Scrub Days.

Some days, all my best laid plans and ideas for the day just. aren't. working. Getting little minds and hands corralled into any activity is like trying to herd drunken cats. Or juggle them. It's difficult.

I used to end these days crying after everyone was asleep, in my favorite "comfort" pajamas over a carton of vanilla greek yogurt, asking my cat questions like: "Why is this so hard? Why can't I get them to follow this awesome plan? Am I failing all my kids completely? Why do I SUCK?! Do you even care?"

Then, on one of Those Days, I noticed something. I'd stuck everyone in the car and released them into a big park with a field, in effort to not yell at anyone harshly out of frustration. (Don't pretend now. We all do that sometimes. ;oP ) They meandered into a giant pavilion with a sandpit and so immersed their minds in play and their toes in sand that they stayed there happily for 3 full hours. It struck me that this is probably what they needed all along.

So now, when a day's just not working, I scrub all plans. Done. There's now nothing on the docket, except sitting and waiting for the day to tell us what needs to happen for us all to find our balance again. The answer always presents itself, eventually, and it's usually the youngest of us that discovers the truth first. (More often than not, if you let the youngest member of the family set the barometer for the day, things are bound to be more successful all around, in my experience, which sort of flies in the face of conventional wisdom I suppose.)

Sometimes, the solution is a day doing nothing but reading in bed together. Sometimes, we have an impromptu trip to the park. Often, it's building elaborate tents and tunnels with quilts and chairs and tables, and pretending until people fall asleep under a hideout or indoor makeshift hammock. Another favorite go-to is gross motor movement activities like tree climbing or building dams in streams with rocks or scaling giant wood chip mounds. Almost invariably, sour moods are put right again, tempers stop flaring and the pointless urgency of the atmosphere drains lazily out of the day like water out of a long, luxurious bath.

Grace and Lark's bear cave

Sometimes, we simply toss pillows in the floor and watch movies together while eating popcorn (everyone gets their OWN bowl.) If we need to run out and grab snacks just to get through that day, so be it. (And who says anyone needs matching shoes anyway? There are days for nice outfits and matching shoes, and then there are days to celebrate the hilarity of being a little ridiculous!)

Most importantly, there's no pushing through or powering ahead when everyone's got a bad case of "the stupids" (you know, the days when every instruction is met with a blank stare), or the grumpies, or when the whole family is just restless in general. There's only stopping and trying to find our bliss on Scrub days. And that's OK.

It's OK because Scrub Days are about finding something our routine made us leave behind. Relationship. Connection. Alone time. Fantasy. Imagination. Our inner monkey. When we give ourselves time to honor the part inside us that's screaming for air and sustenance, so that we can become balanced people again. Then we can move forward and think about words like "accomplishment" and "rhythm" and "planning".

 All work and no play makes Jane a dull/grouchy/spaced out/whiny/incomplete girl. So instead pecking away at the impossible, we relax and let our Muses carry us effortlessly to where we needed to go in the first place. Does it look indulgent and lazy to others? Sure. Who cares! We know it's wise. We know it works. And that's really all that matters.

Getting lost in wonderland.

Imagine my surprise...

When Nate and I went to make dinner, and found this! ;oP It seems we have a trickster in our midst. Ah, well. A little strawberry never hurt anyone...though I'd be intrigued to see the chicken who laid them!! The ever elusive Strawberraucana? Plymouth Barred Berry, perhaps? We never did find the eggs.

In other news, we were planting fools today, and got peas, kale, chard, mint and lavendar planted today, along with various flowers. I saw a honey bee. It was so springy, I practically floated around the yard with joy. More tomorrow, and I hope the weather there is making you just as happy as I'm feeling now!

Mischief Managed.

Dear Essie, Nomi and Eva,

When your mama was little, I had a lively mind, and a stubborn streak a mile wide (not a bad thing, if you ask me). When your daddy was a small fry, he was lively with a propensity for getting into honest mischief when he was bored. So, chances are, if you have as many babies as you say you want to have, you might have at least one offspring who has a wildly active mind or body.

These are the two year olds who empty not one,

but ALL of the flour

and dried bean cannisters from the pantry while their mommy lays their baby sister down for a nap. These little sprites attempt to get their own cereal and milk at 2.5, climb to the top of the bookshelf at 3, leave the house through the window screen to pick mommy some flowers at 3.5, give all their stuffed animals a

shampoo early in the morning very quietly "so they don't bother your sleep" at 4, and try their hand at making waffles from scratch and doctoring the "diseased" cat with medical tape at 4.5. (And the same children who chase down that very cat and wrestle it to the ground to save an unfortunate mole from certain death!)

Least you think my opinion of lively children is low, let me set the record straight right now,

loves: I'm rather fond of them. In fact, I think they're brilliant in every way. I admire their creativity and drive to accomplish new things, appreciate the fact that they aren't dampened by the arbitrary rules that society deems necessary to set. The soft spot in my heart for lively people is permanent and dear to me.

Teaching respect of others can be a challenge, so, I'll let you in on a secret I've discovered: lively children tend to recognize and honor the boundaries of others more when their own needs are

met. That sounds like a great deal of gobbledygook , doesn't it? What it means, boiled down, is- you may threaten and take and woun

d and restrict as much as you like, but this will likely only serve to frustrate your lively

child. Mommy knows, unfortunately, because I've tried all those things. It was actually Essie, one day, that looked at me and said, "Doing that will only make me madder. I can't help it. I need something to DO!!"

And that's the key, darlings. An active mind literally and simply cannot stop being as active as it is. So, my job as a mommy became not keeping you out of mischief, but giving you plenty of safe exploring and adventure to sink your little teeth into. It dawned on me slowly that I didn't want to slowly box you into something more manageable. I wanted to show you how to be the best and safest spectacular you that you could possibly be without blowing yourself and others up.

Ever notice how all the interesting book characters (the ones who have the best adventures) tend to be a bit different or "mischievous"? Most of them are also the people who have the quick wits and bravery to rise to the occasion when something truly terrifying or challenging presents itself. Never let another person shame you out of playing the role that was written for you; if you're full of spirit, it's for a reason!

It's been hard work keeping you busy. But then, so would have been following you around and bullying and coaxing and begging and insisting that you be still and docile, something completely against your (God-given) nature. So, we dance. We jump, we climb, we take things apart, we cook, we put things back together, we jest, we roll, we sing at the top of our lungs, we read about squirrel anatomy after we find a dead one in the yard, we make approved messes.

I sit cringing sometimes on the sidelines while you crack eggs and get some on the counter, while you hammer away at nails in a board, you dexterously walk narrow rails, while you bury yourself in the dirt in the garden, you teach me phrases of your own invented language and while you construct your very own dutch-hair-fro through copious amount of back-combing (and then proudly wait by the door to go grocery shopping in your new 'do).

And, frankly, loves? Despite the fact that I fall into bed completely and utterly exhausted every night, I wouldn't want to change a thing. I used to hope you got a "more" child in your adult years, as a means of personal retribution. Now, I pray you get the privilege someday, because it's an intensely beautiful and humbling experience to see a being that intense burn so brightly every morning.

I love you.

Middle Child in need of attention.

My 3yo demands (while standing on my bed), "Mooom, look how much I've grown!! Look, I said!!" She looks on for my response in expectation and a little frustration, balancing on her tip-toes on the mattress, her purple romper all eschew from laundry-pile jumping.

Finally, I glance up and fake interest when I say, "Oh, yeah! Look at that! Cool!" I go back to reading.

This was not the desired response, apparently, because she said with furrowed brow, "I said, I'm TALL!!!" Her eyes wide open, her little fists clenched into desperate little balls and her whole body buzzing with anticipation. Clearly, this child needs recognition, requiring me to break concentration. Ah, well. I go into over-the-top mode, gesticulating in a spastic manner: "Oh, WOW!!! You're a giant! Whoa, DUDE!! You've grown like a crazy wild sunflower overnight, and it's a MIRACLE!!"

She smiles shyly, rolls her giant eyes and murmurs gently, "It is." :D

The middle child's proverbial love tank is full.

You'll forgive if this post is disjointed, won't you?

I'm not yet fully awake. I seriously need to consider starting a coffee habit, it seems. A shame, too, having made it 26 years without one. I'm currently eating a piece of quiche. (A friend brought us some after Eva's birth, and I haven't been able to kick the habit since. That, and homemade tomato soup.) Maybe I'll start a morning cup of quiche tradition, seeing that I detest coffee and all.






Eva had her first ped appointment this week- my attempt to sort of get her on the grid, for "just in case" reasons. ;OP

She's 24.4 inches long and 14lbs 2oz! Gooooooooo breastmilk. ;OP Comically enough, I'm down 14lbs since my initial baby/fluid/extra blood volume loss at her birth. We'd better not keep up this pound for pound thing long, though, or I'll be lugging around a 50 lb 1yo in 10 months, lol.

This morning, Eva and Noni were snuggling together on Noni's mattress beside our bed, and naturally, I had to snap a few pics. ::mush:: Noni has decided not to "give Evie to pirates who will chew off her arms" or "put her on a floating iceberg"...now she's simply toned the maledictory statements down to adding the following verse to The Wheels on the Bus: "the Evie on the bus goes far away, far away, far away..." I'll take the improvement. I'm also impressed by the clever play on words. (She might gotten have my dark sense of humor...poor kiddo.) She now loves her baby sister, and all accounts of pirates stealing her are ended with Super-Nomi saving Eva and bringing her back.

We are a family of dreamers...apparently, my girls inherited my ability to remember a great deal of what they dream. Recently, Essie dreamed about our friend Brian standing at our front door, eating a hotdog. It's become quite popular; now every morning, both girls have to repeat the hotdog dream during the morning dream-report session. So, our morning so far has gone something like: wake up with five people piled into my bed, our youngest giggling, our eldest air-trumpeting revelry in our ears, and our 2yo cheerfully recounting the hotdog dream. My husband groaning, pillow over head. Good times.

I suspect I've become a lawn widow. Nate now must spend considerable time mowing. I hear bigger yards do that. If you see my husband, tell him I have quiche for him. The in-a-cup part is optional.

Esther's starting to become concerned with honesty and being trustworthy, and, of course, this makes me smile. This morning, I stumbled into the living room (in search of aforementioned camera), and noticed her playing CandyLand with herself. "Mom, look! I got all the way to Candy Castle! I won!!" (wait for it......) "**sly grin** I may have cheated a little." (snicker)


Now. If you'll forgive me, I'm fairly certain I've just been pooped on.

Being Receptive to the Moment

I've been appreciating stillness this week. It's a practice in guard dropping, and embracing the good things that are available for me if I do so. For whatever reason, it's an incredibly difficult act for me. I'm out of practice.

During prayer and silent reflection time at church, His presence was so gentle and available, it took my breath away. The simple act of allowing my heart to be searched and fully present in that moment brought almost instantly the state of my heart into focus: I need to tweak my heart's "filter" to allow the good in, to accept what I know is genuine love in the moment with others without suspicion, and receive God's kingdom like a trusting child by accepting the grace extended to me. It was as is a dark and blurry vision became focused and bright instantaneously. The palpable warmth of that gentle, concerned love was almost startling.

And, I have to correct myself and say that it wasn't *God's* presence that made the difference, but my own. I was present in the moment, God had always been there.

As a mother, I'm an instrument of perpetual motion-planning, comforting, working, being bigger than my children's fears and emotions, providing security. In relationship, I sometimes tend to shut out or deflect caring moments for others. I do this because they come too far in between for me to trust them in our isolated society, perhaps, or because I'm afraid that if I once let go of the carefully held tension, I'll spill out all over the place like a burst water balloon.


I, like anybody, have my reasons for filtering out the good along with the bad, at times, because I don't want to take a chance on losing that feeling of safety once it's gone. Sometimes, I do it because I don't want to show my cards. Sometimes I feel it's the only way I can keep myself together and functioning. Perfect love and peace can scare me, because I fear their absence. I think almost everyone in our breakneck society sets their own pace in how they experience love to some degree.

Slowing down and participating fully in the joy and peace of a an unpredictable moment becomes unfamiliar, even though our bodies and souls crave it like water. Sitting down and taking a more receptive stance to the world isn't something that comes naturally. We can control everything else. I know I do.


I love that Jesus says in Mark, "anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it." And then he took them in His arms. I think that's interesting, because my own little children have almost no ability to look to the future. Everything they do is fully in the present. The squish, climb, roll, smell, taste, eat, dance in and actively receive and partake in the present. That's their domain. It's were they live.

Once, having been asked by the Pharisees when the kingdom of God would come, Jesus replied, "The kingdom of God does not come with your careful observation, nor will people say, 'Here it is,' or 'There it is,' because the kingdom of God is within you."

Journeys aren't always about walking. Sometimes we're already were we need to go, and we don't even notice it. We act as if we're Alice running along beside the tree in Wonderland with the Red Queen, running till breathless just to stay were we are, and having to run twice as fast to actually get somewhere else. Realizing that the journey is all around us already us for us to explore and receive is difficult.

This weekend our family went hiking near a canyon covered in gorgeous autumn trees. We, the parents, walked along, pressing towards the end of the trail, commenting at how magical the woods seemed this time of year, and dragging the littles along behind us, encouraging them to hurry up and keep walking. They wanted to go off the path, stick their fingers into things, pick things, smell them. I wanted to capture it all in photos, and was busily snapping away, stuffing beauty in my box without really partaking in it.

My youngest child in my belly finally slowed me down, quite literally. I needed to slow my heart rate, so we decided to rest in the comfortable roots of a giant cyprus tree. I had no choice. And my children were happy to finally do what they'd been trying to do all along: enjoy that moment in that place.

I began to unwind, to unfold my soul under the stained glass leaves that were making a colored sunset canopy above us, and to enjoy listening to my girls playing pretend as they climbed and hopped around the giant roots. I noticed how peaceful the woods were, and how sweet the air smelled. We stayed there for half an hour. I could see it on Nate's face, too. We had been transported somewhere else. Rather than trying to capture the moment in every way possible, the moment was actively sinking into us.

Our souls were being fed by stillness. The kingdom of heaven was near.

My Jack and Jill

I've always despised violent nursery rhymes for small children. Humpty Dumpty falls down and irreparably breaks into pieces, everyone falls down from the plague at the end of "Ring around the Rosies", London Bridge is destroyed, Mary Contrary's garden is filled with torture devices, Jack and Jill break their heads while falling down the hill...gruesome stuff. It used to make me shiver with protective indignation. Such stuff seemed wildly inappropriate for such innocent little people.

Then, my children became old enough for me to realize that there are some annoying traditions I cannot protect them from. Trying to keep them from absorbing those crazy poems (which mostly originated as political statements) is like trying to keep candy a secret from them. :OP They catch things from our culture that I wish I could simply disappear by waving my magic mommy hands and Avada Kadavra! But, in reality, it's simply not possible, much to my annoyance.



Anyhow, I've found that most of the creepiness goes right over the head of a child under, say 4, and once that age is reached, they get a chance to process their newly found understanding of permanent damage and death in form of a silly game or rhyme. It's not all terrible. If they don't have gory songs to sing already, they'll make up songs and stories themselves.

Case in point: Mirth tells us a bedtime story right before bed...

"Once upon a time, there was a team with a mascot. They were (thinking hard with nose wrinkled) the Northeast Bears. Yes. They were bears that lived in the Northeast. They EAT people who live in the Northeast. All the northeast people were dead. The people got scared and SHOT the Northeast bears. Then, they were dead. :) And the team didn't have a mascot. The end."

I suggested the "Northeast Goldfish", and Mirth agreed that fish were a better idea. "They just swim in a fishbowl all day, doing nothing but swimming. Goldfish don't eat people."

Suddenly, Humpty Dumpty seems tame.


And, true to form, she generally finds a way to redeem the characters in her fantasies. She's the eternal relational optimist, and loves to bring peace and solutions to tricky situations, as a way of bringing peaceful, safe feelings to her own mind about the subject. I love it about her. I love it about that age. She'll have years to grapple with the realities of life, but in this moment, she embraces fantasy, the magical and the terrible.

She explores the fantastic with gusto and ease, and fleshes out every possibility, from extraordinary peace to dismemberment, without a bat of an eye. It's constant. A character might die and be resurrected five times within a day, and she uses her magic words to change their fate, which is as capricious as a fairy tale.

Yesterday: "This is my little brother Jack (pssst! Mom! It's REALLY just N'omi, don't worry!) and I'm the sister Jill. But we don't ONLY go up the hill to fetch pails of water. Sometimes, we feed BEARS, too. They're not scary. They're sick. We put them into bed, and feed them soup. We make them scarves. See? They live in shoes. They hibernate there and eat fried corn. They're friendly bears."

And, in Mirth's world of bright eyed wonder, everyone gets to live happily ever after. Or not. ;)

The Wide World Comforts Her

It was nearly a year ago that a good friend and I sat on a quilt in my backyard and marveled at how *calm* our both our intense children were as soon as we took them outside.
They drove each other to tears indoors, teasing, grabbing, bouncing quite literally off each other and my crayon marked walls, but as soon as they stepped outside, it was as if we had given the both behavioral meds!

Instantly calm, and happy to collect sticks together. We laughed the relieved laughter that only the parent of a "more" child can laugh...it was glorious!! It was like magic.

I shouldn't have been surprised.

Our girls have been lovers of the outdoors since they were infants. They never had any other choice, really! Barefoot Man took both of them for walks around the yard in the golden autumn air the first week they were born, Mirth in Oct and Lark in Sept. Lark had her first glimpse of our giant tulip tree and honeysuckles from daddy's cloth sling just a few hours after she'd suckled for the first time.

One of Mirth's favorite books is "When Sophie Gets Angry". It's about a little girl who has angry feelings exploding inside her like a volcano, and who finally feels peace when she runs into the forest and climbs a giant tree. Our favorite line is, "The wide world comforts her". That line is our favorite because it's so very true: it's hard to stay angry when the world around you is embracing you, dwarfing you, soothing you.

I'm currently reading a most excellent (if a bit rambling)book called "Last Child in the Woods", it's premise being that many children in our current society suffer from what he calls "nature deficit disorder". There are a great many thought provoking interviews in the book, as well as some really plausible theories about the connection between the apparent epidemic of ADHD and lack of unstructured outdoor play. It's a read that's well worth your time, and raises some really important questions about the effects of a sterilized childhood.



In addition to fleshing out the skeleton of some of my cherished beliefs, Last Child also brought back a flood of memories from my own girlhood. I realize that I was largely inspired, informed, nurtured and challenged by my own hand to hand experiences with nature. I'm made up of cotton plants and black eyed susans and bee stingers in my feet and grimy river dirt under my fingernails.

My favorite and most distinct memories are climbing the persimmon tree in our backyard, and squishing the rotten ones beneath my dusty keds. Of feeding baby birds with pairs of tweezers, watching my brother try and teach them to fly, and crying both happy and disappointed tears when ey finally did. Of squishing cool, plowed dirt between my little toes. Of tasting tiny green crab apples, of collecting nuts at my great grandma's house with mosquitoes buzzing my head, of crawling across the dirt to capture a blue tailed lizard (only to have it's tail come off when I grabbed it)

I remember rubbing brown dirt on my skinny arms and legs, and pretending to be friendly Pocahontas or brave Sacajawea. I remember flying out the door after piano lessons into the woods with my friends, brandishing stick-shaped pirate swords as we commandeered the musty old rotting tree house in the woods. I remember skimming my fingers over the fish smelling water outside my grandparent's boat, and the sting of my hair as it whipped my face in the wind. I remember making tepees out of big branches and moss and clumps of grass with my brother in the woods at my grandfather's cattle farm. I can still feel the rush of glee as I recall swinging on old vines over a small gully in my grandmother's back yard, and the flush of excitement that comes from escaping danger unscathed.


little Barefoot in a tree


I remember finding baby sharks in tidal pools and feeling an a deep connection to the restless, boundless sea as a teenager. Laying on my back and looking at the stars with my brother in our driveway, and dancing in the rain...something that brought me connection with my younger years and helped me not take myself too seriously. Of sneaking into the woods late in the night at summer camp with my good friend Lyn, and listening to the cicadas drone as we softly giggled under the watch of an enormous moonlit sky. Of feeling like we could conquer the world and dream our dreams out loud with no one around to make us feel self conscious.

Nature gave me a chance to process, to release, to try on new persona, to test myself, to teach myself "I can", to show me the world is bigger and more constant than my own emotions and thoughts. To quote my favorite girlhood heroine, it "soothed my crumpled spirits". It invited me to dream, and learn, and transport myself elsewhere.

Nate's childhood was perhaps even more closely connected to creation than even mine, and we share the ability to be almost instantly calmed and centered when we walk outdoors.

As an adult, I tend to thrive on order. I get a thrill from seeing all the laundry neatly stashed away, not feeling crumbs under my feet on the floor, and seeing my counters gleaming a cheery "hello" in the morning. (I am, admittedly, a little obsessive in my efforts sometimes. ) My family's life needs order and structure to run smoothly, and that's fine by me. I enjoy having everything in a reasonable state of organization. :oP

I also feel strongly urged let my daughters run wild a bit. Outdoors, unstructured, unfettered, uninhibited by rules about clothes or germs or climbing too high or messing anything up. While they might thrive on structure inside our home, their spirits and minds seem awakened when they get a chance to spend lots of time out in the wild, rambling, sensuous earth. They squish, they rip, they climb, they taste, they prod, they whoop with delight...and I'm trying my best to let them.



They need to feed their wild side more than they need educational shows or my calming techniques or nice, clean shoes. I need to remind myself daily to slap floppy hats on them, put on their old shoes and turn them loose. The world is their laboratory, their muse, their problem to solve, their challenge to conquer, their embrace.

The wide world comforts them. It comforts me, too. <3