All Done Being Angry

The Common Room is always a great place to go for fantastic discussions of philosophy of education.

The Deputy Headmistress is mad, mad, mad about Berkeley High School's proposal to try to address the racial achievement gap by cutting science labs.

I can see how one might be angry about this. Why, yes... it's quite maddening, isn't it? I can also see how the school might want to do this, though. Not because science is too "white," but because other resources might be more immediately beneficial to students who can't even read. First things first. Who shall we throw under the bus first? The struggling students or the students who are starting to get somewhere?

Round and round and round it goes, and never any answers, never any answers. And I'm tired of it. Tired of it being that way, but also just plain too tired to keep caring about it.

The post delves into lots of great discussion of Hirsch and Mason and Russeau.... good stuff, excellent stuff, marvelous food for thought. But round and round and round it goes, round and round some more. Shall we teach kids things, or shall we teach them how to learn? Hirsch is absolutely right--kids can never learn how to learn without things on which to learn. Children need the core knowledge which is the basis of cultural literacy.

So he went on to carefully devise a curriculum on that basis.

I have no doubt that it's a very fine curriculum indeed. (Really. I've heard fantastic things about it.)

But, oh, the years of high quality work put into adapting the great works of western civilization, making their important ideas compatible with the school setting.

Round and round and round it goes.

These questions and dilemmas are fascinating, and I'm sure I'll revisit them over and over again, like crosswords and sudoku puzzles, and probably I'll also revisit them to slightly more purpose as thinker, as a writer, as helpmate to a professional educator. But in my capacity as a mom... there's only one way out of this Gordian knot. I'm done with the endless puzzles, the endless dilemmas, round and round and round.

And I'm going downstairs, to read to my kids. Real books, books that matter, books that haven't been edited down to their level... or mine, for that matter. Books that challenge and change me, even as they challenge and change my little ones. Funny books, too, that delight and entertain me, even as they delight and entertain my little ones. And yes, the dull grunt-work of endless word-lists and dictation. But even that, we're doing straight-up, unadorned but for the promise that at the library downtown, they have more history books than would fit in our whole house, and if you'll just get through these few dull lessons, my child, you can read them all.

New Day, New Year, New Post

I write from Starbucks--our computer sort of died, and so that made for a nice opportunity for an internet fast.

I miss being able to instantly dash upstairs and get a kazillion answers to sift through, whenever I have the slightest question about anything.

The fruit of the tree of knowledge is intoxicating and addictive, but it's been good to stop the information flow for a while, and just figure out how to live according to the knowledge that I do have. To seek wisdom as hidden treasure.

But I do terribly miss writing.

My parents came for Christmas, and among the lovely and generous, carefully selected gifts they placed beneath our tree, was a bound copy of The Wuggy Chronicles. A touching gift, a valuable archive... and above all, a not-so-subtle hint.

And I came to the conclusion that I'm am in the wrong career.

As Aristotle would say, my proper function is my unique function. Nobody else can mother my children quite like I can, or educate them like I can. All this is most definitely my proper function.

But as for housekeeping,... well, actually, there are quite a few people who could do that part of my job considerably better than I can. And so, even though I have no intention of pursuing a career that will let me outsource my mothering responsibilities, I see no reason why I shouldn't work toward levering my strengths so I can hire somebody to clean my house for me.

And you know what? Proverbs 31 doesn't say a single thing about cleaning. The excellent wife is good with textiles, and she uses the profits from those skills to dabble in real estate, and she takes good care of her maids, and makes sure that they take good care of her house. I owe my husband a well-kept home... but maybe I don't have to be the one running the vacuum cleaner.

Of course it takes time to convert words into supplemental income, and I'm not quite sure how I will go about it. But I do know of at least one way that I can. I have a lovely plan for teaching flute lessons during naptime to leverage myself into some serious writing time--the time the housekeeper is cleaning the house would be sacred to the non-creative gruntwork of cover letters and queries and such. On the other hand, as I was flipping through my old (very out-of-date) Christian Writer's Market Guide, I realized that the whole process is much, much less intimidating than I had imagined it to be. I've never really worked up the nerve to seriously pursue publication, because I'd heard that it was impossible for the unpublished to get published... But while that is true for the big publications, there are plenty of small publications that really do read unsolicited manuscripts. There's a finite number of steps to take, and it's really not so complicated after all. No guaranteed outcome, of course... but no reason I can't give it a try. And if the family suffers from the time investment it requires, I'll go the flute-lessons-for-now route.

I'm excited. =)

And now, if you'll excuse me, a have a touchingly humorous grandparent/grandchild story to write for some small Christian seniors' magazine.

Deliver My Life

I finally heard back from Crossway, and got permission to use the ESV for my Psalm settings and scripture songs.

So... if you happened to be looking for an arrangement of Psalm 6, for solist(s) and congregation, shoot me an email!

Psalm 6 is one of those crazy, shocking Psalms--I always wondered how David had the audacity to pray such a thing.

"Turn O Lord, deliver my life.
Save me for the sake of Your steadfast love,
for in death there is no remembrance of you,
in Sheol who will give you praise?"


It was only through song that I was able to make any sense out of those words, through the strange process of trying to find a tune to which David could have sung such a thing.

And now it is one of the very dearest of Scriptures to me, speaks to me with a deep assurance of the bedrock foundation of our salvation.

God doesn't save me for my sake, but for His own sake. I don't deserve it, but I can be absolutely certain that God will rescue me, preserve me, sustain me, and make me ever more like Christ. Because He wants my life to be a testimony to His glory. If it was all about me, I'm pretty sure God would have changed His mind a long time ago. But it's not about me. God will be glorified, and so I know that He will be faithful.

Even though it's April

Sing a song of September,
of the richly red-gold ember
of the summer's blazing heat.
Of the velvet crinch-crunch soft beneath your feet
of the leaves all spent and tender,
but mostly, darling sweet,
of you.

Another collaboration between September and myself,

being about a rather poorly illustrated biography of Leonardo da Vinci. Perhaps there is a time and a place for crudely cartoonish illustrations, but at any rate, its proper place is certainly not in a biography of Leonardo. But of course, I didn't notice just how silly it was until September pointed it out, although I'm not quite sure that September's objections were the same as mine. In fact, I'm not 100% certain about the precise nature of her objections in the first place. But at any rate, here they are.

This book is a bad book.
It's a bad book, she said.
There's people who cover people--
And they don't like it.

She took another long look,
Took a long look, then she said
They're trying to take a horse--
And it's not good.

But cuddle up, sweet mama,
and fold me in the blanket
so we can be toasty.

Onward Christian Soldiers

"Hey Mom, wher're we goin' today?"

"Well, I was thinking of taking you guys to the Salvation Army store."

"Do they sell guns there?"

"Um... no."

"Why don't they sell guns there?"

"I don't know. Maybe they do. I've never checked. They sell a lot of different things."

"Oh, so do they just sell swords and spears and bows and arrows, like in the Bible?"

"I don't think so. They just sell clothes and furniture and stuff."

"Oh, okay, so they have soldier boots there? Is that why it's called Salvation Army?"

You should probably beware the brioche dough of the Pharisees, too.

I'm guest blogging at the evangelical outpost about my life-changing experiences with bread dough.

No, not the one a few years ago where I sort of ate too much brioche dough and the yeast sort of colonized in my stomach, and I sort of thought I was going to explode, until raw garlic came to my rescue for the first of many times.

No, this time I'm blogging about good experiences with bread dough, experiences in which none of the dough made it into my mouth before first being baked into wonderfully scrumptious breads.

Although I guess that other bread dough experience was a very good one, too, because that was the first time I discovered the anti-microbial properties of raw garlic, and though I've never repeated that particular mistake of eating anything containing live yeast, it turns out that garlic can kill all sorts of unwelcome invaders and has saved me a tremendous amount of agony, not to mention thousands of dollars in copays for doctor visits and antibiotics.

But I think these experiences with bread dough were even better, because while the other helped me understand garlic better, these helped me come to a deeper understanding of the gospel.

And the gospel is even more powerful and healing and cleansing and purifying than raw garlic.

Which is actually saying something.

http://www.evangelicaloutpost.com/archives/2009/04/the-kingdom-of.html#more

A few days later...

Easter Sunday was just lovely.

The process of tumbling out the door to church was fraught with more than usual chaos. It seemed that everything that could possible go wrong did... but then again, it seemed that nothing that could go wrong really mattered. Death itself is conquered--is there room in this flood of joy for fretfulness over smaller troubles?

And in the end, we did make it to Sunday School--and very nearly on time, too!

We'd planned on a picnic, but in the chaos of the morning, I'd forgotten the food, and anyway, it was pouring rain. So we just went home.

But by the time we got home, the rain was gone, and Andrew set up the grill on our own little porch, and smoked our burgers with some chips from some gorgeously aromatic purply logs he'd split a week or so earlier. (What a wonderful place Houston is to go scavenging for firewood!)

So we had our burgers on the porch--our newly open sunshiny porch, now that Andrew has gotten rid of one of the overgrown shrubs--beside our new little barely-sprouting vegetable garden, and the big stack of fragrant firewood. It was as pleasant a place as you could ask for, and the burgers were delicious, with avacados and mushrooms and swiss cheese and carmelized onions, on sourdough rolls fresh from the oven. An nontraditional Easter feast, perhaps, but a very yummy one.

As we were finishing up, we noticed two little pairs of eyes peeking through the fence, and so for most of the afternoon we were joined by a very adorable pair of boys from our neighborhood. A good time was had by all.

It was one of those days to savor, a bright sunshiny day of loveliness and bliss that sparkle out like jewels among the days of one's life.

Yesterday morning, September wanted to know if it was still Easter.

Yes, my child, it's still Easter. Now and forever.

Have you ever noticed...

...how raw carrots smell like roses?

And make superb teethers for little ones?

And have rings like trees?

And have give a musically percussive snap when you bite into them?

And are altogether wonderful?

God makes good things.

Overdone

We've been reading Now We Are Six. There's a lovely little poem about a charcoal-burner, and Nathan wanted to know what on earth a charcoal burner was, and so I looked it up on wikipedia. It was also a good chance to clear up a trivial controversy that had been floating about our house--Andrew and I had been disputing whether charcoal was partially burnt wood, or simply another word for coal.

Turns out we were both sort of right. All coal is vegetable matter that's been condensed down through heat and pressure. It's a process that can happen over many years, deep in the bowels of the earth. Or people can make it happen much faster.

Of course I don't understand the process very well, but I did my best to explain it, and Nathan seemed to find my account very satisfactory indeed.

Dawning recognition broke forth on his face. "Oh! Like when you have a special piece of meat, and you cook it very carefully... that's charcoal!"

A new kind of bullying

September approached me, in tears.

"Nassan tried to flip me."

Concerned, I asked her to explain. She didn't look injured... but that sounded pretty serious. "He tried to flip you?"

"Well, yeah. He had the pancake flipper, and he tried to flip me."

Oh.

How They Did It: Abraham Lincoln

Amid the mass of contradictory ideas about education, it's hard to know which way is up. A few things, however, are clear and certain.

History is filled with glowing examples of powerfully brilliant and effective people.

And some of them have left us with some valuable insights into how they were educated. Or (more often) how they educated themselves.

As I think about what I want for my children, I want to take their words very seriously. The sheer quantity of contradiction makes me think that my own reasoning powers are very likely to lead me astray on this extremely important topic. I need some solid authority.

It's not enough simply to listen to brilliant men give their hypothetical plans for how they would go about educating other people. They contradict each other all over the place, so clearly at least some of them are very wrong. This is one area where the truth matters very much, and one of the best ways I can think of for sorting it all out is to ask the truly well-educated how they got that way.

For starters, I bring you Abraham Lincoln, in this snippet of conversation with Rev. J.P. Gulliver, published September 4, 1864 in the Independant. (found here)

"But let me ask, did you not have a law education? How did you prepare for your profession?"
" Oh yes! I 'read law' as the phrase is; that is, I became a lawyer's clerk in Springfield, and copied tedious documents, and picked up what I could in the intervals of other work. But your question reminds me a bit of education I had which I am bound in honesty to mention. In the course of my law-reading I constantly came upon the word demonstrate. I thought, at first, that I understood its meaning, but soon became satisfied that I did not. I said to myself, 'What do I do when I demonstrate more than when I reason or prove? How does demonstration differ from any other proof?' I consulted webster's dictionary. That told of 'certain proof,' 'proof beyond the possibility of doubt;' but I could form no idea of what sort of proof that was. I thought a great many things were proved beyond a possibility of doubt, without recourse to any such extraordinary process of reasoning as I understoof 'demonstration' to be. I consulted all the dictionaries and reference books I could find, but ith no better results. You might as well have have defined blue to a blind man. At last I said, 'Lincoln, you can never make a lawyer if you do not understand what demonstrate means;' and I left my situation in springfield, went home to my father's house, and stayed their till I could give any propositions in the first six books of Euclid at sight. I then found out what 'demonstrate' means, and went back to my law studies."
I could not refrain from saying, in my admiration of such a development of character and genius combined, "Mr. Lincoln, your succeses is no longer a marvel. It is the legitimate result of adequate causes. You deserve it all and a great deal more. If you will permit me, I would like to uase this fact publicly. It will be most valuable in inciting our young men to that patient classical and mathematical culture which most minds absolutely require. No man can talk well unless he is able firswt of all to define to himself what he is talking about. Euclid, well studied, would free the world of half its calamities, by banishing half the nonsense which now deludes and curses it. I have often thought that Euclid would be one of the best books to put on the catalogue of the tract society, if they could only get people to read it. It would be a means of grace."
"I think so," he said laughing; "I vote for Euclid."

Poem

The smartest men who ever wrote were sometimes rather smart;
Perhaps I'll learn a thing or two by practicing their art.
And so I'm writing sonnets just as best as I am able,
Except for how I add the odd, and oddly said, syl-able.

A funny thing it is, the way the structure shapes the thought;
It seems a touch more arbitrary than it really ought.
The poem tends to turn in ways I never quite expected,
For words don't always go the places where they've been directed.

I used to think that Shakespeare wrote a lot of lovely rhyme,
But that's a thought that's fading with the spinning on of time.
Now I think that it was Shakespeare who was written by the sonnet--
If I would like to be wrote, too, I'd best be getting on it.

WockyJabber

(A collaboration between small September and myself, over a McDonalds ice cream cone. I said I wanted to write a poem, so she told me what to write, and I wrote it. )


She says that Jabberwockies are some very scarry birds,
And Jabberwockies are the things to verse of with my words.
The Jabberwockies may be fierce, but she is unafraid.
I asked her how this could be so, and this is what she said:
I think you're funny of me.

Oh, what would happen if you had a toylike Jabberwock?
A funny thing to talk of; nonetheless we still will talk.
You'd turn it on its button--it would roar a fearsome roar--
But it would never bite you, says the learned Jabber lore.
Toy Jabberwocks snarl safely.

For I can write a 'T' or 'H', but not a single 'O'--
The 'T's and 'H's are quite straight, whilst 'O's are not--although
Some are. (Which ones?) The ones that do not want to wrinkled be.
So what's the purpose of this tale?
I think you're funny of me.

More on Picture Books

Thanks for the great comments. It's impossible to get clarity and perspective without... well... perspective. =)

I'm still in the middle of muddling through this issue, but if I had to say right now, I'd say that I think GOOD picture books are good... but that just being a book doesn't make it good. (And really, picture books are books in a very different sense from normal books, anyway...) I'm starting to rethink my "the more the merrier" policy on picture books, and the time we spend with them, but I don't want to throw the baby out with the bathwater.

Patti's comment has me thinking that there's a whole 'nother side to the question though. In addition to thinking about whether to read picture books to my children, and which picture books to read to them, perhaps I ought to be thinking harder about how to read them to my children. Patti writes:

I think there's something to be said for teaching your kids to "read" pictures as well as words--that these are skills that will translate when they watch TV and movies, and that learning to think critically about visual presentation is just as important as learning to criticize words and rhetorical presentation, especially in a world that is more and more dominated by the visual. That said, moderation is definitely key!

This is a very important point. I need to equip my children with the tools to understand images, and not be decieved and manipulated by them.

How do I make sure that I'm training them to understand images, not training them to be dependent upon them?

Picture Books

Everybody knows that if you want your kids to grow up into intelligent, literate, critical thinking people, you have to read to them lots and lots, starting when they are very very young. And everybody knows that the thing to read to the very young is picture books. Lots and lots of picture books, with lots and lots of brightly colored illustrations, and a few words sprinkled in here and there.

Everybody knows this, right?

Now I have lots of logical reasons and trustworthy authority to back up the idea that certain sorts of literature are extremely beneficial to small children... but it suddenly occurred to me that I believe picture books are indispensable precisely because the folks who bring us Sesame Street say so. Not to say anything against the sundry wonderfulnesses of Sesame Street--I like Cookie Monster as well as the next girl--but if you think that Sesame Street is the key to becoming an excellent reader, I have a few Nigerian bank accounts I'd like to sell you.

This doesn't necessarily mean that my belief about the importance of picture books was wrong. It does, however, mean that I had the wrong reasons for believing it.

Just because silly people believe something doesn't make it false, but it certainly doesn't make it true, either.

Picture books may, in fact, be incredibly important--but I need a better reason.

So can you help me out here?

Why should I read picture books to my kids?

Good Work

My Daddy has a great story about getting kicked out of school.

Twice.

When he was homeschooled.

While his mother was busy with his brother and sister, he'd slip out the back door and ride his bike around the cow-paths. Finally Grandma gave up and told him "Go ahead and grow up to dig ditches." I can just hear her saying that, too. Grandma was quite a lady.

****

As a member of the board of directors for our townhouse association, Andrew's been pretty busy over the last week or so.

There's a bunch of rotten trim on some of the units, and we've hired a contracting company to replace it all. The crews are doing very high quality work... on about a third of affected boards. Now they've started caulking tidily over the rotten wood, and they're asking for clarification about paint colors. Andrew and the other board members have been going crazy trying to make sure they actually do the carpentry work, and don't just paint right over wood that's so soft you can stick your finger through it.

It's... been... very... frustrating.

I'm not sure what's going on--if they're trying to cheat us, or if there's some serious miscommunication, or what. And you know, I really don't want to know--wise as serpents, harmless as doves and all that. But what kills me is that every bit of this project is being done by human beings, made in the image of God. Human beings, made in the image of God, endowed by their Creator with reason, called by Him to rule the earth with order and reason in a glorious display of His magnificence... and they're skillfully caulking over squishy rotten wood.

We'll get the work done, one way or another. But the human tragedy makes me sick inside.

****

The spectre of ditch-digging kept driving Daddy back to his lessons... but the lovely hills of the Brazillian countryside would ever lure him out again.

Finally Grandma gave up for good, and sent him to a Christian boarding school back in the States. You know what they say about homeschooling not being for everyone? I guess it must be true.

****

We have a new landscape maintenance guy. I waved hello while I was out getting something from the car, and he put down his rake and offered a firm handshake. Exuding courtesy and professionalism, he spoke with me about his vision for improving the quality of the landscape. He was still waiting for some of his equipment, so at the moment he was only able to water those lawns which happened to have hoses right there, but he assured me that he would soon get the grass nice and green for us. He also mentioned that he was looking forward to getting a leaf blower... but in the meantime, it was obvious that he was cheerfully and thoroughly getting the job done with the limited tools at hand.

A few days later, I saw him out front again. "I see you've got your leaf blower now."

He grinned back at me. "I'm like a kid with a new toy!"

****

Off at boarding school, Daddy found a deep relationship with Christ, and became an earnest scholar, a serious thinker, and just the sort of young man to make any mother proud.

But his first job out of college was digging ditches, and Grandma never did let him forget it.

****

We went camping last weekend. We've been thinking so very hard about so many important things--I was looking forward to a break. But I guess the wilderness is not always a resting place. Sometimes it's simply the space to see where you've been all along. We thought about our thinking, and we thought some more, and most of it came back around to what we really want for our kids, educationally speaking. I guess it's just more of that same conversation that started in the writing center in Sutherland Hall, nine years ago.

We thought and we thought, and we talked and we talked, and you know what I realized? It really doesn't matter to me what work my children do. I want them to do good work, and I want them to do it well. If they grow up to dig ditches, that's just fine with me, as long as they bring the full and glorious dignity of their humanity to bear on their ditch-digging.

Perhaps they'll be doctors or lawyers or engineers... I hope to provide them with an education that will open up whatever vocational doors they choose to walk through. But oh, when they are stronger, and can choose what they're to do....

Mr. Stevenson, I hope they'll go 'round at night and light the lamps with you.

Authority

Since I've started categorizing my beliefs, I've discovered that I believe a lot of things on authority. That's not surprising in itself. I'm very small, and there's no way I could possibly figure out for myself everything I need to know. People who don't take anything on authority generally die from eating poisonous mushrooms. Or the fruit from the tree in the middle of the garden. Or legos, for that matter. (Oh how we miss the legos, now that Willie's dooping about...)

Of course I take things on authority. What's strange is that I accept on authority precisely those things that I think I'm basing on logic.

This is a terrific way to be duped.

We should take things on authority only from people we consider trustworthy. We must have reason to believe that they (a.) know what they're talking about, and (b.) are telling us the truth.

If we are serious about truth, we need to make wise judgments about which sources are trustworthy. We can only do that if we are conscious and intentional about it.

If we think we're operating on the basis of logic and evidence, we'll accept Edmund's testimony over Lucy's every time.

Which is a great way to get yourself conned.

Why?

I have a confession to make.

I always sort of assumed that epistemology was a dry and dusty discipline, mostly theoretical, with little to recommend it in the way of real-world application.

Not that I have anything against dry and dusty disciplines--in fact I've always found them fascinating. But, well... sort of in the same category as crossword puzzles or sudoku. Brilliant fun and all that, but that's about as far as it goes.

I feel very, very silly admitting to these thoughts. Of course if I'd ever actually thought about them explicitly, I would have denounced them immediately... but never having had occasion to put words to these assumptions, I was free to keep right on assuming them until quite recently.

So I shall now state the obvious(which was obviously not obvious to me).

Epistemology is terribly important for anyone who'd rather not be suckered.

If you want the truth about anything--anything at all, from how to make a good pancake to the origin of the universe--you'd jolly well better make sure you're skilled in the ways of knowing the truth about stuff.

So I've started asking myself "why?"

Not asking why it's true--I'm quite used to asking myself that question--but rather asking why I think it's true.

There's a subtle difference between the two questions, and they're both important. It's important to know what evidence supports your beliefs, but it's also important to know why you accept that evidence, and in what way that evidence supports your belief.

Do I believe this on the basis of reason, a compelling logical argument that I clearly understand? (Logos)

Or do I believe it on the say-so of a trustworthy authority? (Ethos)

Or is it simply because it resonates with my soul, and I know it must be so? (Pathos)

CPSIA Goes to the Farmers Market

Dear Congresswoman Lee,
Please vote no on H.R. 875: Food Safety Modernization Act of 2009. As written, this bill would effectively squash local farmers markets under mountains of paperwork. Eating locally grown food is a good idea at any time, and in the event of a major national disaster, it could very well become the only way to eat anything whatsoever. Please protect my right to buy local food from people I know and trust, without bureaucratic interference.

Mommy always warned me against accepting food from strangers. Unfortunately, it's pretty much unavoidable these days. Government regulations can help make that a little less dangerous--but I'd still rather buy food from my own neighbors.

Please protect my right to buy local food for my children. Vote NO on H.R. 875.

Thank you,
Elena Johnston


http://www.govtrack.us/congress/billtext.xpd?bill=h111-875

Hat tip to the Deputy Headmistress.

Contact your own representative here.

Baby Doll

"Mommy, I have a baby just like you!"

"That's wonderful, sweetheart. What's his name?"

"Oh, he doesn't have a name. He's fake. But YOUR baby's not fake!"

Lenten Carnival

You should head on over to Homemaking Through the Church Year, where Jessica is hosting a lenten carnival.

I know most evangelicals don't observe lent. And there's certainly nothing obligatory about it. But the themes that our liturgical brethren are thinking about during this season are important ones for every Christian.

One of the reasons why liturgical churches follow a unified yearly schedule is so as to facilitate a sort of worldwide conversation--lots of believers thinking about the same things all at once.

Right now they're thinking about repentance, and sanctification, and the costly grace that makes it possible. About the long, hard process of disentangling oneself from the things that keep us from being fully devoted to Christ. Living in the already and the not yet, waiting for Easter.

Of course, I don't agree with everything in all the posts, but I do think the conversation is worth listening in on.

Remember, O man, that thou are dust, and to dust thou shalt return...

In Which Kanga Decides She Really Must Read Some Cicero

There's an idea--a set of categories, really--floating about the intellectual waters hereabouts. I think it comes from Cicero, but I am sadly unaware as to which work. My exposure to Cicero is limited to De Amicitia, and involves quite possibly the most romantic attempted breakup story ever... but that's another tale for another time.

Now, where was I? Ah, yes. Epistemology.

Somebody once said, (and I think it was Cicero, but I'm not sure where) that there are four ways of knowing. Or perhaps it was of convincing; I think it matters not. At any rate, they are as follows: Logos (having to do, predictably enough, with logic), ethos (having to do with authority of character), and pathos (having to do with emotion and aesthetics.) The obligation to believe is produced through the union of these three elements.

I'm quite sure that I'm not doing these ideas justice at all, and I'm equally certain that they are of Extreme and Great Importance.

So I need to read some Cicero. And if anyone has any suggestions as to which particular works I need to read, I'd be quite grateful.

In the mean time, I'm finding that these categories have all sorts of uses in organizing the cluttered closets of one's mind.

CPSIA links

Here's the statement from the CPSC saying that "ordinary children's books published after 1985" are okay. (It's on page 4.) A footnote explicitly excludes books with plastic or metal parts.

Is this reassuring, or dreadful? Well, it all depends on how you spin it.

It sounds to me as though our freedom of speech is spinning swiftly down the drain.

Please, I beg of you, dear men and women of the Congress, convince me otherwise!

Walter Olson is providing fantastic coverage of the CPSIA issues, with lots of links.

And the Deputy Headmistress has a good many posts showing why we should care deeply about this issue. And phone numbers for whose switchboards to bombard. =)

Lent

Wait, wait, O my flesh.
Wait, and learn to trust.
Wait, for it is in the waiting you are sanctified.

Wait, wait, O my soul.
With patient longing, wait to be made holy.
Wait, for it is in the waiting that you learn to trust.

Depth of Texture

At 6 months, Willie spends most of his time closely examining sundry objects. It's just what you do when you're 6 months old, as inevitable and instinctual as the craving for mother's milk.

The merest twig is well worth close examination. The works of God are marvelous, and their beauty bears up even under a lifetime of inspection.

There is a time and a place for the bright flashing plastic, so demandingly undemanding, that lulls him into forgetfulness while I tend to other things.

Yes, there is most definitely a time and a place--but it is for my sake much more than his.

For his sake, the pinecones and leaves, that he may not strive endlessly after mudpies, but be content with the sea.

In Which Piglet teaches Pooh and Tigger about Time

September: Mama, I'm feeling eleven-o'clockish.
Isaiah: I'm feeling twelve-o'clockish!
Nathan: And I'm feeling two-o'clockish!
September: No, Nassan, two-o'clockish is for later.

Testing, testing, 123

My blog seems to be gone? Individual post pages are still there, and the sidebar... but where's the main page?

Help?

Gutenberg all over again

I just can't get over the fact that now, thanks to audible.com, an ordinary housewife can afford to have a first-rate actor read the scriptures to her and her kids all day.

This is huge.

Many books today are written to be read.

Not so the Bible. The Bible was written to be heard.

And this ESV audiobook is phenomenal.

Good stuff. Life-changingly good stuff. I can't recommend it enough.

Hello, stranger!

It's been a while, hasn't it.

I'm surprised you even bothered to check.

I guess I should have expected that I would slow down on the blogging after the arrival of wuggy number 4.

And sure enough.

But somehow it's not because life with four kids is so much crazier, and I don't have time to think.

It's that life is calm. Reflective. Good.

Very good.

And my whole soul has been abuzz with so many thoughts... big thoughts... unfinished thoughts. And while those thoughts we're buzzing, I couldn't really write about them--not 'till I figured out what they were. And I certainly couldn't write about anything else.

But now, though I'm far from answers, I at least know a few of the questions I'm trying to ask. So I think I might be at a place where I can write about them a little bit, and also at a place where I can write about other things.

Like the family of roly-poly bugs in the compost, a young couple expecting their first child. Whom they will indubitably name Harry.

So hello again, and thanks so much for stopping by. I look forward to chatting again soon.

Dear Senator Hutchinson,

I stopped by the local friends-of-the-library book sale yesterday. There's a sign up saying that they are no longer permitted to sell used children's books.

I hadn't taken the internet rumors seriously, but there's no denying it now. Regardless of the good intentions of the law, the CPSIA, as it currently stands written, is preventing me from purchasing old books to read to my children. Vendors now understand it to be illegal to distribute children's books published in the year 1984 or earlier, and many sellers are no longer selling any used children's books at all.

Inside the library, the librarian assured me that they hadn't removed any of the books off the circulation shelves yet. The CPSC has granted libraries a temporary immunity from enforcement of the law.

I'm glad I can still check books out of the library for one year more... but my right to read to my children is now at the mercy of a bureaucracy.

This is not the American way. I never had a chance to vote on the members of the CPSC. They do not represent us, they are not the ones with whom the Constitution has entrusted the responsibility of guarding our rights. I want to live governed by the laws that you write, Senator Hutchinson, you and the other fine men and women of our congress.

I know that these are busy times for senators. You are being asked to vote on more bills than you could possibly have time to even read. This may not seem very important by comparison.

But it is.

As we speak, our children's consciousness of the past is literally being thrown into dumpsters all across America.

Those who are unaware of the past stumble blindly through the present into a future marred by avoidable foolishness. This matters, and it matters now more than ever.

Thank you for your service in representing me and my fellow Texans.

May God give you strength and blessing as you guard and protect the freedoms that make our land so great.

God bless America!

Elena Johnston

Above and Beyond

Upon seeing Andrew riding his bike to work, a family at the school realized that we must be in serious need of a vehicle... and gave us a perfectly gorgeous 2000 Expedition.

No, I'm not joking.

It's sitting in our carport right now.

And the van--which had been running smoothly ever since we began to pray for it incessantly--has now stopped running.

We were fully confident that God would provide for our transportation needs. We just had no idea that He'd do it so spectacularly.

And His timing, as always, was nothing less than impeccable.

Idyllic afternoon

It's been quite nippy out--it even snowed on Wednesday--but this afternoon was lovely and sunshiny. Isaiah led the older three in assisting the roly-poly bugs in their farming endeavors--didn't you know that roly-poly bugs plant their crops in neatly plowed little rows? Willard discovered grass, and Nathan collected fallen leaves, showing me how each leaf changes color progressively, green-golden-red, while I ambled slowly through the Republic. Plato improves with interruptions, I think--it gives the dialogue breathing room, keeps me from rushing on too fast. All the questions about the good life become so much more immediate, too, and it's very sweet indeed to step back and see that this is precisely it.

Baby's first camping trip

Campfire Questions

For Thanksgiving, we went camping with some friends from Andrew's work. It is a good thing to strip everything away and touch what's real. Even the rain dripping into the sleeping bags is real, and being real, it is good.

A good way to judge the real-ness of things, I think, is to try to explain them to a four-year old. As it turns out, it is much easier to explain electromagnetism to a preschooler than, oh, say, the CMA awards. Or the phrase "dot org." The things God makes are quite frequently much more complicated than the things man makes, but they are real and solid on every level.

Kids this age will ask a million questions wherever you are--it's just what they're supposed to do. The difference is that out in the woods, the questions that they ask are all well worth answering. Sometimes I don't know the answer, like the question "what do armadillos eat?", and sometimes the questions lead to more questions, like "what is fire made of?", but the questions are always worth exploring.

In case you were wondering, armadillos snuffle through the leaves looking for grubs. And although I still have no idea what fire is, I can tell you that the pre-Socratics make a whole lot more sense when you're sitting around a campfire with preschoolers.

Lost in Translation

So funny.

My husband...

...is on his way to work.

14 miles away.

on his bike.

Yup. He's been riding 28 miles a day, and we're doing just fine as a one car family.

My husband is so cool.

=)

Confused

So let me get this straight. The world leaders got together last week to discuss the global financial crisis, and to establish a spiffy new international bureaucracy to keep an eye on things, so that they won't be blindsided again. Because all this was so very, very shocking. Nobody saw it coming. Did I mention that it's shocking?

Fine.

But then how is it that several years ago, several different people--ordinary people, not privy to any sort of special information, just ordinary statistics about mortgage rates and such things--explained to me that we were on a collision course for global economic meltdown in 2008?

I'm confused.

Better Parenting through Laryngitis

I'm rediscovering the power of a whisper all over again.

solidarity

I forgot to change my address, so I was still registered to vote in our old neighborhood. We had a little picnic in Angie's back yard before we all trooped down together to the elementary school to vote.

September wanted me to vote for Miss Angie. 'Cause she's a girl.

Nathan wanted me to write in George Washington. Because of the crazy hair. Nathan still regrets the decision to let me buzz his head, and looks forward to the day when his own crazy hair grows back out. I think I'll draw the line if he ever wants a powdered wig, though. There are limits.

Andy's classes were almost over by the time we were done, so we went and picked him up. His students and coworkers cooed over the baby, and then he rode home with us instead of his usual carpool.

Andy was registered to vote in our new neighborhood. I waited in the car with little Willie and sleepyhead September while Andy and the others trooped in to the polling place. He said there was a television reporting election news inside, and lots and lots of cheering. Probably illegal, but inspiring nonetheless.

I didn't vote for Obama. I disagree with him profoundly on many issues. On some issues we strongly support the same goals--we just have different opinions on how to get there. My biggest hope for government is that it will be too limited to engage in massive oppression. Cynical, I know, but I really do think history bears this out.

Even if I was more optimistic about government in general, though, there's still that one issue where I think Obama's position is not merely misguided, but actually quite wicked.

Frankly, I'm a bit worried about what's to come in the next four years. At least, I would be, if I wasn't working on a setting for Psalm 131. Good words for times like these.

O Lord, my heart is not lifted up
My eyes are not raised too high.
I do not occupy myself with things to great and too marvelous for me.
But I have calmed and quieted my soul,
like a weaned child with its mother.
Like a weaned child is my soul within me.
O Israel, hope in the Lord, from this time forth and forevermore.
(ESV)

I didn't vote for Obama, and I obviously don't think he was a good choice for our nation.

Nevertheless, I can't help but be excited for my neighbors. Really, really excited.

In as much as these sorts of things matter, this is WAY cooler than having a woman, or a guy with great hair, in office. I profoundly disagree with the man... but there's a sense in which this is a truly beautiful and inspiring moment in our nation's history.

Some things need no explanation.

But the moon definitely needs a sign.

Compliments of Isaiah, with some help from MS Paint.

It says "moon," and I think it might even include an explanation about how it's made out of cheese.

Now doesn't that clear things up?

The Miracle Scale

We've been reading Charlotte's Web lately. Having watched the animated version more times than I care to admit, the wuggies are obsessed with the story. Throughout the day I see them acting out stories about Fern and Avery and Wilbur and Charlotte, and Nathan in particular was clamoring to have me read the book to them. We've been enjoying it a lot.

This evening we read the chapter in which Mrs. Arable sits down with Dr. Dorian to discuss her concerns about Fern's stories of talking animals.

Upon hearing Dr. Dorian express his readiness to believe such things, Nathan became very thoughtful.

"Animals don't talk in God's story. God's story is about us."

As the story continued, Dr. Dorian remarked about the miracle of the ordinary spiderweb, and Nathan once again became thoughtful.

"If an animal spins a web, that's a little miracle. Not a big miracle, just a little miracle. If an animal talks, that's a little miracle. But if an animal starts playing the piano, that would be a huge miracle. That would be a ten miracle."

He paused for a moment, carefully weighing the various quantities of wondrousness.

"And if an animal came in and cleaned the refrigerator, that would be a five miracle."

And there you have it.

MetaHobby

The other day, I zipped down to the gas station to pick up an Auto Trader. I must have done this countless times with my Daddy as a little girl, but this was decidedly the first time I've ever had any intention of looking at it myself.

I'm trying to cultivate an interest in cars. We will be needing a new van sometime in the near future--the days of our dear doopah-mobile are numbered, I am afraid. Our mechanic (thank God for honest mechanics!) will not allow us to put any more money into fixing its overheating problems. We're managing the symptoms quite effectively for the time being, but we know that the end is near at hand for our four-wheeled friend.

So there will be big decisions to make in the near future... and it's hard to make good decisions when you're bored by the topic.

However, I'm thoroughly confident that if one intelligent person is interested in a topic, surely there must be something interesting about it, and any other intelligent person should be able to develop an interest in it. It's an important principle, and one that has a vital role in my parenting philosophy. My goal is to encourage the wuggies to become interested in worthwhile things, not to entertain them with the things that already interest them.

So now I'm seeing that I need to apply this to myself. It would be very useful right about now to be interested in cars... and there's no reason why I shouldn't be able to become interested in them. After all, my Daddy finds them fascinating.

So I've been spending quite a bit of time on the phone talking about the respective merits of vans and minivans and station wagons. I expected him to have lots of good advice on the vehicle-shopping process, and to point me toward good resources. I did not expect him to be able to instantly rattle off the names of every vehicle on the market which seats 8 or more passengers. Along with sundry details about the construction of most of the different models. I knew Daddy knew a lot about cars, but I had no idea he knew this much.

I think my project might be working. I'm not entirely bored by cars anymore, and estimating the real cost per mile of different vehicles is actually a lot of fun.

But really, it's the process of becoming interested in things that interests me the most.

I think I might be starting to make a hobby out of developing hobbies.

Graduation

When the generous folks at church throw you a lovely baby shower, while the baby of undiscovered gender is still snuggled up inside, you get a lot of diapers.

As I sorted them according to size, and added up all the size ones, I realized that there were about as many there in that pile as we were likely to go through while he was still small enough for them.

There was something bittersweet about seeing all his size one diapers all lined up together in one pile. It was a big pile... but finite.

The other day we came to the end of the pile. It was time to break open the size 2 diapers.

It's a bittersweet moment, and all the more so because I knew it was coming.

Calm after the storm

We made it through the hurricane unscathed, and our utilities are back up and running, although we're still supposed to boil the water.

Airplanes are flying overhead once again, the stranded crawfish we rescued is safely back home in the bayou, and things are just about back to normal for us.

At least, as normal as they can be, when life is so far from normal for so many other people. Most of the grocery stores are still closed in our neighborhood, and with all the gas lines and impassible roads and non-functional lights, it's really not a good idea to drive very far. So I'm still getting creative with the food in the pantry. But the options expand substantially when you have electricity. =)

Meanwhile, all the schools are closed, so Andy has the week off, although he'll probably go in later in the week to help clear out the rubble.

God has been very merciful to us. Ike brought so much devastation to so many people, but for us the storm brought only the soft glow of candlelight, and a chance to get to know our neighbors better.

Waiting for Ike

You start paying a whole lot of attention to the weathermen when 100 mph winds are on the forecast. So far, however, we haven't seen anything more than some heavy cloud cover and a slight breeze. But I feel like we're well prepared for what may come our way any moment.

We're quite a ways inland, so the storm surge will not be affecting us. And the storm surge appears to be the really fearsome part of this strangely sprawling hurricane. There's really not a lot to be worried about in our area, just lots of precautions to take.

So the grill is in off the patio, so that it doesn't become a missile flying through our window, and the windows are all taped up so that if somebody else's grill goes flying, at least the shards of glass won't scatter too much... you know, just in case.

And we're ready to whisk everything up to the second floor in the unlikely scenario that the Bayou floods enough to put water in our house. But mostly, we're just setting up for a jolly indoor camping trip.

Nathan likes his new brother very much. All the wuggies do, but Nathan in particular.

He loves his brother, and he loves the idea of big families, with lots and lots of babies. He's taken to rattling off the names of the dozens of babies he and his wife will have one day, and he insists that now that "Baby Jack" is here, I need produce a little sister named Katie. Tomorrow.

I keep telling him that giving birth is something I only do on very special occasions, but he just won't take no for an answer.

While snuggling with my newborn and recovering from this gloriously special occasion, I listened to a series of Focus on the Family broadcasts featuring the parenting advice of Dr. Kevin Leman. To be perfectly honest I was a little disappointed with the first two installments. It wasn't the content so much as the tone--I was mildly irritated by comments like "kids everywhere are going to hate [my latest] book, but parents are going to love it." Nevertheless, I kept listening, and the Q and A session on the third part was so good that we actually ended up ordering a copy of his latest book.

When the package arrived, Nathan peered eagerly over Daddy's shoulder. "What's it say? What's it say?"

And despite Dr. Leman's predictions, at least one child was ecstatic over the book Have a New Kid by Friday.

Statistics and tidbits

7 lb. 12 oz.

21 inches

1 min. Apgar score of 9

He has "opposable toesibles," with a very independently wiggly thumb of a big toe.

He likes to keep his ankles very, very flexed. It's delightful to recognize those knobby little heels that were always poking out of my belly.

Hello, I love you, won't you tell me your name...

We had a name picked out. Really. It was just that once he was born, we couldn't get it to stick.

So we've been trying on various names for size, as he gazes up at us with those lovely liquid newborn eyes, so alert and trusting and interested and content... and so utterly indifferent to the question at hand. He could care less what we call him, just so long as we snuggle him and feed him and change his diaper.

I was actually about to call the midwife to tell her to go ahead and file the birth certificate with a completely different name altogether, when we suddenly flipped back right around to where we were in the beginning. We're naming him after Great-Grandpa Davis and Great-Grandpa Johnston.

There's a touch of irony in the fact that the name we've finally settled on, after so much flip-flopping, would mean "resolute."

In any case, we love you, little Willard Robert. There's not a trace of indecision about that much, and we're having a marvelous time getting to know you. Whoever you are.

Weeping may endure for the night...

but BOY! cometh in the morning.

Childbirth in slow motion

I'm a little less than halfway there.

In other words, right about where I was two weeks ago.

My midwife assures me that all it will take is a few good, hard contractions, and everything will be moving rapidly.

This is what she said two weeks and 5,437 contractions ago.

This time it might actually be true, though... through much acrobatics, I managed to dislodge the baby from his poorly (but tightly!) engaged position that was impeding progress. Once, while I was slouching horrifically (which you should never, ever do if you want a properly positioned baby) he even turned right way around.

He's back to sideways again, though. So we'll see what happens.

Next time around I won't get nearly so worked up about all the preterm labor scares. I just take a long time having babies, and my body likes to get a head start, that's all.

Meanwhile, my stretch marks are getting stretch marks, and my belly button is dilating rapidly. My midwife assures me that there's never been a case of spontaneous cesarean... but I can't help but thinking there's a first for everything.

Worth Reading

This post is very funny. That is not so surprising. Lots of posts make me laugh, and Amy is very good at being funny.

No, what's remarkable about this little piece is that it makes me laugh, and then suddenly makes me stop laughing.

And then laugh again, gently and joyously, without a trace of bitterness... laugh at myself for laughing.

Pass the carrots.

It's 10:00... way past her bedtime. I should be getting to bed, too. But oh, the glowing of her grin, the softness of her skin... and where on earth did she get that strange little tender pout, and that achingly sweet little croaky voice?

"Mama-bunny, I love you."

My baby.

It's 10pm, way past her bedtime. I should be getting to bed, too. But tomorrow she may not be such a baby, and tomorrow I may have another baby in my arms. Time slips away so preciously, and I must hold her while I can.

Fruit of my labor

Having put in a week or so of gentle warm-up contractions, and 12 hours or so of intense labor, you'd think I'd have a baby to show for it.

Not yet.

But I do have this cute little bag for September's birthday.

Jessica linked to an adorable granny square tote, which inspired this (much simpler) project.

In digging the newborn clothes out of the attic, I realized just how much fantastic material I have for rag crochet. This used to be a skirt and a shirt. Much cuter this way.

It was good distraction... and it feels good to have something to show for it, anyway.

No news is... no news.

I've been slipping in and out of labor... it's been very, very slow.

I actually got a pretty good night's sleep last night, but Saturday night I kept having contractions strong enough to keep me from sleeping, just not strong enough to actually have a baby. As I lay there groaning, my husband (still asleep) sat bolt upright and firmly shushed me. It's a good thing I'm used to his sleep-talking. We had a good laugh about it in the morning. =)

Through church, I was contracting gently but insistently, and I was utterly incapable of concentration. It was a good sermon... I think it may have had something to do with the Apostle Paul? This is a very strange experience for me, to be so utterly averse to rational thought.

Afterwards, the ladies of the church threw a lovely luncheon and shower for baby and me, which September and I greatly enjoyed. The contractions were quite easy to ignore as long as I had lots of distraction that didn't require the use of my suddenly nonexistent rational capacities.

Until the very end. I didn't need to leave early... but we sure packed up in a hurry, and the pastor's wife did go over the speed limit driving Timmo and I home.

The midwife met me at home, and one of the ladies from church stayed to watch the kids.

I went upstairs and contracted until I felt like I was going to split in two, and then I contracted some more... and then it stopped.

Second verse same as the first.

This could take a while.

It's frustrating and discouraging... but all the same, I'm very glad for the good night's sleep. I feel much more ready for whatever it is that comes next.

I did NOT expect to be live-blogging labor.

But then again, I didn't expect everything to stall out after 6 hours of hard labor.

I guess I get a break. Which is okay, because my water didn't break, so we aren't on any sort of urgent timetable.

The midwife went home, but the kids still stayed the night with Uncle Paul and Aunt Lorre.

So we had ourselves a date night. Except that our idea of an ideal date involves way more intellectual activity than is possible for a woman under the influence of labor hormones.

Which I still am, just not powerfully enough to produce any major contractions. The world is warm and gentle and a little bit blurry--maybe the hormones are supposed to help me empathize with baby. Or who knows, maybe during one of those enormous contractions, some wires got crossed, and baby would like nothing better than to help Daddy out with that geometry problem.

In any case, we rented a movie.

And now, for a few observations on labor from the middle of things:

1. It's true. The first thing the midwife does when she walks in the door is tell somebody to start boiling water. Apparently midwives have known to sterilize their instruments for a very, very long time. Go figure.

2. They call it labor for a reason. It hurts. A lot. It's not like cutting-off-your-toe hurt, though... more like weight-lifting hurts, or running a marathon. You know, "feel the burn." Except that you don't get to choose when to stop "feeling the burn." You just keep right on exercising through to the point where it's torture, and then beyond. Way, way beyond. I feel like I have a better idea what the Children of Israel were going through in Egypt.

3. My own personal slave driver seems to be pretty merciful, though.... for better and for worse. I really don't need quite this many breaks, and they don't have to be quite so long, either. But that's the the thing about labor--you don't get to pick your pace.

4. I like ripe strawberries, grapes, and almonds way better than ice chips. Way better than ice chips. =)

Turn, Baby, Turn!

No, he's not breech.

But at my last appointment, the midwife pointed out that he's facing frontward. She said I should keep my spine as straight as possible to encourage him to turn around.

Well, working on my posture is always a good idea, but I couldn't see how being front-facing could be bad thing. After all, it's fun to feel lots of arm and leg movements--not to mention reassuring. Surely it can't make that big a difference which direction he's facing... right?

But now I completely understand.

I'm not even in labor yet, but last night had me ready to beg for an epidural.

I'm pretty confident about the contractions. I know it's going to be hard, but I feel ready to face it.

The back of baby's skull grinding against my spine? Not so much.

Please pray for mercy, and a rear-facing baby.

Turn, baby, turn!

The Stories that Weren't

"Mama, I'd like to tell you a story tomorrow morning."

My firstborn flung his arms around my neck and grinned at me.

"You could tell it to me now, if you wanted to. I'd love to hear it."

"Well... okay."

"So what's your story about?"

"It's about the Veggie Tales and the train."

"Oh, that sounds like a good story. So what happened."

"Well... nothing happened! Because the train didn't fall into the water, and the bridge didn't fall into the water!"

How frequently do I forget to marvel in gratefulness, for all the horrendously eventful happenings that don't.

Life on the Inside

They asked if Baby Jack had a home inside my belly. (Baby Jack may well turn out to be Baby Jill, but you have to call the child something...)

I told them that yes, Baby Jack has a nice, cozy home inside me.

And so ever since, they've been speculating about the sort of facilities he might have.

Does he have a bed? What about a potty? You know, surely Baby Jack must be busy building a log cabin, and a suspension bridge. Every baby needs a suspension bridge.

Perhaps this is why my skin isn't fitting very well.

Last night we finally made use of our community pool, having discovered the reason why it never seemed to be open when it ought to be. The spot where the lifeguard naps when nobody's at the pool happens not to be visible from the gate, that's all. I can certainly understand why he would rest in the shade when there is nobody about, but the situation seems to be rather self-perpetuating. Perhaps this might also explain the heated arguments at the HOA meeting over whether or not the pool was ever open last summer. But in any case, once you figure out that he's there, he does come let you in when you holler, so having solved this mystery, we put on our suits and went swimming.

As she skipped happily toward the door, September paused to pat my belly.

"Baby Jack's going swimming, too!"

I nodded in affirmation. We've talked before about how he's swimming around in amniotic fluid; also, Baby Jack would definitely be coming along on this excursion. I wasn't sure exactly what she meant by the phrase, but one way or another, Baby Jack was definitely going swimming.

Her next question had me flumoxed, though.

I have no idea what color his bathing suit is.

Causation

It's hot outside, because Isaiah is sweaty.

Oh yes.

Poetry in reverse

I've been thinking a lot about childbirth lately.

Might have something to do with the little feet that keep pressing insistently against my ribs, warming up, as it were, to help catapult new life into the world.

As I think about birth, my mind can't help but turn to other concepts, more abstract and more familiar. And like so many other times, my "new" thoughts are expressible only by the old words and phrases I've heard a thousand times before.

I think perhaps that being born must be something akin to being born again.

And certainly my midwife's role is highly Socratic, being someone who has walked this road herself a number of times, and now guides other women through the births of their children. You could almost say that being a midwife is like being a "midwife of ideas."

The poetry of birth is all around us, inescapably so. So many deeply important things are impossible to discuss without talking in terms of birth. Can we really understand them without understanding birth?

And so it is that I'm quivering with impatient excitement, eager to dance that poem with this, my littlest child.

Gratitude

Our food has been thoroughly blessed of late. Every night the kids argue about who will pray, and so most nights, they all do.

Tonight, after Nathan said grace, Isaiah offered up the following prayer, reproduced to the best of my memory:

"Dear Jesus, thank you for this food. Please bless it to our bodies."

Nathan gave a hearty "Amen" to this, but his brother wasn't finished.

"Thank you for the orange juice. The orange juice. Thank you for all the orange juice. Thank you for the pot lid, and the pot. Thank you for the silverware and the plates. Thank you for the plates and all the food on the plates. Thank you for the orange juice. Thank you for the table and the chairs, and thank you for the light bulbs."

At this point, we lost it. We'd been trying so hard not to chuckle, but we just couldn't hold it in any longer.

Isaiah didn't mind, though, and joined in the laughter, a natural outflowing of his unselfconscious gratitude.

It was a fitting prayer for such a meal. There are some crock-pot experiments that just shouldn't be made.

Thank you, Jesus, for the silverware and the plates and the orange juice and the light bulbs. And for Kraft Mac 'n Cheese.

We're back...

...after a wonderful and refreshing summer jaunt.

I really, really like Texas in the springtime, but summer... well, let's just say that summer is a great time for travel.

I got to take a 3 week summer class on Ephesians, while Andy took the wuggies to see Gramma and Grampa.

It was blissful, and the very best part of the whole trip was seeing my dear family again after being away for so long.

It is good to be home again.

Standards

"May I be excused?"
"Yes, but first you need to put your dishes in the sink."
"But not the knife."
"Yes, the knife, too."
"But it's still clean."
"Um, actually it's covered in egg."
"But this side is clean..."

What I wish we'd known before buying a home

Everybody says you need to have your home inspected by an independent inspector.

And we did. Oh yes, we were very conscientious, looked into everything a responsible home-buyer is supposed to look into. We researched the neighborhood, the crime rates, talked with the constable, thoroughly analyzed the flood risks, and hired a reputable, unbiased professional to go over the home with a fine-tooth comb.

And he was very thorough. He checked everything, and gave the house a clean bill of health, with the exception of a few minor-but-urgent repairs to the exterior.

He checked the plumbing, said everything was in working order. The hot water heater had been recently replaced... at least that's what he said.

I have no doubt that the guy was very professional, and did quite as good a job as any other home inspector would have.

But he wasn't a plumber, and as we are learning the hard way, when it comes to plumbing, the opinion of a non-plumber just isn't worth a whole lot.

We've just replaced one toilet, and the other two are on their way out. The seals were shot on all three of them... fortunately only one of them leaked through the living room ceiling.

And that hot water heater? Rusted on the interior, and on the verge of disintegration.

Thank God for the leaky toilet that got us to call a plumber before we were surprised by a river of hot water pouring down from the attic. I suspect that might have been a rather more disastrous repair.

As these things go, it could have been much, much worse. We still like the house, we're still glad we bought it. But it would have been nice to know about these things before while we could have negotiated with the seller to help out with some of the repairs.

We'd never heard anyone recommend a specific plumbing inspection, but if and when we ever find ourselves buying another older home, we're definitely getting Mr. Rooter to check things out before we sign on the dotted line.

Meanwhile, if you could spare us a bit of prayer, we could use it. This comes just as I'm recovering from heat exhaustion, which sent me into preterm labor. I'm okay now, and more importantly so is "Baby Jack," still snuggled safe inside for another 10 weeks at least, God willing. But I'm still trying to take it easy until I'm fully recovered.

And there's a mild fever running through the family.

When it rains, it pours.

Straight down through the living room ceiling, to be precise.

Tantrum

His sobs come crashing in on one other, wave upon wave, each subsiding only to collide with the next in a foaming froth of spray.

Beyond his briny tears, I can almost taste the sweet, sweet sleep to come, when all strivings have been spent.

There is no lullaby like the rhythm of the surf.

Don't poison the primates!

We had a fun trip to the zoo the other day, with a family from church.

It took some careful arrangement, but we were able to fit everyone AND the quad stroller into the doopah-mobile. I felt quite bad for my poor friend who was stuck sitting in the 2/3 of a seat that was left over next to the carseats, but I was very glad indeed that we carpooled. For one thing, I learned how to navigate the HOV lane, and avoid rush hour traffic--it's more complicated than you'd expect. You know how in California they have carpool lanes? Well, in Texas, they say HOV (short for high-occupancy vehicle) and there's only one per highway, and it changes directions with traffic flow. So in the morning it goes south, and in the afternoon it goes north. But don't worry, it's closed during mid-day, so I presume everybody's had time to clear out before the cars start going the other way. I hope. Anyway, it can save an awful lot of time, but it's also something of a gamble, because if anybody breaks down, the whole line of cars is stuck--I would have assumed that in such an urban setting, one would be immune to the hazards of one-lane roads, but apparently not. However, nobody broke down in front of us this time, and we happily zipped past the bumper to bumper traffic.

Once we got to the zoo, however, we had to circle for nearly an hour before finding a parking spot--another reason I was glad we were carpooling. Such ordeals are much more bearable with good conversation--and who knows how long it would have taken to find TWO parking spots.

But the zoo itself was a good deal of fun, particularly the reptiles and primates. The giant pythons were truly spectacular, and the baby chimpanzee was heart-meltingly adorable.

And somewhere in the primate section (I think it was in front of the howler monkeys, but I'm not quite sure) I found some food for thought.

There was a big educational display describing the dietary habits of some species or other--again, I think it was howler monkeys, but it doesn't really matter, because it was mostly about what it means to be an omnivore. So the monkey (or whatever it was) has his preferred foods, but if they aren't available he'll eat just about anything. There was a display of the foods they eat in the wild--they can't digest the cellulose of mature leaves, but they love tender young greens, as well as sundry fruits--and next to it, a display of their zoo diet. At the zoo, they feed them corn, and carrots, and lettuce, and fruit, and eggs... a nice assortment in fact, of optimal human foods. But then there was a third display, full of danger foods--soda pop, corn dogs, candy bars, etc. All things that this omnivorous creatures would greatly enjoy, but would make them sick. And all sold at the zoos numerous concession stands, for human consumption.

The irony was striking, and I remarked that perhaps the advice was generally applicable to ALL primates.

My friend was a bit shocked that I would refer to humans as primates, but really, I wouldn't dream of suggesting that there is not a very great distinction between man and the rest of God's creation.

I merely suspect that perhaps the image of God deserves at least as much respect as the howler monkey.

Or whatever omnivorous primate it was.

Looking for Piggie

I wouldn't have gone back in the house--not when she was asking so rudely--but I really had said I'd look, and I really had forgotten. And I knew that if I didn't give in, another meltdown was immanent. I absolutely had to get the reference form to Pastor--along with an overnight envelope--and Pastor was going to meet me at the church on his way to lunch, at 12:15 exactly. There was very little margin for error, especially since I had to allow time for a potentially lengthy stop at the Post Office.

No, I definitely couldn't afford a tantrum. So I went in to (quickly) look for Piggie.

I didn't find him.

I did, however, find the reference form sitting atop my dresser--not in the car, as it should have been. I was very glad indeed that I'd gone back in.

I tucked the wayward form in with the rest of the paperwork I was carting around, and offered Zebra to Tembo, knowing full well that no substitute would be satisfactory.

"Where's Piggie??!!"

I could see it coming. This car ride was shaping up to be yet another battle of the wills, pulling over every few yards to put my tantruming little escape artist firmly back into her seat.

Today, there just wasn't time to invest in all the firm, loving discipline that the situation called for. Today, those errands had to happen, and quickly.

Suddenly, in that split second of sheer panic, it came to me.

"Maybe Piggie went to check his mail. Shall we go to the Post Office to look for him?"

And so we did.

We went to the post office, and after obtaining an Express Mail envelope, a book of stamps, and sufficient quarters to feed the toll meters, a quick but thorough search of the building showed us that Piggie wasn't at the Post Office.

"Maybe he went to church to swing on the swings."

Piggie wasn't there either, but as it turned out, a sweet little playmate from our small group was, and after our picnic lunch, they had a wonderful time frolicking in the light rain together. Piggie was forgotten for the afternoon.

It's a good thing, too, because Kinkos was the next stop after that, and I'm not sure how much longer I could have kept the game up.

Everybody knows that piggies don't use fax machines.

The Gospel According to September

They wanted yet another Bible story. Under normal circumstances, I'd happily comply, but company would be arriving shortly, and I needed to tidy the living room.

They all leaned in together, as Isaiah flipped through the book. When they'd reached a consensus, he handed the book back to me.

"Mary and Joseph. Read us the story of Mary and Joseph."

I handed the book back to him.

"Why don't you read it to us?"

"Nope. I can't."

But September cheerfully volunteered for the task.

And so, without further ado, I present a two-year-old's version of the Christmas story--short and sweet and to the point.

"They carried a donkey and stuff, and they had a baby and stuff. Mary and Joseph loved God. And He loves Meepo."

Spring

It is spring, now, and the very air is alive with vibrance and unpredictability. All the greenery I'd forgotten to miss is suddenly back again, and I am living within a great shimmering emerald. A great shimmering, living emerald, speckled with wildflowers.

A faint mist caresses my skin, and the air is deliciously warm and cool all at once.

Spring is here, and oh, it is good.

Boundaries of home

I'm at the library again... this time alone, without any kids in tow.

Well, just one. But this one doesn't get into too much trouble yet. =)

But with or without the wuggy-crowd, I like going to the library for my internet stuff.

The internet is an amazing thing. All you have to do is wonder about something, and google is just a click away, and wikipedia, and link after link after link.

But having the internet only at specific times, I find myself keeping a running list of stuff I need off the internet.

And then, once I'm at the library, it's just as easy to find all that wonderful information... except I'm more focused. I come to the internet knowing exactly what I want out of it, and knowing exactly how precious my time is. I'm more focused, less likely to follow trails of links into abscure topics I don't really need to know about.

And, since I don't have the information flood on tap in the house, I actually have to trek to the library. And going to the library frequently is a very good thing for all of us. Truth of the matter is, I love reading lots of unfamiliar childrens books to the kids. I don't love reading Gertie the Green Cab for the 47th time. Course what the kids really want is another iteration of Gertie, but they're generally satisfied with something completely new to us. The more often we go to the library, the better a mommy I am.

Going to the library is a good thing, and since I can just check out a laptop and sit right there in the children's section while supervising the wuggies, it's the perfect time to do internet stuff.

Living without a pipeline to the internet in our home is a good thing so far, and I think we're going to keep it that way.

Strangely enough, living without a landline telephone has been a good thing too. Up until the move, we've relied mostly on our landline, using our prepaid cell phones very sparingly. But through the move, we've been relying on our cell phones, and you know what? That's been a very good thing.

Lots of times I'll be on the phone, and chaos breaks out. "Should I call back at a better time?" But usually, sadly, the answer is no, there really won't ever be a better time. Either there's chaos, or it's a lovely moment of tranquility in which to catch my breath and play the flute for a few minutes. Talking is good, but there's no good time to do it.

On a landline, that is.

But while the kids are playing on the playground? That's a great time to talk.

So I think we're going to ditch the landline, ditch the internet, and just get a good cell phone plan.
And I find the idea strangely beautiful. Home is home, and outside is outside. Of course the membranes are quite permeable--it is a lovely thing to invite books and friends inside. But there need be no pipes flooding the outside into our home, when we can simply open our door, breathe in the scent of the wildflowers, and go explore the wide world.

Greetings from the library

Apologies for the sporadic posting. Be warned, it's likely to continue, while we slowly decide what we want to do about phone and internet services. Through the moving process, we've been relying on our cell phones... and that's just a very nice thing. So we're thinking about getting a better cell plan and ditching the land line. But of course we can't pick an internet plan until we decide for sure.

So I might be restricted to library internet use for a while longer.

Meanwhile, we're settling in to our new place, and liking it very much.

The Bayou is so very beautiful. Before we moved in, I thought of it as just a big muddy ditch that might flood our beautiful house someday. But I get so much pleasure every day out of passing over the lazy river glistening in the sun, watching the leaves float by... and oh, the wildflowers on the banks!

I dyed Easter eggs for the wuggies, but I think I did the wrong carton. Or maybe I turned the burner off too soon. I have no idea how it happened, because I was meticulously careful... but they definitely weren't hard boiled.

Fortunately we discovered this without too much trauma to the carpet.

September was enthralled with the discovery that her beautiful purple egg was actually such a volatile object.

She grinned impishly at me. "I like to throw it."

"But I won't."

"Because I want to give you kisses."

Well, we did it.

We bought the townhouse, airplanes and flood planes and all.

Fooling around with the parameters of the policy, we were able to get flood protection for a much more reasonable premium. And with the lower premium, the flood insurance costs less than the extra property taxes alone on the more expensive, but less wonderful, houses that we might have considered instead. Not to mention that we're paying less for the house itself, and actually getting what we really want. =)

It feels good to have finally come to a decision. No more second-guessing, no more frantic information gathering, just the blissful knowledge that we have our very own home.

It feels good to have made a decision, and I feel good about the decision that we made. When you buy a house, it's about so much more than just a house, it's about the sort of life you want to live as a family. We've done a lot of thinking over the past six months about how to structure our life, I really think that this is the right house to help us live well.

Of course, we could live well in a smaller house, but we would have to work harder at it.

And we could live well in a bigger house... but we'd have to work harder at that, too.

This house is just right. Not just "good enough for now," but really-o, truly-o just right.

At least, for now it is. God willing, it looks as though we'll be running out of bedroom space in a few years. =) But it has a high-pitched roof, and good solid attic ready to be finished into a few more bedrooms. When we outgrow the house, the house can just grow right along with us--but we don't have to worry about that until the time comes.

It's a good feeling.

And in the mean time, baby is turning somersaults, and that's a good feeling, too. =)

Ours.

I really didn't think this would be so hard.

Emily has tagged me with a most delightfully intriguing meme.

THE RULES:
Look up from the computer, look around the room where you're sitting and pick up the closest book. Open the book, turn to page 123, count down to the fifth sentence on that page, and then post the next three sentences.

And Emily made it quite clear that there was to be no cheating whatsoever-- it had to be the very nearest book.

Well, the nearest book is Richard Scarry's Chipmunk's ABC. It doesn't even have page numbers, but being an alphabet book devoting one page per letter, the page count can't be much above 26. The next closest book is Beethoven's Klavierstucke, but while the fifth measure on page 123 is quite lovely, I'm afraid I'm not entirely sure how to blog it.

The next book my eyes fell upon was the Rand McNally Houston Street Guide. Since the first page is map number 2236, I didn't think I'd find a page 123, but it turns out that there is really a page 123 in the index.

So here we go:

Snail Hollow Dr.
8300 HarC 7064 3542 AS

Snake Cr.
6000 FBnC 77479 4495 E7
6000 FBnC 77479 4496 A7

Snake Canyon Dr.
2900 HarC 77449 3815 E7

My. Now wasn't that enlightening.

Now, usually with something like this, I'm extremely contrary, and I try to find a way to twist and mangle the rules completely beyond their intention. But in this case, the rules and their original intent are so intriguing that I really want to play along. I need to find a book with an actual sentence on page 123.

Ah. The Estelle Liebling Vocal Course.

60 pgs.

I fear that I'm going to have to admit defeat and just walk over to the book shelf. But then, finally, I spot the Book of Common Prayer laying on the couch.

Be our light in the darkness, O Lord, and in your great mercy defend us from all perils and dangers of this night; for the love of your only Son, our Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

O God, the life of all who live, the light of the faithful, the strength of those who labor, and the repose of the dead: We thank you for the blessings of the day that is past, and humbly ask for your protection through the coming night. Bring us in safety to the morning hours; through him who died and rose again for us, your Son our Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

Ah. Much better. Real, live, sentences... and good ones, too. Even if it really is only 8:44 in the morning.

And now I'm tagging Sarah, and Ashley, and Christa, and Gwen, and Sharon.

I'm sure you'll all have much better luck.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go mope in desolation at the thought that all my books with more than 122 pages are tucked away on the shelf gathering dust.

Crash Landing

When we first fell in love with the neighborhood, with its gracefully arching trees and smiling children, we wondered if the planes might cause some problems. Its close proximity to the airport would be wonderfully convenient for travel, and the wuggies love seeing planes, but would it be too noisy inside?

But that turned out to be more a perk than a problem, since the airport had recently soundproofed all the houses in the immediate vicinity of their newest runway. The high quality windows and doors leave the townhouses undisturbed by noise of planes, traffic, or neighbors, and energy-efficient too. A block or two further away, and the noise of the planes might have driven us mad, but here it was no problem.

Everything was just perfect. The neighborhood was simultaneously tranquil and full of life, and it was in just the right spot, halfway between Andy's job and the cultural and educational opportunities of downtown Houston.

And the unit itself was spacious, and full of wonderful nooks and crannies. It was just the right size for us right now, and with a large, well-supported attic, it offered the potential to expand with our growing family.

Everything was looking wonderful.

But then the insurance agent called us back with those numbers.

To hear Isaiah explain it, a broken-down plane crashed on top of the townhouse, which is very dangerous, not least because it brings up the possibility that other planes might land on our car as we drive down the freeway.

Actually, it was a flood plane, not an airplane, and the house is on the plane, not the other way around. But I guess you really could say that the flood plane made a crash landing onto that house.

Up until this summer, there was no problem getting flood insurance in the neighborhood. But ever since Katrina demonstrated the inadequacies of our flood risk assessments, FEMA has been slowly making its way through the nation, updating the flood maps.

And according to the new maps, our dream house is now located in a flood plane, and the insurance is astronomically expensive.

Insurance, taxes, HOA fees, and basic maintanance--the carrying costs that you never, ever stop carrying--would come up just $100 shy of typical rent in the area.

We love the place so much... but the numbers just don't add up to good stewardship.

It might still work if we can protect ourselves financially while insuring it for its appraised value only, rather than for the full cost of rebuilding. (Rebuilding a destroyed townhouse is much, much more expensive than walking away and buying a new home.) We're meeting with a real estate attorney tomorrow to discuss the extend our HOA obligations in the event of a catastrophic flood--but mostly because we want to understand the dynamics of townhouse ownership better as we look for other properties, not because we have any real hope that this particular home will turn out to be a sensible investment.

Meanwhile, on Saturday, we looked at a pretty much identical townhouse in a different area for comparison purposes, to see how much the flood zones impacted how far your money would go. Same floor plan, same general price range, good condition, comparable community amenities, and in a quite respectable part of town.

But we both came away with the impression that we would absolutely hate living in that neighborhood. Oh, there was nothing objectionable about it. Everything was clean and well-maintained... and utterly soul-less. It's hard to put your finger on it, but there it is, and it matters. Every time we drove into that wonderful little neighborhood in the flood zone, I couldn't help but smile. It's a happy place.

This other neighborhood isn't. Not in particular, anyway. It's not that it's a sad place, or an angry place, or even an apathetic place, more that it isn't any place at all.

So we'll keep looking.