homeschooling and sibling love

Just like last summer, Peanut is spending a week at a daycamp offered by our church. She's excited, she has two of her favourite church friends who will be with her all week, and she remembers having a great time last year. We're excited with her.

 Being down one child for the majority of each day is certainly strange. Bubby will get to enjoy some long walks alone with Jon or myself as we pick up her sister. She has unfettered access to the toys - no older sister "helpfully" directing her play - and lots of free cuddle time. The freedom seems to have gone to her head a bit: our normally pretty weird Bubby is now completely out to lunch. It's a whole lot of fun, honestly, watching just how strange she can really be. I think it will prove to be a very fun week for all.

Peanut's absence has got me thinking about school, though, and about one of the benefits of homeschooling that is infrequently discussed. How wonderful that our children who - as much as they may fight and argue, push and shove and hit and scream all-to-frequently - truly adore each other can spend their days together. Not only that, though, but Peanut has not yet learned to avoid younger children, to fear being perceived as a "baby" by virtue of playing with someone younger than she. This is a beautiful thing. Frequently she will come home from the park and remark to me about a new little friend she has made, telling me that the little girl or boy was very nice, or very cute, or very sweet, "just a little baby" while also telling me what fun she had playing with this child. No one has told her that such behaviour is considered odd, and for that I deeply thankful.

I want my children to appreciate people, full stop. People younger and older can make good friends, can make fun playmates, can make interesting companions. But traditional school can inadvertently send the message that it is appropriate to associate only within one twelve-month age span. Classmates may ridicule and shun those who entertain friendships from without their specific grade: I've certainly seen this myself. What I have never seen, however, is a homeschooled child react to younger or older children in such a manner, but instead have only ever seen home educated children welcome and embrace whatever playmates they encounter, regardless of age. Friends are chosen based on personality compatibility, rather than merely age or proximity. Perhaps worst of all, though, is watching siblings reject each other based on these same principles, because they are not the same age.

My daughters love each other immensely. Their love for one another is a fierce and wonderful love. Peanut is more distressed by Bubby's injuries - of which there have been many, in the past few months, including her own tooth through her upper lip - and is more deeply offended by any perceived slight or misdeed toward Bubby than even Bubby herself. And that is challenging and often infuriating - "Yes, Peanut I can take Bubby's toy if she is using it violently. No, screaming at me will not get her toy back for her." - and glorious and heartwarming. She wants so desperately to protect and care for her sister. And Bubby, likewise, wants to be with her Peanut, wants to bring Peanut her toys or books, things she knows Peanut likes to have near her or play with. They hug each other in greeting every morning. They tell stories with their Playmobil people together. They giggle - in excess, often - at the table. And while it is by-no-means perfect, it is wondrous. 

Enrolling Peanut in school full-time would not guarantee an irreversible change to their relationship: I am certain of that. But I do appreciate that in choosing homeschooling, we have inadvertently avoided a scenario that may have threatened their burgeoning appreciation of one another. Because while Bubby is enjoying having the apartment to herself today, I expect elation when her big sister comes through the door this afternoon. She has, afterall, spent the majority of the afternoon singing songs about her.

onward

Three months with no blogging.

It's interesting, really, how sometimes when I'm processing things I reach out, get verbose and hyperlexic and want to share share share. But sometimes not. Sometimes I process quietly, internally, intimately, personally. I share nothing. I work through whatever it is in my own head, often very slowly.

Three months of slow, internal processing.

The craziest part is I can't even tell you precisely what it was I was processing. I just...was.

Lots has happened, yet everything feels very much the same. All the girls of the house are a year older: Bubby had her second birthday May 3rd, Peanut had her fifth on May 19th, and I rang in my thirty-third (yes, I'm airing my age on the internet: does that make me brave?) on June 22nd (and conflagration-free, too!). Even Wembley reached the ripe old age of eight in mid-May.

Last year I struggled with Bubby's birthday. This year I journeyed toward it with a greater sense of calm, of acceptance. Time will go on, my children will continue to grow and age whether I would will it so or no. And they are glorious, these children of mine. They shine like stars and glow like beacons and every new ability and milestone is a mark of the wonder of them. If I spend too long looking backward at what we are leaving behind, I may miss seeing all that they are doing now and will do in the days to come, and what they do is so amazing, so hilarious, so fabulously silly and astonishing and brilliant that I would never want to miss a moment of it. So we move onward. Onward and upward, into the new.

Just before my birthday, I had a personal realization as well. It occurred to me that after almost six years of retirement from dancing, I had gotten soft. My body had gotten soft. I had lost muscle mass and strength and I didn't like it. I also know that with my history of pregnancy induced hypertension, pre-eclampsia and HELLP syndrome, I am at a heightened risk of having hypertensive issues later in life, not to mention the family history of hypertension. And I vowed to myself, "No more." 

If you follow me on Pinterest, you likely noticed that I've started pinning a lot of exercise and strength training links. The fact is, I know that it will be a lot easier to establish a pattern of healthy, vigorous activity at the age of 33 than at 43 or 53 or or or... And all the better to try and stave off hypertension than to attempt to undo years of damage. In the past weeks I've discovered - to my great surprise - that I love high intensity interval training (HIIT) and I now try to fit in at least 12 minutes of it every day. Less than two months in, I can honestly say that I am stronger and fitter than I have likely ever been before, and without ever lacing up a running shoe - because try as I might, I cannot find the running love. I'm lifting, as well, and feeling good about the fact that I can carry a basket full of wet laundry more easily than before. 

At first I struggled with allowing our girls to see me working out, out of fear that I would encourage body image issues. Quickly, though, I realized that all I am doing - because I never, ever comment on my body or anyone else's - is modelling healthy activity levels for them. "Mommy is exercising! Mommy is getting strong!" is what I hear from Peanut many times a week. Hopefully, they are learning not that their body should look any particular way, but instead that strength and exercise are worthwhile and healthy, that movement and activity are enjoyable at any age and will help them to be fit and happy, lifelong.

The past three months have seen me take my first real henna clients, have seen me connect with other local women who are focussed on community-building, and have seen two short articles of mine published. It's been a time of transition in many other ways: our church community is seeking a new minister after almost fifteen years with one wonderful minister, a man I have been privileged to call friend, leader and mentor, who has encouraged me and spurred me in my writing and in my spiritual investigation. We miss him desperately, but as with my children, I know we need to look forward in hope rather than look back in sadness if we are to grow. Time marches on: we must march with it.

Our family has seen some transition, as well. Faced with professional challenges, both Jon and I have branched into new opportunities, new possibilities to help our family prosper and thrive. Moments of - frankly - terror, have given way to hopefulness and vision and renewed purpose. After all, we've been through some pretty challenging times and came through it stronger and better than ever. It's perhaps a little Pollyanna-esque, but we're choosing to view unexpected challenges as good opportunities and motivation to try new things. It's easy to be comfortable and stagnate when things are more-or-less simple: when things are not, what is there to lose?

With that in mind, I have some very important and special news to share with you. My in-real-life friends have been goading me - thank you! - to do this for literally years, and I am proud to have finally done it. I hope you'll enjoy reading about it.

The Overalls of Excessive Cuteness

You may notice a recurring theme in my Christmas gift garment posts.

And that theme is corduroy.

I'm not sure exactly what it is about corduroy that I love so much. Maybe, as one online friend of mine noted, it reminds me of my early-80's childhood clothes. Maybe it's because it's a less-commonly used fabric for children's clothes these days, and I do enjoy an unexpected fabric application. Or perhaps it is simply that corduroy is visually appealing and interesting without being fussy or specifically girly or overly juvenile. Plus it wears well, being both warm and durable, as well as needing no special laundry care. All good things. And it's versatile, too! Yesterday I showed you off a bubble dress for Peanut in fine-wale cord. Today, a garment for Bubby, also of cord, but used in an entirely different way.

I give you: The Overalls of Excessive Cuteness

Lots of credit - and I do mean a lot of credit - goes to Shannon at googiemomma for these overalls. Back in December she posted about overalls she made for her own toddler baby. I had been trying to figure out exactly what I was going to make for Bubby for Christmas but inspiration had not struck. I took one look at her post and a voice in my head fairly screamed, "THAT!" I dug around in my stash and found the most luscious, soft, darkly teal wide-wale cord I had. And that, as they say, is that.

Just as Shannon noted her struggle to get clear, well-framed photos of her daughter wearing her overalls, I similarly struggled. This kid will just not. stay. still. Or cooperate. But at least she's cute.

The overalls came together really well, and I'm pleased with how they turned out. She loves them, which is of course of greatest importance, and they fit nicely. Per Shannon's helpful emails, I used a gusset at the crotch to create the three dimensional space necessary to accommodate not only a human shape but a cloth diaper in addition to the demands of toddler baby-play. The overalls are partially lined - because I had a limited supply of the lining fabric - with a quilting cotton print and fastened with two fabric-covered buttons in the lining fabric. They have a turn-up cuff because a) it gives them a little extra longevity and b) they are frickin' adorable.

They do, of course, have a pocket. Because overalls are not overalls without a pocket, and because where else is a busy girl to stash her Playmobil unicorns and goats if not a bib pocket?

It's hard to beat the sartorial versatility of corduroy overalls. Even little fairies like to wear them.

the afternoon nap

I have things to do.

There is a lot that needs doing. My kitchen is piled high with dishes that need washing. The living room carpet needs vacuuming. A basket of clean, dry laundry sits in the hallway near the drying rack, awaiting folding. The drying rack is full of dry diapers that need to be stowed away in their basket. The dining table needs wiping. Flyers need to be read, a grocery list for the coming week prepared. A very late lunch needs to be prepared and served. Correspondence to write, articles to read.

I have things to do.

But I sit, instead, still and quiet on my couch. Instead, I knit a hat for my oldest, a pink and peach handspun, bobbled, gnomish number to keep her warm. I am pinned to the couch by my youngest, my baby, who still insists most days that naps occur in my lap. While she will gladly sleep alone on a bed at night, daytime is another matter. So I sit.

Most days I object, seeing this only as an interruption to my day, a suspension of all the important things I need to do. But as I sit here, I observe that the weight of her is pleasant. Heavy and soporific, her little honey-tufted head damp with the warmth that every sleeping child emanates, the burden of her is light and easy. She insists on my ease, enforcing my rest. And I know: these days are short, their tally numbered. How many more days will she so desire my closeness, this connection with me for her slumber? For how much longer will I be her sanctuary?

I sit. I enjoy the weight of her as she sprawls across my lap or lies prone on my chest, head on my shoulder. She breathes deeply, restfully, and I echo her, embracing the lesson she has to teach me. Her sister plays, imagining aloud in whispers. The needles softly click, dipping in and out of the wool.

I have things to do.

Tuesday's child

Is full of grace. An old Oxford Dictionary of my mother's defines grace thusly: That power which comes from God given to man that he may withstand all things.


If my Tuesday child was full of grace, she was generous with me and shared it.


It should not have happened the way that it did. By rights it should have been fear and technology, not laughing and swaying, moving and breathing and napping and joking. It should have ended in surgery or tragedy, not roaring power and my baby in my two hands. I knew that it couldn't, that it could not end the way I wanted. That it would end badly.

I was wrong.


I was gloriously, wondrously, incredibly wrong. And now, a year later, she lies on the couch beside me, sleeping. She walks across the living room, grinning. She dances, clapping. She plays with her sister, laughing. She leans in and presses wet lips against my cheek, kissing.


She is a wonder. She astonishes me. A year into knowing her I can truly say I don't know her well enough. I continue to be surprised by her, astounded by the very way of her. She is so unlike her sister, so perfectly blessedly unique, that I am constantly taken aback. I am always saying, "She is so different." And I couldn't be happier, not because we do not love her sister, but because she is delightfully herself. Fearfully and wonderfully made, one star among millions.




I wish I could describe what she's like. I would so like to paint her portrait in words that could properly express her. How she crawls at top speed down the hall after her sister. How she will look at me, and then bob her head as she looks away, silly. Her two-week period of licking everything in the kitchen. Her high-pitched shriek - fit to shatter glass - that is both an exclamation of delight and of moral outrage. How she crams her mouth with frozen peas, growling like a mountain cat. How as soon as she could move across the floor and pull up to stand she has stood next to her sister at the play kitchen, playing along, insistent that she will be included. How she will always tunnel under furniture or people, even detouring to do so. How, before she was crawling on hands and knees, she would creep along on her belly at an astonishingly quick pace, taking excited breaks to stop, look up at me, push up with her hands, and then drop down to her belly while kicking her arms and legs out repeatedly, only to start creeping again.




She is so ludicrously funny.







I wish there were words to adequately depict the round curve of her cheek, the softness of her skin, the precise shade of pink glow of her face, the downy fluff of her white-blond hair. Her cupid's bow mouth. Her crystal blue eyes. The utter desolation of her sad faces. The hilariously heartbreaking power of her pout.

She is so undeniably beautiful.



Life is not all rainbows and lollipops. Our former morning person has awoken shrieking and angry at the crack of dawn for the past two weeks, ramming her skull into my face in her inexplicable rage. She shows righteous indignation - loudly - when things do not go quite as she'd like. She can unshelve a load of books faster than I can tidy them. She is rapidly demonstrating the vital importance of baby-proofing. She's a hair-puller. She bites a little. She's possessive and fickle and moody and demanding. She's just normal.




But her joy is infectious, her love unmistakable. She is loved and loving, opening her arms wide for Mommy, weeping when Daddy leaves for work, sits at the bedroom door asking for her sister at bedtime. Her sister is her hero and her greatest friend. She looks for her upon waking and lights up upon seeing her. Her first laughs were for her only, and her sister's silliness is still the guaranteed to draw a smile in even her saddest moments. Their mutual adoration is compelling. It is inspiring and heart-rendingly beautiful.


She is in a hurry to grow up, taking her first steps last Friday, saying "Dis" and "Dat" and - I think - "Dance". And with each day that passes, some things pass into history, things I must remember and cherish in my heart, things which - once gone - we will never see again. Her six-toothed grin. The perfect swirl of fine blonde hair on the crown of her head. The creases in her chubby thighs. The darling curve of her fan of eyelashes, laid across her cheeks as she sleeps, reposing in my arms; once a round, neat bundle, now a leggy lapful.


But hers is a future of possibility to be embraced. And we are blessed to be her family, growing her in love and grace and joy.


Happy birthday, darling Scarlet. My first words to you were, "You're real!" an exclamation of delight and disbelief. Now, a year later, I can still scarcely believe that you are here, that you are real. What a year it has been for us, and what more there is to come. Thank you for being all that you are.

Thank you for being ours.

not ready

Four days.

There are four days left before Bubby's birthday. And I'm not ready.

I'm not ready in the sense that we haven't planned her party. I'm not ready in that we haven't chosen a gift for her. I'm not ready in that I haven't done a test-run on a gluten-free cake and icing (oh yeah, we're gluten-free again, and it's a whole thing but that's for another post).

But I'm also just fundamentally, inherently, not ready. I am just not ready.

I am not ready for my little baby to be a toddler. I am not ready for my Tiny Person to be not-so-tiny. I am not ready for our first year of firsts and wonderment and smiles and delight and milky breath to be in the past.



I am not ready.

On the Saturday before her birth last year, I was getting terribly high blood pressure readings and was terrified that I was slowly killing my baby. I wasn't worried about myself: I figured I'd be fine but worried that she was being harmed.

On the Sunday before she was born we skipped church, had a lay in, and then went to visit with my birth circle friends and have belly photos taken. And that was the last picture taken of me before she was born. And it's beautiful. It is so beautiful.

Is it the last photo I will ever have taken of a pregnant belly of mine? Is Bubby our last baby?

I do not know. We have always had the attitude that we will have the number of children we need to have. So maybe we're finished. Or maybe not. I have no idea and I'm not going to try to predict. I do know that we're not even thinking about for some time yet. But I also know that I have a 20-25% chance of the complications I had with Bubby recurring. And that weighs on my mind...

Maybe my body needs me to be done.

And I hate it. I hate thinking that we might need to make such an emotional decision based on something as cold as probabilities.

But so it is. And so I approach Bubby's birthday with reticence, unable to fully embrace a new year for my baby because in opening my arms to embrace that new year I must let go - a little - of the past year. I need to make room for what is new and to come but what has been is so incredibly precious I feel it tear at this mother's heart of mine.

I watch her take her halting, zombie-steps across the living room, grinning widely with her gap-toothed grin at her audacious new joy, and I feel my chest expand with such pride, such immense and immeasurable ecstasy at what she is able to do. I positively glow, watching her, because who could not? Such bliss is undeniable.

And I scoop her up and hug her tight to me, bringing her little legs toward her chest, making her small and a little ball once again and I press kisses into the soft perfection of her round, pink cheeks while she giggles at me and I try - I try - to keep her small. I try to steal a few more moments, a few more glorious moments, of her baby-ness. Now. While I can.

tear it up

We rarely get Christmas cards. I think it's a generational thing: with the exception of two letters, all of my correspondence in the past year has been online. Last night, though, we had a card in the mail from Jon's aunt and uncle. And for some reason, Peanut really, really wanted to rip it to pieces. I have no idea why, since it was pretty out of character. Still, she really wanted to tear it up, but letting her do so seemed disrespectful and wrong and besides, we so rarely get Christmas cards it would be a shame to destroy the one we have.

But we also had about 6 multiple-page flyers and ads. And we were just going to recycle them anyway...

The mess was impressive, and it greeted me this morning, too. But why not, right? I could use the homeschool-y jargon and tell you we engaged in sensory play - which it was, of course - but mostly I just wanted the girls to have fun, and fun they certainly had.

They're young once. And the mess took all of 3 minutes to clean up, even with Bubby creeping around in the middle of it and Peanut "helping". As they grow and learn I find myself learning to let go and roll with things. The better I am able to do so, the happier we all are, and the most unexpected and blessed moments we have together.