You know what job I used to do (in a slightly more professional setting) that I rather enjoyed?

Teaching high school English.

You know what I really liked about it?

(Not grading the bazillion essays, I tell you that!)

My students.

You know what else I like?

When former-students-turned-now-friends drive down for a weekend visit.

And when her brother, another former student, literally drives by and stops in for a visit so we can meet his wee little new daughter.   (What I don’t like? How old that makes me feel to realize that my students can have children by now.)

And guess what else is cool?

When we all spend a weekend laughing, eating muffins, visiting an Apple Festival, chatting, waiting in line for apple donuts, licking cotton candy from our fingers and eating food from a truck vendor parked on a street.

Oh . . .  and do you know what is one more cool thing?

When Jamie and Cole arrived late in the evening after a long drive from the north, they entered our home with one tidily packed bag, pillows in hand (which was very wise as pillows are always in high demand at our house), and a cute take out box filled with homemade cookies.

That was all amazing.

It was great.

But what was really cool was a little typed note tied to the cookie take out box.

And the note said, “In lieu of a hostess gift, a donation has been made to charity:water”.

And that was beautiful.

What a great idea and what a great reminder.

Any reason is a good reason to donate to charity:water.

Any opportunity can be an opportunity to give to a cause bigger than us.

Ah, Jamie and Cole – the cookies were delicious but the donation was much sweeter.

Thank you.

File this under

Random Weird Absolutely Unsolicited Confessions.

Bergen:  ”Mom.  One day this summer when we were at the pool we all took turns eating London’s skin.”

Me:  ”Which part of her skin?”

Bergen:  ”Her toes.”

Me:  ”Why?”

Bergen:  ”Because London said it was like gum.”

Me:  ”Did it taste like gum?”

Bergen:  ”No.  It didn’t taste like anything.”

I want to tell you a story

about

perhaps the most frightening parenting moment of my life

and

the bravest kid I know.

We went to a horse farm for a field trip last week.

The farm was tidy and organized and smelled of hay and dirt and horse manure and sky and life and my childhood.

The kids admired the miniature horses, the black ram and the albino horse that is not allowed to soak up the sunshine for fear of his skin burning.

We had been at the farm for maybe fifteen minutes.

The instructor asked us to stand in the breezeway while she prepared our handsome steed, “Sweetie”, for us for our horse lesson.

That was one minute.

And then

in the next minute

Sweetie was barreling toward us at a frantic pace

and Piper Finn was somehow underneath the horse’s legs.

It was,

as moments like that are,

impossible to describe accurately.

Otto was strapped to my back in his carrier.  London, Mosely and Bergen were lined up beside me.

But Piper had stepped to the center of the hallway.

The horse had broken loose from its master.

And my sweet little Willow was in his path.

It was over in a matter of seconds.

I was frozen, watching horse hooves step up and down and on and over and around my three year old’s tiny body, crumpled in the dirt.

I leaped to pick her up from the ground.

I held her, soothed her and began searching her body for signs of distress and injury.

She was screaming,but not inconsolable, which I took as a very good sign.

It seems that somehow the horse managed to avoid putting its full weight on Piper.

And I think that is a miracle.

Piper’s nose was bruised and swollen.

Her knees were cut and scraped on both sides.  Her left knee seemed to have caught most of the damage and was swollen and sore.

I held my fear in, pushed my anxiety down, and talked to my petite cowgirl.

She wanted comfort for a while, but then she wanted back in the action.

She brushed Sweetie’s hair.

She rubbed Sweetie’s nose.

And then,

the bravest kid I have ever known,

asked if she could still ride the giant horse who had knocked her over and run her down.

When we returned home and Kevin asked her how her day had been, she didn’t even tell the story about the horse who had run over her.

She said, “Daddy, I rode a horse three times!”

My heart has been heavy all weekend for what could have happened.

I have kissed her sleeping head dozens of extra times.

I have placed my hand on her small back and thanked God for her safety.

And I have been reminded

of what a

fragile

gift it all is.

Just to be is a blessing.

Just to live is holy. (Abraham J. Heschel)

Pretty sure we had no plans of leaving the confines of our home, I took a gamble.

“Sure,” I agreed.

Mosely appeared in a too-big shirt and a slightly-too-corduroy-to-be-seasonally-appropriate skirt.

(Actually, Mosely picks out her clothes pretty often and mostly does a great job.)

It’s just that she has a certain pattern.

A specific look to which she seems constantly drawn.

And it looks a lot like this  . . .

I guess this picture is just about perfect for this post.

Piper Finn looks a little creepy.  Otto Fox looks mostly miserable.

(But they are both still sort of cute despite the weirdness and the displeasure.)

I’d say that’s a good summation of my day.

I should just stop right there and step away from the keyboard.

But I can’t.

Because that’s not how I roll.

Today was a school day.  But it was also a day that required a few quick morning errands.

A few quick morning errands.

Oh, how I laugh at the idea even now.

Before the bulk of our real shopping was to begin, Bergen reminded me of a promise I apparently had made to him for the previous three days.

“Mom, you said we could stop at the dollar store whenever we went out again.  We didn’t go yesterday.  Please.  I have one dollar saved.  I know just what I want.”

I vaguely recall saying something silly like that to my eldest boy, so I swerved the Suburban into the parking lot.  (I think even the parking spaces at the dollar store are sub-par.  They seem somehow tinier.)

We all unbuckled.

(5 kids.  1 adult.  Please don’t forget our child to adult ratio.)

I slumped the toddler onto my hip and we headed into purgatory, a.k.a. the dollar store, to wait while Bergen wavered frantically between choices – the whale that grows in water or the plastic dragon or the army guys or the parachute guy.

Parachute Guy won.

Piper Finn announces the need to urinate.  Our tribe marches to the restrooms.  Girls’ restroom is occupied.  Since it’s a single person restroom and there are no men currently in the entire dollar store establishment and I have a freshly potty-trained daughter I choose to take no chances.  In we go to the men’s bathroom.  I am forced to allow Toddler Boy to toddle as I hoist Potty Trained Girl on the seat.  Before I can even fully warn Potty Trained Girl of the dangers of touching the toilet seat with her hands Toddler Boy has toddled right over and into the trashcan.

Eventually we recover and take care of business.  (But not before I am secretly disgusted at all public restrooms, no matter the level of their cleanliness, and have a slight urge to throw up.)

During the “taking care of business” portion, Bergen is suddenly struck by more indecision.  He thinks he made the wrong choice.  Should he switch it up now?  Are the army guys his true destiny?

The pressure is mounting.  Mommy is reaching the edge of some level of sanity.

And Otto decides he has simply had enough and he does what I did not do earlier.

My son threw up on the floor of the dollar store.

A dollar store employee had to step over and around it.  She made eye contact with me, said nothing, and kept right on trucking.  To her register.  Where no one was waiting for her to ring up their purchases.

Another dollar store employee watched the whole scene from the vantage point of her ladder while stacking crates of Ajax. She glanced my way multiple times.  Spoke no words.  And never stepped off her ladder.

Come on ladies, I don’t really expect you to clean up my son’s vomit, but could you at least crack a smile, make a sympathetic cluck or even just sigh in disgust for me?

And so the story ends.

(Pointless, just as I promised in the title.)

I wiped up the remnants of Fox’s Cheerios breakfast with paper towels from the men’s restroom.

Bergen settled on Parachute Guy after all.

I stripped Otto down to his bare chest and carried him out of the store that way.  (That attire seemed to fit the atmosphere better there anyway.)

Berg paid for Parachute Guy all by himself – with a quick loan from his big sister to cover the unexpected seven cents tax.

And all this occurred before the real errands of the day were even underway.

Yes, that is the glamour that really is my life.

We have those weeks at our house.

Like everyone else I assume.

Weeks where the grocery budget has been spent and we end up eating tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches (at an estimated cost of less than 80 cents per family member) or tuna casserole (a throwback from the quick, easy, low cost dishes of my childhood).

I cut coupons and am currently trying my hand at the whole CVS game.

And I’m not doing it because I like spending several hours huddled over newspaper ads or searching websites for great deals.

I’m cutting coupons and planning low cost meals for the same reason everyone else is doing it.

Because providing food and clothing and other essential and non-essential items for a family is expensive.

Budgeting makes me a lot more aware of the items I toss into my grocery cart these days.  Fewer prepackaged foods weasel their way into our home.

And I am finding that another item I have started leaving off the grocery list is juice.  The kids don’t really need it.  It can get expensive – particularly at our home when serving up one glass per kid empties an entire container at one meal.  Juice has become a treat here.  Our kids generally have two primary options to quench their thirsts.  Milk or water.

The little gang of them were outside playing the other day and Mosely announced, “I’m going to go in and get myself a big glass of cold water.”

Which made all of them suddenly realize their own desperate desire to have water as well.

They rushed in, clamored around the sink, sloshing water in their cups, down their shirts and on their faces.

London told me, “You don’t mind us getting water whenever we want.  We don’t even have to ask.  Because it’s free.”

(Maybe I have been talking too much about grocery budgets all around or something.)

Anyway.

She said all this.

The kids downed their water.  Spilled their water.  Had seconds.  Soaked up the spilled water on the floor with a towel.  And then rushed back out to ride bikes.  Or climb mountains.  Or save the world.  Or whatever.

Water.

It’s free – right?

We just turn on the faucet and fill up our cups.

We even have a handy-dandy water filter attached to a spigot on our sink.

It’s nice.

I use it maybe twenty times a day.  Probably more.

Uh.  Sometimes I leave it running, pouring clean water down the drain of an empty sink while I step over to the fridge for something.

And I never even think about it.

Until right now.

And so, yeah – I want you to think about it too.

Our family’s friend, affectionately known here as Uncle Tyler (although we cannot claim genuine genetic proof of this familial relationship), invited Kevin and I and 28 other bloggers to participate in a challenge to raise $30,000 in 30 days through a project called charity: water.

For 30 days – that’s the month of September, you know – I will be encouraging you to learn more about charity:water and to donate some of your grocery money to the cause.

You could just stop buying juice for this month, which might equal $20 or more if you have a passel of kids slurping down the Juicy Juice every day.

Because $20 – your juice money – can provide one person with clean water for the next 20 years!

All of the money raised this month goes to build wells to provide clean water for the people living in the Central African Republic.

Most citizens of this area are walking to unsanitary water sources miles every day to carry dirty water back to their homes.

And guess who does most of the heavy lifting there – trekking back and forth to water spots with cans on their backs or their heads?

Women and children.

The you and me of their culture.

And guess who most frequently dies because of the lack of clean water?

Kids under five.

That’s half of my family!

Please.

Explore the website.

Watch the videos.

Go ahead – picture your kids in that environment.

That’s what I did.

My water-drinking, water-wasting, juice-loving, blessedly healthy young children.

That kind of helped make things a little clearer for me.

Let me know what you think.

My children say some crazy things.

Out of nowhere, Mosely commented, “Wouldn’t it be weird if a witch came here right now and turned Bergen into a dog?”

(Where’s that kid learning about witches and how powerful does she think they are?)

Or Bergen wondering out loud, “Wouldn’t it be funny if all shoes were made out of sausages?”

And I actually like to hear these bizarre-o statements escape their lips.

Because I like laughing.

But it’s the sweet, unexpectedly kind and thoughtful comments that really shape my heart.

Brushing Scout’s much-longer-than-I-realized hair, I began telling her how much her current seven-year-old self resembled my former seven-year-old self.

(It’s uncanny, really.  I would scan a photo if I knew how.  Or wasn’t mostly computer-lazy.)

Anyway.

I told her how she looked basically like a miniature me in cooler clothes.

She listened.

Then she said,

“Maybe God liked the way He made you so much that He wanted to make someone who was a little like you.”

Well.

That’s a beautiful thought.

And it’s sort of true.

For any parent of any kid.

God likes us so much that He allows us to create other people who are a little like us.

It is beautiful.

And it’s also humbling.

And overwhelming.

And it’s a work in progress.

Because the people God allows us to create who are a little like us will one day create more people who are a little like them, which means they are still a little like us.

And so on.

That’s a sobering thought for me.

Because I’m afraid that my London will not only look a little like me, she will also act a little like me.

And that’s where the real burdens and blessings lie.

Today.

It’s the first day of the 2010-2011 school year here at our home.

And this year the School of Keigley has a record number of students.

Three.

A second grader.

A first grader.

And a kindergarten student.

(Not to mention that we also manage and maintain a very elite preschool and a rather crème de la crème nursery as well.  So sorry – all vacancies are filled.)

Ahh – the new school year.

The books we cannot gather locally are ordered from our school’s personal suppliers- a.k.a. Barnes & Noble and Amazon.

The classroom has been tidied.  (Read: the kitchen counters are cleared and the sunroom table is free of toys and mismatched socks.)

Idealistic routines have been written in chalk on the kitchen cabinets, clothes are in each child’s labeled plastic bucket in the hall for pre-breakfast dressing, copywork has been placed on the kitchen table and pre-breakfast chores have been assigned.  (Bergen has compost duty this week.  Mosely is on laundry detail and London is setting the table.)

A field trip to a horse farm is scheduled later this week to begin our nature journals with this term’s focus on mammals.

I am sure it will be a good day.

Not because the idealistic list gets every item checked off.

Not because Fox sleeps exactly on schedule so that math can progress quietly and efficiently.

Not because my children will be completely cooperative and perfectly obedient.

But because I get to enjoy the privilege of doing something

a little bit magical,

a lot miraculous,

completely humbling,

totally beyond myself

and

mostly unrepeatable.

I get to participate in educating my children.

I get to place beauty and truth and knowledge

in their direct paths

and watch where all that wonder

will lead.

I can’t wait.

Let the school year commence!

Isn’t it funny

how all of a family’s history

can meet

right in the face

of a three-year-old?

On our long drive recently Kevin and I looked at Piper’s face in the rearview mirror and verbally dissected her petite features.

A Norton nose.

My mom’s jawline.

It’s all right there.

Aunt Vonnie.

Uncle Tommy.

In my little Willow.

That wee face,

full of so many faces she will never even know.

All of the people whose blood flows through hers.

All of the people who have had a hand in making her -

both structure and soul.

A whole of so many pieces.

An end to something started so long ago.

A continuation of something

centuries in the making.

A beginning of a new story

with endings we cannot even imagine.

How will you grow, little girl who was yesterday two but is today three?

What faces will we see when we look at yours?

Just three tiny little fast-as-lightning years of your story have begun.

Oh.

I hold my breath

and wait with joy

to see

how your face forms,

how your story shapes itself,

how you continue to pull out pieces of my heart

and stitch them back together in a new pattern.

Happy Third Birthday Piper Finnian Willow Lacey.

Sometime in the less-than-distant past, this event occurred at our home.

It was bed time.

Some friends were over.

Bergen wanted Nate to fly him to bed like a superhero.  (Because Nate can do that, you know.)

But Nate was busy.

So Bergen began to wait.

Impatiently.

He cried out Nate’s name.

Loudly.

Repetitively.

Nate told Bergen he would be right there in just a minute.

But Bergen didn’t care.

He just kept crying out in a sobbing voice, “Naaaay-Aaaate”.

Over and over.

Increasing in volume each time.

Nate was not ignoring Bergen.

He had every intention of entering the living room, scooping Bergen up Superman-style, and making a grand exit to the bed.

Bergen didn’t need to cry.

He didn’t need to scream.

He didn’t need to do anything.

He just needed to wait.

To sit still.

His turn was coming.

The Superman lift was approaching.

And the funny thing is, Nate, being the kind pal that he is, planned to meet Bergen’s request.

Bergen was going to head to bed lifted high in Nate’s arms.

Whether he sat patiently

or bellowed loudly.

The end result was the same.

Crying didn’t get Nate there more quickly.

It just made Berg unhappy and miserable while he waited.

(And bothered everyone around him as well.)

I’m pretty sure that for most of our lives we sound a lot like Bergen did that night.

I know I do.

We are just screaming for the next thing, the good thing, the end we desire.

Just shouting off and crying out and making ourselves unhappy and damaging the experience of all those around us.

Being miserable

while we wait.

It’s what we do.

Making others miserable

while we wait.

I’ve been guilty.

And the funny thing is, God has every intention of meeting our need.

He’s at the end.

He is the end.

The truth is

that end is going to happen

regardless of the manner in which we choose to wait.

Regardless of how we sit in our chair.

Regardless of our screaming.

I can be just like Bergen was that night.

But I don’t want to be.

I don’t want to sit

crying and screaming

waiting for the next thing.

I’d like my waiting to be a tad more patient, to look a lot more gracious, to be a bit more proactive.

Because maybe it really is

the waiting

that defines us anyway.