September 17th, 2010
Yesterday my morning started off with a bang. I set the baby in the floor and thought Matt saw that I had done it, he didn’t and Baby’s hand got stepped on. Before I could rub the sleep from my eyes. As I was trying to make coffee, I realized the casserole dish I dropped and broke the day before didn’t get completely cleaned up (and who’s fault would that be?) so I vacuumed the whole kitchen on my hands and knees while Baby screamed from the swing. I had 2 loads of dishes to do since I neglected them the day before and Baby screamed through those as well. While making muffins for the kiddos the smoke detector when off (as it always does when I make muffins) and that sent Baby into a new round of screams. We were out of milk because I didn’t feel like going to the grocery store at 8pm the night before on one of the only nights we don’t have soccer practice. Everyone was out of sorts without their morning chocolate milks. When I finally sat down with my first cup of coffee I dropped it. The whole cup all over me. Got my second cup and sat down to nurse Baby, who incidentally wasn’t having it because he didn’t want to lay against the wet coffee shirt I had left on out of sheer laziness. I picked up my cup to take the second sip from it and my 3 year old accidentally bumped my hand. Coffee everywhere take 2. My oldest son who has sensory issues and only one pair of shoes he will wear without severe constant complaining broke one of those shoes. And with it the last remaining semblance of sanity I had.
And then we went to the grocery store.
Where after repeated remindings to not touch anything my 5 year old daughter touched something.
And broke it open accidentally.
The kids all commented about how now we were going to have to buy it. I calmly responded, yes, we would have to buy it and it would be coming out of my girl’s money since I had told her not to touch anything and by her disobedience broke it.
Hysteria. In the monumental sense.
Unrelenting hysteria through the grocery line. Where I used WIC vouchers. 4 of them. And had 4 other small children looking on as my daughter wailed that she wanted to use her own money for a TOY!!!!
When I leaned over to quietly remind her that though, I know she was upset and that the disappointment was well, disappointing, if she couldn’t stop the screaming she would be taking a nap when we got home. Any guesses on the new level of hysteria?
The checker said, “Do they all take naps? Well, I see some of them look a little old…” Hinting at why are they not in school. To which I dropped the competent mom bomb, “I homeschool.” And I wanted to add sarcastically “You can see how that’s working out for me.” But I refrained. As the other children chose their quarter toys and my daughter got a tad quieter the checker actually asked how I do it. I laughed. And she said she was serious. She still wanted to know how I did it. She said she was glad I stood my ground. And I encouraged her that, yes, she too could homeschool. It’s laughable. Really, the scene replayed in my mind is something out of a sitcom. And why don’t we have a reality show deal yet?
We made it home, took a nap, and found our sanity. All to the tune of our theme song.
September 14th, 2010
I thought I knew what I was getting into having a lot of kids. You hear things, you know. And you mouth off about things you think you know.
A few of my preconceived notions:
- It will be loud.
- The kids are “always underfoot”.
- The kids grow up quicker because they “have to help” so much with the younger ones.
- The older children will resent the time you spend with the younger ones.
A few of the realities I’ve discovered:
- It is loud. Louder than I ever expected. And not just because kids are loud, but because they talk over each other.
- The kids are “always underfoot”. However, I had no idea what that really meant. Until I had enough children to actually trip over constantly. I step back to open the fridge and knock down a child. I turn around to set a plate on the counter and bonk another one on the head. I try to take one step from the sink to the hand towel and the child standing nearby will.not.move.
- The kids do more than other kids their age. They make muffins, brew coffee, carry groceries, carry babies, entertain toddlers, and scrub bathrooms. It’s true, they do help.
- The older children do not resent one second I spend with the little ones. Not at all. And they would tell me. They tell me every other thing that I could improve on in the slightest, let me tell you.
The reasonings behind/solutions for them:
1. To address the incessant over-talking in our house our current refrain is very much a constant “Wait, they were talking first. You have to listen and wait, child.” We say this so much I feel as though my head may explode some days. I’ve begun to remind them “Be quick to listen. Slow to speak. Slow to anger.” an awful lot lately. It’s a good lesson for me as well. As usual.
2. After constantly stepping on toes – quite figuratively and literally – I made a saying that we practiced and giggled over together. “I step, you step, we all step together!” It’s a nicer way of saying “Move.” And I must say, after really leaning on this one for awhile it has gotten better. The kiddos have started to take notice of their place in space and adjust accordingly. It’s a good skill to have. You don’t want to be a close talker.
3. I think possibly my older 2 kids do more than some kids their age. All the aforementioned things they do. I would never have thought they would, or should. In fact, I’m quite certain I passed judgment on these things once upon a time. And then my kids got older and I realized they beg to do these things (except for the scrubbing bathrooms part, I’ll get to that). And they beg much earlier than is comfortable for me. But they want to be challenged, they want to do something that matters and not just busy work. They want to contribute. Who knew? If you’re helping to eat the food and have the ability to carry a few grocery sacks into the house, well, get to carryin’. And the scrubbing bathrooms part? Well, you know, if you’re in the 7-9 age range around here and you help dirty up something then I figure by golly, you can help clean it. We’re a family. We all contribute. We all help. We all reap the benefits. And if you see my children fighting over who’s pushing the stroller, rest assured it’s because they all want to be the one who “gets to push him next”, not at all that I’m making my children do such a chore!
4. This one floors me. I used to worry when I had just one child (in that very short 19 months) that my oldest would be so very upset with my next child. That he would be upset with me for having that next child (not to mention all the others). Not once. And I hold my breath as I write this, that it will fall apart, but I really think it’s worth mentioning if you’re thinking of having more than one. Or two. Or more. I’m still constantly amazed at how much they love the baby. Each baby we’ve had. They never seem to have a problem with the little ones until they are old enough to “know”. And the older kids know it too. Once the children get to be older 2s or 3s they have a much more intentional feel to their actions. When the baby grabs their paper and shreds it everybody smiles and says in a little singsong voice, “Oh, baby, you can’t have that.” But when an older toddler grabs their paper and shreds it with that look in their eye, you know the one, don’t you? Well, then it’s on! But as far as babies? This is the nearly constant scene. (Unposed, for the record.)
In the interest of full disclosure I have to say the 3 year old is currently having a hard time not “loving” on the baby too much. As in, squeezes him too tightly, tries to pick him up, gets in his face – we find ourselves reminding BigMan constantly to “be gentle, love gently” lately.
And I think what I didn’t realize is that larger families are like smaller families. We love each and every child, we make time for each and every child. We’re busy in our own ways. We do have a few schedules and chores, but we do it for our sanity – who wants to constantly say every.single.day “who’s supposed to pick up the toys in the living room again?”
We’ve been surprised by the joys, the laughs, the chaos, the frustrations. And we’ve been surprised by the fun of it all.
So, what are your preconceived notions of larger families? If you are a larger than average family what have you been surprised by?
August 17th, 2010
In the middle of the other night my 3 year old came to my bed. It’s not new. We’re down to about 2 or 3 nights a week. He climbs into bed next to me and goes right back to sleep. It does make my night more difficult – I don’t sleep nearly as well when he does because I still nurse and cosleep with my 10 month old for most of the night too. But I don’t turn him away. I don’t fuss at him. I don’t even have him sleep in the floor like I did my first 2 children when they were this needy age. I just roll over. And ask him gently the next night to try to stay in his bed until the sun shines through his window. Some weeks are better than others. It seems to come and go in phases.
So the morning after one such night this sweet boy said, “When I walked to your bed last night, my legs were wiggly.” I asked what he meant, if he meant he was sleepy wiggly or scared wiggly. “I was wiggly,” was all he responded. A couple of minutes later he followed up with “Know why my legs were wiggly in the night, Mama? I was afraid you wouldn’t wake up.” I asked him if I had ever not awakened before and reassured him I’d be there to take care of him in the night if he needed me. To not ever worry about that.
Boy, am I glad I parent gently this time around. And how I wish I had followed my instincts to parent gently the first couple times around, to not always put me first. To remember they need me. Even in the middle of the night.
June 28th, 2010
I did not move the fridge last week to look for a specific lost toy.
I did not find this:
I did not then go and get a camera to document the mess. Not me.
I didn’t then decide to get my handy 6-in-one and scrape all of that {whatever it was} off the floor. And then mop. And then vacuum the coils on the backside of the fridge. And even wipe the wall.
I did not then take another “after” picture for posterity (or to redeem myself – whichever).
I did not then decide to pull out the oven and tackle it’s greasy goodness too. In the same day.
Nuh-uh. I wouldn’t do those things.
Welcome to Not Me! Monday! This blog carnival was created by MckMama. You can head over to her blog to read what she and everyone else have not been doing this week.
June 26th, 2010
My 8 and a half year old is reading about a book a day now. The Magic Tree House by Mary Pope Osborne has captured his imagination. It’s unbelievable. I catch him lying in my bed for 30 minutes at a time. On the front porch in the rocking chair. At bedtime for way too long. Devouring every word. Complaining when I call him for table work, chores. “Just one more page, Mama?” Stuff my dreams are made of. The end-all in homeschooling. The pass or fail of the reading teacher.
It’s been a long time coming. I started trying to teach him to read at 5. That was after pushing him to learn his letters at 3 and then at 4. Failing at every turn. A constant failing. Not his, mine. I knew it then. I know it now. The end has eased the guilt of the first time means. But only partially.
There is a learning curve with the first. One I wish I hadn’t walked. One I wish I could detour others around.
It will come.
With quiet loving encouragement. And sometimes no encouragement. Just waiting.
This reading road is his.
It always has been.
It always should’ve been.
It’s one he loves to walk now. He’s abandoned ambling along. He’s sprinting.
He races to the end of each book. And I know how it feels. I was once that kind of reader.
I would approach a new book cautiously almost cynically. The reading would gather speed as I came to know the characters, their personalities. I would fly through the words, running faster and faster, stumbling over myself, not stopping for sleep, food, life. Until I had abruptly reached the end of the book. Left stunned by what I knew was coming. The blank end of the last page. Wanting more. Lost without more words. A true addict. Moving onto my next fix. And the cycle would continue.
I wanted my children to read. For learning. For me. For them. It’s essential. Our entire plan of teaching our children comes down to these two things. Teach them to read. Instill a desire to learn. Everything else falls beautifully into place.
But secretly I wanted that addiction to pass to them. There’s something magical about the hours lost in the typeset on a yellowed page.
I was afraid I would lose my aging children to a world of their own. One where they disappear into the tv, video games, the computer. One where I wouldn’t know them anymore. I wanted them at my feet. Underfoot. Now when my oldest is out of sight, he’ll stumble in, hair disheveled, eyes of that bleary word absorption haze and bubble over all of the adventures he’s been on with Jack and Annie telling me of the unfairness of the ancient Greeks for not allowing girls to compete in Olympics, of how just before a tsunami washes ashore the water pulls mysteriously far out to sea, how there were ivy covered walls in the Titanic when the band played until the ship went down.
And I smile. And breathe easy. And get a library card. I indulge his addiction. Passing on the flame. Knowing the fire was not lit or kept alive by my pushing. But by my enabling. And my patience.
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