Are We Still Normal?

Are we still normal?  I feel that question a lot.  It underlies the “How are you guys doing?” and “How is Andy feeling?”.  I’d want to know too, if I were you.  Our fragile human-ness wants things to be normal, even when they aren’t.  Normal is comforting and boring and easy to take for granted. Normal can go unnoticed until someone’s life explodes with things we all fear and then we really want to know: can there be normal in all that craziness?

So let me assure you.  We are still normal. 

 

I still drive Andy crazy when I cook (Disclaimer:  he’s the cook, I’m just the substitute) because I am a disaster in the kitchen.  Things eventually turn out tasting fine (mostly), but not before every pot is used, ingredients litter the counter (the lids now missing), something on the stove smells a little too hot, and the fridge door is standing open.  He calls me the kitchen spaz (even if that’s totally not PC) and I mostly don’t take offense.  Until one of the kids says:  “seriously, we are having this for dinner?”.  Sometimes then I lose my kitchen cool.

Andy still drives me crazy with his procrastination.  I mean seriously, an email that I could shoot off in about 30 seconds takes him 10 days to just get around to thinking about sending and that’s not even counting the agonizingly long time it takes him to actually write it.  And dude, just let me organize those appointments because I’m super efficient and I can stack them up in a way that doesn’t make us have to move the car 8 times and walk back and forth between buildings 45 times AND drive back in later in the day for the last one.  And yes, I can see you are annoyed and whispering “bossy pants” kind of under your breath. 

And the girls can never agree.  I think it’s a secret arrangement they have behind our backs. They probably lay in bed and practice it at night.  It must go something like this:  “If mom says, hey, do you guys want to stop off at the park on the way home…make sure one of us says YES (very enthusiastically) and the other of us says NO (in their most whiny voice).”  Or if dad says, “Even though it’s not Sunday I’m making pancakes for breakfast!  Make sure one of us jumps up and down yelling excitedly “Pancakes!” and the other of us says in our most grumpy voice “I’m not eating pancakes again!”.

And we still have to clean the house and find the lost library book and fix the flat tire on someone’s bike.  Oh, and the grocery.  That’s normal too except with the extra bonus of this being Miami and it takes 20 minutes to drive 1.5 miles in traffic and then when you get there you can’t find a parking spot and the girls starting fighting over who gets to push the cart.  And then you get inside and there is NO room to even move that cart because everywhere you go in Miami there are 150% more people in any given space than there should be.  And the kids are so wide-eyed at all the 6 inch heels and dreads and makeup and nails and dogs in purses and leopard print spandex that they won’t let go of the cart and so I’m totally STUCK between the mangoes and the avocados.  Wait, is that normal?

Suffice it to say, we move through each day with laughter, frustration, impatience and love, just like you.  Yes, we may have moments of raw fear, deep fatigue, mounting panic and utter sadness.  That’s part of our normal, but not all of it.  And we make sure to embrace the normal wherever we find it.  Here’s hoping you do too.

flood

It’s been raining here, a lot.  The river in town is out of its banks, again.  At dinner we talk about how much it’s flooded in the last few years.  Iris asks, “is this because of climate change?” and we answer honestly. 

As the years go by they have more and more questions.  They listen to adults talk about the news, they leaf through National Geographic again and again.  And I watch them as we try to shape honest, and somehow hopeful answers, but I can see:  It’s hard to grasp that the weather is being changed by our actions, not for the better, and this is a terrifying problem they will inherit.  It’s hard to grasp that white people still kill unarmed black people.  That violence against women is widespread and real.  It’s hard to grasp that animals suffer in confinement pens so that we can eat more meat than our fair share.  It’s hard to grasp that there are people in the world eating nothing, while we shop at Walmart and fill our carts with everything… 

And it’s hard to grasp that your dad still has cancer.  Sometimes I worry that there is no way out from under all this heaviness.  That they’ll be squashed by this inevitable flood of knowledge that slowly robs them of childhood.

But then I remember.  Joy lives here too.  Even in adulthood.  Even with floods and cancer and Donald Trump.   In fact sometimes I think that joy lives here because of floods and cancer and Donald Trump.  We seek it out, we welcome it in. We notice it, we hold it, we keep it present.  And they grow up surrounded by hardship and worry, laughter and joy.  And I like to believe it will make them durable.  Resilient.  Sturdy.  Hopeful.  Wise.

I’m not sure what more we could ask for.

why we march

 “My Nonna stands with me.”

We went to Madison on Saturday (along with about 100,000 other people) to join the Women’s March. 

But I have to say, I waffled.  I waffled about taking my children.  I worried about protecting them.  Protecting them from words they don’t yet know, from ideas that haven’t yet occurred to them, from images that might be upsetting, from angry people on both sides of this issue.  They are smart, strong, independent girls and why should I let them think it could be otherwise? 

Because it still is.  Maybe not so much for them in this protected home and circle of family and friends, but they’ll go out in the world.  They already do.  They look at pictures in National Geographic and ask questions about little girls who have babies, they wonder aloud how it could be that the USA has never had a women president, they are super interested in reading about civil rights, and right now they don’t think it’s odd for a man to love a man or a women to love a women. They don’t know that calling someone “gay” can be an insult, but they do know that hearing their friends, who don’t know better, saying “you throw like a girl” can crush their hearts, even if they don’t know exactly why.

Andy and I want them to know that they come from a privileged place, and from that place they can help better the world for girls who don’t have the safety, the respect, the education that they have.  In this country or others.  We want them to know that it hasn’t always been this way, it might not always be this way (we are more concerned now than ever), and that standing up for yourself is important.  In class, in a dark street, in a relationship, in a job, in life.

So, I chucked my reservations about going and a few days prior to the March, we talked about protests, we looked at some pictures of historic marches, we talked about why people protest, where you can and where you can’t, and we made signs (they loved that part).  And then we went.  And I was so glad.  None of my fears came true.  The whole atmosphere was buoyant.  We were crammed shoulder to shoulder with thousands of other families, kids, parents, grandparents, students, of all colors and genders.  Everyone was kind, everyone was smiling, you could feel the solidarity pulsing through us.  The kids felt it too.  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Iris chanting along with:  “Show me what democracy looks like!  This is what democracy looks like!”  and she’s not a kid to jump in to performing unless it feels real.  They were dancing and holding their signs high and drinking it all in with wonder.  We felt part of something big and important.  Because it was.

And then we came home and the next day at lunch we talked about, “now what?”.  The girls want to continue to do things to help voice our discomfort with the current political environment.  They understand this is the world they are inheriting.  They want people to be kind and good.  They want to be respected, they want others to be respected, they want the nature they love to be protected.  And so we started:

If you are so inclined, we hope you will join us.  It’s only one small step, but I’ve always believed that each of us makes a difference.  And we are raising girls to do just that.  Check it out here: https://www.womensmarch.com/

homeschooling now

School is still a combination of things around here.  There is some of what you remember school to look like:  workbooks at the table.  There are also reading groups (comprised of Iris, Elsa, Andy and me).  This season there is a day spent with another homeschooling family- a day of group learning, and science experiments.  There is still Monday group just like the past 4 years.  There is Nonnie day for baking bread, learning about darkest Peru (after reading Paddington), art class on Wednesdays, and music lessons once a week.

There is still staying up late to watch the harvest moon eclipse (with self directed journaling!), and archaeology digs under the side porch, and monarch life cycle observation, and housekeeping outdoors, and calculating how many felted cookie cutter shapes you need to make and sell to grandparents to earn enough money to buy a horse.

I’m sure some people wonder how we pull it off these days.  And the truth is, of course, that some days we don’t. Still Iris’ reading has exploded, she loves math  (I’ll take that any day, no matter how slow her memorization of facts), she is eager to learn about ancient history, and world religion.  They both love story so much.  They re-enact what they see and hear in books and bring that learning alive in a way I never had a chance to do while I sat at my desk at school.  Their British accents are impeccable, their Balinese dancing and costume exquisite, their knowledge of horse care and horsemanship growing by the day.   Are they “behind” in some things?  I’m sure.  Will they fill in the gaps when they need to?  Absolutely.

Despite the hardships, or maybe because of them, homeschooling is still so right for us right now.  When your dad is on the couch and can’t get up because he is bone tired from chemo treatments and it hurts just to look at him, it’s good to go to a friend’s and let out your worry and fear by playing wounded soldier or orphan slaves all day.  When you dad is finally up and at em again, it’s good to settle in on the couch and read about magical worlds, and draw pictures from ancient times together, and contemplate in small ways why life works like this. Hard things happening to good people.

These girls are so tuned in to their world, so observant.  Sometimes that translates into noticing the first ripe tomatoes in the garden or finding the eggs where the wily hen has hidden them.  And sometimes that translates into holding the grief and worry you feel in your house.  It means now more than ever, they need the comfort that has always been home, they need us, their grandparents, their good friends.  We are all holding them, and teaching them, and learning with them.  Homeschooling for love and comfort.  What a blessing.

the easter magic

  dying easter eggs with onion skins

On Saturday evening as we were preparing for bed, Mae turned to me and said “Mama, who is the Easter Bunny?”   

Really, right now, on the eve of the Easter Bunny magic we are going to talk about this?

“Um”, I stumbled, “What do you think sweetie?” 

“I think it’s you and papa.  Is it?”  

More stumbling and mumbling about magic.  And then with one lame last stab at hope, “Yes, Papa and I share the magic with the Easter Bunny.”

“So, is it you?” 

Ugh, my heart was hurting. “Yes.”

But her response was smiles and giggles and hugs.  Not unlike her sister’s last year when she found out about the Christmas magic and nailed us down.  When she learned the truth she giggled and said “You rascals!”and then proceeded to ask about every last thing she could ever remember getting from Santa.  Yes, yes, and yes.  And then she said “You guys do too much for us.”  Seriously.

I remember vividly when I found out about Santa.  It was spring, I was probably 7 or 8  and had just gotten off the school bus.  Something in me really needed to know that day so I asked my mom and she told me.  Then I asked about the Easter Bunny and the Tooth Fairy and it all came crashing down.  I was devastated.  We are talking tears, not giggles and delight in all they had done for me.

Our girls response leaves me mystified and thankful.  Like many parents there was a part of me that wasn’t so sure about the “big lie”.  But I believed in the delight of the magic, the nature of children to be held by the good, the sweetness of it all.  I believed they would understand that we told these stories out of love and generosity (just like the spirit of Christmas).  

I can’t help some personal sadness that the magic is now over, our youngest is in.  She hasn’t asked yet about Santa and the Tooth Fairy but it’s right around the corner and she hasn’t even lost her first tooth.  They tell me that’s the way with younger siblings, the magic never lasts as long.
   As I reflect I realize that my sadness in watching childhood roll on is her joy in getting bigger and growing up.  Today she rode her two-wheeler without training wheels with eyes shining and pride positively glowing from her smile.  “Look at me Mama, I’m doing it!”

Yes you are, and we are watching.

half again

Yesterday Iris turned 8 and a half, and as has been our tradition now for a year, we headed out, just the two of us. 

The idea of this tradition is to carve out space for mama and girl.  To talk, maybe hike, relax, and enjoy eachother’s company.  Yesterday it blowed and snowed, so although we had packed journals and binoculars and hoped to see some water birds, we ended up spending most of our time lingering over lunch and hot chocolate.  We read some inspiring Eleanor Roosevelt and we talked about how brave Annie is in The Magic Treehouse series. 

Then we went thrifting, because we both love it.  I always struggle with this because it’s so easy to add more stuff to your life when you find it used.  And buying stuff, just because, isn’t something I want to teach this girl.  So we hunted and marveled and at the end of the day we sifted through our cart full of treasures and bought only just a few things, putting all the rest back on their shelves in recognition of just not needing all that stuff.  She did that easily and gracefully.  She chose to keep something for herself and something she had picked for her sister.  And I saw in this young girl, a wisdom and maturity that swelled my heart. 

As we drove we sang out loud to our current favorite, and stopped for a few minutes along the road to watch two Sandhill Cranes, just feet away, crank their alarms at us while they picked weeds and threw them in the air and gracefully stomped their feet asking us to leave.

And as always, I marveled at this girl, belting out the words to the song, watching in silent amazement at the cranes, and choosing wisely what to bring home from the thrift store.  I remembered again how honored I am to be her mama, lucky to grow by her side, eager to be there with her as she moves out into the world.

a little violin magic

One of the things I love about the Suzuki method of learning the violin is that it encourages you to practice with your children much the same way as we strive to parent.  Gently, with encouragement and love, always trying to create a positive atmosphere of support.  Now, don’t get me wrong. Just as with parenting, I often crash and burn.  We have plenty of violin tantrums. Sometimes I resort to bribes or guilt trips, but I always come back to Dr. Suzuki’s philosophy, summed up nicely in these Suzuki quotes:
“Where love is deep, much will be accomplished” and “An unlimited amount of ability can develop when parent and child are having fun together.”

Dr. Suzuki believed that if children (any child) hears fine music from their birth and learns to play it that they develop love and beauty in their hearts, which ultimately brings peace to the world.  O.k., I’m sure that’s oversimplified, but truly it’s a nice concept.

And once again I saw it in action at the winter workshop Iris and I attended in Milwaukee last weekend.

Easily 100 children playing beautifully together (for the first time!) with smiles on their faces and joy in their hearts.

In the parent lecture that I was able to attend we talked about ideas like using “possibility teaching” over “parameter teaching”.  It’s just what you would think. Possibility teaching encourages us to ask our children to “explore” rather than “study”.  Discover what is possible.  How many ways can you play this piece?  Can you play it on tiptoes, can you play it while marching, can you play it silly, can you play it spooky, can you play it in your snowsuit?  Parameter teaching asks us to have our children learn always within the parameters we set, completing the tasks we set forth in a timely manner. It doesn’t engage our brains to retain what we learn.  And really, when I ask myself what I might want my child to get out of her musical studies, it’s more about learning how to learn, learning how to think in productive ways, than it is about becoming an accomplished musician.

This trip renewed for both of us our excitement for violin (hers to play, mine to help her practice in ways that are fun and engaging).  But it was also a sweet little mama-iris get away.  Some hours in the car to chat and listen to stories, an evening alone in the hotel to snuggle and stay up late.  Listening together to the incredibly beautiful music of the teachers and advanced students who always play before the younger students join.  Her joy and pride in adding her strings to theirs, my happiness in her confidence and the opportunities before her. Our awe and delight in it together.

summer school

We homeschool around here.  Whatever that means.  I can never really put my finger on the best way to describe it.  People often ask us:  do you follow a curriculum?  how many hours a day do your kids do school work?  are you unschoolers?  do you just let your kids run wild?

Yes. Sometimes. 

I read a great article about unschooling in Outside magazine (of all places) this week.  It’s inspiring, at least for those of us who share that particular mindset.  I know homeschooling, and unschooling especially, isn’t for everyone.  We’re not sure it will always be for us either.  But for now it’s working.

Some mornings find us at the table with a project, some math problems, some spelling.  Some mornings find us on the couch reading for hours, drinking tea in our pajamas.  Some mornings find us releasing the overnight-live-trapped mouse and listening (again) to the persuasive argument about why we shouldn’t “snap” trap mice, as we hike back in to breakfast.

This summer there was little in the way of school books.  Instead they were reading the Story of the World and then building the village of Tarak the Nomad whose family was one of the first to leave the nomad lifestyle and become farmers in the Fertile Crescent.

They were hauling chickens from place to place.

They were watching as the Driftless Folk School builds its new home and trying their hand at some of the skills, and hanging out with grown-ups that inspire her to get her knife out and do some carving when she gets home.

They were learning some Native American games at a friend’s birthday party.

And they were building a “set” with stage, lights, curtain and play bill so that they can perform for us.  Often.

And that was just this week.

I’m guessing when you were a kid, your summer was chock full of learning too.  Maybe different from ours, but likely you were outside discovering, trying your hand, figuring out what works and what doesn’t, pushing your boundaries, getting a little scraped up, triumphing, and failing and going back for more.

That’s what summer was for me.  It’s so fun to re-live it (albeit from the sidelines) with them.

It brought me right back to an afternoon in the dusty sunlight of my childhood barn.  Finding that small bit of life that surely needed me.  Being the rescuer, the heroic caretaker, the one to lift it from the shadow of death.  That feeling of somehow being something just a little bit more than you were.  And the deep desire for it to work, for it to survive.

A cardboard box and some cut grass, an eye dropper and some chicken feed.  Maybe some soft flannel from my mother’s stash, some ants and berries.  Anything, something.  Constant watching, repositioning, checking, hoping.

How many of these lives did I “rescue”?  More than I can count.

And so when they appeared with a little hopeless house sparrow I remembered.  I worked hard to hush my mind that was crowded with thoughts of: “we should let this bird die peacefully without our interference”, “it’s terrible when wild things die in our presence”, “it’s suffering, we should just end its misery” and even “damn house sparrows”

They quickly set up a “nest” and catered to its every need. They named it PepperSprinkle and carried it around and loved it.  At some point she asked, even in her constant worry for this critter, that we find a place for it to be “in nature by itself”.  So we did.  And then they wept with sorrow when they found it later, stiff and dead with its small eye still peaking at them.  They picked zinnias and brown-eyed susans and wrapped it in a beautiful cloth from my stash of attic fabric and we buried it.

I’m not sure any of this makes loss easier. But I know it must be a gentle way to try those waters, to feel love and then sorrow, to see that life is not always how we want it to be. To head back to the barn, while hope springs, to see what other life might need you.  

And I watch and think gentle thoughts both for the sparrow and the girls.  I think that’s all I’m needed for.  At least for now.

enough

Just when it feels like it’s all morning muffins and trays of strawberries around here we have a doozy of a violin practice tantrum (x2), tears at bedtime, trouble falling asleep and some rudeness and sass from everyone.  Goodness.

Do I really need these constant reminders that this road will always have bumps?  That my practice becoming a kinder, gentler parent is never done?  That growing up is painful? 

Yes.

Will I continue to open my ears to better hear them and my arms to better hold them?

Yes.

Will I still fall down sometimes?

Yes.

Will I get back up and try again and grow to love them even more?

Yes.

Will they sometimes feel like it’s not enough?

Yes.

Will you forgive them and yourself?

Yes.

Is it enough?

Yes.