It’s beginning to look a little like Christmas…

I’ll be the first to admit I’m horrible at decorating. It’s just not my thing. I’m not sure if I just don’t care enough or if I just don’t have the space (and hands-free children) to be able to do very much, but I’ve never pursued it very hard.

When we bought this house, though, I declared the fireplace mantle was my space. The kids can reach it, it’s pretty much unfunctional as far as storage, so I planned to decorate it. I’ve succeeded fairly well and had fun in the process.

Jen’s Wreaths sent me a Christmas wreath, and while I hung it on the door for a week, I mourned not being able to see it very often. Today, I had a brainstorm. The fireplace!

According to Charlie, the Christmas beads look like I put my necklace up there. I’m pretty happy with how it turned out though. The wreath is front and center – and I can see it now!

Thanks to Jen at Jen’s wreaths. It’s beautiful!

Once in a while, I’m amazed that things can go so well.

I’ve always shopped ahead. My kitchen typically busts at the seams with food, and skipping shopping for a week or two means the only thing we really run out of the gets desperate is milk and fruit. It’s worked well for me, and I don’t meal plan but cook out of the cabinets. I’ve tried meal planning, and think if I was consistent it would be fabulous but the fact that it took time each week/month to do means it fell by the wayside.

Yesterday, though, when I had 18 hours notice that Thanksgiving was just us at our house because our friends we’d planned to spend the day with were all sick, I’d never been so glad for my overstocked kitchen.

We had turkey, sweet potato casserole, mashed potatoes & gravy, cauliflower, cranberry sauce, pumpkin pie and cherry pie without a trip to the grocery store. In all fairness, I was planning to supply the turkey anyway, but it had come out of the freezer from a previous purchase too.

Next time I grumble at the amount of food on my food shelf, and how buying ahead creates bursting cupboards, I’m going to remember this. It was a pretty cool moment. Once in a blue moon I feel all organized and prepared.

Now, back to my regularly chaotic life. You know, that one that has us cancelling all school lessons planned for the day except math so that we can clean the house that contains more dirt from my garden-tunneling child than I care to admit.

The Old Schoolhouse Magazine Review

I was asked me to review the November issue of The Old Schoolhouse Magazine. It’s available free at www.TheHomeschoolMagazine.com and also through their free app www.TOSApps.com if you’d like to access it that way. http://SchoolhouseReviewCrew.com is a blog from The Old Schoolhouse with reviews to many homeschooling products and resources.

The Old Schoolhouse Magazine is uplifting and encouraging for homeschooling families. I particularly enjoyed their article in November’s issue on the Amish titled “Do Amish homeschool?”. They are fascinating people and it was fun to read another writers perspective on them. The article “Gifts of Gratitude” had a lot of fun ideas to try to encourage thankfulness in our homes. Writer Kendra Fletcher’s subtitle, “Complaining, it seems, is organic. Gratitude is not.” caught my eye and made me laugh. It sounds like her house and my house have a lot in common!

Misty West wrote “Crunching Through the Cracker Crumbs” about chore lists and maintaining a household simply. I plan to try her chore list for myself, to see how my days could be more organized. (And my house, perhaps?!)

I have much to learn, and for a little bit I felt like I was “sitting at the feet” of another. It is a great way to hear from the homeschooling community and learn of the new and different curriculum options I hadn't heard of before. The Old Schoolhouse has a Christian perspective and mission statement – something I appreciated. The magazine has a wide range of articles to speak to the issues homeschoolers face. It had articles on learning disabilities, parental frustrations, and the inside look on one homeschooling family, just to name a few. It comes as water to a thirsty soul, refreshing the weary and giving encouragement to the burdened.

I really appreciated the many articles with ideas for study. Many topics were introduced and ideas for further study were often suggested. As a second generation homeschooler, I tend to do things by the book. I’m learning to pick a topic and just go with it, knowing my children will learn far more in those moments than any of the day today day book requirements I had them. Encouragement to take those rabbit trails, to follow those paths of interest and learn more about what interests my children is needed and appreciated.

The Old Schoolhouse Magazine has many contributors, mostly homeschooling mothers with knowledge (through experience, it would seem) to share to those of us also on this journey. With a wide range of articles, anyone contemplating homeschooling or already walking this path is sure to find ideas, help, encouragement, and the reassurance that we’re doing this for a reason – and that others have done this, succeeded at their goals, and we can too.


Disclaimer: The Schoolhouse Review Crew requested my honest review. I was not required to write a positive review nor was I compensated in any other way. All opinions I have expressed are my own or those of my family. I am disclosing this in accordance with the FTC Regulations.

Ponderous thoughts, stranger approved.

I took Pierce with me grocery shopping tonight. Any time I take just one child with me, they think it’s the best thing ever. They get chatty, giggly, and just love our “date” in the produce aisle. Pierce isn’t any different.

He’d holler “Dada! Dada!” and I’d say “No! Momma!” and he’d laugh and laugh and laugh. Repeat that about fifty times and you have a pretty good idea of what our shopping trip looked like.

After we’d just finished the exchange, yet again, a woman came around the corner and joined me in the toilet paper aisle. Taking in Pierce’s belly laugh, she commented how happy he was and said I must be a wonderful momma to have such a happy baby. “I bet he never cries,” she said. I couldn’t help myself. I snorted.

But as we walked away, I couldn’t help but think on her words. (A trip with one child to the grocery store allows for this. Thinking. What a concept.) Is happy children really what we’re after as mothers? As long as baby doesn’t fuss, I must be properly parenting him? Really, is that all I’m after?

Definitely not. Happy isn’t what life is all about. Being content, on the other hand, holds a a pretty good status. Being thankful, that’s a good one. Understanding our place, our God, our need for Him, that’s what I’m after when I teach my children. Ponderous thoughts.

But when Pierce tired of my outrage at his calls for his daddy a few aisles later, I took him out of the cart and hushed him. It made him happy. It made me wonder. How much parenting do I do just for appearances, and how much is in pursuit of a grander, better thing?

Then, I came home, put the baby to bed and the groceries away, and lost the quiet to be able to finish a thought without interruption. It was lovely while it lasted. Maybe, hopefully, I will parent more purposefully tomorrow, in pursuit of godliness, not stranger approval.

Math brain.

Amount of time it takes for Pierce to shatter the glass plate at the restaurant on the floor after the waiter, who most obviously does not have a one year old, places it in front of him: 1.3 seconds.

Best part about going out to eat on your birthday: not having to clean up the floor under the table.

Number of heads of hair trims I gave on this Sunday morning: 3.

Number of hair ponies and bobby pins used for hair does this morning: 14.

Number of minutes Pierce lasted this morning before going back to bed after staying up later than he should have last night: 38.

Times I’ve had to wash sheets for wet sleepers this week: 1. Progress!

Times I’ve had to scold for mud all over the bathroom: 4. Some dear child is digging a tunnel in the garden. The same dear child can sit in it and disappear up to said child’s chin. Impressive. Dirty, but impressive.

Number of buckling and unbuckling seat belts during out two hour shopping trip on
Monday: 63.

Yesterday I hit my tipping point. The collective number of years I’ve mothered have officially reached the same number of years I’ve been alive. It only goes up exponentially from here.

Happy birthday to me.

Today is my 29th birthday. It’s a weird age. I feel like I have one more year to cling to my twenties.

Ruby made it all better, though. She informed me I was almost thirty, and then turned to Sterling and asked him what comes after 30. When he told her 31 comes next, she gasped, spun around in genuine concern, and exclaimed, “Oh no! You’re almost dead!”

Sterling gave me jewelry. I’m now sporting a matching ring and bracelet set. He made them out of twist ties from the bread bags. The ring… let me just warn you the folly of wearing such a beautiful ring during a certain personal hygiene moment after using certain facilities. It’s a little… scratchy.

Hello, frailty.

For a long time, I’d been immune to poison ivy. I could pull it with my bare hands without issue – and I did. Then last summer, I got it into my head to pull all of the poison ivy around our lilacs. I pulled a lot of poison ivy that day.

Immunity over. Apparently, overdosing such things leads to irritation, one way or the other. Since then, I’ve refrained from touching the stuff. Those two weeks of misery, compounded by a nearly-due Pierce and summer heat making a pregnancy insufferable as it was cured me of any temptation.

Time makes you dumb. You forget.

So last weekend, when the brush that once was likely beautiful but now was an overgrown mess, complete with now-dead but not-dormant poison ivy beckoned me to do something about it, I put on a pair of gloves and dug in.

Memory jogged.

It’s a strange realization to find out that a plant can do such damage that I’m itching and scarred and feeling like a padded room is my best option. How weak and frail am I? I just got knocked on my tush by a three leafed plant that isn’t even visible for it’s winter dormancy.