A Day in the Kindergarten

Here's a first for me -- substitute teaching in a kindergarten classroom.

Getting there required a bit of mad dash and the first thirty minutes were a tad dicey, but besides that, all was mostly well. No, I haven't discovered what I want to be when I grow up, but all was mostly well.

Those first thirty minutes reminded of the last time I was in charge in a kindergarten classroom -- ten years ago when I taught art once a week for Tim and his then tiny pals. The key take away: Don't turn your back for a minute. If you can avoid pausing to take a breath, all the better. Don't think back to your days in the high school classroom  and consider such folly as strolling down to the copy room to snag a cup of Joe. Oh, no, no, no. There's a reason that elementary kids think teachers never go to the bathroom -- they don't. That is, until the P.E. teacher, the music teacher, the Spanish teacher, or some other blessed and merciful soul assumes temporary command of their charges.

Yeah, the first few minutes were like playing that Whack a Mole game in which the moles just keep popping up. (Thankfully, no one provided me with a stick, and I didn't whack anyone.)

But they were lively. And talkative. And in non-stop motion.

The biggest challenge? Little children are creatures of habit. This is a good thing, something the teacher, no doubt, has worked long and hard to instill in them. Classroom management is all about routines. Trouble is, you throw a sub in there, and she does things a little differently, and the kids all go bug-eyed.

"No!!!" I kid told me in near horror, "we don't read over there!"

"Jonah's supposed to pass out the paper! He's the classroom servant today!"

"We never put things on top of our cubbies!"

Lord love them, they embrace the letter of the law, and there I was just fomenting rebellion and sedition in the ranks with no mind whatsoever for the Way! Things! Ought! To! Be! They're probably at home telling tales to their parents.

I at least had the good sense to respect the office of Line Leader. If Ainsley has taught me anything, it's that one does not mess with the Line Leader.

Lunchtime rolled around, and I realized I had forgotten to pack anything for myself. John grudgingly shared his Doritos. On the table full of math manipulatives,  I spied a container of pretzel rods. After a brief taste test, I am reasonably confident they've been there being counted and measured since Kolbe was in kindergarten.

In the afternoon we hit phonics -- reading and spelling and rhyming. We read Press Here, one of the coolest books ever. I came home and bought it off Amazon.

Tilt the book a little to the left, the book reads. And all the dots slide to the left. Shake it all up! The dots get bigger. So cool. The kids loved it.

As we moved from one activity to the next, I thought about the variety of jobs I've had. I have mostly good memories of my years in big business. I worked with neat people and did some interesting, challenging work. Too often, however  I left my office, having put in long hours, and wondering if my contribution had made any difference at all.

Teaching is nothing like that.  I knew I could have been a better teacher -- more interesting, more patient  more organized --  but I never struggled to see the point of it all. At the end of the day, I could see a ninth grader who could produce a reasonable essay, a student who actually enjoyed The Odyssey, a senior who could articulate what the Renaissance was and why it mattered.

With these little, little ones, it's even more obvious and in some ways more gratifying. At the end of the phonics lessons, five children understood that I plus CK says ICK and that rhymes with pick and sick and nick and stick.

My hat has always gone off to elementary teachers because their side of the trenches routinely includes shoe tying and trips to bathroom and occasionally descends into fever and, worst of all, vomit.  Even today, I had to pop into the little boys' room to check on a student who was having, ahem, issues. Thankfully, for me and for him, it happened to be my kid. As I helped him and as I opened lunch containers and put straws in drinks and assisted with jackets, I thought that there's a good reason my kids have occasionally called me Mrs.Hebert or Mrs. Phillips. The job calls for a fair amount of Mommying.

Please pray for Mrs. Hebert, the hard working teacher who does this everyday, and for her son who had an emergency appendectomy yesterday.

Grab a Box of Kleenex

Head over to Rachel's blog for a video gone viral that is sure to make you bawl, baby, bawl.

Rachel went on to relate a story that involved my son, Tim:

A few weeks ago, we had our last home games for Junior Varsity. There were two boys on the team who hadn’t scored yet (they hadn’t gotten tons of playing time this season, which is only nice in that it means we had a lot of close games that we actually won!). So this, our last home game, Paul put them in the game. 

You could tell the boys on the team were focused on getting the ball to those boys. A few minutes in, one of the point guards passed the ball to William. He shot that ball and…SCORED! I think it may have been a three. The gym went nuts. I looked across the court to see Paul (William’s dad) standing up with his arms raised in the air. I was standing next to my mom and we both had tears welling up in our eyes. His victory was his dad’s victory was the entire home team’s victory. 

The other boy, Tim, came in after that. The boys fed him the ball and he probably took about six or seven shots. He didn’t end up scoring, but I don’t really feel like that diminished all the love that was just pouring out of the stands for that kid. I know that sounds hokey but I don’t care. Everyone was chanting “Tim! Tim! Tim!” and I was proud to be a part of a school that knew exactly who that kid was and how badly they wanted him to score. 

Sports can be so awesome, y’all.

And in the comments, I wrote this:

Tim’s  Mom weighing in . . . 

The scene at our basketball game was something to watch, and several funny things happened after the game. 

First, Rachel’s oldest son, Ethan, was named MVP at the end of our tournament. He came up to Tim after the game, held out the trophy and said, “Really, Tim, this should go to you.” 

 “Yeah?” Tim asked. 

 “Uh . . . no,” Ethan said, shaking his head. 

And they both laughed. 

 A few days later I was asking Tim about the varsity team which, to put a positive spin on it, is in a building year. 

 “Why haven’t they won more games,” I asked Tim. 

 “Most of our best players are freshmen or sophomores,” he told me “But we are so good. In a year or two, we’re going to rock. We are, like, great athletes.” 

I was surprised by the reflexive way Tim used first person plural – we, and not third person plural – they. 

“Does it ever bother you that you’re not as good at sports as some of the other boys,” I asked. 

“Nah, I’m amazingly gifted in lots of other ways,” he informed me without the slightest trace of irony. 

“No self-esteem issues, huh, Tim?” 

“Uh . . . no.”

Since birthing my first child, I've thought long and hard about the maelstrom of motivations and emotions that comes with the job. Performance anxiety is one of them. Beginning with T-ball and ending with, well, I have absolutely no idea when it all ends and come to think about it, some of the struggles we moms face began l-o-n-g before T-ball when the mother sitting next to us at the park innocently said, "Janey slept seven hours last night," and we wondered why our kid had slept for just two.

It's walking and potty training, phonics and backyard soccer, the fourth grade play and the middle school honor roll.

For me, this game of compare and contrast pre-dates motherhood. I distinctly remember my niece's  first skating recital. Did I actually say or merely think: Hannah, you're the cutest one out there!

Whole volumes could be dedicated to The Pinewood Derby alone and its uncanny ability to sift the hearts of men (and mothers). The year Kolbe came in dead last in every single heat was a turning point for me and, honestly, I look at all this very differently today than I did then.

And I know this much is true: We love the children we're given. 

Never has this been clearer to me than this year when we've faced challenges of an entirely different nature. You can ring your hands and wonder Why, Why, Why or you can face them and get on with it.

I have a child in my atrium who faced a significant brain injury at birth. Today we sat around talking about the Pope's resignation, and I realized that most of my students are eight and under and have never known a different Pope. We went around the room, and I asked all their ages.

"How old are you, Elijah," I asked.

"Thirty-one," he informed us.

And we all laughed. He's hilarious and sweet and will likely never be able to do some of things other children do every day. 

We love the children we're given.

Last summer Rachel contributed a chapter to Style, Sex and Substance: 10 Catholic Women Consider the Things that Really Matter. I have a half-written book review on it and plan to give away a copy one day real soon, but here I'll highlight one simple but profound truth that Rachel learned from her mother and highlighted in her piece: Someone else's win is not your loss.

Behind that sentiment -- a sentiment that is simple to type but very challenging to live out -- is the knowledge that God is a loving, sovereign God. The physically challenged boy in the video, the brain-injured child in my atrium, the kid who tries but doesn't make a shot, the top player -- they are wholly loved by God and precious in His sight.

When I thought about Tim's exchange with Ethan and my exchange with Tim, I realized that Tim very much considers the school his school and the basketball team his basketball team. Ethan's win is not his loss. 

We need to be able to cheer someone else's success, to laugh at our own foibles, to shrug off some of our limitations.

I am heartened to live in an environment that encourages the One for All and All for One mentality, an environment in which friends can rib each other and share a laugh together.

Left Behind?

Over at In the Heart of My Home, Elizabeth Foss continues to unwrap mission and motherhood and vision. Her last point is one that hits close to home with me. Of her entry into the online world, Elizabeth writes:

I watched as women built social network platforms, broadened horizons, and took full advantage of all the internet could offer to further a ministry and build community and encourage creativity and even provide some income for a family. I remembered when I made a decision to be a mother at home nearly a quarter century ago. It wasn't even a decision! I had no regret leaving the professional world behind to stay home with my baby. But this? This online world? It crept in and became big in my life before I really recognized it for what it was.

I found myself chafing. I wanted to be working on my book. Instead, I was plodding through college algebra. I wanted to be researching moving my blog to Wordpress. Instead, I was filling out the teacher, parent, and counselor portions of the Common App. I wanted to be writing a blog series on the The Mission of Motherhood. Instead, I was struggling to oversee a home renovation for which my husband had long planned. I wanted to commit to a speaking engagement. Instead, I knew that I was needed at home (and on the soccer field) because Mike would be traveling. I was frustrated.

Both in real life and in my virtual world, I see exactly what Elizabeth is talking about -- women pursuing opportunities and doing neat things. Sometimes, I admit, I chafe, too. I struggle with the fleeting thought that I've been left behind. I scratch my head, especially, at women who are younger than I am, have more children that I have, maybe they're expecting another baby, maybe on top of all that they're homeschooling and somehow, someway they manage to write books and travel to speaking engagements.

I can't seem to get the laundry done or keep the pantry filled.

And then I blink my eyes, and my priorities come back into focus. My priorites. Not theirs -- not yours. What's under my roof isn't necessarily what's under yours.

And what's under mine?

I've got a five-year-old who got off to a rocky start in kindergarten. All those pesky g's and p's and b's -- who came up with these and why do they all look alike? After a pow wow with his teacher, I fully recognized our school experience with this little guy is going to be 180 degrees different from our experiences with Tim and Kolbe.

He needs me everyday.

I've got my first high schooler. He knuckles down to four and five hours of homework most nights. Now we're adding basketball to the mix.

For very different reasons, he needs me everyday.

I've got a fifth-grader who faces unique challenges and who also runs the risk of being lost in the shuffle as the wheel who rarely squeaks.

He just doesn't seem to need me everyday.

I've got a three-year-old who looks at me and asks, "When will I be a grown up?" I tell her, "Not anytime soon, sweetie pie." She wants to have tea parties and build tall tippy towers with her blocks, and (to the total delight of her mother) she suddenly wants to rocked to sleep at night.

She needs me everyday.

Then, of course, I have a husband, a man who lays his life down for us every. single. day. A man who stays up late and gets up early, a man who painstakingly has the older boys help with every job around the house, a man who carts one of the little people every time he goes out the door.

He needs me everyday.

I married relatively late in life (at 33), and I birthed Ainsley really late in life (at 45). I had Tim, my first, when many of my friends were having their last. Tim's early years were marked by hours and hours hanging out in our backyard with other moms. When this crew of little boys all went off to school, some of my friends went back to school themselves. Others resumed careers they had put on hold to raise children. As for the Dolins, well, we were just getting warmed up. The result is that most of my friends (not all) have lives that look very different from mine.

And I don't have a single regret.

I sat in bed reading Frog on a Log to John and Ainsley, and I was overwhelmed with gratitude for the little girl with pigtails sitting on my lap and for her rapscallion and totally charming brother curled up on my right.  John was the miracle we had pretty much given up on. And then -- Boom! -- along came Ainsley. (Yes, kids, that's how it happens. Watch yourselves, now).

A bunch of my friends finished a half-marathon a week or so ago. Years ago I might have spotted the pictures on Facebook and felt a wave of envy. Look what they did! Why can't I do that? But at this stage in my life, gosh, I'm just so proud of them, thrilled with their accomplishments, happy they're out there supporting one another.

This could be a sign of maturity. I could be growing in detachment. Then again, perhaps I'm just tired. I recognize that I can't juggle as well as some women. And as I approach the half-century mark, I'm (mostly) at peace with this reality.

In the very best sense of what Elizabeth captures, I realize that we are in an intense and crucial stage with our family. I need to be present. I need to put first things first. Some of these are mundane, boring tasks -- chores, really -- but for this family to grow and thrive, the mundane cannot be ignored.

This morning I washed and dried the fabric for the pajama pants Tim will be sewing in Lifeskills Class. I helped John fasten the belt he still struggles with. I made sure Kolbe had his Chapstick, and I tucked the last two of the good cookies into his lunch.

A thousand details go into family life.

One of the oft overlooked details is taking care of me. Barbara Curtis' death shocked many of us. And I am totally with there with Elizabeth who, as an older mother, calculates how old her youngest would be if she, like Barbara, were to die at 62. A year ago I learned I have the early, early stages of the bone disease that has brought my mother so much suffering. The good news is that there is so much that I can do to keep it at bay. The bad news is that I'm doing absolutely none of it. Zip, zero, nada! First things first means taking care of the person who is taking care of everyone else.

Six years ago we received the wrenching news that our neighbor -- a 43 year-old mother of ten  -- had died in her sleep with her nursing five-month-old baby lying next to her.  We don't know how many years we'll have, but as Elizabeth wrote, "I don't want to spend those years living inside a screen, distracted, disconnected..."

And as I mull and type, mull and type, I hear the sounds of a riot breaking out just feet away. It seems John has absconded with the last plate of ribs. You don't take food from a growing teenage boy.

I'd best go practice what I preach.

Throwing in the Trowel

The weather has turned, and we've been spending lots of time outside. Bonfires, pecan picking, yard work -- these are fall staples, listed in descending order of preference. I stopped by Lowe's for painting supplies the other day and picked up five pots of ground cover.

I used to be an enthusiastic gardener. I had a large and moderately successful vegetable garden. I planted a perennial border that ran nearly the length of the house. In its prime, it was lovely. I nursed a patch of Zinnias each year, a flowering window box out front, various pots scattered around.

The vegetable patch is now officially Lawn. The Zinnias didn't even make it into the ground this year. And the ground cover is the beginning of the end of the perennial flower bed.

Five years ago it all looked so different.

So what happened?

1. The small shrubs I planted behind the perennial border grew and grew and now block out most of the sunlight (which is essential for perennials).

2. I held on to one humble patch, determined to keep it pretty when a neighborhood cat decided to turn it into a litter box and killed every last bedding plant three years running.

3. I birthed John and Ainsley. Growing people leaves less time for growing plants.

As I planted those five pots of ground cover, a wistful feeling briefly overcame me. I loved my perennial garden -- Daffodils and Phlox, Purple Coneflowers and Yarrow. And just as suddenly as that wave of nostalgia came, it left. I felt peaceful and -- does this sound melodramatic? -- free. I thought to myself, "I think I'll pop by Lowe's and grab another ten of these."

What was once an enjoyable pastime had become pure chore, and here's the heart of the matter: I don't need another chore. I can't keep up, and it's depressing to be reminded of that fact every time I walk into the backyard.

So I'm throwing in the trowel.

As I hop around my little corner of the blogosphere, I find women in a variety of walks of life making hard choices about where their time is best spent. Many -- most -- of them are grappling with far, far more serious issues than whether or not to garden. But the common denominator is the same: We have a finite amount of time and energy. How are these best spent for God and the people God has put into our lives?

Dwija tackles this issue head on in a recent post titled "The Tyranny of Something Extra." Dwija is an upbeat, funny lady, and she lives in Michigan, so you gotta love her even more. She writes:

I sit down at the end of the day, kick off my paint-splattered Dansko clogs and sigh. Deeply. And I say to myself "Why am I so tired? I didn't even do anything today!"

Do anything. A thing.

This crippling idea that unless I do at least one "thing" every day, something special and different...something EXTRA, that I can point to and say "look! this is interesting!", I don't deserve to feel tired or take a few moments to relax, is an absolute joy-suck

She concludes:

Friends, I am done with the tyranny of "something extra". The things I have to do (all this mothering business) and the things I want to do (this blog, that writing work)...those are real things! They take time and energy and effort. They are good and helpful. And just because I haven't managed to take people on a tour of a local dairy farm or sewn valances for my kitchen windows doesn't mean I'm not worthy of a little rest at the end of my day.

These regular things . . . they can be enough.

Christine was the first true friend I made through blogging. She is one of the most positive people you'll encounter and is facing some daunting trials right now as her daughter faces a difficult illness. Christine writes:

I’ve already cut back my hours at work . . . and after Christmas I will be taking six months’ unpaid leave. I think it’s very unlikely I will be able to return. However, although I’m a bit sad about both these changes, at this point I’m very relieved to be able to devote myself solely to looking after the Dafter [her daughter] – and myself. It’s not that I’m a martyr, or that I will be with her every single minute of every day. It just means that the very small amounts of time when I can get away, I’ll really be able to relax and do things for myself. As my job entails helping people, and doing a lot of listening, it is very tiring and I come home just beat these days.

As I contemplated the demise of my once flourishing perennial border, I reminded myself that Not Today does not translate into Not Tomorrow; it certainly doesn't mean Never Again.

For a variety of reasons, this year will be an intense one for us. Like Dwija, I am turning away from the tyranny of something extra.

(And I'm sure Christine would appreciate prayers for her daughter's complete recovery).

Frankly, My Dear, I Don't Give a Damn

My morning surf this week garnered thought provoking commentaries on dress and manners and -- to highlight a word that's fallen into disuse -- charm. Writers are looking at the externals -- what we wear and how we present are ourselves -- and pondering what the externals say about the internals.

We live in a crass world. As we drive to church on Sundays, we pass two billboards bearing anti-meth messages. They are graphic. They are in your face; I'm waiting for the day John asks, "What's virginity and why would you lose it in a bathroom?" These ads, rather obviously, are meant to shock.

Along with the rude, the crude, the unattractive, there is the sloppy.Years ago the Women's Olympic Soccer Team celebrated their gold medal with a visit to the White House. Talking heads immediately picked up on the fact that nearly every player wore flip flops to meet the president. Now, all flip flops are not created equal. There's the rubber variety that are basically shower shoes you wear to the Y to fend off foot issues. And then there are blinged out but still sporty sandals that are appropriate at a dressier event.

But to the White House? Hmmm. Do we dress up to meet the president? Or do we give a damn?

It's interesting to me that the question was even raised. Our culture has brought casual to new heights (or lows?). Apparently it is now perfectly acceptable to wear jammies everywhere from college lectures to Walmart. I tend to make excuses for the people at the pharmacy in their flannel sleep pants and scuffs. They're sick, after all. But college classes? When I was in college, yes, sweats were perfectly acceptable duds to sport to class; PJs were not.

A while back, Jen Fullwiler wrote about  our contemporary trend toward casual dress:

I think there's simply not that much that's important to us anymore. I wore faded jeans and a t-shirt the last time I went out to dinner, because it wasn't a big deal to me. As much as I hate to admit it, I wasn't that grateful to be able to be served dinner in a restaurant; it felt more like a right than an honor. However, if I got an invitation from Queen Elizabeth to join her at Buckingham Palace for tea tomorrow, you can bet that that outfit would be the furthest thing from my mind. We still dress up when we feel that an activity is an honor or a privilege.

(Read more at http://www.ncregister.com/blog/jennifer-fulwiler/why-dont-we-dress-up-anymore/#ixzz20Dpx4i7w.)

Civility is a related topic. Once a week or so, I head up the street to our neighborhood Kroger. If Betty is working, I head for her check out line. Betty is an older woman with the smile of an angel and a cheerful word for every shopper and child. Her life has not been easy. She recently lost her husband after a long bout of poor health. She has a demanding job. She's on her feet all day. She deals with rude customers. She is invariably kind.

What the world would be like with a few more Bettys in it.

At the hardware store a while back, I questioned an item that scanned at the wrong price. I quickly learned that the old adage The Customer Is Always Right no longer applies. I was shuffled from the check out line over to customer service where a bevy of irritable employees stood ready and willing to avoid helping me. Twenty minutes later, the associate who had been strong armed into doing the price check ambled back to the desk -- in no hurry whatsoever -- to let me know that, yes, I was right.

Naturally, he didn't actually say I was right. In fact, this associate addressed the other employees, not me. No I'm sorry for the inconvenience; No Here's our policy on scanning errors. His entire affect screamed I don't give a damn. Once ounce of Betty would have gone a long way here. A simple Sorry about the hassle and I would have left satisfied.

Wasn't happening.

As Dave Barry once so eloquently put it, "Anger ultimately benefits no one. You'll end up a mean, resentful person working in customer service."

We work hard on manners around here - please and thank you, excuse me and yes, Mama. What's the point of all this?

Wikipedia says of manners: In sociology, manners are the unenforced standards of conduct which demonstrate that a person is proper, caring, non-grouchy, polite, and refined.

Refined. I like refined.

Refined is an interesting adjective to consider in a household of kids, most of them boys, all of them fourteen and under.

Does it matter that the three-year-old says, "Mama, I need to pee" versus "Mama, I need to go potty"? It does to this Mama. Some of the best parenting advice I've ever received was a single line: Begin as you mean to go on. And so we begin the long and circuitous route of training children to open doors, to push in chairs, to notice others, to make eye contact.

It isn't easy even when you do give a damn.

Years and years ago a friend and I got into it about about letting our kids watch The Rugrats Movies. My take is this: Why let your kids spend ninety minutes hearing language you know you're going to correct them for saying? I'm no purist in all this, believe me. In a moment of weakness this time last year, I mumbled "whatever" when the kids begged and begged to watch Shrek II. Blame it on the heat or on Dave's relentless work schedule; I simply caved.

And did we pay the price for that moment of surrender! John spent months -- months! -- repeating every off-color phrase all while singing "I'm too sexy for this ..."

Jesus enjoins us to love our neighbor. How effortless it is to love the faceless, anonymous "neighbor" living half a globe away who has never once left a wet towel on the bathroom floor, scarfed down the last bite of Moosetracks, or parked behind you when you were in a hurry.

Move closer to home and I start to squirm. Why is it I can be civil, even kind, to cashiers and waiters, pharmacists and receptionists, but get snarly with these precious souls who live under my own roof? A friend posted a pity remark to Facebook: Patience is what mothers display when other people are around. My response? Too funny and too true.

And in those all too frequent moments when I lack refinement and civility, when I fail to be either polite or caring, my children learn yet another tenet of civil society: the way to make amends, the way to ask forgiveness, the way to say I do give a damn, and I'm so sorry I hurt you.

Making Room at the Inn

We moved a treadmill into our bedroom on Friday.

Let me tell you something: A baby takes up less room than a treadmill.

At least in the short run.

Really.

To make room for the treadmill, I had to vacate what I have dubbed "the corner of shame." What a colossal mess. It's an ever changing mess, a mess for all seasons. It holds Scout gear and birthday presents, miscellaneous junk related to the fish tank and boxes of hand me downs. When the kids were younger and not so adept at snooping, it held all our Christmas gifts.

This time last year I cleaned out the corner of shame in record time. My parents were on their way to Florida and planned a brief layover at my house. Mom was not doing well. She had just been released from a rehab facility following a serious fracture. I knew she had been in a wheelchair. An hour or two before their arrival, my dad informed me that Mom was entirely wheelchair bound. Furthermore, the wheelchair was too wide for a standard bathroom door. She would need to get into our house through a door blocked by the pile 'o shame.

Necessity can indeed be my friend. In the span of an hour or two, the pile was gone, the door was accessible, and a portable toilet stood ready and waiting. I made a space for my mother.

I think the pile reappeared forty-eight hours after their departure.

Friday I tackled it anew, and we now have a treadmill in its place.

Kolbe wants to start running, and he asked if we could find a treadmill. We found one -- a space saving, portable, foldable model -- and it was free! Now don't let the terms space-saving, portable, or foldable fool you. This thing is huge.

As I cleaned and sorted, dusted and donated, I thought of the skill set that motherhood demands. An important element of that skill set is the ability to make a place.

Last week I gathered with a group of women in our community to discuss ways we could do a better job of making other women feel welcome. How do make a place for new people, for older people, for single people, for all people?

The discussion left me thinking about the many ways women make a space for people. Sometimes it's a physical space. Do you have a seat? There's one right here. Sometimes it's emotional space. How are you doing? Can I pop by? Sometimes its material space. I'm running to the grocery store. Can I pick anything up for you?

Making a space is an important job and a huge part of motherhood.

When I was expecting Tim, I spent hours and hours designing his nursery. How fun was that! Four years later, Kolbe moved into the nursery, and I transformed the guest room into a space room for Tim who, at age four, planned to be the first American on Mars.

A  l-o-n-g  six years after Kolbe, John came along, and so did our first set of bunk beds. Nesting with your third is very different from nesting with your first. Having had two babies, I had a clear idea of what was worth taking up real estate, what was completely unnecessary, what I could borrow rather than buy, etc.

I made a space for dear, sweet John. It was a special space, a smaller space, but still a special space. I bought John diapers, wipes, a few sleepers, and a box of Dreft.  I've written before about the years of loss that preceded John's birth. Nesting (even though it was really micro-nesting) was pure unadulterated joy.With each baby I've bought one box of Dreft. I launder and fold all the onesies and sleepers. It's so fun, so, so fun! I must have oxytocin positively oozing from my pores as I fold.

And then Ainsley was on the way. Suddenly the three bedroom house seemed a tight fit. We borrowed a bassinet and purchased an armoire. I bought new onesies and my trusty box of Dreft. In a moment of wild abandon, I bought a set of pink sleepers.

If Ainsley didn't get much space in our house, she got an enormous chunk of our hearts (and, truth be told, she commandeered a substantial part of our closets as the avalanche of pink came in).

Mothers cull through the too-small clothes and sort through the news ones. They box up the Little People and make a space for Legos. The Hardy Boys move out, and J.R.R. Tolkien and J.K. Rowling move in. They buy Scouting equipment and basketball shoes, bicycles and tiny kitchens with red gingham curtains.

I have a son who loves messy, messy crafts and another son who plays the guitar and the piano. We make a place in our house, in our budget, and our schedule for these things to happen. Mothers make a place.They may grumble and kvetch, wring their hands over the cost, pray for logistical miracles to get everyone where they need to be. But they make a place.

Can I tell you a secret? I don't want a treadmill in my bedroom. I like my room. It's yellow and red and filled with dark wood and Mother's Day gifts from the kids and my bridal bouquet and my grandmother's picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus . . . and a big, hulking treadmill.

I don't want a treadmill in my room, but I want room for my son to grow and develop. I want him to  know deep within his heart that his mother was always willing to make a place for him.

I just Know It's Here Somewhere

I’ve found  a common thread among the moms in my circle: We are all scratching our heads wondering what’s happened to all that free time we were expecting to come our way once school was back in session.

I just know it's here somewhere.

My friend Amy from Raising Angels writes:

I had visions of gloriously finishing all these lingering projects now that the kids are in school and I've yet to do any of them. Well, I did clean out both freezers but that's not saying much as they are currently in their 3rd week of school. The day goes kind of like this. We wake them, feed them, comb hair, brush teeth, double check homework, pray together and then I cart them off to school. I go home, blink, and it's time to pick them up again. I have determined that getting clothes clean, keeping a house in order and having a meal on the table takes up a tremendous amount of time.

Amen to that!

I just caught an episode from the new season of The Gist. Rachel, Danielle, and Carolee are talking about getting back into school routines.

I was very much encouraged by what Danielle had to say:

Once you’ve got a certain number of bodies under the roof, just keeping them fed and clothed and cleaned and educated is a major undertaking. If you’re making forward progress, moving yourself and your kids closer to heaven day by day, you’re doing a darn good job.

Can I get another amen?

So it's busy, but a very different sort of busy than summertime and certainly a welcome change of pace (except for that pesky thing called homework which comes in droves once high school hits).

In the midst of the busyness, I am trying to keep in mind a thought Rachel shared:

The older my kids get, the more I’m like, we’re really ticking down the number of summers that they’ll be home. I’m learning to relish these days.

Amen again.

And since I've quoted both Rachel and Danielle, I'll add a line from Carolee who made me   laugh out loud with this one:

    Breakfast and lunch when   

    they're not in school, when
    they’re on vacation, is endless.

Amen, amen, amen!


If there's one thing I don't miss about summer, well, the first thing would be the blistering heat, but the second thing would be the endless breakfast which would begin at 5:45 with Dave and run until, oh, 10:00 when the resident teenager ambled into the kitchen.

You can find The Gist here. Now I'm off to join all the other mothers as we search for that elusive free time we are expecting to discover any minute now, any minute.

  

Long and Winding Roads Continued

As I related on Wednesday, we went North, and I managed the return trip solo.

I've already recounted the riveting, heart pounding tale of the first nine miles of the seven hundred mile trip. On to the next 691!

Door to door, Augusta to Detroit is a fifteen hour drive. If I leave from my parents' house on Pelee Island in Lake Erie, we shave three hours off the drive.  I have a theory about long drives.  It sort of fits the 80/20 rule, but please don't do the math. The first "half" of the includes 80% of the time involved; the second "half" is the remaining 20%. On a fifteen hour drive, the first twelve hours seems like "half" of the trip; the remaining three hours feel like the second "half." Bottom line: The three hour shave makes the whole trip seem much more manageable.

Paper airplane flying through the van bearing the message, "Mom, can I have something to eat?"

Except that the 80/20 rule still applies. The first half is nine hours; the second half remains the final three hours.

No matter how we slice it, the last leg kicks our tails.

Our twelve hour tour began in Sandusky, Ohio.  There I got a bit befuddled trying to get on the Ohio Turnpike and finally opted for the scenic route which would lead us to I-77. Normally I avoid scenic routes because the only scenery I'm really interested in is my bed in Augusta, Georgia, and the faster we get there the better.

What can I say about Ohio? When you grow up in Michigan and attend the University of Michigan, you're really not supposed to say anything nice about Ohio. If I were to be completely honest here, I would admit that a bag of hand-me-downs recently came my way and in it was a perfectly serviceable Ohio State t-shirt.

I threw it away.

How awful is that?

But, really, we simply don't do Ohio State sportswear in our family. No.

But there we were in the Ohio, turning onto Highway 250, and I have to admit, it was lovely. Rolling hills, grass of a shade of green you find only in areas that get heavy snow falls. This is Amish country. The hills are peppered with white houses and bright red barns, The kids spotted horse drawn buggies, little girls in blue dresses, little boys in straw hats.

Our route took us past Dover, Ohio. Our dear friend Bob V. hailed from Dover. As we drove, I prayed for the repose his soul.

Pretty as Ohio is, it's also long. By the time we reached West Virgina, I thought John Denver was spot on when he called this state "almost heaven." It's the most mountainous state along I-77, offering gorgeous views of sprawling farms and, like Ohio, green, green hills. West Virginia also offers two bridges and two tunnels which, of course, the little kids love.

But this go around, West Virgina also offered a challenge we were not anticipating: constipation. Yes, I promised some mention of bodily function, so here we go.

Many mothers think about potty training and ask pertinent questions such as: Is the child ready? Am I ready? I think about potty training and focus on one succinct point: When are we driving to Michigan? A half-potty trained toddler in a car for fifteen hours? No.

So we potty trained in June. Problem solved. But when you're sitting for hours on end and not running around as usual, well, as they say in those commercials, things can get irregular.

"I've got to go potty," Ainsley informed me in the middle of Nowhere, West Virgina. And I do mean Nowhere. Miles and miles and miles from an exit or rest stop. So we pulled over. And this was scary. The road was curvy, and big rigs were everywhere.

 Ainsley looked at me with a woebegone little face and said, "It's just not working."

And we got back into the van. And merged into traffic cruising at 70 miles per hour. And I don't like that.

And fifteen minutes later: Mama, I need to go potty. And it still wasn't working.

And twenty-two minutes after that.

I put her in a pull up and begged her to go. Well, let me tell you, that is an indignity of the highest order. When you've cheered her every success, mounted a chart with stars on the refrigerator to track her progress, invested a bundle in cute, cute panties, well, there's no going back to pull ups.

And on it went.

West Virgina was long. And not very heavenly.

Then we were on into Virgina. What can I say about Virginia? On the far western end, it's skinny -- mercifully, blessedly skinny. In and out. Welcome to North Carolina. Can I hear a great shout out for the state of Virgina? Love you, Virgina!

As for North Carolina, this state offered the nicest rest stops, the cleanest bathrooms, the prettiest wild flowers, and no constipation. Thank you, North Carolina!

But North Carolina, too, is long and by the time we reached South Carolina, the old eighty twenty rule, as stated earlier, was kicking out hind quarters. What can I say about South Carolina? Lived there for eight years. Home to Charleston, which I would deem the prettiest city in The United States. Gorgeous beaches. Of course none of this is anywhere near where we drive. Our route follows a long, boring, non-descript path.

We passed Winthrop College, notable only because Dave and I attended Engaged Encounter there many years ago and because there's a street called Dave Lyle Boulevard. We laugh about it every time we see the sign because Dave's middle name happens to be Lyle.

Dave Lyle Boulevard. How cool is that?

So we were whipping down I-77 at 72 miles an hour, and suddenly I caught a glimpse of green on the side of the road and realized there was a Dave Lyle Boulevard sign lying on the shoulder of the highway. I was going too fast to make a sudden stop, and were already like a zillion hours into a drive that would be a zillion hours plus three. But guess what? I threw caution to the wind, took the next exit, drove eight miles NORTH!, and got back on I-77 South to find the sign.

I slowed down, looked for it, looked for, it, and there it was! I pulled over and told the kids what I was doing. They, of course, were convinced this was Grand! Larceny! They were absolutely undone that their crazy mother was about to "steal" a street sign. I began to freak out just a little and grabbed Kolbe's coat to cover up the contraband sign. I loaded it into the car, and we all had a laugh that we were now the proud owners of a Dave Lyle Boulevard sign.

And on we went.

And let me tell you the last hour or two had all the flavor of the Bataan Death March. Ainsley napped briefly only to wake up wailing, wailing, wailing, "I can't take it anymore!"

I think she spoke for all of us.

I directed Tim to the hidden stash of M and M's and told him to dole it out judiciously-- this was our final cache of chocolate.

We made it home.

We always do.

On every trip like this, there is at least one excruciating moment that gives me pause, that leads me to ask myself, "What were we thinking? Why do we do this? Why?"

The short answer? It's just what we do.

Some years once, some years twice, one year three times -- this is what we do. I wouldn't hazard a guess as to how many miles (both frequent flyer and road) we've clocked. We travel for births and deaths, for weddings and anniversaries, for graduations and Bat Mitzvahs.

It isn't easy.

But we continue to do it.

And now for the long answer . . .

We do this because, despite growing up seven hundred miles from their grandparents, my kids think Grandma's basement is magical and that Grandpa is the best chess player ever.

Because my children cheer for the Wolverines even though they've never lived in Michigan.

Because all of them remember sitting on Papa's lap listening to colorful renditions of that Dolin family classic, Harvey's Hideout.

Because my kids are so close to their cousins, you'd think they grew up a block apart.

Because John and Ainsley will never forget the evenings we spent catching fire flies in Grandma's yard or the afternoons playing in her little pool.

Because Tim and Kolbe remember the year Papa grew pumpkins for all the grandsons and carved their names into them.

And, finally, we do this because of  the phone call I received on the road, just north of Charlotte. It was my sister calling to say my mother had fallen and re-fractured her collar bone.

While we sit in the Dodge Caravan hour after hour, we wish time would only move faster. But in reality, it's moving fast enough, and not a one of us knows how much longer we'll have together.

Decades ago, Dave and I left Michigan, but we didn't leave our families. The road is indeed both long and winding, and we'll keep on travelling it.

I'm Going to Prepare a Place for You

My sister may or may not have turned fifty this year. There was a rumor of this milestone on the horizon, but I think she squelched it, declaring herself perpetually 43.

Meanwhile, my mother claims to be sixty-five.

On our recent visit, Mom became a touch, ahem, irritated with dear old Dad and said, rather forcefully, "I'm sixty-five years old. I think I can decide that for myself."

Kath and I tried not to laugh -- oh, how we tried! --  but we just couldn't contain ourselves.

But, you know, if Mom's sixty-five, Kath's a mere forty, and I'm a youthful thirty-eight.  And we're all good with that.

So for Kath's birthday (whatever the number), I framed a cross stitch I had made for her years ago. It reads: In my Father's house are many mansions. I want the one next to yours.

The year I originally cross stitched this and gave it to Kath, the house next door to hers was renovated and sold. The price tag? If memory serves, it went for a cool 1.3 million dollars. I told her that though the sentiment was sincere, I wouldn't be moving next door anytime soon.

This morning as I toted two little girls to pre-school, we listened to The Donut Man singing I'm going to prepare a place for you up in my Father's house. I'm going to build you a mansion, too, up in my Father's house.

I love The Donut Man, and I especially love this tune.

Years ago I experienced a season of deep consolation in prayer. For reasons I only partially understand, I had a grace on my prayer life, and all my struggles with consistency and distraction and dryness just seemed to be evaporate. I experienced the reality of God's presence in a way I had never understood before and haven't been able to be recapture since.

It was a grace, pure grace.

One day I was sitting on the backyard swing and began singing that line from The Donut Man: I'm going to prepare a place for you up in my Father's house.

For an unforgettable instant, I fully understood the reality of this. I was overwhelmed by God's love for me and me alone. Out of the vast sea of humanity spanning century after century, millennium after millennium, the God of the universe was preparing a place for me.

So personal. So true.

This morning I grabbed John's sweet brown cheeks and peered into those gorgeous brown eyes and told him that God could have given him to anyone on planet Earth, and he chose us. How amazing is that!

I was doting on John in part because, well, he's my John and so very, very sweet (except when he's not). And, in part, I was doting on John because I was on the brink of investiagting far away military academies willing to house his older brothers.

This time last year we dubbed two of my nieces Serbia and Croatia in light of their uncanny ability to foment dissension and unrest at a moment's notice. No issue was too trivial; no opportunity was overlooked.

Well, let me tell you, my oldest boys have absconded with the title. Move over, Lissi and Hannah; Serbia and Crotia have moved South.This morning's bout of internecine warfare left me overwrought, newly aware of how blessedly uncomplicated the little people are, and absolutely certain my boys will never, ever, ever express -- in cross stitch or any other medium  -- a desire to live next door to one another.

I wonder if they'll exchange Christmas cards.

Since this less than blissful morning, I've spent time with my friend Annette, mother of fifteen, including eleven -- yes, eleven -- boys. Part of the picking and jabbing and needling is, she tells me, both normal and even a sign of affection. As odd, unfathomable, and even perverse as it all sounds, boys just do that.

A unique love language, you might call it. One wholly indecipherable to the average mother.

I'm accepting this premise on faith.

It's either that or cry (and I've already tried crying).

In the midst of all the strife, it is so good, so very, very good to dwell on the eternal, to ponder the truth that God has indeed prepared a place for me -- a place for me and a place for adorable five-year-olds, a place for aging parents and, yes, even  a place for quarreling brothers.

Splinched

The bags were packed. They were ready to go. The gang of four started school today.

For those of you who wondered why I had fallen off the face of the electronic world, first, thank you for your concern. Second, let me site three reasons for Internet silence:

1. We were in Michigan and Canada for about three weeks.

2. We returned just in time for a three day frenzy of uniform and supply shopping

3. I've been splinched.

Regarding the third reason, Harry Potter aficionados will recognize the term "splinched." Splinching occurs when one attempts to magically move from one destination to another, a process called apparating. When apparating, one should remember the three D's -- destination, determination, and I can't remember the third one which may explain why I keep splinching.

The result of splinching is that some body part -- ranging from a leg to an eyebrow -- gets left behind.

I've done a lot of moving this summer -- home to mountains, home to Michigan, Canada to home. I've facilitated a lot of moves -- Dave and Tim to Boy Scout Camp, Tim to Boot Camp, Tim to a vocations' retreat. And while in town, we've moved quite a bit as well. Mostly home to pool, pool to home.

I've had lists and bags and tables covered with gear.Suitcases and backpacks and wet bags (or are they called dry bags?) have gone up and down the attic stairs again and again and again.

It's been good, really good. Our recent visit to Michigan and Canada was probably our best ever. In fact, this summer has probably been our best ever. That's if you disregard last Friday and Saturday which were just this side of gruesome. Boys and clothes shopping? Too, too fun, don't you know!

The highlight was heading out for boys' white button down shirts, size 16. Sounds easy enough. Walmart? Sold out! Target? Nary a one in sight! Sears? I found two -- same size, same brand, slightly different design. One was $5.98; one was $16.98. Sold!

Ignoring these rather trying and lengthy shopping excursions, we've had a good summer. Not perfect, but really, really good.

I've been mentally debriefing and attempting to pinpoint exactly why things went as well as they did. I've come up with five reasons:


1. It wasn't last summer. Summer 2011 wasn't a banner one for the Dolins. One hundred and twenty days above 90 degrees. Two non-swimmers. John in, ummm, a challenging season. A bored teenager. A husband working like a dog. Not a horrid summer, but not a great one.

2. This year I made a conscious decision to refrain from whining about the weather. A ten year drought lifted. No joke. Really, if I had known my paltry little whine-fast would alter the entire meteorological pattern of Augusta, believe me, I would have tried this long before now.

3. Our resident teenager had a variety of interesting and challenging opportunities. This was huge.

4. We joined a different pool, one that offers a lengthy shallow end for the little people and diving boards for the big people and lots of friends to hang out with.

5. John learned to swim. We bought Ainsley a puddle-jumper.


And this is all good, very good. But somewhere along the way, I splinched.

Even when it all goes well, summer has a certain intensity. A relaxed intensity in that we typically don't have deadlines and school bells and homework. But we're all together almost all of the time, and that alone can be intense.

In this world, there are introverts and there are extroverts; I would have to call myself a hybrid. I do not do well when I'm alone day after day. Isolation and cloudy weather are a particularly difficult combination for me.

But the opposite is also true.

When I'm never alone -- when I have to post rules detailing the circumstances in which my offspring can knock on the bathroom door -- when someone is nearly always right there needing or wanting something -- eventually, I splinch. Honestly, I don't think I've been alone of two hours since May.

When I splinch, I'm fairly sure the part I leave behind is my cerebral cortex.

I can't think.

You know those calls you get reminding you about a doctor's appointment? They irritate me, at least the ones that require you to call back and confirm the appointment all in some vaguely threatening voice. I already confirmed the appointment, I think to myself. I confirmed it when I made it. My tirade usually ends with the smug thought that it's been ten, maybe fifteen years since I've missed an appointment.

This summer I've missed two doctor's appointment and very nearly missed a third.

Splinched!

I can not think.

While vacationing in Michigan and Canada, I had a dozen thoughts I wanted to write about, but most of the trip involved grandparents and aunts and uncles and lots and lots of cousins. It's wonderful, and it's intense. And I couldn't string two sentences together. Rather than fighting it, I simply recognized my splinched state of mind, put people before things, and enjoyed our vacation.

I've now been alone for one hour. The kitchen is clean. My fingers are typing. Blogger is acting up rather badly. I'm hoping that as I once again take possession of my cerebral cortex, I can sort this mess out.

Maybe then I'll reschedule my dental appointment.

The Send Off

Dave and Tim are gearing up for a Boy Scout canoeing adventure.

Responding to an email from my friend Rachel, I wrote: Is it just me or does every mom heave an enormous sigh of relief when the guys and their gear finally make it out the door?


A large part of mothering -- and especially of mothering boys -- involves what I've come to think of as The Send Off.

It begins with pre-school and kindergarten -- you know, spiffy haircuts and new shoes. Then it's on to Cub Scout events and field trips, water bottles and sunscreen. You then advance to Scout Camp and vocations' retreats, backpacking trips and high adventure camp. The list grows long. The price tag inches up.

Mom bakes cookies, locates obscure items, dashes to Walmart for a few odds and ends (sunscreen, fifty feet of bouyant nylon rope, hat with wide brim). That will be $199, thank you very much.

In Mythbusters: The Camping Edition, I marvelled at the amount of gear these adventures demand. Honestly, I thought those days were behind us. Camp this year required a five pack of underwear and some tasty snacks. Done! No cha-ching! We now own it all!

And that is nearly true for general camping. But then we have specialty trips such as this canoe trip that, of course, will not involve a lazy paddle down a stream. No, they're starting in North Carolina and ending in Virginia, hitting class two and three rapids, portaging, purifying water -- the whole primitive camping experience. Fifty miles in three days.

I'll be spending extra time in prayer.

Through an act of the will, I'm putting all Worst Case Scenarios out of my mind and dwelling on what is true and pure and of good report and not on white water and giardia.

The Send Off  follows a predictable pattern. It begins with the initial excitement about the trip, moves into serious quartermaster duties, escalates to They can't get out of this house fast enough, ends with a kiss and a wave.

Mom goes home, brews a fresh pot of coffee, and surveys the debris field. Well caffeinated, she is happy to tackle the mess as long as it doesn't involve rifling through the broiling hot attic in search of some device we're just sure we bought the last time or, worse still, heading out to Sports Authority one more time.

Yes, Tim and Dave will be off canoeing, and we now own dry bags, a water purifying device, and a large number of items designed to wick. Wick -- that may be a new one for you. Wicking materials promise to dry fast and control odor. Where teenage boys and white water meet, these are valuable qualities indeed. Shirts, shorts, socks, and underwear are all armed and ready to wick at a moment's notice.

 As far as equipment goes, we're probably good until we hear rumors about a trip that involves spelunking or mountain climbing through an ice field. The headlamps we pick up for $2.00 at Mistah Harbor Freight probably won't cut the mustard in a cave. I'm guessing Walmart doesn't carry crampons or bottled oxygen.

Sometime in the not so distant future, I envision a different sort of Send Off. At the end of our family line we have this novel creation called a girl. There's so, so much that's awesome about girls in general and this girl in particular. And one of those awesome things is that I'll be on the other end of The Send Off.

Oh, I've attended my share of field trips and visited Scout camp on family night, but Scouting is predominantly a father-son activity (and one that I wholeheartedly endorse). In a few years, Ainsley will join what we call Little Sisters and off the two of us will go to ice skate and to camp, to do crafty things and to bowl.


I'm picturing Dave on the front porch handing me a steaming mug of joe and kissing his girls goodbye.

Nesting

Be mindful of the goals you set.

So one of my summer goals was to declutter a room a week. I was plodding along, not exactly setting the world on fire with my progress, but making a dent here and there.

And then Ainsley had an accident of the potty training variety and out came the bleach.

And then Dave invited friends to spend the Fourth of July at our house, and I scrubbed and scoured and accomplished an amazing amount in no time flat. He did, too!

And then one of our visitors dumped half a bottle of fish food into the recently cleaned tank that will be sparkling once again in an hour or two.

And then I opened the pantry and spotted moths . . . the kind that begin as something called weevils
 . . . the kind that require you to carefully check every package of dry goods in the vicinity and to scrub and to bleach and possibly to paint.

And then I called the exterminator to come do what he does best and this requires that every piece of furniture be pulled away from the walls and since you can't very well spray a dusty surface, I'm grabbing the vacuum and the Murphy's Oil Soap.

And then a problem of unspecified origin forced me to clean under the washing machine this morning. There I discovered a long lost earring, one of Ainsley's socks, two Legos, no batteries, one penny, Russian currency of an unknown denomination, a tiny burp cloth that must date back to Timothy's infancy, and a Chuck E. Cheese token.

And on it goes.

Many pregnant women experience nesting syndrome. Just before delivery, you wake with a burst of energy and an intense desire to zip over to Home Depot and then dash by the fabric store. Visions of order and beauty and Potty Barn catalogues dance in your head, and you make herculean progress in a brief span of time. If all goes well, this induces labor.

Case in point: I planted mums when I was forty weeks pregnant with Tim. My water broke shortly thereafter.

I should note that where nesting is concerned, there is vast difference between having a baby at 33 (my first) and at 45 (my last). Oh, I had the same intense desire to get it all done, but that surge of energy? Non-existent.

Nesting with Ainsley? I went to Walmart and bought sleepers and diapers. I probably came home and took a nap. I had a long To Do list, but I could barely muster the energy to lumber to the couch and hoist the remote.

And it was August and it was blazing hot and I felt every one of my forty-five years.

Not a total slacker, I invested a lot of time thinking about my To Do list. High on the list was reorganizing the pantry. Not sure why this was such a priority, but it was.

Then I flew to Michigan for a visit. I returned home to find that we had left a potato -- and I think it was just one single potato -- in the pantry. It had been there for two weeks. Now, you can leave many a household item to mold and moulder for two weeks or more, but you can't do this to a potato. Trust me on this point.

The bugs, the stench -- blahhhhhh! The saving grace was that I was long past the morning, noon, and night sickness that would have sent me sprinting for the bathroom.

Awful -- just awful.

I emptied the pantry. I sorted, scrubbed, bleached, and, yes, even painted. I nested. Under duress, but I nested.

Necessity may be the mother of invention; I think it's also the mother of productivity.

It's now been an hour or two, and the fish tank is indeed sparkling . . . but the filter is no longer operating. Necessity is calling, and it's ordering me up to the road to Petsmart.

Order - Fighting the Good Fight

Deep cleaning today. I call it excavating. Hand me my pick ax. Toss me a hard hat with attached headlamp. I'll send the sacrificial canary into the boys' room ahead of me.

Hi ho, hi ho, it's off to work I go!

Among my finds:

1. Legos, Legos, Legos.

2. Money. Mostly pennies, a dime or two, one quarter.

3. Batteries and lots of them -- one C cell, a sprinkling of triples A's, double A's like you wouldn't believe. If magnetic North is slightly askew, you can confidently pin it on the Dolins.

4. My cell phone -- in three pieces, in the dryer. Better than the washer, as Dave so helpfully pointed out to me. It's warm and wrinkle free, but surprisingly still working.

And as I clean and straighten and purge and organize, I -- for the nine hundred and eighty second time -- reflect on the crushing amount of baggage we haul through this life. It is a first world phenomenon, this life of plenty and excess, this house of closets and spiffy storage containers.

How best to tame it?

1. Don't let it in the door. -- There's nothing like a day spent purging to dampen any shop 'til I drop mentality. Our bookshelves are full. Our closets are stuffed. If there's nowhere to put it, why buy it? Even the free stuff really isn't free. Corralling and storing, sorting and organizing -- make no mistake about it; all this costs us plenty.

2. Get rid of it. -- Danielle Bean once said, "Let it earn a place in your house." Wise words. I tolerate the Legos because we have gleaned hours innumerable of fun and creativity from these bricks I've stumbled over, swept up, and sucked up. They are worth the hassle. Then there's that Old MacDonald game that has sixty-seven pieces and absolutely no discernible point and an annoying song to boot.

(Don't tell the littles, but Old MacDonald just bought the farm.)

3. Hide it. -- My older boys are messy, no two ways about it. I finally moved an armoire into their room. This thing is large, and it has doors. We keep them closed.

4. Deal with it. -- There is no getting around the daily grind. My kids forever lament that there is always work to do. Such is life.

We all want a system, a plan, an inspiring book, something to make it all so very much easier. All these are great, and I've found help in all of them.

But there is no replacing hard work, hard, hard work.

It's not glamorous. It's not flashy. It's not fun. In fact, every one of these steps involves discipline -- saying no to something we want. Putting things away when we'd rather let them slide. Waking up every day and running the dishes, folding the laundry, vacuuming the rug.

And that's all child's play compared to the next step in family life: passing these jobs on to the kids. Directing the children to put away their toys, mow the front lawn, load the dishes. Listening to them kvetch and argue and distract. Redirecting them to put away their toys, mow the front lawn, load the dishes. Surveying their work and instructing them on how to better put away their toys, mow the front lawn, load the dishes.

And doing it all again tomorrow.

You want an SAT word I learned just recently? Acedia. Wikipedia defines this as "a state of restlessness and inability either to work or to pray" and as a "precursor to sloth."

In his Summa Theologica, Thomas Aquinas writes that sloth becomes a mortal sin "on account of the flesh utterly prevailing over the spirit." Wikipedia continues, "Acedia is essentially a flight from the world that leads to not caring even that one does not care."

In the physical realm and in the spiritual realm, in battling our appetites or in raising our children, when we try to quit smoking or yelling or speeding, in going to work morning after morning year after year, we prevent the flesh from utterly prevailing over the spirit.

In short, we fight the good fight.

A friend's message on Facebook the other day: Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes it's the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, "I'll try again tomorrow."

So true.

As I fight the good fight to wrest some order in this house of mine, I have high, high hopes that my children will stumble upon another truth: Hard work brings with it a sense of accomplishment. We capped off a day of chores with pizza and a l-o-n-g trip to the pool. Ainsley tried out her new float; Kolbe learned to dive; John swam like a fish. We arrived home to a clean kitchen, orderly rooms, a spiffy lawn.

I'm guessing they weren't quite as thrilled as I was, but maybe one day . . .