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.