The Uncivilized Tundra

It's been Happy New Year for nine days now.

And Happy Snowed In for nearly that long, I think. That part of my mind that records the regular passage of time has sort of slipped off its track a bit.

Who was it that wasn't ready for Christmas break to be over?
Oh yes, that was me.
For the most part, I have enjoyed this little house-bound spell with the aftermath of a blizzard.  The first couple of days I ventured out to the barn to do the kids' chores because it was my chance to play Arctic Explorer meets Dr. Zhivago. Plus, I found a ski mask that made me feel like a hot criminal. Not really. I mean, yes, I found a ski mask, but no, I didn't feel hot. Just regular criminal.

Poor frozen Norah holds a poor frozen bird.  Willa thought we should save it for decoration.

Somewhere along the way, we discovered that we had a formerly frozen pipe. It was easy to pinpoint the location as we had a mini waterfall wake us in the middle of the night.

After we had sopped up the flood and reburied ourselves beneath a pile of scratchy wool blankets and heavy comforters, the Man of the House remarked, "I guess I'll call [the plumber who I hope doesn't have the Internets] tomorrow."
I didn't respond verbally. Lack of communication usually means I'm dead, as I have a genetic ability to carry on my half of a conversation (and a portion of your share too) in my sleep. But this time my words were simply frozen with shock.
"Someone else in our house? An outsider? A non-relative? A repair man?!?" [These are my un-voiced thoughts. You can tell because they're in italics.]
"So maybe you could clean up the basement a little. So he can get to the things he needs to," my escaping-from-the-house-returning-to-work-the-next-day-husband continued.

"The basement? That part of our house that I pretend doesn't exist?" 

Hesitantly, I cleared my throat. 

"Well, why would he have to go to the basement?  The leak is up here, in our bedroom." 

"In fact, the leak is behind our bed. The other part of our house that I have intentionally forgotten." 

"Because he has to get to the [element of household equipment whose name I can't remember because it lives in the basement.] So maybe just clear a path to that."

 Now this [plumber who I hope doesn't have the Internets] is a very nice man. Middle-bordering-old aged, small, quiet, unassuming, extremely nice. He's so nice that I feel uncomfortable with my personality when I'm around him. I feel uncomfortable with my personality when I just think about him from a safe distance.
I also get the feeling that he probably lives in a very clean house, with a basement that could be mistaken for living space.

I do not live in a very clean house. I live with five children, all of whom seem decidedly anti-clean.  During this period of snowed-innishness, my facebook friends  (those true sources of encouragement and fellowship) have been neatly divided into two categories:
1. All [hashtag] snowed-in so we'll make snow-related crafts, create food out of snow, play snowman charades, bake snowman shaped cookies and cinnamon rolls, and in many other ways entertain our children with meaningful, engaging activities.
2. All [hashtag] snowed-in so I'm cleaning my house from top-to-bottom.

 In other words, I need new facebook friends. Ones that fit into my category:
1. [no hashtag] Snowed-in with five children so I'm compulsively eating. And hiding.

I gave my children siblings so that I wouldn't have to entertain them myself. And I don't clean so much as pick up messes, which is usually the precursor to cleaning. In my case, it's just the precursor to picking up more messes.  But threatened by the "sometime this afternoon" arrival of the painfully nice [plumber who I hope doesn't have the Internets], I cleaned. And then I entertained my children all by myself.

I didn't exactly clean as if I were expecting guests, because guests come to the civilized places: living room, dining room, kitchen and (when no one is looking) bathroom.  Repair persons seek out the uncivilized places: basements and behind bedroom furniture. It's not that I wouldn't like to bring civilization to those places, but I feel as though we must provide a habitat for spiders and dust bunnies. They were here before we were. We're visitors in their environment.

With total lack of compassion for the spider and [dust] bunny ecology, I dusted out the space behind our bed and sorted out the things hiding beneath. The sorting was a bonus, because I'm fairly sure none of the heating pipes tunnel under the floorboards.  The bonus sorting revealed that I have a lot of shoes.  I wouldn't say I have a shoe buying problem, just a shoe throwing away problem.
With similar regardless-ness, I cleared a path to where I think the [plumber who I hope doesn't have the Internets] will have to visit in the basement. Of course, I didn't do anything about the stored toys that the snowed-in children had discovered and strewn about the cellar. I just concentrated my efforts on the room where the furnace and its friends live.  Which means I found myself sorting mason jars in the middle of the afternoon.

Once I had brought a small semblence of order to these hidden places of our house, the children and I ventured out on the frozen pond so they could play Arctic explorer (no Dr. Zhivago yet) and not make more messes.  I am a teensy bit nervous around frozen ponds, not just for the slip-and-slide factor, but for the break-through-the-ice-and-drown factor.  But it turns out that prolonged periods of well-below freezing temperatures freezes more than birds.  Willa was a little concerned about the "freeze bite" she'd heard about on the radio, but everyone returned inside with all their fingers and toes intact.

I like to think those frozen bubbles are from the fishes' New Years Eve celebrations.

After all that effort, plus some more that I don't remember, Mr. [plumber who I hope doesn't have the Internets] never showed up. So unless I provide further non-sibling entertainment, or introduce them to Dr. Zhivago, my snowed-in children will find these new places to scatter puzzle pieces, Lego sets and baby doll paraphernalia: around the furnace and behind my bed.

My Valentine Babies

Happy Valentine's Day!

My little Valentines had a party two days ago. For the first time in five years, I did not obsess over worry stress out spend any time creating an amazing valentine box for anyone.

I think it may have been a major break through.

I was headed into a craft store to pick up a few pink and red supplies when I saw a display of "memory boxes" on clearance.  Shoe-box size. Colorful. Pretty. Varied designs. Cheap.  It was an easy decision.

Ruffer Valentine Boxes, 2013 Version

I still feel a little guilty about these boxes.  It felt like a selfish choice. Easy decisions often feel selfish, don't they?  I think a big part of me missed taking an old shoe box and crafting a Valentine monster. But another, equally big, part of me didn't mind having a little extra time in my day.  (Honour Math: 1 big part + 1 big parts + various little parts + chocolate = 1 guilt-wracked mother.)  Plus, they are cute boxes.  

One of my boys felt like his wasn't personal enough.

He printed off pictures of Angry Birds and glued them to his box. Perhaps his feelings about Valentine's Day are more fully expressed now?

 Ginger had a relapse of an illness we've been sharing around here, so her older brothers and sisters helped me throw glitter and glue candy down to the pictures she didn't color.

When she was feeling better, and fortified by a heart-shaped sucker she ripped off of someone's valentine, she inspected their handiwork and declared it acceptable.  At least, I think that's what she was declaring.  She's always declaring something, but usually her pronunciation is difficult to interpret.

These were my favorite of our home-made valentines. I love variety of colors and the preschooler signature. When Willa was lagging behind in production, her older sister very kindly helped her finish and the owls became more uniform in their appearance.  The crazy-quilt application holds a certain charm for me.

 Of course, their creator holds a certain charm for me too.

 Norah's Valentine's were "store bought" but she very carefully wrote names and attached lollipops.  I think tiny cards are precious.  In fact, if I ever start sending mail on a regular basis, I might exclusively use tiny envelopes. I wonder if the USPS will mind?

Isn't she dear?  She tries to be so grown up, and with two little sisters hanging around, I sometimes think she is.  But then I see a picture of her, or listen to a voice mail message she's left me and I remember that she is still a very, very little girl. That's good, because I'm keeping her home with me forever. I hope we stop arguing about her hair soon.

 These are Sammy's messages of affection.  The girls got pencils, the boys got football cards.
 

And Sam, apparently, got a touch of memory loss.  Why are we giving valentines away?

Weston's cards pretty much were the same as Sammy's.  There's only so much you can do with a girly-holiday like Valentine's Day that doesn't seem, well, girly.

Weston is a little tired of pictures.
And maybe you are too.
So you'll be happy that I don't have a picture of my true Valentine and the card he gave to me.
I will also spare you a picture of our muddy yard.  All our snow has melted (so there, Boston) and we now can see all the random bits of garbage that Dolly the Wonder Dog has pilfered from the trash and left half-chewed across our winter grass.
February without snow is not my favorite.
Thank goodness for {cute} boxes with chocolate to cheer us up.

Solitude Thinking Bust

The kids have been out of sight for about 40 minutes. I think they're all somewhere within this house, and I think I could even guess which room within this house.
Should I be concerned?
Well, I'm not.
Not much.
At least I wasn't concerned until I started to hear their raised voices from two floor-levels away. [Is that the correct way to express that I believe they are in the attic bedroom and I am on the ground floor? Well, I don't think I will change it anyway.]

So.  The kids are out of sight. Let me talk about something else, something not mama-related.

Hmmm.

The dryer just buzzed.

Hmmm.

I would come up with another conversation, but you see, I still hear that shouting from the attic.  It's not pleasant, but I still am not going to go investigate. I am going to take advantage of the approximately 35 seconds I have before someone - probably a younger sister - comes tattling to me with tears streaming down cheeks.  Within those 35 seconds, I hope to pull together one cognizant, non-mama thought.

Hmmm.

25 seconds.

Hmmm.

[That's the way I spell the humming noise I make in my head when I am thinking.]
[Or when I'm trying to think. It's a coping mechanism to bust through Thinkers Block.]

Hmmm.

[The three M's are important.]
[It's not working.]

I think I need to go make bread. Or dinner rolls.  Or something that requires the oven.  I guess I could make dinner?  Yep. Forget this solitude. I am going to go do something that requires less thinking.  I was having a little trouble with that occupation anyway.

We Break for Spring

Spring Break was last week. 
We were busy.
We played with friends.

Ok... so this picture was from N.Belle's class Easter party - the day before Spring Break. Apparently, I didn't take any pictures of the four play dates we actually had at home!

We built ramshackle structures with scraps found in the barn.

 We read a lot of books. In really odd settings. Odd, ramshackle settings.

We put on concerts.

We cooked a little here and there. But not with this strange assortment of ingredients WBeans set out when she wanted to help Mommy make dinner.

We put on pretty new dresses and went to church.

Only some of us did that. A few of our family were sick. Sad {Easter} day!

We did not go anywhere, but we never had one of those "I'm bored and don't know what to do with myself" days.  It was nice.  We were not really ready to go back to school yesterday.

But we did.

And by "We" I of course do not mean "me."

Christmas Clutter

Saturday marked the first weekend in December and officially the last day of the Holiday season when I can consider the effort of decorating to be worth the amount of time left before Christmas.  Maybe I typed that backward, it doesn't read right. 

Anyway, it was time to fight my way through the clutter and cold to those boxes in the attic.  I love pulling out Christmas decor.  If I repeat it to myself, I'll believe it, right?  But still, I just couldn't bring myself to add more chaos to our already disorderly and dirty house.  I made a deal with the kids: "You guys help me clean up the downstairs (just this one measly old floor, not even the toy room, bedrooms, or basement!) and then we'll get the Christmas stuff out."

They were more than willing. 

First, though, we had to watch some cool videos on YouTube.  We got stuck in a lineup of tiny home clips.  Like this:

And this:

I am fascinated by the minute dwellings.  I mean, how easy would it be to decorate this place for Christmas?  Even more exciting, I bet I could clean it top to bottom in 30 minutes. Brand Spanking New Looking for minutes every day. {Side Note: check out the origins of your favorite phrase and thank me for the lovely little diversion.}

OK. So those little videos did nothing to make our abode more festive (or cleaner), so it was time to get to work. And then to adorning.  I won't bore you with the details of our cleaning spree or the mom lectures delivered on-site throughout the process.  Somehow, between dancing to Christmas songs (them) and vacuuming under the couches (me) to breaks for dress-up (them) and nursing GBaby (me) and laying on the couch (them, again) we got most of our downstairs clean. 
Boxes lugged.  Contents strewn.  Discoveries remade.

In my mind, the perfect Christmas trimming scene is something like this: A fire in the hearth, Bing, Frank and Nat fill the air with old-timey songs while a mugs of peppermint cocoa sits near by.  Hints of fresh pine waft from our potted tree, and I hum along with the music as I artfully arrange each meaningful ornament.  The children don't fuss or break ornaments or grow bored and tired of the chore delightful task before it is finished.

Have we discussed that I'm not perfect here? 
OK, good. Then we don't have to go over that again.

I still have boxes of decorations sitting out in my living room.  (Excuse: We haven't purchased our tree yet, so we could neither put away the ornaments nor hang them upon the highest bough.)
The children's stockings are hung with tacky push-pins. (Excuse: It is pretty hard to come by a set of FIVE anything, let alone stocking hangers, let alone FIVE stocking hangers that are pleasant to look at and don't cost a few of my childrens' arms and legs.)
My unfinished wreath is sitting on a dining room chair, not the front door. (Excuse: Um. I'm out of excuses.)

Does it seem like I constantly post confessions of imperfections?  Someday, surely, I will get my act together and pull off something impressive.  With a camera that works.  But it's not looking like it will happen this Christmas season.  I could feel lousy about this.  Instead, I'm taking encouragement from one of the first embellishments to make it out of the boxes:

This is The Man's favorite contribution to our Holiday celebration.  I like it because he likes it.  And also because it reminds me that the trappings of this Christmas time are mostly burdens I pile upon my own back.  If he were home this evening (and not doing a disgusting activity that I will not even dirty my blog by discussing here except to say that it's initials are "Butchering" and "Deer") he would totally approve of me relaxing in front of a movie instead of perfecting the homeyness around me. 
I married the right guy.
That's why we have babies.
And they're why we have a ginormous house that doesn't clean or decorate quickly.
*sigh*
I'm one blessed {if inadequate} girl. 
Because, really, what would be the point of decorating for Christmas and then sitting around for a lonely cup of coffee? Right? 



Well, maybe I could just have one of those tiny homes for a few hours each week.  Sometimes a solitary cup of coffee isn't so lonely.

Look For The Lesson (while I finish my coffee)

Day 1 of Thanksgiving Break:
"Let's put together a band!" quickly became "Let's play church!" 

I love it.
Sorta.  Their version of "church" is pretty loud for the living room.

And now Pastor W. is reading Scripture. I do not think they would sit so quietly if I was the pastor. 

And now the children were just dismissed for Sunday School.  Who is left in the congregation?

I so badly want to sneak in there to snap a picture, but then you know that they'd stop.  Just imagine the joys of a toy microphone and the Spiritual blessings it can bring. ;)

Hmmm... that canned applause track adds an interesting element to church.  There's a lesson in that, but I haven't finished my coffee yet, so I don't know if I can quite explore it fully.  I do know that I'd like a little device to add applause through out my day.

Seeking Order in a Haphazard Way

As I reported in my previous post... I had a sick kiddo (or four) on my hands last week. Not fun. Not fun at all.
But not too bad, as sickies go. We have a lot to be thankful for.
Everyone is back on top of the weather.
And what weather we're having.  Thunderstorms? In November?  The booms were so loud the few pictures I actually have on my walls rattled.  Seriously.

This is not what I was going to write about. This distraction-while-typing thing happens to me a lot, even when the kridlets are in bed. Kridlets. I made that word up.  Then I joined urbandictionary.com just so I could add it and try to get a movement going.  The problem is, too many other people are all trying to introduce new words into our vocabulary and they probably get more chances to write because they don't distract themselves with utter nonsense!

WARNING: I'm about to present a picture of everyday life.  It isn't pretty.  Well, except for the serious baby and singing toddler.  Thanks to my Nine-year-old son, we have a permanent record of un-posed life.

 Me: surrounded by chaos and kridlets.

Anyway.

I am finding myself drawn to order and schedule lately, although my housework begs to differ.  But really, I am. Maddened by the "what to fix for dinner" chaos that haunts my 4:30 afternoon, I established a meal chart. Nothing new, nothing fancy, it is certainly nothing original.  But it helps.  That wasn't enough, because soon I found myself frustrated with the "what to put on our meal planning chart" problem.  So I almost-randomly decided that we will always eat specific food on specific days of the week. 

• Monday nights we always eat pasta.  Because I love pasta. And because The Father of My Children plays basketball every blessed Monday night.  I'd hate for him to be burdened down with a heavy meal. 
• Wednesday nights are Soup-and-Sandwich nights because it's also a "Church Night" and I thought soup would be a quick meal.  Only, it isn't always.  But oh well. Now my kridlets (see? I'm using it!) are learning to like different kinds of soup. 
•  Thursdays we have TexMex-style food because I haven't recovered from the taco obsession I had while carrying GBaby. 
• Sunday nights are cook-free nights and we have Nachos (made with leftovers from Thursday) and/or Popcorn.

Of course, I am without guidance for Tuesday, Friday and Saturday evenings but that's just because I haven't come up with specific foods to assign to those days. I'm sure I will, and I am hoping it involves The Father of My Children making some of his rather famous (at least as far as the kridlets - score extra points - and I are concerned) forays into the kitchen.

Here we are enjoying his delicious wings. I would never make wings from scratch.  I would have bought them pre-cooked in a bag from the grocer's freezer. But he's much more adventurous than I.

Why am I telling the World Wide Webfolks all this? Well, because. It's Monday night. I've decided that's the night I will write... and not feel one bit guilty about the housework.

Too Young

I was going to write about the lovely colors around me this season, about the contrast of freshly-painted barn against the blue sky, the muted colors of a rainy fall day, the shiny hard orange of so many pumpkins...

But just as I started typing a distraught three year old flung herself upon my lap.  "The boys say I'm too young to do it!"  The new box of Legos (an 8 year old's favorite birthday present) has just been opened.  She is too young for it.  I gently try to explain, while at the same time loving that she fits so perfectly between the keyboard and me.

Will picking out a picture for mommy's post mollify her?  It is hard to be too young  for stuff, I know.  I think I'm too young for this mothering gig, but...

Here's the picture she chose:

Cute little cousin friends. It's nice to be around someone who doesn't think you're too little to play.

What do you know? She chose a picture that showcases the beautiful fall weather we enjoyed for so much of October.  Looking at this picture makes this rainy day a little better for several reasons:
1. I am not watching anyone play soccer right now, but sitting in my big, dry house smelling the homemade beef & vegetable stew simmering on the stove.

2. Remember? We have had a nice fall.

3. I love my nephews (and nieces!).

Have the Shirt

I was such an awesome mom this morning that I wore the shirt to prove it. It's a long-sleeved tee that I bought in the boys' department of Old Navy for $2 and it says "Awesome!" across the front.
That was this morning, when I was on top of the world. Or at least on top of my little world. At the very last minute before the school kids left I remembered the dress-like-a-pioneer-and-take-your-lunch-in-a-tin-pail field trip. I didn't even sweat. Kid was re-dressed and packed in amazingly record time.
Then the battery was dead in the Daddy car (usual ride to school). No biggie: I whipped up the toddler and baby, loaded all five offspring in the car and dropped them off before the tardy bell even thought about ringing. On the return home, I listened to NPR's partial listing of Nobel prize winners. I felt like I could fit right in.
I played with the least'uns, tidied the house, even organized my fabric piles a bit. OK, I just mostly moved the fabric piles around, but I did put some pieces aside for a project I have in the works. By the time the Big Ones got off the bus, I had a snack ready, stuff packed and hurried us off to the soccer-meets-football-meets-piano lessons that is our Monday afternoon.
But now.
Now I've finally put five exhausted children to bed (late), at least one sleeping in her clothes and another crying for reasons unknown.
I am not awesome anymore.
That's what happens when you change your shirt, I guess.

Last Worms

I'm up early most days. I like being the

Earliest Bird of the House.

It makes me feel more In Charge of my Day.

Maybe I need a badge to fulfill my power urges.

The silly part is, once I'm fueled by half a cup of coffee, (who actually gets a cup finished when it is still hot?) the others' bodies start moving, and I'm suddenly,

packing lunches,

tying shoes,

flipping eggs,

pouring milk,

scrambling eggs,

(because we can't all like the same style eggs; it would be communism!)

making ponytails,

nursing baby + surfing 'ternet...

and I realize I haven't had my favorite meal yet: breakfast.

But it is still morning, several hours till noon when I would have to officially declare breakfast skipped. So I eat last.

The early bird sometimes has to take the last worm available.

But she doesn't mind.

Playing {Mad} House

I must admit to swinging on the playground of emotions. Especially of late. Certain days of my life as Keeper of the Home are such fun that I feel as if I'm playing house. Other days I walk through laundry piles, tossed shoes, scattered books, smeared food and feel anxiety, exhaustion and anger overtake me. Of course, the house is usually clean (or clean in significant parts) on the good days.
So why are my emotions so closely tied to my home? This seems wrong. Shouldn't I be more even?

Happily, today is a clean-house day and we're having fun.

And then...

I took children with me to the grocery store.

At Home, In Restful Craziness

My dear, fun-loving sister invited my older three kids to spend their spring break at her house. It was perfect timing, following immediately as it did the arrival of G-Baby. Kids 1, 2 and 3 completely enjoyed the time spent with their cousins (because Aunt J. really is the most fun-loving responsible adult on the planet) and the Baby Girls and I really made good use of the four days of quiet to rest and recover. However, after four days, I was definitely ready for everyone to be home together. Sure, it's already louder and a little chaotic in our house. Yes, we've had some bickering and whiney attitudes this morning. But... YAY! I'm the mother of five wonderful children and they're all here with me!