In Omnia Paratus

Photo: Our kids playing in the uber-depressing waiting room at the Pep Boys in Norristown. It had the distinct pungent odor of rubber and all the associations of testosterone-rife workplaces where misogyny and money-swindling are present.

We are in the middle of what Geoff calls our "transportation odyssey." On the way to a large family event, our minivan left us stranded on the turnpike. We spent Saturday afternoon in 3 different tow trucks, zigzagging the county in our best party clothes. It boils down to a van that is getting old, how to fix it, and how we might go about getting another car. In the midst of this, getting the run-around from the mechanic, the towing people, and then trying to foresee how buying another car would affect our financial stability.

I have been asking, "What could this mean?" When the timing belt snapped, Geoff and I looked at eachother searching for the grownup within each of us. Being stranded threw us a series of curveballs, we had to respond with unified and wise maturity. Geoff and Manny rode with the car towing the van whose driver had a Dungeon's and Dragon's hairdo. I had the three others with me in the bigger truck and tried to keep up morale by feeding them chicken tenders and gum. We had a lovely family dinner at Genuardi's followed by an interminable stay at the Norristown Pep Boys. Finally, we got rescued by Jeremy. Heroism took the form of a van to fit all of us and a Veggie Tales soundtrack.

How do you do it? Teach your kids that they will always be safe, that things are okay and good when you want to shake your fist at crooks and choke swindlers? How do you keep a game face for your kids when faced with the disappointments that life brings?

Why Work?

Photos: Manny's Arthur Ashe poster and the Fab Four at what we call the "Secret Beach."

Geoff is up for review at work and it has been a very good thing for us. He has put in strenuous hours compiling his dossier-- an exhaustive compilation of basically everything he has done for the school and a record of his performance. He had to submit it and then have it reviewed by his peers. It was this tome, this huge binder to hand in.

I was jealous. He had this tangible, juicy document, detailing all of his hard work, showcasing his past work. On top of that, colleauges he respects and admires give him feedback and guidance about his work from here on out. I wish I could do this, have this concrete document laying out my performance, synthesizing my experiences to make sense and then have someone sign off on it and then give me a cushy raise.

I wish my home were my dossier, an elegant document that demonstrated my fine taste and flexed my organizational muscle-tone. Instead housework is elusive and constantly demanding, a suitcase I want to close but always bulges-- threatening to disgorge. I wish I had student-evaluations where Manny and Benicio could give me feedback on the effectiveness of my explanation of the silent E rule. Instead, it is me ad-libbing and trying to fit instruction into ten minute increments and trying to anticipate their boredom. I wish Clara and Cloe would say, "Mom, I think you need time for more professional development, I can get dinner started."

Maybe I sound ungrateful. But in my ingratitude, there is a pearl of true gratitude. My work and my calling right now is amorphous (How do you measure developmental progress?) and cyclical (Another load of laundry?) and I just laugh. In my sleep-deprivation and fatigue, I am reminided that if I live for myself this is all a vain sham. If I live to serve as Jesus lovingly served then I can reconcile that in my soul.

Ever the Mary, Trying for Martha

This past summer, I was visiting one of my sisters-in-law and asking her to help me implement her streamlining and organizing techniques on my own house. I was poised with my notebook, ready for tips. Without pause, she said, "Oh, but you are a Mary and I don't think you should try to change." She is referring to Jesus' friends, two women who had very different approaches to the home, or entertaining in the home. Jesus favored Mary, she wanted to visit with folks, let the appetizers wait. This, while her sister, Martha, was fussing in the kitchen and mad that her sister wouldn't help her out.

I wanted to see this as a compliment but I know my own tendencies toward stagnation and laziness and am deeply afraid that my beautiful, stone, Turn of the Century- Germantown stead will become Sanford and Son's. Reconnecting with one of my college roomies is a daily reminder of how I behaved in college-for better or worse: I remember my room in Holland Hall, piles of papers, stacks of modern poetry and books on the apostle Paul, my beloved French press, baskets and bins of clothing, several pairs of wooden clogs that could send you to the ER if you tripped on them. And if you could find it, my sturdy little word processor that my Dad got me at Boscov's. All this to say, I thrive on chaos or what my British design book would graciously describe as "busily charming" or "lived-in appeal." I am a collector and I like to be visually stimulated by my possessions.

And yet, I am not content to be this way. I am married to a man who buys a pair of shoes and then feels the need to get rid of one. He returns his fork and knife to the same position after each meal. I admire the simplicity of his drinking a glass of water and then rinsing it, drying it and returning it to the cupboard. I am SO not like this.

I want to make my mark on this house and really deliberately choose the paint color, invest in fairly-traded rugs, have "well-appointed furniture." For now, it is me and my little green label maker, enforcing a place for everything. It is our thrifted leather Chesterfield sofas with Maxine's scratch-marks. It is me trying to decide if the molasses teething biscuit is still clean after the third drop, it is day-to-day living, it is following kindergarteners around wearing swiffer sheets under my shoes.

I think I will have to rest in this struggle for now. I will have to accept my post as Mary, enjoying the company of her loved ones, listening to their tales, attentive to their adventures and dreams. The other stuff will have to wait.

Bella Karoly's Gym

Since we have started Suzuki violin in August, I have had in my head this image of Bella Karoly's Gym-- hundreds of tiny gymnasts, with grotesque muscle-tone tumbling and flipping around an under-lit industrial space. The image reminds me of adult pressure on children and having a white-knuckle grip on some vision I have for them.

We have our private lesson on Thursday morning and every other Wednesday a group lesson at a local elementary school. We have rented instruments, have margarine box violins on which to practice, and are now considered "Pre-twinkle." I did not realize that there was such a thing as a period in which you are studying for months before you are able to play one note. I am trying to get the whole zen of the thing. Feet positioning, posture, holding the violin just so. And that's not even holding the bow yet!

The whole thing exposes how product-oriented I am, how badly I want something to show for. How impatient I can be about seeing a return on my effort. For now, I want to see how much the boys love to open their cases, take out the teeny violins and have them take this deep bow to me or their teacher. I want to savor their love of routine, their natural way with music, and how they bring a playful sense of exporation to everything that they put their hands to.

Alien Hummus and Odes to Arthur Ashe

I have to believe that one of the great pluses of this homeschool thing is creative freedom. Full-on creative control. We are taking a classical approach to school-- heavy focus on the written word. I read at least 10 books a day and ask them each to write everything from grocery lists to reasons they're angry at me to plans for their own farmer's market. So when they've done the writing I've asked for I want to really allow them to have their own extra-curricular plans.

Yesterday, this meant Alien Hummus for Benicio. A green potion of paint, soap and sundry lotions. He enlisted unguents from around the house. No one's toiletries were safe. He proceeded to scoop it into a plastic ziploc and freeze it "for when I get to Space," he says. He told Manny, "They can dip any food they want into this!" I did not know that Aliens had a special love for garlicky Mediterranean food.

I need to post photos of these-- we have been taking tennis clinics at Arthur Ashe Youth Tennis Center. Apart from the funloving vibe, you really get a sense that Arthur Ashe leaves his legacy, a commitment to his people and to see that everyone gets an opportunity to play. We did our first "reports" on Arthur Ashe. Manny did a poster with tiny, detailed cutouts of Ashe's head-- of course, a racket, and a few other things like an eagle (for America), a camera (bc he married a photographer). Arthur Ashe's glasses are the best part!!

Benicio did a booklet. It was going to be called "A Hard Road to Glory" (Ashe's epitaph) until I showed too much enthusiasm for that idea and now it is simply called, "Arthur Ashe." It's a five page picture book including a drawing of the state of Virginia, and an "about the author" section in the back where he's drawn a self-portrait.

Secrets for homeschool I have learned this week: We don't always have to be confined to the homeschool room. If they get an idea for a project, let them see it through.

Burbridge St. Homies

Tomorrow, we begin week 7 of our homeschool adventure. I had read this great quote: "There is much to be discovered when where you live is where you learn and where you learn is where you live." I think it's from Charlotte Mason or Edith Schaeffer, I can't remember. Back in July, I received a grocery bag of homeschool books from my sister-in-law. I like to think I've been entrusted with the quintessential homeschool canon-- The Little Lamb's book of art projects, a collection of Aesop fables with amazing illustrations, and this primer from 1933, which suggests that children memorize passages of prose to promote diction and memorization. Our days have fallen into a rhythm: Everyone up by 7, Geoff takes the boys downstairs to start breakfast. I get dressed and go up to the homeschool room (formerly our playroom). Usually, Manny is sent up first and Geoff meets me on the stairs with my coffee. I meet with Manny for a half hour. In this time, we have worked on workbooks, built tangrams together, read aloud together, or just played memory for a half hour. Then I send for Benicio and we do the same. After that, we all go downstairs for breakfast and help Geoff to get to work. By 9:30, we are ready for our circle time-- Clara rings the bell that Mema gave us and everyone knows to come upstairs for songs, stretches and a little calendar lesson. We have been studying our bodies. After a 10 minute lesson about bones or muscles, we move into a group craft or a story. So far, we've had two illustrious guest lecturers and two exceptional yogis have agreed to teach as well.

Everyone asks how it's going: there are things I predicted and things I didn't. What I predicted: that things would relax, that the family clock would slow down, that Manny would begin to read on his own, and that I'd receive new stamina for the kids. I feel like I know each of them better. What I did NOT predict: that there are four voices asking me almost constantly ALL day long. That I would need to prepare lessons just as formally as when I taught at Hollow Reed. That I would need to use PBS as much as I do. And that, at the end of a long day, I am bone-tired and utterly spent.

Anyway, here's to a new season of blogging: I want to record this journey of learning at home. I want to look back at this and remember how this little home school took shape, how the kids and I made our way. I hope you keep reading and as always, go to bat for us in prayer.