oliver's prayer

Ollie walking in his beautiful world at age 2

Our little guy turned 5 yesterday. At the dinner table, he requested my ear, into which he whispered a special birthday prayer. Here's what he said:

The sun is bright,

The sky is blue,

The trees are green,

Everything is beautiful.

Tigers are orange,

Birds are brown,

The whole world is blue, green and white.

Everything is beautiful.

the expert

I think he's amazing. Every other night, my husband, David, does 60 push-ups. I sit folding laundry in the comfy chair, watching and making comments. For the record, David points out that he doesn't actually do 60 in one shot, but rather 3 sets of 20, with a short rest in between. Nevertheless. 

I can only do one push-up. David will say, "Well, honey, two years ago, I, too, could only do one." That is how he works. I've seen it time and again over the nearly 19 years of our marriage. He puts his mind on something he wants to do and then step by step, he systematically makes it happen. 

Thirteen years ago, miserable in a dull and dry Air Force Reserve desk job, David fiddled on the computer every night at home and took a few programming courses. He applied for the IT job he really wanted and was told he needed more experience. So he took more classes in the evenings after work, often staying the night with his brother and friends to be near the university and the tech school. On his own, he read and studied a roomful of heavy books so technical the titles alone put me to sleep. He taught himself his craft to a level of expertise most in his field will never reach. He got the job he was after. Many jobs later, a career he loves is the reward. Today, David is one of the few people I know who wakes up cheery because he can't wait to get to work in the morning. What a wonderful example for our children and for all of us in the neighborhood.

I am very lucky to live with a guy like David. Once I actually figure out what to do myself, he'll be my #1 supporter, encouraging me to go for it. Unlike the direct course of my straight-shooting partner, my own path is more meandering. For decades, I've wandered through this gentle maze, with a list of enjoyed activities that's disturbingly long for one, short lifetime. I often lose my way in the tangle of possibility, flitting from one obsession to the next.  "Jack of all trades, master of none" seems about right, but a little too depressing. Instead, I will refer to myself and those of my ilk as Polymaths, people whose knowledge is not restricted to one subject area. Plus, I always liked math. And English and science and band . . . 

UPDATE: As of today, May 23, 2009, my husband has upped his numbers to 75 push-ups. Go, David!

how we grow up

what to do with this?

On our little farm, we learn about the horrors and injustices of life on a small, safe scale. Yesterday as we re-stocked the feed, hay and straw in the shed, Oliver came to me extremely upset. "Mama, a chicken is bleeding on its foot!" Trying, for once, to accomplish the work at hand, I told Ollie I'd check on the chicken when I finished unloading feed from the van. He disappeared and returned crying the saddest, most heartbreaking tears, "Mama, another chicken is pecking at the hurt one!" This time my sweet little boy got my full attention. We went out to survey the situation and there was a fat, red, chicken, laying in the dirt, with another one pecking at its legs. 

Chickens are bad like this, bloodthirsty.  When they detect an injury, they will exploit it without mercy. We doctored up the hurt bird and put it in a cage to let it heal safely. From the look on Ollie's tear-stained face, it was clear that he was experiencing the full reality of cruelty. With big hugs, I assured him he had saved the injured chicken. We talked a little bit about chicken world and about how sad it was for him to witness the horrifying scene.

Later in the day, as Oliver re-told the story to others in the family, his empathy turned to bravado and then to excitement for telling the tale. Witnessing that shift, from tenderness to toughness, a lump of sorrow grew in my own chest. Taking care of an injured critter is kind of gross, but that is the easy part. It's doctoring the delicate hearts of we humans that I'm not so sure about. 

great expectations

On Saturday, in preparation for Easter, I broke out Annika's "Little Dutch Cookbook" and decided to make the traditional Easter Ring Cake, adorned with spring crocus and served alongside a generous dollop of whipped cream.

The picture in the book looks like this:

I thought I followed the recipe closely, 

but mine came out like this

(it tasted even worse that it looks):

Things don't always turn out the way you expect. 

When I was a young woman, I had a lot of opinions and I liked to say them to anyone who would listen. One of my stronger proclamations detailed how I would never, ever be stuck in my home, "barefoot and pregnant," while my husband gallivanted off to work. I would be a spectacular mother with well-adjusted children, a happy partner and an impressive career. 

By the time we had our first child, I was 31 years old with a nice job but no stellar career in sight. I still wanted to work, though. So I packed my lunch and my tiny baby boy in the car, took him along for the hour commute and left him at daycare or with his grandma, depending on the day. Then I wasted the whole day at work, crying because I missed him and sneaking off to the bathroom to pump breast milk. When we all finally straggled back home around 6:30 p.m., David and I would look at each other forlornly and wonder aloud, "Who is going to take care of us?" After a few miserable months, it became clear that the "who" we needed was going to be me. I quit my job and had the best year of my life.

Over the last 12 years as a stay-at-home mom, I have wrestled with my choice over and over, giving lots of credence to the scraping, scratching feeling that I was never doing enough, not living up to my potential. I enjoyed and appreciated my kids immensely but still always felt I was not sufficient to the task. In the early 2000's, whenever I got together with my friend, Mary R., I was klunked over the head by her graceful, very real enjoyment in being at home with her two kids. I yearned for that same peace regarding my own choice. Mary recently returned to the workforce and she seems to find great pleasure in that, too. Go figure.

As I reach my mid-40's with two kids well into school and a little one still at home, I have finally  accepted that my lucky life is the result of some very good choices. Now that I am learning how to take care of myself as well as the rest of the family, I can see that I'm not so bad after all, and I have been able to give myself wholeheartedly to the mom life.  It is as difficult and as rewarding as any other career I might have built. Things change every day. I still hope to do something exciting of my own when Oliver starts kindergarten in the fall. For now, even though my "cake" didn't turn out at all like the one in the picture, it is, nevertheless, infinitely more delicious. 

my tirade

On Tuesday night, David and I wearily headed for bed: the time was 9:45. I went upstairs to check on the kids, who are usually slumbering peacefully by that time. A bright light shone from Annika's door at the end of the hallway. There she was, our sweet 4th grader, who is just getting over a tough virus, hunched over in bed, still on top of the covers, doing long division. She'd been there since 8:00. 

When we got home from school earlier that day, Annika ran outside to play with the baby sheep and with her little brother, Oliver. She played some beautiful music on the piano and reminded me to replace the A-string on her cello. She helped to set the table and we ate dinner. After the meal: homework. Yes, she could have begun the work earlier, and she often does.

On my hard-working daughter's behalf, I am going to type this controversial thing: I hate the homework. 

These precious children are struggling to defend their rich inner lives against the onslaught of increasingly intense extracurricular activities--homework is just one. Arrrrgggh. Why must we over-do every single thing when it comes to children?

For most of us parents, myself included, the knee-jerk reaction to homework of any kind is to support the idea of it and the doing of it at all costs. When Calvin was in the 4th grade, the year the big onslaught begins in this school district, we were regularly up past 11:00 struggling to encourage our son, who seriously and rightly did not enjoy the work at all, to get it done without falling apart. There were many nights I had to leave the room, exhausted, to cry. Finally, I begged David to take over the homework support duty. He gamely took up the job and all the emotional turmoil that came with it, including the frequent desire to shed actual tears. 

Freakishly, I loved homework as a kid, and so did my husband. Perhaps this odd enthusiasm for homework is what drew us together. But thinking back on those days, I am pretty sure I didn't start getting work sent home until middle school, 7th grade. 

Here's what I want: homework that enhances life and inspires learning, not busywork that could and should be done at school. We love the in-depth book reports, the research papers and the big, exciting projects--things that can't realistically be fully completed at school. 

I know this is a controversial subject for most of us. We think about the careers our kids will have as adults and we want them to learn to work hard to meet their goals. This worry about the future is where we--loving parents and caring teachers, all trying to do our best--lose touch with what kids really need in these early developmental years: to be excited about life and learning, to discover who they are, to find their strengths, to explore, and to be supported in all of that by the adults who care for them. 

Last week I heard a Wisconsin Public Radio interview with Alfie Kohn, about his 2006 book, The Homework Myth. The interview struck a chord with me, bringing concrete thought and words to feelings I've been having but unable to organize into actual opinion. It is unacceptable for me to allow well-intentioned institutions to orchestrate our brief, invaluable family time, when my intuition screams otherwise. Children need our championship in protecting their time, they need places of stillness that let them hear their heartsongs and dance to the beautiful music. As a mother, part of my job is to be truly in tune with what my kids need in each moment, and to help them get wherever they want to go. 

boys are great in the kitchen

Cal mixing up his Plum Cake

the fancy schmancy result

Not to be outdone by their sister, our youg gentlemen have been doing some inspiring baking lately. Calvin made a spectacular "Plum Cake", a traditional Irish cake with everything in it save plums. Due to the requirement for the grated zest of 3 oranges and 2 lemons, this cake took a long time to make.  Also contributing to the lenthy procedure was the uber-chattiness of baker Cal. He had a lot to say on that night, so we had an especially fine time working out the recipe together. It was past my bedtime when this gorgeous round confection came out of the oven. Calvin shared the cake with his class, but there was a little left for us to savor. It was really delicious. 

Oliver sifting--a big job for little hands

And we finally decided to do something with all those cans of pumpkin hanging around since the fall, so Oliver made a few loaves of Pumpkin Bread. I adore pumpkin bread any time of year. And when it's made with love by the little guy, it is especially tasty.

3 loaves of pumpkin bread:

one to eat, two to share

yesterday's bread

One of the best things about our little hobby farm is the growing list of wonderful characters who become part of our family story. Our good friend George is one of these. George always has something big going on with his 2-acre wonderland. He's got a pair of camels, longhorn cattle, sheep, goats, a yak, horses, pheasants, a kangaroo, a kutamundi, a friendly porcupine, scary lemurs in the basement and the list goes on and on. Every time we visit him, he tries to convince us to take home a large white donkey who is blind in one eye, claiming this is just the perfect animal for me. And also at every visit, we are welcomed in for a snack and a chat. Always, there are other folks hanging around in the kitchen, making themselves at home. George helps me to manage my herd by finding homes for critters who are ready to leave the fold. And he gave us our new black sheep, Buddy, who has quickly become a beloved pet. I couldn't manage this animal thing without George's kind, enthusiastic help. 

“Give me yesterday's Bread, this Day's Flesh, and last Year's Cyder.”

Benjamin Franklin

The other day George stopped by to see some of the Barbados lambs who will soon be going to a new home, along with their mother. As he was leaving, he said he had some bread for us to give to the animals--they all love bread. George had just come from the nearby bakery, where he had procured a huge load of recently expired, unsaleable bread. He opened the back of his white van and the loaves tumbled out. Then George waved goodbye and pulled out of the drive, on his way to bring bread to more friends with animals to feed. Oliver and I laughed and laughed. Here we had nearly 50 loaves of bread piled in the driveway. I couldn't cook up an experience like this if I tried. Just total fun.

P.S. The above picture is a short film--click on the arrow to play.