Sunday Selah

For now we see through a glass, darkly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; but then shall I know, even as also I am known.

I Cor. 13:12

The back door of the house.

It's glass with a cream wood frame.



It's the main access for going onto the back porch and out to the back yard.

It gets slammed on a frequent basis as kids head to the great outdoors...or the great suburban backyard, as it were.

And as the majority of the door is glass, it should let in copious sunlight and vistas of the green lawn and the tall trees.

But it usually doesn't.

Because as the main portal to the yard, its glass is often smudged, smeared with the prints of many small hands and gossamer imprints of little faces pressed up to it, seeking a glimpse beyond.

I'm an optimist, it seems. I clean that door from time to time, the faintly sweet scent of blue glass cleaner coating the surface, a crumple of paper towels in my hand. I scrub at the coating of residue humanity frosting the window. I listen for the squeak of a clean surface. And when I finish the job, I step back to observe the crystal clear view offered by its clarified reflection.

It doesn't last long.

Nothing beckons grimy hands and pressed-up noses like a clean window.

And so within a couple of hours, the glass door looks opaque yet again.



It speaks to me.

There are those solitary moments in my view of faith, when I can see clearly through the veil of circumstance and can see the green field of hope and future beyond. For a little while, the view is luminous, a sparkle of sense and understanding gracing the vision.

But life on this side of the glass is sticky and messy. It's the residue of free will bumping up against the holy, I suppose. I smear my hands in questions and worry, doubt and dissent. And with dirty hands and a runny nose, I press up against eternity's door again.

The view becomes clouded with the residue of me.

But God is an optimist, it seems. He washes all things with the Word, clarifying the vision, wiping away the clouded coating left by his kids' effort at theology, logic, laws and rules.

It's those little moments of clarity, winking in the window of a clean soul. It's those little moments that reveal the great beauty of what is beyond.

Selah.

JPEG of the Week

~Twilight Silouhette~

~8 of 8~

An Evening on the Water

I love this new city we call home.

After two years, it is beginning to feel that way.

I love the miles of trails we hike.

I love the water and the wildlife.

I love the architecture and beauty everywhere I look.

But most of all, I love that we are an easy drive for the people we love to come see us, both from our life on the plains and our life on the island.

Because when it all comes down, it really is all about the people who make up the scenery of our lives. The ones we love and the ones who have loved us back.

The ones who bring memories and laughs, flickers of home with them.

Home, in its many locations, many forms.

Our home in each other's hearts.

Putting the Me in TiME

I'm sitting on my bed, computer in my lap. History Channel is blaring on the television, 3 of 8 mesmerized by a special on giant box jelly fish. The twins are freshly out of the tub, hair damp, one of them sporting only a diaper, one of them in the buff. They have opened an entire package of diapers and are throwing them all over the bed, bouncing up and down, giggling hysterically at each other's antics. Michael has finally come in from the office and is reheating the quiche I made hours ago for dinner, bringing his plate into our room to watch the mayhem.
And I need to leave in 20 minutes to go pick up 2 of 8 from a late evening dance practice.

So naturally, this is the time I decided to write about the importance of 'Me' time.

I'm such the poster child for balance.

Or lack thereof.

4 of 8 has now wandered into the bedroom to ask if she can dig into our collection of jewelry making supplies to create a necklace.

Fine. Whatever.

I'm trying to have a little 'Me' time.

Dixie Mom asks:

My question is: How often do you take "me time" and how do you manage it? I know your oldest are babysitting age now, but "back in the day" were you able to take the time for yourself? Sometimes it seems that my only time is when I go to the grocery store alone.

Oh, Girl.

I feel ya.

Ironically, I'm the first one to tell my friends how much they need to have alone time, how important it is to take a deep breath, take a few moments, recharge the batteries.

Ironic because I'm not very good at doing that very thing.

Back in the days when we had half the number of kiddos we have now, I had a college student who would come one morning a week. 1 of 8 was in public school at the time, 2 and 3 of 8 were in preschool, and my cheerful college student would come to play with 4 of 8 so I could run a few errands, grab a little coffee with a friend, what have you. I chose to hire her over getting a cleaning lady or someone to help with the yard: it was worth it to me to spend that spot of budget on that Tuesday morning 'Me' time.

And then the college student married and moved away. And I started homeschooling the kids. And then we had 5 of 8. And the budget got tighter because we discovered we would be buying hearing aids for 4 of 8. And then 6 of 8 was born.

And the 'me' got taken out of 'time'.

The trend continued as we entered a season of a radical relocation five years ago, a move that took us many miles from extended family and community. The kids and I spent a great deal of time traveling and adjusting to our new locale. It took quite a while to feel settled and we never did find someone who could babysit on a regular basis.

But time marches on and I now have two older teenagers in the house. While their schedules are busy and we have never wanted the older kids to feel that they had to 'co-parent', we do ask to hire one of them from time to time so that Michael and I can have a date. And I do ask one of the girls to babysit on Fridays when I do my big grocery shopping. I feel like such a maverick, slinking into Costco, going to the food court and treating myself to a slice of cheese pizza and a mocha latte.

So I do have some issues with getting some 'Me' time right now.

Which is what the running and the ability to tune out is all about.

I do try to hit the treadmill frequently, my iPod blaring the top 40 hits from my high school years.

And I have developed the ability to meditate that would rival a Tibetan monk.

Except that when I say meditate, I mean 'tune out' everything but a code red fight brewing in the other room and any squeals or screams that would indicate injury.

Focus. Breathe. Type.

There's the blogging. While tuning out the chaos. Yep. That's my usual writing environment. I don't know if I could write in the quiet.

But when I hit sensory overload in the joyful noise that is the soundtrack of my home, I find that I revert to my natural night owl ways. A few late night hours immersed in a book, some bubble time in the tub when the rest of the house is asleep, those little moments help me recharge.

And I would tell you about how I'm really an introvert masquerading as an extrovert. And I would tell you that it's a good thing for me to learn this level of focus and patience. And I would tell you that you should do as I say and not as I do on this topic, that you should make sure you have some time and space.

I would do all this. But I've got to jump in the van and go get 2 of 8 from dance.

And I'm going to have the kids stay home with Mike.

Because the 15 minute drive to the dance school is going to be my 'Me' time.

In this season, I've gotten very adept at mining small moments in a field of busy.

I will drive. And I will listen to myself think.

In the quiet.

With the music of the van's engine accompanying my thoughts.

Play Time

I was going to delve into some more inquiries from QuestFest...but I got a little distracted by my photography efforts from Memorial Day weekend. We spent a delightful afternoon hiking the lake trails in our amazing city's downtown park, me following our crew, clicking away. While I came away from the afternoon with a memory card full of images, I got to playing with this shot of 1 of 8...and just kept playing and playing and playing...

1 of 8 has a penchant for wearing hats. She loves them and doesn't seem fully dressed without them. This floppy white number has been a long favorite and our little hiking excursion was no excuse to leave the floppy white number at home.

I like seeing 1 of 8 with a letter box frame around her. I like seeing her in a straight shot. I like seeing her in a grainy finish.

...and black and white...

...and softer...

...and closer...

But I suppose the main thing that strikes me in the different versions of this image is that she has become a young woman. It's happened. She has gone from wearing princess crowns and crazy ski hats to creating her own style, her head held high, a Cheshire grin on her face.

And a sense of identity and history in her eyes.

When did all that happen?

You Can't Fight Nature...

6 of 8 is not used to alone time. It's just not something you experience much of when you are the sixth of eight children.

Or when you are royalty.

So you see Princess 6's dilemma.

So when 6 of 8's roommate sibling 4 of 8 went for a spend the night last week, 6 of 8 was left with the daunting possibility of having to bunk it on her own for the night. And 6 of 8 without an audience simply won't do.

So she decided to ask 5 of 8 if she could have a 'slumber party' in his and 3 of 8's room for the evening. While 5 of 8 is generally a fairly stable personality in our vat of quirky, he threw something that could have been categorized as right on the brink of a fit.

Intervention was needed to sort out this opposition to 6 of 8's request and the following conversation ensued:

5 of 8: I just don't want her spending the night in my room. No! I just don't!

Mediator: We're going to need a better reason than just 'no'...

5 of 8: Okay. Well, it's just that she won't be quiet. She talks and talks and talks and I'm exhausted and she'll talk a long time! She's so....chatty!

(At this point, 6 of 8 can't restrain herself any longer and must chime in...)
6 of 8: Yes, yes, that's true! I am chatty! That is the way I am! I am just a chatty, chatty girl! That's just me! I have to chat. When you are a chatty girl, you just chat and I am a chatty girl!

5 of 8: eye roll and audible, prolonged sigh....

6 of 8 did get to slumber party in her brothers' room that night, making many a promise that, in spite of her natural proclivities, she would try to refrain from being quite so chatty. Maybe just a little chatty.

Because, after all, she is a chatty girl.

In Which He Must Choose Between the Future Tony Winner and the Future Octamom

If you skipped last week's episode addressing the question of how Mike and I met, you can get caught up here. But if you're up to speed, I offer you this missive on the next chapter in our romance.

So Mike called it quits with the cheating girlfriend and returned his focus to the playing field. And I was standing in the middle of that playing field, trying to subtly wave my arms wildly.

We had a date. And we talked. And we talked some more. And we went out again. And he was seen talking and dating other female members of the playing field as well. So I likewise continued to talk with and date those male individuals still occupying the playing field.

Bleh. Dating.

Michael and I continued to spend more and more time together, me trying to read the tea leaves about the other girls vying for his attention. He was charming, somewhat elusive and also showed a penchant for zipping up to my duplex in his metallic silver/green Fiat convertible. As I was saying goodnight to my other dates.

Which made me feel that Michael might be developing a stronger interest in me.

But it was hard to tell. He would call several nights in a row, then wouldn't call for a bit. We would meet for coffee everyday after class, until the days we wouldn't meet and I would wring my hands over what that possibly meant. He would hold my hand during a movie, but never tried to kiss me goodnight.

And this went on for what seemed like a long, long time.

As in, weeks.

An eternity in dating years.

As the fall days clicked away on the calendar, a particular week loomed. Sadie Hawkins Week. That span of seven days in which all protocol was thrown to the wind and, gasp, girls could ask out the guys. And Michael got asked. Boy, oh boy, did he get asked. And he went.

I hate Sadie Hawkins Week. And not just because it's sexist.

Michael had made a few trips up to Oklahoma in the weeks we had been playing cat and mouse and the end of Sadie Hawkins Week was no exception. He called to let me know that he was heading to Oklahoma City for the weekend. I breathed a sigh of relief that at least he was going to be out of town for the conclusion of Sadie Hawkins.

But there was skullduggery afoot--which is a fun thesaurus.com way of saying that there was a bit of intrigue and artifice going on.

Michael's roommate called me later that afternoon after Mike had left for OKC. The roommate told me that he felt a sense of honor and responsibility to let me know that Mike had gone to Oklahoma City to see a girl he had dated some over the summer, a girl he had worked with in the same theater production company. And while the roommate knew that Mike and I had no exclusive contract on the table, he felt that he could no longer sit by and comfortably watch the duplicity with which Michael was conducting the simultaneous conversations between Miss OKC and myself.

And the roommate offered to take me out for the evening to get my mind off of this information he so kindly disclosed.

I kindly declined.

But I was now thrown into a true dating funk, a strange land in which I had been made no promises, had been given no kisses, had simply enjoyed conversation and meals, movies and music. I had no rights to any expectations. Michael had been fair and kind. And elusive.

And now he was in Oklahoma City. Seeing another girl.

A girl who would ultimately go on to win the Tony for her performance on Broadway. A girl who would go on to enjoy success in Hollywood. A girl Michael was seeing again because he felt he needed to make a choice. Because there was this other girl down in Texas, sitting in her duplex. And both girls were coming to a place that it was only fair for each of them to know if Michael was losing his heart to one of them.

Or the other.

And sometime, if someone asks, I'll tell you the name of the girl in Oklahoma City, the one to whom Mike could have easily and understandably given his heart. Which would have changed my personal history.

Substantially.

But I don't remember anyone specifically asking if Michael had ever dated a future Tony winner and what her name is. So I suppose I'll just have to wait until one of you comes up with that question. But for now, you do know a bit more of our story.

A story that somehow includes the words 'Sadie Hawkins' and 'Tony winner'...in the same paragraphs.

Ah, romance.

Sunday Selah

See to it, brothers, that none of you has a sinful, unbelieving heart that turns away from the living God. But encourage one another daily, as long as it is called Today, so that none of you may be hardened by sin's deceitfulness.

Hebrews 3:12-13

It's the tale tell sign.

It's when I know my heart is starting to wander a bit. When my focus is skewed. When my walk is meandering.

It's how I know.

It's when I get a little brittle, a little stony.

My heart is no longer a soft place to land.

I confuse it sometimes for strength. I say that I'm tough, that I can weather the storm. I jut out the rigid chin of my soul and bask in my independence.

But it's not rugged strength.

It's the dense deceitfulness of sin, posing as autonomy, faking fortitude.

I sometimes allow that wall of weakness to be raised, a self-constructed attempt to buffer the jabs and jousts this world brings against the softness of the soul. I see through worldly eyes the challenges, the pain, the questions, the doubt. And in allowing that vision to form, the deception, the duplicity begins to harden my heart.

And I wade in again to a sea of self-protection, an attempt to keep the difficult, the messy, the confusing compartmentalized into an illusion of control.

The opposite of faith.

A deceitfulness of sin.

The sin of hanging on to illusions of self-determination. The sin of trying to manipulate God through behavior, self-righteousness, point systems. The sin of keeping up appearances instead of looking for His appearing.

The chicanery of command.

But my given mandate is to remain tender. To see the hurts of this world and to allow it to soak into the plowed furrows of my heart. To hear the cries of a fallen world and to let it become the discordant symphony that motivates me, moves me. To walk the battlefields of the war for eternity and to tend the wounded, the lost, the weary.

To be moved by the very things that moved Jesus to the cross.

To be moved to tears by the very things that that became His heart's cry.

To remain tender in a hard world.

A soft place for the wounded to land.

The extraordinary cushion of the softness of the saved soul.

Selah.

JPEG of the Week

~We call this 'Future Teen Angst Insurance'~

(if you disobey us, we'll post that picture of you in that crazy hat all over the web...)

~8 of 8 in one crazy hat~

Brother, Brother

So the QuestFest continues...and may I just say, this has been such a wonderful experience. Your questions have prompted me to put on paper (okay, screen) elements of life history that I might not have. I have thought of my blog as a place to record my childrens' days and our present experiences. But through your comments, you've spurred me on to record the events and histories that got us to this place and this time. Thank you.

I will continue to chronical my romance with Mike since I had you at fake vomit. And I will answer your questions about birth control, family size, 'me' time and all the other great topics with which you have come up...which you have come up with...darn, there is no way to not leave a participle dangling on that one. Well, I trust you catch my drift. But you'll have to tune in next week for those revelations (*snort*).

Today, I'm addressing this great topic, posed by JMB Mommy of His Grace is Enough. She writes:
I do have a question-- How do you deal with sibling rivalry? We teach, teach, teach, discipline, discipline,etc. Do I just keep up what I am doing until they move out? :) Maybe I am intervening too much? I don't know...it scares me...

Well, you know, my kids always get along perfectly, so.....


Sorry, there.  Slipped into a bit of fiction writing.  Must be something about the hemispheres of the brain and too much coffee or not enough or something...


Ah, yes, ye old sibling rivalry.  We have our fair share around here, and oh the irony that I call it 'fair share' as the rivalry participants feel it's all about 'unfair share'.  While I am a very laid back mom about many things, squabbles are not one of them.  I detest bickering and sniping.  Detest.  We do not tolerate physical fisticuffs at all, in any way, shape, or form.  We try to coach our kids through verbal disagreement as we believe it is okay to disagree with someone as long as there is respect.  But when it comes to those old rivalry riffs,  I'm liable to send all offending parties involved in verbal sparrings to nether regions of the house.


But those signals of strife do have a benefit, though it can be hard to hear through the whining.  I have learned in the Land of Eight that certain players have higher needs for my undivided attention.  They just do.  They need greater reassurance of my adoration.  They need more verbal encouragement, more involvement.  And if they are feeling a bit depleted of my Mommy Devotion, they will throw up the red flag that garners my full attention...they will begin the age-old game of Bicker.


Without calling names (or numbers, as in the case on my blog), I have a player or two of Bicker who always seem to be at the center of the action.  Life gets a little dull and they decide to throw themselves a good game of Bicker, choosing a sibling closest to them in the car, on the couch, at the school table...really, any geographically close relative will suffice.  It will begin subtly, a jocular jab with a bit much too bite, an eye roll, a smirk.  And then acceleration begins.  And then the volume increases.  And then the whining and tattling starts.  It's such a well-formatted game, isn't it?


I haven't yet figured out how to completely dispose of the Bicker game.  But I do have some over-the-counter ideas, some things that seem to ease the discomfort.  When I can remove my emotion from the game, we all benefit.  It's hard for me to stand in neutral ground.  It's hard for me to not immediately point the finger at the one or two that I know hold the greatest proclivity for getting the Bicker ball rolling.  But when I can, when I can intervene calmly, when I can calmly listen to the litany of slights, I always learn the same thing:  somebody is screaming for some one-on-one time.  With one of my main Bicker players, a small investment of time on my part yields a great dividend of sibling peace.  This child will ride a bike next to me while I run; only this child goes with me and this child will stay with me for miles and miles, not really needing to talk, just wanting a singular activity with me that is only ours.  I also try to read the same books as this child; this child loves that we can speak literature together, even though my fascination with dragons and quests is not, um, as intense.  And this child thrives when I place a higher mantle of responsibility on their developing shoulders.  It seems to assure this child of their special role, their unique office in our family.


It has never cured the sibling rivalry issue, but it has often assuaged the core issue.  And the core issue is this:  regardless of family size, every child needs to know that they occupy a special place in family life, a position that is unique and customized specifically for them.  Their talents, their dreams, their hobbies, their little habits and homilies all make up an important aspect of the family portrait.  And when I take the time to nurture that belief in each of my children, their need to scramble for position while elbowing their siblings out of the way seems to recede. 


We also seek to simply enjoy each other's company.  My brothers are two of my best friends and a large part of our shared language is laughter.  We learned to laugh with each other long and hard while still kids and that laughter language still binds our lives together to this day.  And so we laugh with our kids.  We sit around telling stories and laughing at shows and sharing family jokes.  We tease and play, giggle and chase.  Because there's just something, something binding and ancient, about the people who can make you laugh until you cry.  The people who know how to tickle your soul.  The siblings who can split your sides with stories.


And I would share more of my knowledge.  But I have to go upstairs now.  From the sounds of it, there may be a Bicker game brewing, which is hard to believe, given what a perfect mom I am....

So How Did You Make the Decision to Stay Home With the Kids?

The afternoon was so hot that the pavement sent up apparitions of opaque waves, scintillating wafts of heat blurring the brick of the building just beyond the gruesome scene in front of me. I shifted in my spike heels, a trickle of sweat running down the inside of my satin maternity blouse and I knew. I knew it was time to let my life take another course.

It had not been my intention to enter the world of radio and television news, and yet through a series of connected events, I began paying my dues while still in college, manning a mic after a radio manager who attended the same Human Communication class took a liking to my speaking voice. After an audition, I was hired, learning to run a sound board and modulate my voice to a smooth yet interesting cadence (I hoped). I ultimately was invited to join a morning team at a competing radio station and from there was asked to come in for an on-camera audition with a CBS television affiliate. And so the girl who had initially planned to become a psychologist and help people solve their problems ultimately found herself commissioned in the world of news to simply reveal problems.

When Mike and I married, I was working crazy hours, still hosting the radio morning show and then hitting the television studio, going from early, early in the morning until night. For quite a while, it worked. Mike himself was finishing up classes and was working for a state representative and those commitments kept him on the run. We would meet in passing, swapping stories, a meal, trying to figure out if the dishes in the dishwasher were clean or dirty.

I ultimately decided that it was time for me to leave the radio morning show. I adored the comradery of the show, the back and forth jesting between myself and my fellow hosts. But two of us had been asked to come start a syndicated program in a new little thing called satellite and it would have necessitated a move away from Mike while he finished up course work. I wasn't willing to be away from him and so I decided it was an opportune time to focus completely on television.

And so it continued, life becoming a blur of live shots and studio sets, editing deadlines and controversial stories. Stress was a way of life. Viewers who loved my clothes, my voice, my hair occasionally called the studio. Viewers who hated my clothes, my voice, my hair occasionally called as well. There wasn't a lot of time to consider if I liked my career or not. There was always the next deadline to meet.

Then there was the ski trip to Utah.

I was tired when we headed to Utah to hit the slopes. We skied. I slept. We skied some more. I slept some more. I thought I was just exhausted from the crazy schedule we had been keeping. I thought it was the altitude. That was part of it.

And then there was my condition.

My maternal condition.

Toward the end of our ski vacation, the date on the calendar hit me like a bolt. It was the end of March? When had it become the end of March? And if it was the end of March, then when was my last cycle?

I purchased a little stick.

And it seemed to indicate that I was gestating.

Gestating another human being.

Michael stalked the pharmacist at the local drug store. We bought more tests, all to watch them turn positive as well.

We were going to be parents.

And for many weeks, that was the only part of the equation we had figured out.

Until that hot day. That hot day I stood in the sun, in heels and a satin maternity blouse.

Because on that hot day, as I stood surveying yet another horrific crime scene, as I struggled to make my emotions bow to the demands of my professionalism, as I surveyed the cruelty of one human toward another, I just knew. I knew I didn't want my baby to have to experience those things through my eyes while I carried her.

And within a week, I had tendered my resignation.

I stayed on with the affiliate for a while longer, writing copy, producing the noon news. I stayed in the studio, giving a few news updates. I gave Michael some time to adjust to the fact that I was transitioning from Jane Pauley to Betty Crocker.

It was not an easy adjustment for him to make.

But when 1 of 8 was born, when we took her home to a little nursery decorated in little bunnies, when I could tear up over her little face and when I stopped looking at the world in three-second edits, television seemed like a small box indeed.

Because through her, the world seemed infinitely large and new.

This Old Dog...

I'm delighted to be guest posting today over at Little Bites of Heaven. And in keeping with our little Question Fest, I do answer a question I frequently get: How is the experience with the twins different or similar to my singletons. Here's a little taste to get you started. Then follow the link on over to Rachael's...

You would have thought after six babies, I'd be a little hard to surprise.

But you could have flat knocked me over when, halfway through my last pregnancy, our ultrasound tech made a little discovery.

We didn't have just one baby on board. We had two...(keep reading)...

So When Do You....?

So we're back for our second installment of Octa101, a little whimsy where I answer whatever questions you care to throw my way.

One of the predominant questions I received was about our schedule with this many people populating my day-to-day world. The one disclaimer I must issue in any discussion of scheduling is this: I aspire. As in, try. As in, have lofty goals. As in, having a target...but not always hitting it.

Perhaps the greatest thing I have realized when it comes to steering this ship is that it takes an ironic blend of planning and flexibility. If I don't plan at all, we absolutely run aground as my whims and creative bursts spin wildly. If I get too attached to the planning, I can tend to become rigid and am just asking for a rigidity beating. Things always come up, little crisis and changes that must be incorporated into the texture of our days. So my guiding principal is this: flexible planning.

One of the unusual things about the fact that I am walking out this journey of raising a large family is that I don't have a need to control. I generally don't care what movie to go to. I don't have to pick the restaurant. I'm fine with someone else having a strong preference. I simply don't want to be controlled. Throw a control freak in my path who wants to wrest all the spontaneity out of something and I'm bound to throw a yellow flag. But there is definitely a level of control that I have learned I need to exercise when it comes to keeping order in my home. It actually has not been an easy thing for me to lay out our daily plan and then enforce it. I'm much more egalitarian in nature. And because I don't need someone hovering over me to insure I complete a task, it bothers me somewhat to have to do so with some of my students. But need it they do from time to time.

I posted about our fall schedule here. And as always is the case, I have made adaptations to this schedule, based on the twins' development and recent penchant for getting into everything. We've also had to incorporate extensive physical and occupational therapy into our days, along with 4 of 8's continuing Auditory Verbal Therapy. While I have read many resources over the years in trying to design the 'perfect' schedule for our large family, I have found that our decision to allow our kids to follow their bliss in various extracurricular activities, along with the realities of therapy schedules, makes for a crazy quilt of days, useful and beautiful to be sure, but lacking in the geometric symmetry my spreadsheets would prefer.

So I offer our spring schedule for your perusal. In this season, a few key pieces comprise the big blocks of our days. I write, blog and develop my speaking material on the fly, early in the mornings, during lunch, after kids are in bed. Photography occurs when the scene strikes. The twins are generally up by 7:30 am and I begin breakfast prep at that time. About 9 am, I get a couple of the kids rolling on school work and a couple of others help me with chores and with monitoring the twins. After a period of time, I swap out helpers. We eat lunch about 11:30, the kids all then play outside for a while and then the twins go down for nap at 1 pm. And that's when we really kick it into high gear. Because in this season, those two hours the twins are asleep are gold. We school and school hard during this time. I have the kids work somewhat independently in the mornings, with general instructions and oversight from me. But those two nap hours in the afternoon are critical for my keeping a count of our scholastic pulse. It was about December that the wheels came off my ability to keep everybody working at the table and to keep the twins content and playing happily. Once 8 of 8 figured out there was stuff in the cabinets to be excavated and 7 of 8 realized there was lipstick in the house, all bets were off.

Once the twins get up, the carnival begins. I keep the rest of the crew with their noses in the books and try to keep the twins from peeling the drywall off the studs. Beginning in the late afternoon/early evening, I begin the driving routine, hitting dance and soccer practices. I actually have come to find this time somewhat relaxing as the twins are strapped in their car seats and can only pillage as far as their strapped-in little appendages can reach. I do 'big' cooking about twice a month and pop a meal in the oven as I begin the carpool process. Our evenings are never the same, each night having different commitments at different locations. We do try to eat dinner as a family a couple of night a week, but it often looks as though I'm running a Luby's cafeteria. The twins and younger kids hit the tub at 7:45 pm and the babies are generally in bed by 8:30 pm. A couple of times of week, I make late runs to the dance school to pick up 2 of 8. With Mike's business, I never know what time he will be home in the evening, so I try to not place expectations of his involvement in dinner or car pool.

And then we start all over again the next day.

I've had a lot of questions about homeschool as well, and so this post is a bit of blend. I do plan to address your homeschool questions more specifically in a different post. So now that I've meandered a bit through our daily 'aspire' routine, let me distill scheduling down to this: we identify our big rocks and then allow the pebbles of other activities to fill the spaces that are left. The big rocks are school, therapy, chores, dance, soccer, playtime, church, running, writing, photography, meals and naps and bedtimes. And while it doesn't look all that Herculean to me, I can understand how overwhelming and wild it can look from the outside. But there is a little secret to all this.

We've built this one at a time (until the bonus round of twins). It's kind of like mountaineers who esteem to climb the highest peaks. They hike to the base camp, spend some time acclimating, climb to the next camp and acclimate again. For every attempt they make for the summit, they have spent triple the time allowing their bodies to adjust to the higher altitudes, allowing their red blood cell counts to build so they can have the stamina they need. And so it is with us. Our entree into homeschooling began with one kid. Our entree into dance began with one kid. And as our endurance developed, more were added. It somehow all works, not because I have developed the magic schedule with the magic principles printed on the perfect spreadsheets. It works because we traffic heavily in grace, in the slow climb, in the moderate acclimation to the altitudes at which we are operating. It doesn't get all done. But a lot of it gets done.

And I have learned to celebrate and to be content with that.

And So Begins Octa101...

So we opened up those phone lines last week here at Octamom Dot Com and asked you to send in those burning Octamom questions you've had brewing.

Andy, of The Creative Junkie, was wondering about the story behind my adored sperm donor, Michael. She asked how we met. And while I tinkered with the idea of cooking up some amazing James Bond-esque tale, I suppose I'll stay with that whole truth-in-journalism ideal and stay with the archived history.


I attended a small private college in Texas and quickly came to the conclusion that boys.were.jerks. At least most of the ones I was dating. I'm just not much of a game player and wearied quickly of the intrigue and subterfuge that accompanied the dating social scene on a small campus. In the midst of my dating fatigue, I was eating lunch in the student center cafeteria one day when I heard a ruckus at an adjacent table. A gaggle of girls was giggling with such ferocity (in that way that only females infused with high doses of estrogen can) that I interrupted my non-delicious meal to see what was afoot. There was a really great looking guy, surrounded by said giggly girls, apparently holding court. He glanced wickedly at his captive audience and proceeded to fake vomit on his tray.

Yep.

The very one who would become my guy.

After my early vomit visage of Captain Movie Star, I began to hear his name around campus a lot. A Lot. He seemed to have an uncanny ability to render females giggly and silly, regardless of age or creed.

I was not smitten.

Though I did hold great esteem for his perfect smile and the bluest eyes. Ever.

The first time Michael ever spoke to me, I was with another guy. We were at a small group chapel, held in a small auditorium. Small group chapel consisted of singing, a short message and some time in prayer. I sat a couple of rows behind Michael and when chapel concluded, he zipped over to me, flashed his big ol' smile and told me that I had the voice of an angel...which I felt was about like asking me my sign. My then-boyfriend uttered an exasperated "Thanks" on my behalf and we left.

My encounters with Michael became more frequent over the intervening months as he began to date one of the good friends of one of my good friends. We often found ourselves in similar social settings, politely chatting, exchanging pleasantries. He and the girl he was dating were the campus Hot Couple. She was tiny, boasting similar electric blue eyes and having the perfect big 80's hair, a dark, dark shade of brunette. They were the Heidi and Spencer of their day, Camelot, perfect, photogenic, charismatic.

And I knew she was still sneaking back home to see her high school boyfriend.

Because through the mutual friendships we had, I often heard her smirking confessionals of her re-romances with the old boyfriend. And in getting to know Michael better, I felt bad for him that this girl was pulling the wool over his eyes.

Even though I had seen him fake vomit in the cafeteria.

I didn't know how their story would end, if he was aware of the other guy. I knew that the girlfriend had big plans for herself and Michael. She was convinced he was The One. She just needed a little twist of old-high-school-boyfriend on the side.

Such is the conundrum of the beautiful and adored.

Although I am not older than Mike, I hopped and skipped my way through my younger years in school and had entered college at the ripe old age of 17. And then through some more hopping and skipping, mainly by way of CLEP and AP tests, I was ready to graduate with my first degree by the age of 19. I had made the decision to stay for a summer semester so I could wrap up my Bachelor of Science by Christmas and then head out to California for a Masters program. I was heading down the sidewalk one spring afternoon, my summer plans firmly in motion, when I saw Michael heading up the sidewalk toward me. We stood in the late afternoon sun, chatting about finals, about upcoming classes, about plans for the summer. I told him I was staying for summer classes.

And he emitted a little sparkle from his blue eyes.

And he said he was staying too and that he would give me a call.

Perhaps we could have some dinner together.

And discuss politics.

Over the summer.

Hmmmmm.

He never called.

He ended up going to Washington DC that summer, interning on Capitol Hill for a congressman.

But when he returned that fall, he was firmly done with the other girlfriend dealio. And we had a date.

And then we had another one.

And sometime, if someone asks, I'll tell you the next chapter of the story.

But Andy only asked how we met.

And there it is, bathed in fake vomit, cheating girlfriends, chapel and congressman.

And blue, blue eyes.

Sunday Selah

I am still confident of this:
       I will see the goodness of the LORD
       in the land of the living.

  Wait for the LORD;
       be strong and take heart
       and wait for the LORD.

Psalm 27:13-14

We are a culture that hates to wait.


We bemoan a long wait in the line.

We complain about having to wait on the phone.

We despise waiting rooms and scoff at the term 'ladies in waiting.'

Waiting.

We don't like to be placed on a waiting list.

We don't want to have to wait something out.

And though we are often entered in this particular competition, very few of us enjoy playing the waiting game.

We are a mobile society, accustomed to zipping about. And waiting is all about staying in one place.

We find it frustrating.

And when we are in a season of spiritual waiting, it can be downright faith draining.

In the ancestral history of words, 'wait' finds its etymological DNA in an old French term meaning 'to watch.'

Watch. Wait.

Maybe that's the component we're missing when it comes to our modern waiting. Perhaps we're forgetting to watch.

To watch for what the Lord is doing while He has us in the waiting room. To watch for the smallest movement of His hand. To remember to pick up the magazines He keeps for us in the waiting room, that timeless periodical called the Word. Paying attention to our fellow waiting room patrons. Learning their stories. Watching their faces. Hearing with new ears the music piped into the waiting room, songs of remembrance, notes of praise. Watching the fidgeting of our hearts. Watching for signs of growth.


There are little signs around the spiritual waiting room, bits of profound graffiti printed on the walls:

 My soul waits for the Lord
more than watchmen wait for the morning,
more than watchmen wait for the morning.(Psalm 130:6)signed:  The Penitent Psalmist

Blessed is the man who listens to me,
       watching daily at my doors,
       waiting at my doorway.   For whoever finds me finds life
       and receives favor from the LORD.  (Prov. 8:34&35)
signed:  Wisdom

But as for me, I watch in hope for the LORD,
       I wait for God my Savior;
       my God will hear me. (Michah 7:7)
signed:  the prophet Micah

Watch.  Wait.


To be in the spiritual waiting room is not static. Not if we are watching.

Watch. Wait.


Selah.

JPEG of the Week

A Boy and His Bubbles
~I'm so glad that something as simple as suds
can still capture this high tech guy's imagination~

a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/octamom/2902902622/" title="signature blog1 by Octamom(c), on Flickr">

Questions, Questions, Questions...

My recent foray back into the media spotlight (brief though it may be) has spurred a round of questions from my blog readers. I've been fielding inquiries about my television experience, kid organization, schedule, decision to stay home, tips and ideas. A precious reader sent me this missive:

I really really enjoyed the interview of your family on Fox News! I am a faithful reader of your blog, so it was fun to put names with the faces and see the whole family in action!
I LOVED your comment about enjoying this "season." I really needed to hear that! I spend so much time feeling uptight about everything, rather than peaceful, as we are going through potty training the toddler and dealing with an energetic little boy who has just learned to crawl.
Your interview made me think of so many more questions I want to ask! and possibly ideas for future posts:
What prompted your decision to become a full-time stay-at-home-mom? (They said you have been a SAHM for 16 years--so your oldest was 2 at the time, right?)
Also describe the transition to becoming a SAHM: What were the struggles or challenges, either logistically, financially, emotionally?
Were you always naturally gifted in home-organizing and child-rearing? Or did it take a while to adjust?
What is your daily schedule?
What are the kids' daily schedules like?
Sorry so many questions!
I am a new mom--not a young mom, I'm 33! But I left a career in auditing at Ernst & Young to have a family. Four months after my daughter was born, my husband lost his job, so we moved 600 miles away to live with his family while he looked for a new job. The past 2 years have been challenging--starting a whole new life, with a new "career," new friends, new church, new home (we've moved 3 times in 2 years)! . . . so I'm always curious how the more experienced (and well-adjusted) moms handled that transition and I'm open any advice you might have to offer!
I feel like my "performance" was so much better in the accounting world than it is at home, and I never expected that! I tend to thrive with routine, and I feel every time I finally figure out the kids' latest "routine" it changes again, as one quits taking a nap or stops breastfeeding or whatever! Maybe I will get it together by the time the 2nd one is a toddler. :-)
I do not regret the decision to stay at home with my children, but wow, it has been a lot different than I anticipated.
Any posts you might think up on those topics would be greatly appreciated!



So I had a little idea. I'm going to open up the floor for your questions and dedicate a good part of next week to what we could call Octamom 101...or should it be Octamom 801? Hmmmm. Well, you get the idea. While I have posted from time to time about the philosophies and practicalities that shape our days, I'd love to hear what you would like to know and respond in kind. So get those comment fingers typing and ask your questions. I'm not shy, so don't hold back. We'll throw ourselves a little Q&A party next week!

Because I'm Indecisive...

...I made my mama pick the Scrapblog Mother's Day card winner...

...and she picked a good one...

Congratulations, Becky! The Octamom Maternal Unit selected yours as her fav! Courtesy of Scrapblog, you'll be receiving a free Scrapblog Keepsake book! Email me for details and I'll get you set up.

Be sure to visit Becky's winning entry by clicking here. And Mama D'Octamom, thanks for being our judge today! Many thanks to all of you who entered!

Mixed Bathing...

Part of the twins' two year old bash was opening a gift from the Octamom Parental Units.

It was an inflatable pool with enough square footage to appropriately drench several
members of the Octamom crew.

Its inflation was met with great delight.

8 of 8 was particularly fond of the sprayers that are featured on the sides of the pool...we're all about high tech around here.

These sprayers are extremely effective in rinsing the sinus cavities as well, as pictured above.

2 of 8 has been itching to get her hands on my big camera, my Canon 40D. So I (gulp) let her stand a safe distance away and capture the water antics.

I'm thinking she's got a pretty good eye and fast trigger finger on her, if I do say so myself.

Of course, I am a bit partial to her models...

Warning...High Sugar Content

Just go ahead and call the dentist now.

Go on...

I'll wait for you.

Well, don't say I didn't warn you.

What follows is pure sweetness.

Sticky, even.

Such cuteness that can just eat the enamel right off the dentin.

You've been warned...

Here we go.

Told ya.

6 of 8 and her best buddy AT hit the stage for their annual dance recital. THey performed a number called 'Yankee Doodle Dandy'...

...but you may have been able to guess that from the costumes. Y'all are very intuitive that way...

Now go brush your teeth really good...'cause this is a whole lot of sweet to take in at one time...