Sometimes, It Takes a Village, Idiot!

"God helps those who help themselves."  This is not scripture.  This is Benjamin Franklin in Poor Richard's Almanac.  The stories in the Bible tend to prove the exact opposite.  God does not help those who help themselves, but rather, He helps those who humble themselves enough to call on Him for help.  At the same time, however, one must be open to the form in which the help arrives.

According a traditional African proverb, and a book by former First Lady and current Secretary of State, Hillary Clinton, "It takes a village to raise a child."  In the traditional context, this may be true.  In the context of Ms. Clinton, I suspect it takes a village to raise a child, and by a village, she means a government.  And if this can also further the increasingly popular idea that fathers are nothing more than a luxury or a redundancy, then great!

I, for one, have kept to the once traditional, and now so quaint it is comical, idea that it takes a mother and a father to raise a child.  I have had to re-think this a bit.

I have been going through quite a trying time, as I have written.  First, I was pregnant, then sick and voiceless, now going through the longest miscarriage in the history of woman-kind.  All while trying to be a mother to three young children and a wife to a husband who spends ten hours a day, seven days a week (literally!) in the library.  Forget being a housewife.  There is not enough energy left for the house.

A few weeks ago, at the very end of myself, I prayed for help.  And, I got it, in the form of my father-in-law, Grandpa Scott, swooping in and caring for us for a few days.  Since then, as some things have improved, others have gotten worse.  It seems that almost daily now, something knocks me back down onto my knees, where there is nothing to do but pray.  Until finally, FINALLY, I got it.

I can not do this by myself.

And, thanks to the Lord and His provision, I don't have to.

Let me be clear.  I have always had help.  My wonderful husband helps.  My self-less mother helps.  My generous sister helps.  I have often worn this help thin, because I thought they were all I had.

I was wrong.

In the last several weeks, my usual help has not been available.  I have had to call on, and been called by, women from the corners of my life, and now find myself wondering why they were relegated to the corners.

Patty.  Earth Mother Patty.  She told me that for the last two years, the Lord had put it on her heart to reach out to me and build a deeper friendship.  But, every time she talked to me, I gave the impression that I had my act together and was busy with other things.  Ha!  I suppose if you count wearing my robe until noon and eating chocolate for breakfast, in the bathroom no less, so I don't have to share with the children, having my act together, then yeah, I was busy.

In the last six weeks, Patty has come by my house for tea, bringing with her the most beautiful bouquet of peonies and honeysuckle.  Do you know the joy fresh flowers can bring to a room or a stressed out mom?  A few weeks later, she invited me to lunch.  And, after that, she and her sister Jane, met me at the park so that my kids could have a nice morning out, when I had no voice to call them and no strength to chase them.  She hugs me when she sees me.  It makes me a bit weepy just to think about it.  Yes, Patty.  I need a friend.

Abby, the best babysitter in the world, has come by on the most minimal of notice, even making a point of squeezing in three hours of babysitting between her real life activities on a Saturday afternoon.  And her mother, Brandi, always drops her off and picks her up.

My Aunt Jo took the kids and me in for several hours when Hubband needed to use the one computer in our small house to study.  Without kids around.

My friend Jennifer, who has a nursing baby and a potty training toddler, was more than hospitable when I called her at eight o'clock on a random Tuesday morning and asked her if I could be there in an hour, because I just could not stand to be cooped up at home one more second.  She even fed the kids and me lunch.

My sister-in-law Heather, also sainted, and with a servant's heart, has come by several times to babysit, in a pinch, for doctor's appointments.  And, she brought Starbucks.

My sister came by and watched my kids for a few hours, and then, deciding that I was iron deficient, took me out for a steak dinner.

Claudia, from church, called, out of the blue, during a rare lull in the day when I could talk, and on a day I needed someone to talk to. 

Rebecca came by with two of her four boys, to play with my two boys, while Catherine slept, and I went off to the doctor, yet again.  And she still found time to do my dishes.

Penny, from church, brought me a gift, a very feminine scented lotion, as comfort for my loss.

Janie gave me a free hour with a masseuse, which she herself had earned through a day-care barter system.

Gina, my pastor's wife, and Bethany, her fifteen-year-old daughter, came to watch the kids, again on a moment's notice, again while I went to the doctor.  They even came sooner than I needed them to, to care for me.  It was not a problem, Gina, mother of five, informed me.  She only had one kid at home that week (two are away at college, even though it is summer, and two more were away at camp) and her husband was out of town for two days.  They came back the next day too, because I needed someone.

What Gina didn't tell me was that she had been invited to join her husband for the short trip.  He would be working part of the day, but they could have had some time alone, a nice get-away.  She declined, convinced that she was not mean to go.  She felt the Lord was leading her to stay home for some reason.  I turned out the be that reason.

You must understand, I have never called Gina for anything in my life, big or small.  But, when I woke up last Monday morning, feeling like I was in labor, knowing Hubband could not stay with me, Gina's was the first name the Lord called to my mind.   And what she did for me those two days was huge. 

Then this week, as I was finally recovering, Hubband's mother came for a visit.  She helped with the house and the kids, while I caught up on a few neglected duties, like the laundry, the marketing, and my blog.

The service of all of these other women, was His provision, a gift from God, an answer to a sincere prayer from a place of brokenness.  There is no other explanation.  I am humbled by the awesomeness of this.
 
Yes, it takes a mother and a father to raise a child.  And, yes, it may also takes a village.  Though I don't think we need a village to raise our children for us, we sometimes need a village to be there for us, so that we can raise our children.  This is a distinction, not without a difference.  Ultimately though, it takes God to raise a child.  And I pray that I never forget it.

Baby Mario, We Hardly Knew You

I had my ten week obstetrics appointment yesterday.  The baby did not have a heartbeat.

I sat in my car and cried, for about five minutes.  Then I took myself out to a nice breakfast.  I sat, ate perfectly poached eggs, drank iced tea, and worked the crossword puzzle, though not well.  I mourned the loss of our baby, the baby I was surprised to find out I wanted, for exactly one hour.  That was all the time I had.  I had to get back home to relieve Abby (the best babysitter in the world).

I had to tell Jonah that the baby he had named Baby Mario (from the video game) was not going to be born into this world, but we would be able to meet him in heaven.  He was sad, but tried to cheer me up.  "Don't worry Mom," he said.  "I'm sure God will dress him like Baby Mario while he is waiting for us."

Life goes on here.  I have three beautiful and healthy children, whom I love, and would, even if they were ugly.

What I Learned Today

What I learned on June 15, started on June 14.

Monday, June14 was not a very good day for my family.  I was still parenting without a voice, and the children, who for the last few weeks have been living with a pregnant and/or sick and/or grumpy mother, were very bored.  Bored children are unhappy, disobedient, and very difficult to manage.  To sum up, mommy + pregnant + kids + bored = no fun.

I realized that the next day had to be better, or it was going to be worse, and worse might kill me.  Or, someone.  I purposed to make it better.  I used the rest of Monday to get the house squared away.  Not completely cleaned, not completely organized, but at least up and running, and the kitchen and dining room, (the heart of all parent-child activity) was clean and ready-to-go before bed.  (It helped that my mom came by in the afternoon to distract the children.  Love you, Mama!)

I tried to think of some activity I could do with them in the morning, and I hit upon coloring home made play dough.  It is good for finger strength.  Very important pre-writing skill.  So, I got on the internet, found a recipe, and made the play dough, in anticipation of our big day.  This is when the learning began.

You can't make homemade play dough with course ground sea salt.  It does not dissolve, leaving salt crystal in the dough, which simultaneously cut your hands and rub salt in the resulting wounds.  I went to bed disappointed, but not defeated.  We would find something else to do.

In the morning, I had everyone fed and dressed and ready to leave by eight o'clock.  Hubband took Jonah, and my car, to school and then himself to work.  With only two-thirds of my children, I was determined to be at least one-third better at being their mother.  But, I still had no car.  We walked to the park around the corner.  Well, actually, only I walked.  Catherine was pushed and Sam road his bicycle.  The park is a great place to learn stuff.  For example:

Those who don't move have no advantage over those who can't.  At that hour of the morning, the only people in the park were four ancient Asian women.  They walked in small circles around the play ground.  They used the play ground equipment to do strength training.  They stretched.  They talked fast and happy in a foreign language, laughing often.  Note to self:  If you want to live to be ancient, get up off you duff now, while you still can.  And bring a friend.

Sam is fast.  When he is not riding his bicycle around the outside of the playground, he likes to run around it.  A gaggle of older teen girls came jogging through and he followed them, keeping up for quite a distance, until I finally managed to call him back.

Cate is tough.  She wanted to swing on the big kid swing, but I was worried she would fall off, so I showed her how to swing by laying on her belly.  She slid off face first, followed by her feet which, thanks to the momentum of the swing, manage to bend back over body and kick her in the back of the head.  It looked like she should have broken her neck.  She was completely still for a blood chilling second.  Then she screamed for 20 seconds and went about her day.


It takes all kinds, and I am the judge-y kind.  As it got a little later, other people wandered through the park.  Like a very skinny and heavily perfumed woman of indeterminate age, carrying a fluffy white toy-poodle.  She wore a red straw hat and a bright yellow dress that just begged to be called a frock, which I refuse to do, because I won't be manipulated by inappropriately whimsical fashion. You must understand, this is a (figuratively) beige park in a (literally) beige neighborhood, in a (deliberately) beige town.  Who are you, lady?

After awhile longer, we were alone again, until one of the McMansions across the street opened up, releasing a woman and her son.  She was about forty-five with unfashionable hair, shorts, and a heavy sweater.  She screamed "scientist".  Her son was about five.  She used big words with him.  I'm all for that.  But they were words I didn't understand.  The mom smiled and said hi and then went and stood in a patch of shade to do her sudoku puzzle.  Her son never left her side.  He just stood there in the shade staring at me and clutching his homemade bow and arrow.  He made me sad.  He could have done this in their own yard.  The kid didn't know how, or did not have any interest in, playing, and the mom had no interest in showing him.  But, what do I know.  We sort-of shared a park for twenty minutes one Tuesday morning.  And, it takes all kids.

His bow and arrow was really cool though.  Which brings me to the next thing I learned.

Don't bring your most prized possessions to the park.  In fact, as a mother, I don't see why anyone needs to bring any toys to the park, ever.  The best thing that can happen is that they get lost, or broken by someone else's kid.  The worst thing, is that they lead to a toddler world war.  And the more attractive the toy (probably the reason it is the child's prized possession in the first place), the more likely it is that other children will be drawn to, and not easily distracted from, it.

The bow was awesome.  It was made from a real unfinished branch, and well strung.  He had an arrow with a point whittled at one end and a notch cut in the other.  But, he only had the one.  I found this out when the kid first arrived at the park and Samuel peddled right up to him and said, "I play with stick?"  The mother replied "That is not a stick, it is an arrow, and he has to be careful.  If he breaks it, he won't have any more arrows to play with."  Poor kid.  He had the coolest toy in the world, but he was afraid to play with it.  Sam wasn't afraid.  He tried again, "I play?"  The mom said, "No, he is playing with that now.  It is his.  He is not going to share."  Those were her exact words.  You might think that is a bit harsh, but I found it refreshing.

Which brings me to the next thing I learned.  Well, I've known it for awhile, but it is worth mentioning now.

Sharing is for suckers.  If I walk into Starbucks, and there is a guy in there with a new iPad, what do you think the chances are that I can walk over, try to take it, raise a fuss when he refuses to let me, and then have some authority figure, (a barista, say) make him "share" or "go home right now, young man"?  The whole idea that kids need to learn to share their toys at the park is absurd.  Why do they need to learn this?  So they develop the instincts necessary to protect their stuff when they are adults?

In our house, we try to teach our kids that things belong to people.  You respect their stuff and they should respect yours.  This does not mean that we don't encourage them to share.  We do.  But we don't make them share.  That is not really sharing is it?  It is wealth redistribution.  I want my kids to share things with each other, but by choice, out of a generosity of spirit and kindness toward others.  I know this sounds foreign and naive.  But it works.  I'll admit, it doesn't always work well, but that is life.  And they're young yet.

Don't count your mother of the year award before it hatches.  When we got back to the house, I had a brilliant activity for the children.  Samuel has sensory issues.  If your kids have them, you know what they are.  If they don't, you don't, and it doesn't really matter.  But one of the therapies is to let him experience different textures.  Like a box full of beans or rice.  I took two two-liter boxes and put stale useless rice and quinoa in one and stale useless coffee beans in the other.  I also put about ten M&Ms in each box.  It was a sense therapy treasure hunt.  I rock.

We have a picture of her Auntie Cara making this exact same face when she was Best Man at our wedding.

I stepped into the house to call Hubband and tell him "I rock," when the phone rang and I had to schedule a pediatrician appointment.  Good thing.  I went back outside to find Samuel spitting out chewed up coffee beans.  Ugh!  When I came back out with a damp rag to clean him up, Cate was out of her high-chair sitting on the table, eating coffee beans out Sam's box.  And, she wasn't spitting them out.  Double ugh!  Boy I am glad I never made that call to Hubband.

He dug up the candy, but ate the coffee.  I am such a bad mother.

I should pace myself.  By eleven o'clock, I decided it was "free time."  Young children should have plenty of unstructured play.  All the experts say so.  So, I slept on the couch while they took turns "riding" me.  "Gimidy up, Mommy...Gimidy up."

What did you learn today?

The Dark End of the Tunnel

Hubband may or may not be losing his job at the end of the month.  His employer can't say for sure yet.

I may or may not be losing my baby.  In one elaborate and fanciful scenario, it may be twins.  My doctor can't say for sure yet.

Jonah will be starting kindergarten this summer.  It may be on August 24, or as early as July 19.  The school district can't say for sure yet.

We may or may not be moving to Washington at the end of the summer, at Christmas, next year.  We can't say for sure yet.

Meanwhile, Hubband gets up every morning and goes to work full time.  He spends every evening and weekend in the library studying for the Washington State bar, so that we have options.  This makes me a quasi-single mother of three young children, who aren't in school right now, and going stir-crazy.  And, I still feel pregnant--nauseous and tired.  Did I mention the cold that we all have?

I know there are great tragedies in the world, and none of them have befallen us here.  But, that's the thing about a tunnel.  I can only see what is in front of my face -- my family and a long road of uncertainty.  It is hard to keep perspective in this dark, narrow place.  It is easy to scream, and be comforted by the sound of my own voice echoing back at me.

I miss my happy blog and my sense of humor and hope both return soon.  But, I can't say for sure yet.

Photo found here.

A Morning

"Good morning, Samuel." Five fifty-four.  A.M.

Cuddle.  Six o'clock.

Rise, shower, dress self and three others, breakfast for five.  Pack a hasty bag for a busy morning and out the door.  Car in drive and rolling forward.  Seven thirty.

Drive across town.  Drop Sam off at one school. Concentrate very hard on not vomiting on substitute teacher's shoes.  Seven forty-five. 

Drive back across town.  Drop Jonah off at another school.  Concetrate very hard on not vomiting on the vice-principal.  Eight fifteen. 

Drive half way back across town.  Take Cate to emergency doctor's appointment to make sure that her tongue, which she bit about clear off, is not infected.  Concentrate very hard on not vomiting on the pediatrician, though I think he owes me one good vomit.  I am a one-woman, pediatrician-full-employment plan. Eight forty-five. 

Tongue is not infected.  It could use stitched but would require sedation.  Is cure worse than disease?  Yes.  Tongue will be flawed but not deformed.  No sedation/stitches ordered.  Back on the road.  Nine thirty.

Drive the rest of the way back across town.  Pick Sam up from school.  Change diaper on back of car.  Make note to self to potty train him as soon as school is out (Monday).  Toss snacks at both children in back seat of car.  Back on road.  Nine fifty.

Drive into next town to register Sam for next year's special education pre-school.  Unload stroller from car.  Load stroller with children, cups, snacks, toys, favorite shiny blanket, etc.  Push one hundred pound stroller across this new campus, stopping in two places to ask directions before arriving in a very crowded room, with the land-yacht of strollers, and two grumpy kids, to spend an hour filling out tedious paper work for people who keep forgetting, and then acting surprised, that I am, in fact, married to the father of my children.  Ten thirty.

Fill out afore mentioned, tedious paper work.  Repeat trip with stroller, except in reverse and this time Sam is trying out his tantrum skills because I won't/can't let him play on the play ground.  Head home.  Oh, blessed home.  Eleven thirty.

Arrive home.  Oh, blessed home.  Samuel screamed the whole way.  Noon.

Microwave something for lunch.  Hold them down and make them eat.  Clean them up.  Off to bed for the baby.  Twelve thirty.

Send tantrum boy outside to play.  Sit at computer and type.  Let it all out on virtual paper.  Decompress....breathe....Rub belly, gestate, glow.  One o'clock.

Okay, I made up the part about glowing.  I'm not glowing yet.  But, I'm practicing.

I'm Posting Again Soon...

...I swear.  I am still a little disoriented from our big news.  I skipped The Week in Kids last week and didn't even notice.  But, I will be back to some sense of normal soon.  We'll call it pregnant-normal.  Until then, I leave you with this candid shot (taken by my sister) of my mother and I enjoying our steam pots full of crab and other yummies on Mother's Day.  Bottom feeder are so tasty!

P.S.  If you are the praying kind, please send up one or two for our unborn.  We weren't expecting to be expecting, but now that we are, we really want to look into the face of God's baby.  (Proof that He has a sense of humor, no?)

Theme Thursday -- Pink

My Theme Thursday post is not the only thing that was late this week.

I am 41 years old.  Hubband had a vasectomy six months ago.  My very last post was about how I had come to the end of the gestation/lactation portion of my life.  You see, it would be impossible, but... Does this look like two pink lines to you?

So, to re-cap for my regular readers -- Three kids, one income, Hubband to get laid off next month and lose medical benefits, family to move to another state and live in attic, 41, vasectomy, two pink lines.  Oh, and we won't all fit in one car.  But we're good.  Or we will be as soon as we are done being stunned.  I'll write more some other time, once my breathing has returned to normal.

And, yeah, I posted a picture of something upon which I urinated.

This is a Theme Thursday post.  Follow the link to see other wonderful writers' take on the theme.