Well, Okay, Here Is One More . . .

Jim and I have come to a very comfortable agreement in our marriage, which is that it is ok to not always be together. (I mean yes we are still living together!) But we don't always have to go everywhere together, sometimes we do and sometimes we give each other space. 

Jim calls it getting your soul back, what a Sabbath is meant to be. We both need time to rest, time to read and be refreshed, time to get our soul back, in whatever way that means. Now that we have children our house is never quiet, so we have to protect each other's sabbath in other ways. When things have been especially hectic, I can sense his threshold for people and activity maxing out, and I take the girls and give him space.  Sometimes I feel like being social and he doesn't; I go without him.  He recognizes that I have interests and pursuits that require some time alone to work, and he makes sure I get that. (In case you noticed this makes THREE blog posts in one day, it's because he took the girls and went to his mom's all. day. long. When he called it was to make sure that I was taking time for myself, did I "get my soul back?". . . oh how I love him for that!!)

“Love consists in this, that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other” 

-Rainer Maria Rilke

The Only Piece of Marital Advice I Would Ever Give . . .

I got to be a bridesmaid in my sweet friend Kelli's wedding last weekend . . . isn't she beautiful!?

And it got me thinking . . . and Jim and I talking . . . about marriage.  

It was in the midst of a conversation about another friend, a single friend, one who would very much like to be married, and Jim said, "it's not what he thinks it will be . . . ".  And I didn't get weepy or storm off or burst into tears when he said this, because I knew exactly what he meant.

You are still responsible for your own happiness.

There you go, that's my marital wisdom . . . to anyone single, or married, or wishing they were married, or wishing they weren't married, if you ever wanted to know what I think about marriage, there it is . . . You decide how happy you will be.

If you are an unhappy single person, you'll be an unhappy married person . . . and, beware of marrying an unhappy person; marriage won't cure that, though they think that it will.  

If you are happy single, it matters rather little whether you are married or not.  Sure, marriage comes with a certain level of stability, and (ahem) benefits . . . and children and somebody to help you remember to pay the bills . .. but marriage brings other things too, like limitations.  And conflict.  And being forced to deal with your own selfishness.  

In fact, a married person could easily be envious of a single person, and at times wish to ask that person why, in fact, he is moping around waiting to be married, when he could be doing anything he wants!  Going places!  Meeting people!  Why waste time waiting for a person to complete you?  Complete yourself!  Fall in love with life!  Give your passion to living and when the right one comes along that will be the thing that attracts her to you . . . and you will have no regrets.

(I think maybe this came across too harsh . . . there are very sad marriage stories, I don't ever want to minimize the hurt or sadness involved in some relationships).

Oh Summer I Love You!!!

Going to the zoo . . .

slurping slushies . . .
Dancing at a wedding . . . 
Another zoo . . .

My mom got a new dog,her name is Chi Chi.  Yes, we told her that Chi Chi's is slang for boobs in Spanish . . . 

Playing in the sandbox . . . I've been considering moving the sandbox into the kitchen, as that is where it all ends up anyway.

The waterpark . . . 
My in-laws took the girls to Build-A-Bear . . .
Wearing bright summery outfits . . .
Puddle jumping (the pond that is our driveway) . . .
Keeping busy with the website . . . our first tuscMom event, storytime at the park . . .

just being cute . . .

The new farm market made me want to dance in the streets . . .

So I Am Such a Cliche . . .

. . . a small town girl determined to leave her small town and never look back . . . 

somehow finds herself back in her small town where she meets a small town boy who's just passing through,

the summer solstice, he promises to take her away from their small town . . . 

so they have a small town wedding and begin a small town life,

but just for now,  

and have small town babies and begin a small town family . . . 

still dreaming far-away dreams and reading books and pointing at maps and stopping to gaze across fields at the horizon . . . 

and some days these small town parents look at each other over the small heads of their children and marvel that they're still here, all these years and still dreaming . . . and he reads Russian at night and she peels stone mangos and they swap stories about trains.

But other days they drive through the green hills and say well it is so beautiful here . . . and some summer evenings they sit outside with their friends and drink wine from grapes grown just over the hill, and they talk about small town things . . . 

and they wonder if small isn't just a label after all; what does that mean but a zip code, a geographical location . . . New York or Moscow or Sugarcreek . . . all made up of me and you and our neighbor, all small small towns doing our own smallish things . . .

So another summer solstice and I'm watching these same fireworks on the same horizon, thinking about things so stunning and bright and big, how they once seemed so close that I believed I could reach up and carry them home in my shirt, 

any color I'd like.  

It's summer. I want everything.

I want ten children and a screen door that bangs. I want white sheets on the clothesline, and lots of bare feet in the kitchen where glasses with lemons leave puddles on the countertop. I want to hear my children yell and watch their little bodies dive and fall and knot together, all knees and bums and pink until I must stop whatever it is I am stirring and untangle them; leaving them to giggles and popsicles and sticky drips on the dog. I want to watch the seasons pass my window, for ten minutes every Monday, while my hands punch the same dough my grandmother still makes and my house smells yeasty and wholesome like hers. I want long hot days and a garden, with peas that need shelled one by one and the sound of them dropping in a bucket.  I want the sun to shine past bedtime and keep us all awake and reading Charlotte's Web on the creaking porch swing.  I want sandy high-fives stuck to the windows, and weedy flower beds and a worn-out welcome mat.  I want a giant oak tree.  I want to smell like sunscreen and have tanlines in weird places.  I want to line-up canning jars like a Victory Parade all across the kitchen.  I want to pick my own berries and find a thousand ways to use up zucchini and tomatoes.  I want to dance in the rain and make lemonade and stop and smell the roses.  It's summer.  I want everything.

A Few Stay-At-Home-Mommy-Moments

Some moments lately that only Stay At Home Moms get to experience:

We were invited to speak at a Very Important Meeting, with Very Important People attending . . . which creates the Very Big Problem of WHAT TO WEAR??  The beach t-shirt and faded shorts that I usually wear won't work . . . my one good pair of jeans won't work . . . what about the dress I picked up on clearance at Target?  No, my husband was right, it really does look like a choir robe . . . after digging through my closet I finally emerged all pulled together and dressed for suc-cess!  Tasteful pants and top, both picked-up at a Goodwill thrift shop somewhere, and a cute red purse that I'd grabbed for 25 cents at a garage sale last year.  Classy?  Ohhhh yeah.  

Another rare occasion, I happened to be going somewhere alone, and decided that the giant canvas diaper bag number I take everywhere was a bit excessive, so I decided to transfer some items to a smaller purse.  Dumping out the contents of my big bag I found:  

one Eric Carle board book 

a plastic lobster 

a plastic gecko 

one lost sheep left out of the Christmas Nativity box  

a pink stuffed poodle

a tupperware bowl with stale goldfish

tidestick

three cell phones:  one plastic, one finally dead after much abuse by little people, one recently and painfully purchased.

a green tractor

a mess of coupons

two shoes

diapers, wipes, lipgloss

 . . . you know, just the essentials.

Have I told about the time I was doing some SERIOUS couponing at CVS with the girls, and before I knew it Sami had tipped the cart over with Annie IN it!?  It's hard to appear in control while lifting a cart off of your toddler.

Today, I took the girls to our Amish bulk food store.  I go here to shop for things wholesome AND thrifty, like dried fruit and oat bran pretzels, so I can feel like a good mom, the kind of mom who is conscientious, and  who knows about things, important things, and a cool mom, the has-it-all-under-control-mom, whose well-behaved children wait patiently while she reads box labels and searches for flaxseed- kind of mom . . . the problem is, this particular store also has little shopping carts for kids.  And now that Annie is all-opinionated already, she feels entitled to push one too.  And the store is small.  The aisles are tight.  And by the time we left it was lunchtime at the factory next door, and quickly became very crowded.  We couldn't move, because we were each pushing a cart, and my well-behaved children don't listen to me and were both going in opposite directions, while I got glares from every side.  Then, my well-behaved children ran away while I was checking out, and I became blocked-in by a cart behind me.  More glares.  I could not get them and our all-natural groceries out the door fast enough.  

 . . . They both fell asleep in the car, so I could head straight to McDonald's for a really-really-bad-for-me-but-much-deserved iced coffee.

 Then, there are moments like this:

Sure, being a stay-at-home mom isn't glamorous, often humbling, never boring.  You know what?  I wouldn't change a thing.

It must be in the water

What is it about a home?  

(I mentioned earlier that we are casually house-shopping).  

Stepping inside the walls of a stranger, each time I am struck by a sense; 

not from the decorating, or number of bathrooms, or view . . .

The house speaks . . .

The air feels weary in one.  

One seems silent, and alone.  

Another still echos with shouts; the walls feel sharp and something cold hangs over us.  I am eager to leave.  

What is it, then, about the one that draws me back . . . the one too old, needing too much work, the one we can't afford . . . but with walls that laugh?  Something is peaceful inside, and clean.  Cleaner than just the house, though it sparkles.  The air feels clean too.  We leave and each say to the other how clean is the spirit of the house and . . . why?  

A second showing and I notice a verse written, propped over the sink, 

"Create in me a clean heart o God, and renew a right spirit within me . . . "

This weekend we listened to Rob Bell (Everything I have said to You), and the power of words, the power of our thoughts, that it all matters, so incredibly, it all affects me and you; everything affects everything . . . Rob Bell talked about Dr. Masaru Emoto, who discovered that there is a significant effect of words on water crystals . . . it sounds too powerful, too wonderful to be true but it is . . . words written and taped to a glass; spoken or shouted; words prayed . . . the water changes it's expression.  

That sense that we have, the sense when something's not right or somebody's angry or whatever it is that understands love . . . (our bodies are three-quarters water after all!)  Words affect us, they change us, even our environments.  

I find this fascinating, and profoundly Biblical.

God spoke, and it was . .  . our words create worlds, too.

What is it about that house that so attracts me?  It must be the world created by the words that were spoken and prayed and lived there, years and years of speaking and reading and living out pure words, God's Word.

I don't know if we will buy that particular house, or any house . . . but I am more aware of the kind of world I am creating in my home each day.  What kind of world lives in my house?  What does the Spirit of my home say?  Am I speaking life-giving words?  Are my words true?  Is God's Word spoken, and prayed, and lived in my home?  What about the effect of my thoughts on my body?

They seem so little, so inconsequential.  

Words as tiny as water crystals; as big as a house.  

Words matter.  

Every word.