Alo-ha!

A trip to Hawaii?

Don't I wish!

Eating ice cream at dad's annual ice cream party was almost as relaxing. 

Ok, not at all.  But ice cream is ice cream, baby.

And hey, it's the last few weeks of Summer Vacation,

so we will go some gallivanting before school starts back up

(did I just say that?  School?  Didn't we just do this, like, five minutes ago?).

Oh, Summer!  Please don't go!

We'll eat you up, we love you so!

อาหารค่ำกับเพื่อน

Or as we say in our backyard:

Dinner with Friends

It was time again for our sort-of monthly sometimes-foreign dinner with Dave, Steph, Kathy and the Bishop.  He has a name, but we just call him Bishop. 

Guy, fab-husband turned master Thai chef was in the kitchen chopping for about 4 hours.  He then diced, minced, marinated and braised.  In no time he was stirring and finally...

Wallah!

(which is Arabic for คนฝรั่ง)

(which is Thai for "Ta-da!")

He created a Thai feast.

I set the table. 

Hey, too many cooks

spoil the Thai Coconut Chicken soup.

We sat out in the warm July evening breeze, ooh-ing and ah-ing over each course.  We laughed and took seconds.  We were serious a little, here and there, but usually not for long.  As the sun set, the twinkle lights lit the gazebo with a warm glow.  It was, as Steph told me later, a meal she would have paid $100 for.  But the company, of course, was priceless.

At the end of the evening we each opened a fortune cookie.  Fortune cookies aren't a Thai tradition, but technically they aren't really Chinese, either.  We giggled as we took liberties modifying our fortunes.  Then Kathy read hers.  I believe it said;

"Appreciate the caring people who surround you."

ฉันจะทำ.

I do.

 Orange Salad with toasted coconut and fresh mint

(Thanks Kathy!)

Roasted Eggplant Salad with Cilantro and Lime

Chicken Satay with Peanut Sauce

Butternut Squash and Chicken Curry

 Paht Thai Noodles with Pork



 Pork and Zucchini in Red Curry Sauce

Chunky Baby with Rice

  

 

Homemade Coconut Ice Cream with Peanut Battered Banana Fritters

 in Strawberry Sauce

My Ark

Adam, age 5

Story I

In the book of Samuel in the Old Testament, there is a story of a man named Uzzah who was helping to transport the Ark of the Covenant to the City of David.  In the moment when the ark was to be placed on the threshing floor of Nachon, the oxen shook the ark.  And in that moment, Uzzah, believing, I suppose, that his help was needed,

 reached out to steady the ark. 

If you know your Old T, you know that our friend Uzzah

realized a moment too late that when God says don't touch the ark, he means it.

I believe the word was "smote". 

The point is, God didn't need Uzzah's help. 

It was not Uzzah's job to steady the ark.

I tell this story, only so that I can tell you another story.  Well, two, actually. 

Story II

As anyone who has been pregnant can attest, once the world knows you are pregnant, somehow everyone from the obstetrician to the lady at the cell phone kiosk in the mall seems to own some part of your experience.  Never was this more true than when I became pregnant with Adam.  My decision to have a natural, non-surgical birth after my first-born's cesarean was quite the fodder for raised eyebrows.  But when it became public knowledge that we were going to have a homebirth, somehow it was like there was a welcome mat draped atop my bulging bump that said,

 "Please, express any opinion you have about homebirth,

and make sure it is peppered with judgement about my mental well being

 and my capacity to make safe choices regarding my child." 

After each of my successive homebirths, the dissenting voices receded into their opinion caves.  Oh, I still would hear about them from time to time, (the ol' telephone game) just not directly. 

I have gotten used to being a bit counter-culture. 

We don't circumcise, and we co-sleep, but those are things the world at large doesn't see. 

I also nurse my children, modestly but openly,

and for at least two years a'piece. 

You want to get a dirty look from a 50 year old woman

at your local mid-priced eatery,

nurse a toddler.

It's cool. 

So far, none of my kids has had bottle rot,

an intense attachment to an object or, surprisingly,

 an obsession with breasts.  Not yet anyway.

*

Story III

It has been a while since I have had anyone step right up and challenge my parenting choices outside of a pediatrician here and there.  This week, though, I was reminded about how it feels to have your mother-heart called into question.  Someone we know learned that we would be homeschooling, and passionately opposing my choice, sought me out to let me know. 

In the few days since,

I have milled,

pondered,

 fretted,

stressed,

and meditated

about it all. 

A lot.

Here is what I have come to:

I love it that sometimes in life we get the opportunity to reconfirm to ourselves what we know to be true.

I am grateful that I have been given the blessing of these five sweet lives to shepherd,

and that God has trusted me to do all that I can to lead them

 in a way that teaches them that they are His.

I am blessed that I live in a land that allows me to decide, based on the uniqueness

of each sweet, individual spirit, how to best lead my small ones

on the path to a lifetime of joyful learning.

I am confident in my choices thus far, and I know that if, at some point in the future,

they need to change, I can do that confidently, too.

My husband loves, trusts and supports me

(was there any doubt? Never, but still, after 16 years, it's nice to have reminders).

I am surrounded by others who trust and support me, too.

*

Sometimes there are arks that don't need to be steadied.

I left my heart...

In Santa Rosa.

Again.

I always do, each time we go.  It is almost a requirement. 

Just when I think that I must have been imagining how magical that place is,

just when I tell myself I could be as happy anywhere I am...

We go back for a visit. 

*sigh*

Nope.  There's nowhere like it on earth. 

We planned it all so well, packed up the van and hopped in, turned the key and... nothing.  I was unwilling to accept mechanical failure as an excuse for a ruined weekend, so we jumped that puppy and found a repair shop that was miraculously without patrons.  It was fate, I was sure, even though I don't exactly believe in fate. 

In no time we were on the road with a shiny new alternator

alternat-ing away under the hood. 

As the horizon began to rise and fall with the tumble of vineyard covered hills,

I heard a little tune in my heart. 

It sang welcome home, oh, welcome home! 

And I sang back at the top of my lungs

to Annie Lennox playing on the radio.

We stayed a night with sweet Joyce, who always insists on meals eaten out.  T'was then that we learned that it hadn't been the alternator after all!  It is so cool when you get to pay $400 to find out what is not wrong with your car.  That's ok, nothin' a pair of jumper cables can't fix, four or five times.

We wondered if it was wise to continue on to Francine's house, but oh, how could we not?  Francine, a person so kind and without guile, so loving and receiving, so creative and generous, is someone you would walk miles to see.  Car trouble was no trouble at all if it meant a few hours with her.

The minute we arrived, sleepy Jonah reached out for Francine

 and snuggled into her neck to stay. 

We ate so many strawberries that we almost burst,

but they were so sweet and juicy,

 stopping would have been a crime against mother nature. 

We snuggled and loved on the kids, read and visited.   

We ate roasted chicken with our fingers.

And more strawberries.

I had to, as I always do, rest my weary soul in Francine's studio. 

The feeling there is like a temple or a forest, and I don't believe that many people

 could enter without tapping into the flow of creative energy there.

When it was time to go, our van started, no trouble at all. 

It was time, I guess, though I didn't want it to be.

So I left my heart (or some of it, at least) there at Francine's.

I know she'll take great care of it.

One plum...

Make that two!

Out here, by some strange magic, my four children can

play in a hammock together without one squabble.

Francine's amazing studio...

When my studio grows up, I hope it is just like Francine's.

My walkin' boy(s).

Everyone should have a Francine.

Gary, Francine's gentle hubby, is as loving to our little ones as she is.

Inspired by crop circles, The kids made "Rock Circles".

Tessa, though reminded, forgot to bring shoes on this little trip. 

Slippers worked in town, but I had to construct homemade

 flip-flops for treading out in the tree bark and gravel. 

Duct tape; it's the new Jimmy Choo.

Time to say good-bye

Mmmmm.  One more love.

As always, we come away laden with goodies and treasures.  Lavender bread, organic berries, crystals, Mastic gum from the Middle East that tastes of flowers and exotic tree resin.  Even a little pair of frog boots for Jonah boy.  But mostly, we came away with a warmth and cheer that got us all the way home.

Jump on three... Ready? One, two...

Three!!!

We have officially jumped off of a conveyor belt.  It's complicated.  Where do I begin?

With a story, of course.

A few months ago I began having a niggley feeling.

Niggle.

Niggle, niggle.

The Niggle had a name, though it hadn't made itself clear to me yet,

but it felt like a sort of homeschooly niggle.

Did it spark when I began to witness friends, the Bushs, as their children thrived and bloomed in their home-centered education?  Was it kindled by the way our kid's charter Montessori school seemed to focus more on donations and fundraisers than on the principles of Montessori?  It did.  It was. 

Then when I was in the temple with my friend Robin, as I watched her with her children, I was so moved by her tenderness with them.  I was inspired by the connection she had with them. 

I thought to myself, "I want to be a mom just like Robin."

And then the niggle went from a glowing ember to a flame;

"Homeschool!" 

The idea planted itself like a seed blown from a far off field.  I had not even been considering homeschooling.  In fact, having tried it for a year when Ethan was in 2nd grade, I had sworn it off entirely.  That time around I had isolated myself.  I had tried to recreate public school at my kitchen table.  I had no supplies, no curriculum, no support.  I was winging it, but I was a bird without feathers.

But now the message was boldly displayed in my mind like skywriting on a clear day.

Homeschool.

I have spent the past several months learning, researching, preparing and - surprising even to myself - getting excited.  Then, last week we learned we had been accepted by the charter that we had applied to.  By being a part of the charter, we will receive funding that allows us to join classes (Adam wants to take fencing, the girls?  Ballet of course), buy supplies and borrow curriculum and other learning materials from the charter school. 

As part of the whole process, we had to sign some contracts, indicating that we were willing to take responsibility - me for "teaching", and the kids for their own learning.  I talked to the kids about the Founding Fathers and their need to go a different direction from a system that wasn't working for them.  Then we signed our own Declaration of Independence.  I even made us a pen with feathers on it.  As I have been learning, they are the teachers, and they can only learn when they are excited about the subject they are exposed to.  It turns out my job is a simple one.

Inspire.

I provide space, opportunity and resources.  Then I immerse myself in the thrill of learning (which is second nature for me) and make sure that I let the kids see my enthusiasm.

The philosophy we are following comes from Thomas Jefferson Leadership Education (read about it here).   I would be dubious had I not already been watching it in action with the Bush's and their awesome kids.  And the more I have learned, the more my heart sings out that what I am hearing is so true.  It is everything I already believed about education.  It was the same feeling I had when I discovered attachment parenting.  It had made so much sense not to make my babies lose trust in me by making them cry it out, to co-sleep, breastfeed, gently wean, homebirth our next babies, and so much more.

So here we are, stepping off the conveyor belt of public education, where children are dealt with in batches based on their date of manufacture and not their learning styles or talents, into the glorious ocean of all there is to learn, with no boundaries.  And not a moment too soon.  Just days after I had decided that this was the path we would indeed take, we learned our Montessori charter school had decided to get a new lease on a campus shared with...  a school for juvenile sex offenders. 

No, I am not kidding.

I appreciate how well God knows me.  He knew that I needed to have the opportunity to make this decision before my hand was forced.  I had to not resent my choice.  I had to have a chance to get excited.  And I did - all of the above.

Ready?  One, two, three...

JUMP!

Hey! I'm walkin' here!

 He has been taking steps

 for about a week.

Three here, four there.

But yesterday and today

he really took off.

Oh, my heart.

With those first steps, he sets off into the world

a little closer to little boy,

a little further from

my baby

boy.

Oh,

my

heart.

Photos by Tessa, age 5

"Do as I'm doing... follow, follow me"

"Mom, come see the mama of the doll house."  Tessa called out to me.

"See, she's doing push-ups.  Like your da mom and you do push-ups".

*

I am reading a book right now called "Cinderella Ate My Daughter", about raising daughters in a culture of the sexualization of young girls.  I never thought about the possibility that Sleeping Beauty with her 12 inch waistline and impossible grace could be setting a high, glittery bar for my daughters to try to measure themselves up against.  Then there is Ariel, who literally gave away her ability to speak for herself, all to win a man.  "You have your looks, your pretty face, and don't underestimate the importance of BODY LANGUAGE!"  The sea witch calls out to a not-good-enough princess with the shake of her ample bosom and rump.  Eee-gads!  What have I been pushing on my girls?

There was a time when I didn't allow pink into my vocabulary, let alone into my house.  That was back in the days before I let toy guns and video games in, too.  But somewhere along the path between the enchanted forest and my house, they started sneaking in.  A sparkly gift from an aunt.  A princess be-decked t-shirt in a bag of hand-me-down clothes.  And now when I do laundry, I am not sure who I am folding clothes for; my girls or Walt Disney.  When it all started my protests were centered in the lack of imaginative play that such single-storyline toys inspired (or didn't inspire).  Now I am realizing I have overlooked something far more insidious.  I am allowing things into my house that, in the most subtle of ways, tell my daughters they are not good enough as who they are, and that they need to change to get love. 

It took a long time to move all those princesses in here. 

It will take a long time to move them out. 

Listen up, Your Royal Majesties! 

This is your official eviction notice!

 Most of them, anyway.  I won't ditch them all, but what little girl needs six Disney Princess nighties?  I swear, if my girls threw up, it would be pink and purple.  And sparkly.  And little blue birds would fly down to wipe off their chins.

In the mean time, I am thankful that my girls are also getting another message; take care of yourself, stay healthy, be strong.  I hope that I don't also pass along to them the messages that were passed to me; you are a victim of your body type, you are what you weigh, and -the worst of all- : if you can't be smart, be pretty.  If you can't be pretty, well, work on your talents or something.  I want these young ladies to grow up with a firm stance in truth, an understanding of their divine worth, a belief in themselves and their potential, and an appreciation for their unique beauty.  

I never imagined that just by exercising in front of them

I could send them that kind of message.  

Sometime last week I asked Ellie to do a particular job.

  "I'm not super strong like you, Mom.  I don't work out everyday."

"Nice try, chika."

This morning Ellie worked out with us.  

Lately, Tessa and Ellie both join in for a little while most mornings.

Follow, follow me.

Mommy-Daughter Night at church last month.

Life in Kyburz

On the road to Tahoe there are lots of small towns.  There are even a few tiny towns, like the dip in the road called Strawberry, Population 10.  As we made our way up the winding mountain road, we happened upon Kyburz, population 81.  I like the "one" in that 81.  Ya gotta know when that kid was born there was a party.  It has to feel good to know that just by showing up, you increased the population by 1.25%. 

The only way, in fact that you know you have been to Kyburz is when you see the road sign on the town's only cafe.  A picture is worth at least 7 words...

Guy came home from work yesterday at about 1:00. 

By 1:30 he was off to take Adam to the church to practice

their piano /organ duet for this Sunday.  

Guy was in and out so fast that all I had left of him

was the hello-goodbye kiss

that still lingered on my lips

 (or was it the razor stubble-burn on my chin?) 

Some times I feel like I live in Kyburz.