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sibling love.
Today this little fella had a bout with some stomach issues. (Believe it or not – this isn’t really a post about vomit. Although today I realized that our wood floors have deep grooves between the boards. Deep grooves that collect whatever falls their way. That’s all.) And today our daughters loved and served their tired brother in the sweetest of ways. They set the table for him, since it’s his week on table duty. And they made this little coloring page for him as he lay on the sofa resting. London drew the picture and Mosely helped build the tape crayon holder. Such a wonderful picture of love. The…
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the simple beautiful
I don’t know if the phrase “the simple beautiful” makes any sense. But I’d like it to. This recent move of ours, the recent job change, all of it – it’s been a risk. A risk we’ve willingly chosen. A risk we feel is worth the . . . well . . . worth the risk. And we have been awed, amazed, overwhelmed and humbled at the various ways God has allowed our needs to be met during this season of our lives. Watching the way God provides. That’s the simple beautiful. And it’s been abundant. The labors of love from our friends who painted and cleaned our home before…
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Outdoor Hour Challenge. II.
We completed our second round with the Outdoor Hour Challenge. The week before we headed outside to begin our journey and this week it wasn’t even the least bit difficult to convince the kids to don their boots and jackets and slip outside. We are taking our hikes right after lunch so it’s a been a fabulous motivator to clear the table and tidy the kitchen in a hurry. Our assignment was Challenge #2: Using Your Words. And do you know what we didn’t do on our walk? Use our words. Get it? Oh, the irony. The assignment was to be quiet, to listen, to observe. We spent over…
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good words II.
the littlest birds sing the prettiest songs.
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mosely. miracles. in the middle.
Can I just talk about this one for a little while? She is sweet and sharp and sensitive. Mosely is clever and brave and the only person in our home willing to kill spiders for the rest of us weaklings when Daddy’s at work. She is eight years old, a second grader and a struggling reader. The teaching of reading, the concept of words on paper, has been a struggle for Mosely since kindergarten. We both watched London catch the reading fever in full swing around first grade. And then we both watched Bergen conquer words like nobody’s business the first day of kindergarten. And there she was. Mosely. Middle.…
Keep Reading . . .
Going to Guatemala
parenting, continued
Five Finds Friday (Lost Valley Ranch Version)
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an excuse. or an explanation. a disclaimer, if you prefer.
Since we have moved I have had a more difficult time regularly maintaining my blog. First it was the lack of internet. That makes sense. But lately it’s been something else. I typically write my posts late in the evening. Post-children’s bedtimes. While Kevin is watching some end-of-the-day show that I can no longer tolerate. (Mythbusters, Naked Archeaoligist, Antiques Road Show, any program aired on the Science channel, any program narrated by Morgan Freeman.) Occassionally I write my posts early in the morning. Pre-children’s wake up times. And those times have always both worked out splendidly. Until this house. Because both of those times have something in common at our…
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Outdoor Hour Challenge. 1.
I’ve been using the Handbook of Nature Study as a reference guide for as many years as I have been homeschooling. And our family has been compiling nature journals and keeping nature notes and taking nature hikes as a routine part of our school work. Probably about a year ago I linked from a friend’s blog to the site of a homeschooling mother who uses the Handbook of Nature Study to inspire her family and others to take a weekly Outdoor Hour Challenge. You can explore the website yourself (and you should) but the basic idea is for a family to go outside together once a week on a nature…
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And just like that . . . . it’s gone
What? It’s not really Monday already – is it? Where did this weekend go? Saturday morning cuddles. Saturday chores. Saturday night date. Cold weather. Inside and out. The wind blew so hard it blew the unattractive plastic cover off the edges of our windows. Sunday morning round up. Every child complaining about the attire I had chosen for them. Church. Relaxing afternoon with all of us at home. Haircuts for Finn and Fox. And that’s all. Blink. Blink. Weekend over. Where did your weekend go?
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good words.
“After all, what is the chief sign of feeling old? Is it not the feeling that we know all there is to be known? It is not years which make people old; it is ruts, and a limitation of interests. When we no longer care about anything except our own interests, we are then old, it matters not whether our years be twenty or eighty.” -from the Handbook of Nature Study by Anna Botsford Comstock
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rule 62 of the handbook no one has written.
There ought to be a rule. Number 62 in the parenting handbook or something. Any words muttered by you or your spouse between the hours of midnight and six a.m. cannot be held against you. The world seems dark and the situation seems dire when your two-year-old son wakes up at three thirty-six a.m. His room is upstairs. Your room is downstairs. Your bed is warm. The covers are tight. The hallway is long and the steps are cold. You lie in bed and pretend you just don’t hear him, hoping your spouse will take this round for you. It’s an absolutely unfair advantage when said crying two-year-old chooses to…
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books. tomes. volumes.
I heart books. I like old books with faded covers. I love used books with inscriptions inside addressed to people who are not me. I like borrowed books. And novels signed and dated by authors I have never met. Even more so do I love the ones signed by authors for whom I have stood in line and waited with friends to listen to the authors read aloud from their own writings. I like the smell and the crisp crisp crispness of a book purchased just off the shelf, third from the rack, touched by no one but myself and the person stocking the bookstore’s shelves. We are always reading…
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more than it seems.
It might look like a basic five gallon bucket to you. But to one small boy, this bucket is all he needs. Astride this orange beauty, he’s a barrel rider, a cowboy, a race car driver. Once he hops off his trusty steed or jumps out of the driver’s seat, he turns the bucket right side up and begins to go fishing. Any stick and any string will do. A belt tied to a lincoln log. A sister’s hair band wrapped around a drumstick. And when it’s time to come to dinner after a long day on the range and a few hours at the fishing pond and several laps…
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I can’t explain why.
It’s been a good weekend. Warm weather. Birthday celebrations. Work completed. My little corner of the world has been feeling a-okay. But I know that’s not a universal feeling. And I know it hasn’t always been true for me. And I’m sure it hasn’t always been true for you either. I sort of feel like a Southern Baptist minister right now, standing behind a wooden pulpit on a red-carpeted stage. But I’m going to type this anyway. There’s a post I wrote more than a year ago. And for some reason, I think I need to repost it today. Here’s the link. And below is the post itself cut and…
