Enough Time/ Slow Living

I read a New Yorker article about being busy, about how overwhelmed our society is, by and large. One of the ideas mentioned is that busyness is equated to importance. If you are important, you are busy.

I guess I'm not very important, because, I am not that busy, by nature and by design.

I don't cart my kids to dozens of practices and rehearsals. I prefer our evenings to be occupied with playing in the yard and family dinners, our weekends to be spent on the beach or around a bonfire. I like to spend time with my family and my friends, rather than driving around in our beloved minivan and then being forced to make small talk with other parents as our kids do all the things we think that they are supposed to be doing.

And as I was writing this post, I realize that this risks turning into nothing more than a humble brag, just me waxing philosophical  about how I have figured out how to live a slow, purposeful life. The truth is, I do feel pretty good about the pace of my life and the lives I'm helping to shape. But it does come at a cost. I frequently have to disparage myself. I have to brand myself lazy, apologize for all the things I don't do, for all the things I do badly.

I don't like to be busy. So that means I don't get involved. I don't spend time working on fundraisers or organizing events. And when people ask me to do things, which honestly doesn't happen that often, I don't have the handy excuse of being busy because... I'm not. And I don't want to be. So I say no so that I can remain that way. When I don't do the things that I really should do-- send care packages, volunteer at church, drop off boxes full of things to be donated, work-out-- I have no reasons to fall back on.

For instance, what did I do this weekend? I hung out. I spent about 10 hours on the beach. I folded some laundry. I made some food. I wrote a blog post. I looked over the new nature workbooks I bought for Sena and Gus. I watched three movies. I felt like I pretty good mother, but not the least bit productive. I am not, generally, very productive.

And I don't want to be. And I hope that's okay. I hope that the busy people will forgive me for not lightening their loads. I secretly suspect that their loads don't need to be so heavy anyway and that even if I did bear some of the weight, they would just find more things to pile on their poor, over-worked backs. But I hope they will forgive me all the same.

And with all my time spent not being busy, I'll just keep reading New Yorker articles and figuring out how to make them all about me.

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Compassion

Today a sixteen year-old girl told me I was naive. We were discussing compassion and Atticus Finch, having one of the best discussions I have ever led in a high school classroom.

And the more I've thought about it, that sixteen year-old was probably right. I am naive. I am optimistic in the face of experience. I am hopeful. I am trusting. I believe people are basically good, even when they are profoundly screwed up.

Optimism comes at a price. My hope is sometimes met with heartbreaking disappointment.

But I know the sun will rise again tomorrow, even if I can't see it for the clouds.

And people can change.

And God is big.

And I am happier for believing in both.

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These Are Not Real Problems

These aren't problems, real or otherwise. It's not a problem to have a house full of people trying to help you. It's not a problem to be surrounded by family. But for some reason, yesterday, it felt like it was.

Maybe it was the days of rain.
Maybe it was an absence of down time.
Maybe it was hormones or the moon or some sort of terrible, but thankfully brief curse.
Maybe it was because sometimes I am a baby.

What I know is that life is short and chaotic and full of people and things that I love. And today I have to do a better job keeping myself together because really, there is no need for bad attitudes.

And the sun is shining.

 Happy May. I'm glad today is Friday.

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Snowless Snowday Birthday

Yesterday, on the anniversary of Arlo's first day, we all got a gift, an unexpected snowless "snow" day. No work, no school, just time for family, time for Arlo. And I should have been happy as a clam, but for reasons completely unknown to me, I was in terrible, terrible mood.

I tried to celebrate. I made a big breakfast and invited family over. Sena, Gus, and I baked a cake while Arlo napped. But nothing managed to get me out of my funk until Tom suggested we bundle up for a walk. The fresh, crisp air, a little exercise, and my sweet kiddos helped lift my spirits for a while. I mean, look at these faces, how dare I be grumpy in their presence? 

I would say I am a generally positive person (sometimes even obnoxiously upbeat, Heather). But I think it's important to practice happiness, too, to not take it for granted. There are so many habits, practices, and choices that impact my mood and attitude. I've been trying to think about what those things are, the things that bring me joy and contentment. This has been one of the best years of my life, and I will be sad to bid it farewell in a few weeks. I want to me mindful of my happiness in this upcoming year, and maybe use this space to help keep me accountable. I want to be the best mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend, and teacher I can be. When I look at those little faces of my little people in particular, it makes me want to work hard at being my best, happiest, most grateful. 

Happy birthday, Arlo. I will try to be the best mother to you I can be, this year and all my years.
 I love you with my whole heart.

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Telling Our Story

I've been thinking about the story I want to tell in this space*, thinking about why I come here and what my goal is.
I have a story I want to tell, and although it isn't unique or incredibly special, it is ours. It's the story of my growing children and my smart husband. It's the story of friendship and lots of family. It's the story lived on the water's edge and filled with small parties. It's the story of weeknight dinners and Sunday School. It's the story of looking for joy and cultivating gratitude.
It's the story of a little boy taking his first steps on wobbly legs.

It's the story of a bigger little boy who helps his mama make dinner.

It's the story of a little girl who spends hours filling pages with words and pictures and a whole lot of imagination.

This past year my quasi-mantra has been from third favorite president, Teddy Rooselvelt "Comparison is the thief of joy."I realized that I spent far too much time comparing myself and my children and my life to beautiful, inspiring images, and it felt like it was robbing me of joy. Comparison will get me every time.
What brings me joy is finding moments and clumsily capturing them with a lens or with a few words, and taking the moment to be grateful for the life we have: the friends, the house, the pictures on the wall, the table set for dinner, the little hands folded in prayer. This is our story and telling it brings me joy, comparisons be damned.

*playing off some of these thoughts

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Wanted/ 03

I want my children to be grateful. I want them to say thanks for all that they have and all that they are.
I know that they will not always be happy, that hard times will come, and a smile just won't fit on their souls. But even in those times, I want them to remember how good they have it. Remember that they are safe. That they are loved. That they have no real needs, only wants.

I think about those mothers in Syria and Somalia and in so many other corners of the world, whose children aren't safe, whose children have needs. And I am grateful that my heart doesn't ache like theirs do, day in and day out.
And I want my children to know that they are so fortunate, that they are so blessed, and that they had nothing to do with those blessings. That it was just the luck of the draw, and their cards came up winning. And to not appreciate this life, to not appreciate all that they have, all that they are, is  just plain wrong, deeply wrong.

Sometimes I think that the only person more fortunate than my children is me.I'm grateful for my messy kitchen, and I'm even more grateful for kitchen mess makers.

More Wants:

Wanted/ 01
Wanted/ 02

What do you want for your children?

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Wanted / 01

I like thinking about what I want for my children, what I hope to instill in them, to teach them is important. There are so many things I would love them to be, so many things I would love them to do. Sometimes it feels like there isn't enough time to encourage everything I hope for them. But as I try to think about my priorities and the things I hope to make priorities for my children, there are some wants that are so much greater than others.

One of my deepest hopes is that my children will be learners, that they will discover, and sometimes embrace, new ideas.
I want my kids to love learning. I want my kids to be thinking, questioning, analyzing, and solving all day, everywhere.
I don't want my kids to think that learning is in any way confined by time or place.

I want them to learn during car rides and at the beach, at our kitchen table and in the library.
I want them to be learning in their pajamas and in their snowsuits, while they swim and when we go for walks. I don't want school or weekdays or daylight to have the monopoly on thought.

I want them to be thoughtful in the truest, deepest sense of that word.

Because really, what would Tom and I do with kids who didn't have a touch of nerdy in them. 

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Thoughts on Being American

We celebrate America's independence early round here. Our town does it's fireworks on the third, and we always have a party. It is my favorite holiday. Cook-outs, summertime, swimming, and fireworks-- so many of my favorite things.You get to wear red, white, and blue, and play with sparklers, and drink beer into the wee hours of morning.  The holiday has no real "commercial" value. The expectations aren't too high, and there's no post-holiday letdown. It's the best.

But it feels a little weird that it's my favorite holiday because I've never thought of myself as especially patriotic. Patriotism can sometimes seem a little blind and thoughtless to me; there are so many people so proud to be this thing that they had nothing to do with. They were simply born in a place. And it seems exclusive--  the implication that you are somehow better than some other person who was simply born somewhere else. I guess I'm afraid that being patriotic can lead to not loving "others" enough.

Now, I happen to think the place I was born is wonderful, and I am an American in more ways than I probably will ever fully realize. I feel like there are parts of me gathered from all across this country; in my heart I feel like a New Englander  a Southern, and a Western Pioneer all wrapped up in one. Why I feel this way, I really can't explain, but I am who I am, and I am an American. And one of the best things about being an American is that we are allowed to be a bit rebellious, and we are allowed to question things, and we are allowed to disagree, and those things are a HUGE part of who I am. There have been times I've been so busy rebelling, questioning, and disagreeing people might not have realized how grateful I am to be an American. But I am grateful; grateful to be from the land of Lincoln and the Roosevelts, the land of Mark Twain and Woody Guthrie and Walt Whitman. The land of the free. The home of the brave.

Last week we celebrated being an American among my friends and my family. We ate fried chicken and barbecue, drank Coca-Cola and Budweiser, wore cut-off shorts and flip flops with old fashion rock-n-roll on the radio.And the whole thing was just as wonderful as this country.

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The Prayer of a Rusher

I've been a rusher my whole life. I always wanted to do the next thing, be older, get to the next step. I wanted to drive, to get a job,  to go to college, to travel, and I wanted to do it RIGHT NOW.
I never understood kids who loved childhood, the kids, like my sister Molly, who said they never wanted to grow up. Wouldn't it be better to be a teenager? Wouldn't it be better to be 21?
I did most things early.  I was so excited about what came next.
But now I'm a mama. I became a mama early, just like most things.
And now that I'm a mama, I want to learn to be still, to rest, to appreciate because today Sena is 3012 days old, Gus is 2298 days old, and Arlo is 178 days old, and that is only true for today.Tomorrow they will be one day older. They will be a little taller, a little wiser, a little less little tomorrow.
I can't wish and want so much that I rush their sweet childhood away.
Today I spent some time in prayer, asking for patience and peace and the ability to enjoy each moment without thinking about the next one.

These are the days of brother's sleeping together in their mama's bed, the days of sandcastles and little boys who want pictures of them. These are the days of babies scooting after big sisters. I don't know what the next day holds, so I'll just keep holding on to these people of mine instead. 

Please excuse not so good iPhone pictures. Sometimes these little moments are best captured that way. 

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Free Range Free

Last week I let Sena and Gus do something I never have before; I let them stay at the playground by themselves and walk home together. We were on vacation in a place only accessible by ferry. There were four other kids there, unattended locals. The walk home is short, and the road isn't busy.
And it was terrifying
And it was necessary.
There aren't many places I would leave my kids alone; the schoolyard playground in Ocracoke happens to be one of them, and I think it was really important to let them do it. I think that they need to learn to look and listen. They need to think about making decisions  They need moments when I'm not standing right over their little shoulders, reminding them to look both ways, to share, to get down from there.

About 15 minutes into their alone time, I wanted to go check on them. My mom convinced me to give them a bit longer. When I did finally go check on them, they were walking through the "short cut" in the trees. I hid and scared them as best I could when they came out in the clearing. Gus was disappointed that they didn't get to walk back by themselves, so I told them to go back to the playground for a few minutes while I walked home by myself. A few minutes after I got back, I heard them coming down the road, hand in hand, happy as can be about their new found freedom.

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Why I Homeschool: Part 4

I homeschool my kids because I want to and because I can.
None of the other reasons would matter if it weren't for these two factors.
I want to homeschool my kids.
I can homeschool my kids
So I do.
And if you don't want to or you can't, you will find no judgement from me.

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3

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Why I Homeschool: Part 3

Because it's all about family.

And family doesn't just mean blood; it means the people who love you.
I homeschool my kids because I want the majority of their day to be spent with family, the people who love them, the people who they love.
I want Sena and Gus to sit together with their oma learning about ancient civilizations, and I want my dad to read them kid's versions of The Iliad and The Odyssey. I want their father to help them make lemon powered batteries, and I want to take them on nature walks. We love these kids, and these kids love us, and that's who I want them to spend the day with.

It melts my heart watching these two work together, elbow to elbow, 

identifying houseplants or learning about famous artists or doing their math. 

Part 1

Part 2

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Why I Homeschool: Part 2

Because I want my kids to be weird and nerdy and sheltered

Social interaction, or the lack thereof, is usually most folk's biggest concern with homeschooling. Homeschooled kids are weird and nerdy and sheltered, they say. The sad truth is, they aren't all weird and nerdy and sheltered, but I want my kids to be.

I want my kids to be weird. I want them to like doing weird things, trying weird food, going to weird places, wearing weird clothes because weird is the opposite of boring. It is the opposite of ordinary. It is the opposite of afraid, and so I want my kids to be weird.

And I want my kids to be nerdy. I want them to love learning stuff and to get so into it that it's pretty geeky. I want them to love reading books and to get excited by solving problems. I want them to research things that they are interested in and to spend time in the black hole of obsession from time to time. I want them to enjoy having their brain and to value thinking and questioning and analyzing.

And, finally, I want my kids to be sheltered. I want them to be sheltered from meanness and hate. I want them to be sheltered from name calling and peer pressure and feelings of inadequacy. I want them to be sheltered from small people and small ideas.  Yes, they will have to face those things one day, but I don't want those things to form them, to mold them. I want them to face those things once they are strong enough to fight them and change them, and I will shelter them until they are ready.

I sure love these weird, nerdy, sheltered people of mine.

Read Part 1 here. 

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Why I Homeschool: Part 1

I was homeschooled starting in 7th grade. Ten years later, I became a public high school teacher, but when it came time to send my kids to school, well, I just didn't. I teach in a great school system, with amazing teachers, but I home school my kids with the help of my mother and husband because I believe in homeschooling. This series is on the reasons why I choose to home school my children.

Traditional school takes up too much time. Most kids spend somewhere between 7-8 hours "doing school." However, so many of those hours are wasted. Hours are wasted on buses, between classes, days before break, days after break. Hours are wasted while a teacher has to discipline students or deal with bureaucratic obligations.  Hours are wasted when a student already knows the material but can't move on because the rest of the class doesn't. Hours are wasted when the student doesn't know the material but has to move on because the rest of the class does. Hours are wasted when the student just isn't in the mood to learn, but sits quietly in the back, or in the front, or in the middle for that matter, and nods when she needs to, looks down at the book when she needs to, fills in the blanks where she needs to, but never really bothers to learn, to think about a darn thing being taught.

And all of these hours, when you add them up, are a pretty impressive chunk of childhood.

I don't want my children's childhoods to be spent at a desk any longer than it needs to. I don't want Sena spending an hour a day on a school bus. And when Gus is finished his assignment, I don't just want him to have to wait patiently while everyone else completes the activity. I want  to get up, grab a toy, and go have fun because this is his childhood, his one childhood. I want my children's childhood to be spent actively engaged- sometimes actively engaged in academics, sometimes actively engaged in play, but always engaged.

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