanted to sound relatively sane and normal. Not be too far left or right. Seem like everyone who only had two or three children. For some reason, those mothers and fathers seem more acceptable to the average person on the street. No one makes exclamations of "You must have your hands full!" or " I bet you have lots of patience all the time." They just don't throw out those kind of near pre-destinations.

"Regular families" seem to get more nods and smiles. They go noticed with approval. Their lives look more simple. Larger families seem to attract attention no matter how low key you work to keep their lives. Simple is rarely a word used to describe their lives.

In our case, the not so regular family with the not so regular routine as of late, came crashing into the "we need a schedule" wall very quickly over the last 3 weeks. The little interview I had, quickly grew into an interview and "photo shoot".

For most people, no worries. They do a little extra shoushing. They buy fresh flowers and exile the pets to the neverlands. They dress up after hot showers and new hair cuts. Viola!! beautiful family and house. Wonderful pictures!!!! What more could you ask for ?

In our case we had a few, shall we say, kinks in the works. First - they needed all the kids home. Well, how could I convince two college students that the ultimate weekend entertainment was coming home, helping clean, put up with my stress and have their picture taken for a national (not local) magazine? Plus- do it with as much positive spin as possible?

Next- well there is the fact we live in a 100+yo farm house basically constantly under some level of upgrading or repair. Nothing can be done one step at a time. Everything seems to have 3-6 levels of needs to be met before any project is completed. We had hit the wall with completing everything about four months ago. We were basically burnt out from working every spare moment on walls, floors, ceiling fans, electricity, plumbing, etc. You get the drift. We had a moratorium on the constant version of "This Old House" for the Coleman Clan.

Then there was the 10 pounds of paperwork that comes by mail, the tax information collecting in boxes and bags, the inundation of college intent letters piling up for both the senior and the current junior in high school and of course, homeschool work. There seems to be a private war against forests in our little corner of the world. We could heat the house two months out of the year on all the paper we sort through on a yearly basis.

Lastly, there was this small little nuisance of my attitude to pictures. I just don't do them. I hate them. I would be happy being the photographer and never be seen in any pictures -- EVER.

Funny how all of these things scream, "HALT " to the photo opportunity. But yet, I still kept the coorespondance and set the date. Made all the necessary phone calls and arrangements. Took off work. Kept talking to myself. "We can do this." "Maybe they can take pictures of Barry and the kids and I can sit calmly in the background." I was a smooth talker, I must admit. However, that is not how this went down.

We worked three days fairly diligently to assemble the house on the first floor more near its ultimate completion than ever before. We rallied around laundry piles and stacks of unmatched socks. We scoured tub, lavatories, and kitchen sinks. We painted and stained woodwork and walls. We vacuumed and scrubbed floors. Everything was at least shuffled out of the living spaces in attempt to make 1900 sq. ft look larger and accommodating.

I wish I could say I was goodness and light. I wish I could say the stress did not hurt us. I would be a liar. I was awful. Not because I wanted it so much for me, but I wanted them to see how wonderful my children actually are. I wanted them to see the life we have when I don't work too many hours and steal time from my kids to make the money we are needing to survive. I really wanted them to look at the house and not think I failed as a mother and woman at keeping my house clean and my children safe. I needed to make up for months of disorganization and exhaustion that kept me from keeping things organized, neat, and clean.

Thanks to the blessings of my husband, (who suffered at my evil tongue the most) and my children, we had a home that was met with smiles and compliments. Despite my efforts to drive them into exile with my awful fears of being "found unfit" to be included in this article.

Daniela Stallinger and her assistant, Erica, and Mark, the digital camera support, came into our home and found us normal. They found me behind and still cleaning. They discovered Lyndsay, doing some of the same. They were patient and tolerant. They heard all of Aidan's adventures told only as a 4 yo can tell them.

They found ways to overlook the unfinished and near done. They arranged people to fit the cross two-pages spread so that they were not in the fold. They laughed and made us laugh. They made it so that even I, could relax and allow her to do what she does best. Take excellent pictures.

So we sat in a group on the couch. Poor Daniela struggling to be smaller than the space between the 1 ton antique piano and the wall to get a better perspective. Some sat on the arms and on the back (with glances at me to tell them to get down). Some sat on the seats and on each other. Even the last remaining step ladder got placed into the act.

We moved the fidgety children to the kitchen and the table. Rory seemed to be in his heighth of ornery sitting beside me. Often making comments or causing reactions of his younger sisters. Some in front and the older ones in back, we arranged hair and arms and clothes, trying to make the best portrait of this large collection of individuals.

Finally, moved one last setting into the yard in front of the grove of trees. Walking, laughing, goofing around and doing the box step, we walked with purpose into the frames of her photos. She again laughed as we walked over things in the yard or accidently used children riding piggy back as jousting sticks between photos.

Once the shoot was over, we could breath. Then the fun actually began. They took pictures of the farm animals. They laughed at bad jokes. We quizzed them about life in New York and their travels and the people they encounter. All foreign to life on our quiet corner, here in southwestern Ohio.