7 Quick Takes

1
My husband wakes at 3:00 a.m. for work every stinking day. This Lent I over scheduled myself in the evenings, so my poor guy has been in charge of putting the children down for the night. Trouble is, children resist going to be bed under the best of circumstances, but when everyone is crammed into one room it's a giggle fest every night. Sure, it's a large room, but these are kids. They consider the sleeping arrangements a "sleepover" and act accordingly. My poor husband has suffered long enough. Today, when he woke up with a sleep deprivation headache and nausea, I decided that now's the time to move the construction gear out of the master bedroom and move my husband and I in. He won't hear the giggles from that end of the house! My neighbors came over and helped put the plan into action. I went to the hardware store for my renovation gear so I can paint tomorrow and refinish the floors next week. When I left we'd got the bed moved and, in fact, my husband was napping up until...

2
...the "Check Engine" light went on in the van on the way back from the hardware store. I had taken all the non-napping children with me to give my husband a chance to pay off some of his sleep debt while the little ones slept, but he only got an hour or so before I had to call him for the game plan. Right now I am grateful to be able to...

3
...keep me and three kids entertained at my mother's house while I wait for the engine to cool down enough to get a good reading on the oil dipstick. My husband thinks we may just be low on oil. I sure hope so, oil being so much less expensive than engines.

4
Meanwhile I am trying to distract myself with a quick round of blogging at my mother's computer. I have on the world's worst outfit with hair I neglected to tame into smoothness after my bath. So, I am a fuzzy headed frump fresh from the hardware store and I have to lead youth group tonight. I tell you I am not above praying for the ability to go put my armor on to face the teens.

5

Available on-line here.

On the homeschool front, we have begun our "Reading Program." That may sound technical, but my entire program consists of the book Teach Your Child To Read In 100 Easy Lessons. I recommend it for everyone with a child who is in Kindergarten through Third Grade. I even recommend it as a tutoring tool for older children or young adults struggling with reading mechanics, fluency, or comprehension. In a little more than three months, the program teaches all the tools for reading. Non homeschooling families could take 15 minutes a day over the summer holiday and use this tool to supplement the school program. It is simply the best program I have come across. I go straight from this to literature and subject area reading. I only wish they would develop an app for this!


6
My youngest is three and is determined to learn to read with the rest of the pack. She's been singing the ABC Song to prove her mettle. The other evening, she grabbed my husband and I by the arm as we kissed her goodnight saying, "Now listen, now!" to prepare us for her latest rendition of that classic. This particular time she began with a prelude of  "A...B...C...D...I...N...G/Let me sing my ABCs!" before she started the traditional song. Either she's got a new CD without my knowing it or I have a miniature songwriter on my hands!  

7
Some administrivia:
In deference to East Coast interviewees, the Garden of Holiness at Deeper Truth Podcast time is moving from 7 p.m. Central to 6 p.m. Central (That's 7 p.m. to you Easterners).

Thanks to Jennifer Fulwiler, a fellow Texan, for hosting

7 Quick Takes Friday 

over at Conversion Diary.com

This Interruption Brought to You By a Narrow Eustachian Tube

My kind of girly has never been the vapory, cute and charming type. The first time my husband had romantic thoughts of me, I took his breath away, sure, but that was only after I'd made him laugh until he cried over my chicken impersonation--inchickenation? It was the cow impression, my finale, that knocked him flat, though. He really did fall out of his chair laughing. He said he knew right then he'd never forget me. He never did. My impromptu impressions made an impression, and yet I'm not at all like the type of gal he's ever dated. His type had always before been dainty, wispy, and delicate. He married me, though. Maybe because I have a strange way of dealing with awkward pauses, which is why I broke the ice with "Want to see a chicken?" all those years ago, but I think it's mostly because I can still knock him out of his chair laughing.

I do have one "dainty" part of me. It is my Eustachian Tube. Because of it's delicate nature I am the only adult I know who still gets regular ear infections. Everything else is a solid "medium to large," alas. At any rate, being upright the last few days has been a challenge, but today, I'm feeling better. After I am done shoveling out my laundry room, I'll get back to blogging!

The missing child

Five and counting...

I have that nagging feeling again. The one that hits after I count the brood--even after all five are mentally counted--it's a heart stopping feeling, for just an instant, that someone is missing. All parents know it in its usual form, where there's a face immediately attached to it on the heels of a burst of panic. Like when a child isn't brushing her teeth in the bathroom with the rest of them, and I know instantly who hasn't been accounted for--Sissy!--and soon discover her already asleep, one shoe on and one shoe off, on top of her covers.

This missing child feeling is the feeling that hits, facelessly and namelessly when all the children are safely tallied--someone isn't here. It's someone I don't know yet. Some families experience this anonymous feeling of missing a child as an invitation to have another one. For us? It's likely an invitation to begin fostering again. Our house is very close to being ready for us to accept another blessing, but not quite yet. We have a few more details to take care of in the renovations.

My heart is already ready. I miss this person. My arms are ready to receive her in her first hug, or him, or them. Every time I count to five, when we load up in the van, when we start a meal, when I kiss heads at night, I miss this person I haven't met. Where are you, honey? I'm here.

My husband has been feeling it, too. The other day, at dinner, I saw his eyes sweep the table in a mental count, before his eyes met mine.

"Missing baby," he said.
"Yeah, me, too," I answered. 
We both smiled, then I sighed, and he squeezed my hand.

Only the two of us would understand what we mean, that we are both experiencing that invitation to make ready for the next child. My husband is working on the renovations, and I'm working on patience. Even my youngest, upon finding that the baby potty she'd recently graduated from was missing from the bathroom this morning, remarked mournfully, "We need another baby, mommy!"

I know that feeling.

...room for more...

As I imagine him...

...he wasn't much to look at. Other than very nice arms, arms like small trees in fact, he was an ordinary guy, the kind of man that until you met his eye, you might never notice, and then any woman might be in danger of falling in love. We like his style of man, quiet and normal. Homey

We have no written record of his words. Proof he was one of those strong silent types, a man who talks more with his eyes and with his actions than mere words. When the angel said Mary's son was God's own and to marry her anyway, he did. When the angel said the child was in danger, he left that very night. He spoke like that. "I'll love you anyway." "I'll take care of you."

I imagine him, working away in his shop as Jesus brings home fallen fledglings, motherless kittens, and stray mutts. Watching quietly as the boy cares for them, explaining how to pet and care for the little wild things, then pouring water and scraps into their bowls after Jesus falls asleep at night. I imagine him taking care of all of us other strays that Jesus has brought in, caring for and praying over us, too.

I can imagine his struggles with ordinary and family-style sins: impatience, bouts of minor pettiness. I can imagine, too, being the only person in the house capable of such failings, and facing divine forgiveness in his foster son and perfected understanding from his pure and human wife. I'd be tempted to despairing thoughts of worthlessness in the face of more perfection than I was ever capable of. How must it have been to be a sinner among such a pair? I'll bet that's what made a saint of him.

Joseph and I have fostering in common and he helps me in this. I've often appealed to him to speak to Jesus about one of my foster children or even to ask Jesus for comfort when I struggled with giving a foster child back again. I ask him to especially and eternally to pray for those ones.

I ask him to pray for my husband during those dry spells of marriage, to look out for me as a spouse, to teach me how to be imperfect with grace: God's grace.

To me, he is the patron of ordinary guys, ordinary people. He is the first among us to reconcile himself and his life to the Word Made Flesh. He has a lot to say, in his quiet way. Do. Work. Love. Look, how extraordinary the ordinary.

Because it's Monday

Last Monday took an hour from me. This Monday brought a kid-scaring early morning thunderstorm. Just keep the coffee coming and no one gets smote!