Just Do it

I am a member of an online group of women with larger families. I have come to cherish this group of women as they have some of the same bizarre daily living decisions to make that we do, and have often times already been there, done that. Such as the dilemma of keeping track of 8 toothbrushes and 8 cups while also keeping them separated so as not to transfer germs. You don't really stumble across advice like that in Modern Parenting or Family Circle.

Recently, a question was posted within this group about how to learn to enjoy getting up early. I chuckled out loud thinking about how I've been trying to figure out how to enjoy it for years now. But, after some thought, this is what I have discovered.

I hate to get out of bed in the morning. It is so cozy and warm and soft and nobody is poking me or asking me for things or  needing to be taught anything . . . Well, that is as long as Elias/Elyas is still sleeping.

For me, I know that as much as I despise to get out of the bed, I know how much better I feel about my day, myself, and my relationship with my family. When I get up with the alarm, there is time to linger over my chapter in Proverbs, there is time to wash my face and put on make-up, there is time to tiptoe in and wake the children gently instead of the alarm doing it, which gives them a gentler start and a better attitude.

There is time to go downstairs and start a pot of steel-cut oats (instead of the old fashioned kind, which cook in 5 minutes but just don't taste nearly as yummy) and fold a load of laundry while having quiet chats with the children who are trickling downstairs. There is time to eat together as a family and greet Scott when he comes in from his night shift at the hospital. 

We are able to begin school work for the olders by 8:30 and whoever is in rotation to play with the littles first always has more patience when they've had a few hours to be awake already. I can complete the day's worth of 2nd grade and kindergarten by 9:30. 

There is time to move through our daily chores with the little ones "helping," so the extra time required for their participation isn't as impatience inducing. We have the time to prepare the meals on the menu in my head rather than rushing through a second bowl of oatmeal, PB&J or anything else that might be fast.

There is time for games and puzzles because the olders finish their school before the younger ones take their naps, so we have time without little fingers undoing everything we are trying to put together.

In short, the difference in our days when I get up is night and day so I truly focus on how much better I'll feel 15 minutes after I've gotten out of bed. I still hate to get out of bed. But I prefer the 10 minutes of "ugh" to the 12 hours of "catch-up" I have when I don't get up. So it isn't really that I feel better about it, but rather than I feel motivated to just do it.

How much of life is truly about making the decision to simply do what one ought rather than what one wants? And, if I'm honest, how much more of my life should be about doing what I ought instead of what I want? Scott and I work hard daily to help teach the kids by both word and example that what we need and what we want are two very different things. Of course, the downside to this education is that trying to pry a Christmas list out of our kids is quite a challenge because they are (for the most part) extremely content.

Wouldn't the world be a much better place if the oughts were occurring far more often than the wants? I often wonder if Peace on Earth, Goodwill Toward Men should actually be stated more along the lines of Keep Your Mouth Shut if You Don't Have Anything Nice to Say and Don't Do Anything That You Wouldn't Want Your Mother to Find Out About. 

Of course, that doesn't sound nearly as Christmas-y.

Inheritance

As we were drawing up Shelby's goals for her first year of high school, I announced that she would finally be delving into really good literature. Both she and Scott cringed because they knew with my background as an English Lit major, my version of really good literature usually means old, boring, and difficult to read.

I love Shakespeare and one of my dreams is to one day sit in The Globe Theater and watch Macbeth, my favorite Shakespeare play. But I have never agreed with the notion of forcing students to read the plays by The Bard. They were never written to be read - they were written to be performed. So we have continuously exposed all the children to Shakespeare through summer plays and great DVDs from the library. Of course, once we realized there is an entire graphic novel library for Shakespeare's works, we had to have them for our personal library. I absolutely adore looking over and finding Dawson curled up on the couch re-reading Macbeth or A Midsummer Night's Dream. Shelby knew there wouldn't be any Shakespeare on her list, but she was still concerned at what I would consider "great reading."

Instead, we were focusing on a smattering of authors over the decades. Charolette Bronte. Homer. Mya Angelou. John Knowles. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Harper Lee. Scott shared that he had never read most of these books either, so the two of them are working through her list of 12 books together. Except for The Oddessy by Homer. Scott won't touch that one. Wuss.

Shelby began with A Separate Peace by John Knowles. I wanted her to experience the book because of it's historical references to World War 2 and the way the war affected the boys of the era. But, truly,  I can't stand the book.  I find it as dry as toast and the characters make me crazy. Scott, however read it and thought it was amazing. I was certain there was some resonance for him with the characters as a man, but mostly I was just pleased he enjoyed the book. And then Shelby came to me as if confessing a deep, dark, sin.

"Mom. I like the book. A lot. And I'm really frustrated that I like it."

You see, Shelby and I are as different as different can be. Yes, sometimes that makes for really tense mother/daughter moments. But usually, I enjoy how different we are because I appreciate her perspective on things as it is so far from my own thoughts. She often gives me more to mull over or see than I would have observed on my own.

But for her to like a book that I said she had to read (never mind that she likes the book that I don't) was the equivalent to saying, "Hey mom. You were right." And right now in Shelby's world, that is about the hardest confession to make. Ever.

So, as each book makes its way through her hands I usually only have to wait for a few chapters into the story before she hunts me down to say, "Hey mom - this book is really good!"

A small part of me wants to look at her and say something really cheeky such as: "Duh. The book's only been printed a billion times and read by millions over several decades. But it's nice of you to give your stamp of approval."

Another small part of me wants to say: "SEE! I do know something!"

But mostly, I am just really, really enjoying the camaraderie of sharing books with my daughter. I am appreciating the bridge that is forming between she and I as we find even more common ground. That as different as we tend to be, we are actually a lot more alike on the inside than I think either one of us would have realized otherwise.

Scott and I have always approached books with the idea that we would eat beans for a week to afford a good book. I just never expected this love of reading to become the inheritance for our children that it has. It never occurred to me that when all else failed for conversation between my 37 year old self and my 14 year old daughter, there would still be books.

A Rose By Any Other Name

Scott and I have been reading the Wheel of Time series by Robert Jordan since college. Somewhere along the line, I stopped reading the new books as they came out due to total lack of self-control and a houseful of kids needing a mom. But, as Scott was reading this summer, he asked my to please consider beginning the series again so we could manage to talk about it together.

So far, I'm on book 9 (out of 13 with one more to be published) and I am completely enjoying myself. It is a little mini-vacation every evening when the children are in bed, Scott is at work, and the washing machine, dishwasher, and dryer are merrily humming away.

However, one aspect of re-reading this series has thrown a wrench in our otherwise idyllic life here in Rutherford-dom. I discovered that we spelled Elias's name wrong.

I could let it go, but it really bothers me that we named him after a book series on purpose, yet couldn't be bothered to check the spelling. Not to mention that it doesn't really set the realm's best example for our homeschooled kids when they discover that mom and dad don't check either. Sigh.

We are in a family debate over whether to officially change Elias's name from Elias Cullen Dale to Elyas Cullen Dale. Part of me feels like we should just let it go. The kid's 15 months old, it isn't hurting anyone, and it will be a huge pain. Another part of me says we should just fix it.

Thoughts?

Phase One: Complete

Last year, we decided to break up some of the holiday nutiness and what we discovered was that we enjoyed everything so much more. Our normal MO consists of a crazy sprint to have Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday, break out the Christmas china before breakfast on Friday, then decorate the house and cut down the tree that weekend before stashing all of the boxes back into the attic to enjoy hot cocoa, popcorn, and "It's A Wonderful Life" on Sunday. Whew.

Last year, Elias was just 3 months old and really, really didn't like to be anywhere but someone's arms, so we felt a shift from the usual was in order. So,we decided to adopt a more marathon approach to our holiday traditions. We went to tag our tree instead of cutting it down the Sunday before Thanksgiving with Ryan and Laura. We had never tagged the tree before so there was a much freer sense of tromping through the woods to look for the perfect tree. Of course, we ended up with the very first tree we had looked at, resulting in some good-natured grumbling from Scott. But we also captured some fantastic photos of the day, which normally doesn't happen because we're in too much of a hurry.

We watched the Macy's Day parade and had our Thanksgiving Turkey, which was wonderful. And we did get the china out on Friday morning for our annual pumpkin pie breakfast. And it was here that we rested again. It wasn't until the following week that we decorated the house and then the week after that when we cut down and decorated our tree. And the cookies? Not a one was baked in this house. I love to bake, but we receive such bountiful gifts of cookies every year that we all decided to simply enjoy the cookies others gave and invest our time into Elias and each other.

It felt strangely wonderful. There was no frantic scurrying from one goal to the next. There was plenty of   time to watch and enjoy the children, to take our time, to savor the moments. There was something so delightful in laughing while we worked!

This year, we decided to approach our holiday festivities with the same type of calm, deliberate, and  tortoise-like pace. And that is why it isn't until today that Phase One: The Decorating of the House is complete. And, pleasantly enough, we are still digging this method within our madness. I loved that when we plugged in our 30 foot garland for the mantle only to discover that two light strings were out that there wasn't the freak out moment of years past being fueled by the sense of I don't have time for this! Instead, there was just the calm acceptance of sure, light strings go out. No worries.


It still seems strange to be two weeks into December before our tree is up, but I wouldn't trade those two weeks of a dark corner for the franticness the holidays had become for us for anything. I find that now I really, really enjoy decorating with the kids. It didn't bother me that it took us over an hour and a half to get Scott's Santa Collection placed because each Little Rutherford participated. There was chatting and memories and nostalgia. You just don't get that when you're rush, rush, rushing. I find that now I am actually a part of the moment, instead of the frenzied mill-boss shouting orders at everyone while running by with my arms full so we can move, move, move.

It makes me wonder why we rush at all? I know there are moments when we are going to be busy. But is it really the best way to do everything? I'm not talking about being slothful here. I'm talking about packing our schedules and our calendars so tight that there isn't the room to be delayed by even a moment, let alone a blown-out diaper. I truly appreciate the opportunity to genuinely participate in what is happening around me, rather than hearing about it second-hand because we had divided our numbers to conquer more of our to-do list in a shorter period of time.

So tonight, as we read from "The Lost Hero" in our very cozy and Christmased living room, I enjoyed studying the treasures that are only released from their attic prison once a year. And I found myself anticipating (rather than dreading) that we still have more to come next weekend. On to Phase Two.

Mid-Potter

Scott and I have been harry Potter junkies since the first book came out. We love everything about it from the individual & unique characters to the plot development. In particular, though, I have to admit I am just a huge fan of very good verses very bad. I like knowing who to root for.

Last night, Scott & I took our three oldest to the midnight showing of "Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows Part 1." We wore the Quidditch robes and the sorting hats. We cheered as the lights darkened with all the other Potter junkies (our community's head librarian was just a few rows behind us) and watched this first public showing of the final Harry Potter book unfold before our eyes. We gasped at the right places, jumped along with everyone else, and cringed at the choices our favorite Hogwarts students had to make. When the credits began to roll, we joined the collective moan that the entire room gave out. We would have happily sat through an additional 2 hours and 40 minutes. Of course, we always go see a Potter film twice for Scott. He needs the first viewing to get over his disappointment with the changes made to the book, and the second watching to enjoy the movie as is. I am already anticipating seeing it again.

This particular Potter book has a special place in our hearts. Scott went to buy a copy at the midnight release and brought it home along with a gigantic poster of the book cover which you only received at the midnight release. He described the scene as being out of a movie you would never believe -- people lined up, snaking their way down the shopping strip and into the parking lot waiting hours for a book. And as the doors opened and people were allowed in, the lines began reversing as people began sitting on the curb side-by-side reading Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.

I began reading at 6:00 the next morning. The kids ate pizza all day and I remember being thrilled I had the pizza delivery numbers in my phone so I didn't even have to look anything up and instead could order while reading. I lounged about very pregnant with Abigail reading, reading, reading. I completed the book around 2 am, sighed contentedly and went to sleep. Of course, I had to start reading it again immediately. Which is why we quickly had two copies of Harry Potter 7 in our home - because Scott wasn't about to wait for me to read it through a second time.

We had the audio book read by Jim Dale loaded on the iPod by that weekend and we picked Shelby up from her week of Camp Manatawny and rushed her home for a quick shower. Then we simply drove and drove and drove. We drove as much as humanly possible during the next few days so we could all listen to the book. The twins were two at the time, so reading aloud when they were awake was challenging. We moved their car seats to the back of the van so they could jabber away happily and the rest of us just listened together as the final chapter of a very beloved story unfolded.

I have loved watching these stories become a part of our children's lives and our family's history. I have enjoyed the sense of anticipation that built when each new book was nearing release. And eventually, it became the sense of excitement as a movie was about to open. I have loved listening to our children make decisions about outside activities based on whether or not we'll be reading a good book aloud they won't want to miss. I love listening to the whines of: "We need to find a new series of books to read!" We didn't start reading the Harry Potter books because we knew they would be this remarkable gateway into a love of reading together as a family, but I am utterly grateful that is what occurred.


Truly, I appreciate JK Rowling's books just for her ingenious storytelling - the woman is a master. But I love her books for the relationship with books she brought to our kids. To borrow a phrase from Ron:

Brilliant.

37?

When do you think it is in life when we begin to feel our age? I don't mean act our age -- goodness, I've acted older than my age in some ways forever and significantly younger in others. No, I mean feel our age as in "I feel like I am 37."

I've always looked younger than I actually am, which I realize now is a fabulous gift from God. (It didn't feel so fabulous when I was 18 spending the summer in Europe with my 16 year old sister and I kept getting asked how much older than me she was. Grrr.) On Saturday, I ran an errand with the children in my usual mom-uniform of jeans, a Life is Good t-shirt, and ball cap with required pony-tail sticking out the back and as I was checking out at Target, the cashier asked me how long I had been a nanny.

I glanced at her in surprise and said I hadn't been a nanny since college, more than 15 years ago. This was followed by the statement: "You don't look old enough to have one child, let alone all these!" I assured her I was in fact 37 and that yes, they were all mine. We laughed together, I thanked her for the compliment, Shelby made a couple of smarty-pants remarks about being seen with a nanny, and we headed home to the rest of our day.

But it keeps coming back to me. When my Grandfather Ballenger was in his 70's, I remember him sharing that sometimes the thing that frustrated him the most was that he was still 17 stuck in some old man's body. I think I was about 15 at the time, so I really didn't get it. I just made some random comment (I'm sure it was something intelligent like, "Uhhhhh . . . interesting, Grandpa") and went back to my oh-so-important teenaged life.

Now, though, I get it.

Only I'm not 17. Instead I feel like I'm forever 20, which is when I met Scott. I cringe at the thought of going back to the sheer ignorance of life I had a 20, but I feel 20. When I get up in the morning and the arthritis in my left foot aches, I am always surprised. Isn't arthritis supposed to be an old-lady thing? I'm not old, I'm 20! And then reality swoops back in and I realize I am almost twice that. That I have the life of a 37 year-old including the responsibilities and life-cares of someone who is 37.

So, when will I actually feel my age? Will there ever come a time when I say, "Nah, I'm not interested because I'm just too dang old."

Or am I destined to wake up each morning a little stunned at the age I feel in my bones but not in my mind?

I don't mind getting older. The wrinkles around my eyes when I grin don't bother me. The puckers above my nose when I'm concentrating don't bother me. The grey hair mixed in with the darker brown doesn't bother me. (My natural highlights are a thing of the past since I quit going outside without hats to avoid the cancer-inducing sun rays on my face. Stupid nursing school.) I like feeling more comfortable with me than I did at 20. So why is it my mind can't seem to catch up with time?

I have a feeling that this isn't a puzzle I will figure out any time soon. I wish Grandpa were still around so I could ask him some questions about his 17 year-old self. I would love to know why he stopped aging at 17 instead of 16 or 18. What precisely made 17 his forever age?

And so, I will go asleep tonight knowing in my head I am indeed 37 years old. And yet, I will awaken in the morning, throw my feet over the edge of the bed, stand up and pause for just a moment, trying to figure our why on earth my foot aches. And then it will all come rushing back to me. Ahh, that's right. I'm 37.

And for anyone wondering what exactly caused my left foot pain, I confess it is an old band injury. Yep - super nerd. No Boston Marathon injuries here. I caused irreparable damage to my left foot by marching on sprained ankles.

For the record, the podiatrist said I am his first band-injury. That's gotta' count for something.

Halloween Snaps

Halloween was as fun as always. No rain this year meant a casual trick-or-treating as opposed to last year's mad dash to get the candy before the flood gates opened. Elias truly joined the festivities for the first time this year and he adored his Tin Man hat, wearing it most of Saturday and for Trick-or-Treating on Sunday. And this was also the first year Abigail was able to anticipate the upcoming evening of scurrying from house to house, admiring Jack-o-Lanterns and gigantic blow-up Winnie-the-Pooh Vampires while inspecting the candy being kindly dropped into her bag.

I know that many of our friends avoid the holiday of Halloween and choose not to have their children dress in costumes and join others in the annual candy plunder. But for Scott and I, this is one of the few traditions from our mutual childhoods that has made it with us into our own family. Between the sheer size of our family and the homeschooling, church planting and living in one location for more than a couple of years, our children's childhood looks very different from our own. I enjoy the unadulterated tradition as we design and make costumes together which inevitably brings about stories from Halloweens from when I was a little girl. 

The temperature was a deliciously brisk 55 degrees and we decided it was time to head home around 7:45, which was about the same time we discovered Elias's hands were cold enough to refrigerate meat. The kids enjoyed their usual five pieces of candy before bed and we all joined around the dining room table early on November 1st to partake in the Annual Rutherford Candy Breakfast. Which, as always, was followed by lots of manual labor in order to burn off the sugar rush.

Happy Halloween!

Elias, the Tin Man from "The Wizard of Oz," being restrained by his Iron Man brother, Tucker.

Abigail, the Wood Fairy, as were her sisters before her.

Mario and Luigi, or more commonly known as Keats and Aidan.

Iron Man ready to protect us,  even after he revealed his secret true identity was actually Tucker.

Isabelle reprising her favorite role of Evil Princess.

Dawson, our very own Druid.

Ever the fashionista, Shelby was quite the trendy witch.