The Boy is Five

I actually just wrote ‘The Boy is Four’ in the post heading. I realized I’m a full year behind. And my four year old is actually a five year old, as of yesterday, 10 am Eastern Standard Time.

He doesn’t think being five is all that cool. He says that Elsa has already been five, so how good can it be to be five again? Sorry, second child. You’ll never catch up. He’d really like to be older. Caleb tried to convince him one time that being older wasn’t all that great. He told him that once he got older, he’d have to start earning a living and making money in order to pay for things because everything costs money. Ezra thought about that for a minute and said, “Well, I’ll just keep on losing my teeth, then.”

Ezra at five spends a good one third of his day with the deepest scowl on his face, I’m almost afraid his face really might get stuck that way. The injustice in the world is all his at the moment. Then he’s the one to crawl into my lap unexpectedly and whisper, “I love you too much, I can never let you go.” He has made it his life’s ambition to make Daisy scream. And laugh. And he does both with abandon. He hasn’t figured out yet that he can hit Elsa back if (if!–when) she smacks him. He is so thrilled whenever she deems it a good day to play with him that he’ll do anything–Barbies has been a frequent and favorite game around our house lately, without shame.

At five, Ezra’s favorite thing in the world is reading books with Grandma in her swing. Or maybe it is playing Uno. Although you have to watch him–the kid tries to cheat. He’ll stash a Draw Four under his buns until it’s time for the next game–but then he’ll leave that card until the very last one to play it. He doesn’t actually want to make anyone draw four, he just wants to have that card in his hand. Actually, maybe his favorite thing is climbing trees and tying knots in ropes. One time he fell from a low branch and was saved by his flimsy little pair of boxer briefs. I rescued him, hanging by his underwear. We tell him he can never throw that pair away–when he becomes a famous mountaineer, he’ll still need to squeeze into the pair that saved him from the tumble.

Ezra at five is beautiful. Intense. Frustrating. Rewarding. Complicated. Smooth as glass. He squeezes my neck and doesn’t let go when I put him to bed. He glares at me with such depth I sometimes feel like I should check my chest to see if my heart is still there.

Ezra, at five, is fantastic.

Finding Out

I’ve always thought that finding out the gender of babies at 20 weeks is such an excellent service that medical science can provide that I never passed up the chance with my first three pregnancies.

I’m pregnant, by the way.

I think I’m even the terribly bratty family member that told my sister-in-law (who WASN’T finding out the sex of her baby at the same time I WAS with Elsa) that it wasn’t as fun to not find out. I don’t remember specifically saying that, but I’m sure I’m fully capable of it and–wow, in hindsight and three kids later, what a brat I can be.

Anyhow. Finding out is fun. I loved finding out that Elsa was a girl when I was sure she was a boy, and Ezra was a boy when I was sure he was a girl, and finding out Daisy was a girl when I no longer tried to trust my flimsy instincts. When I was pregnant with Elsa, we were so desperate to find out if she was a boy or a girl that when she didn’t cooperate at the routine 20 week ultrasound and kept her legs firmly sealed together, my relatively penny-conscious husband actually spent $50 on another ultrasound a week later just to determine her gender. We really wanted to know.

I’m pregnant for the last time. (Is God laughing right now?) And so I thought that it would be fun, this last time around, to experience it a different way. I’ve felt absolutely no urgency to know what form this little person is taking inside of me, and have thought how sweet it would be to experience that revelation as we meet him or her face to face for the first time.

True to form, Caleb didn’t share my same feelings. And so when we came into Addis Ababa last week to see a doctor, renew kids’ passports, and make a final decision about where to pop this kid out, he informed me not to come home from the ultrasound unless I knew what kind of child we were going to get. We made a deal. I’d find out for him, and he would be allowed to tell one person. So I had the doctor write down the results of the u/s on a piece paper and fold it up tight. I put it in my pants pocket and didn’t even feel the slightest temptation to peek. Caleb had told me I wouldn’t have the willpower to not find out, so, you know, I had to prove him wrong.

He totally blew it. He told way more people than the agreed upon one. I’m pretty sure that by yesterday morning, I was the only one who didn’t know what kind of kid I’m carrying around in my belly. All I knew from the u/s was that I was carrying a viable fetus with ‘No Gross Malformations’, according to the printout I received from the clinic. Which, all in all, is really promising.

Two nights ago, Caleb offered me full naming rights in exchange for letting him tell me the results of the ultrasound. For anyone who knows US, this is pretty huge. I’ve not named one of my children. Granted, Caleb picks great names and I love them. But I’ve never once gotten ‘my way’. So to have naming rights on the table. I couldn’t pass that up, right? Plus, I wanted to be sure that I could name the boy I was sure I was carrying after my brothers…Dexter Jeffrey. I didn’t want a boy named after Ewan McGregor, despite his wonderful looks and great motorcycle adventures.

I took the deal. And the child is a girl child. A third girl. I realize it’s completely politically incorrect and kind of just plain bad parenting to express preferences for what sex you’re hoping for, but I had no qualms pre-20 weeks in expressing that I really wanted a boy. I liked the symmetry of it–two boys, two girls; two E’s, two D’s. I’m pretty sure (heaven help me) I’ve even told Ezra sometime in the last four months, ‘well, hopefully this new baby will be a boy–just for you!’, when he comes crying to me that the girls are leaving him out–again.  A brother, it seems, is not to be. Although the paper Caleb opened from the doctor said ‘it looks like it is a (she)’, which sounds fairly nebulous to me.

A girl. A girl. Healthy and with no gross malformations.

I’ve already forgotten I once wanted her to be a boy. Because SHE is a GIRL.

Another Day

You jumped on my back and instead of swinging you around and laughing with
you, I said “Can you please not jump on me?”

I think the only “I love you” I said to you was at the clear end of the
day.tucking you in and leaving your side.

You brought me a story you wrote and I pointed out that your ‘h’ was
backwards.

I didn’t pick you up once today. Your legs hang to my knees, but the days of
lifting you high are slipping through my fingers.

You asked if I would swim with you today, because it’s your favorite thing
to do with me. I said “Maybe so.” And then didn’t.

I forgot to tell you “thank you” for playing with your sister all afternoon.
I forgot to tell you what an amazing big sister you are. I meant to, and
then I forgot.

In the hustle and bustle, in the drag and the monotony, I waste. I waste
moments and chances and smiles and hugs. Some days, you are heavy. Other
days, you are so light I can barely close my fingertips around the edge of
your shirt as you fly away. To think that tomorrow is another day–when you
are the only you standing in front of me, and today is the only day in front
of us–what arrogance.  Arrogance that seeks absolution that can only be
found in the mercy of a child who wakes up smiling each new day, in the
mercy of a God who grants each new day.

“His mercies begin afresh each day.” Lamentations 3:23

This Girl

This girl, she tells the truth.

This girl, she knows things.

This girl, she can look into your eyes and listen to your voice and see your face and she can read it all.

This girl, she radiates so much energy it’s like trying to hold a waterfall in a teaspoon.

This girl, she can draw, effortless and whimsical.

This girl, she reads and she lives in a whole new open world.

This girl, she tells you how she feels.

This girl, she’s happy. Except when she’s not.

This girl, she loves her sister.

This girl, she beats up on her brother. And defends him in an instant.

This girl, she once fit in the curve of my arm.

This girl, she still jumps and expects me to catch her.

This girl, she doesn’t stay once I catch her.

This girl, she scares me.

This girl, she thrills me.

This girl, she’s six. 

7×7 Link Awards

An old RVA acquaintance who has turned out to be a kind of similar soul–we share a favorite book and that is what I’m basing this on (check out her own 7×7 link award post to find out which book)–has put me up to this. She very generously linked Omo Diaries to her own blog as one of her favorite blogs to read and so I’m continuing the chain. As I understand it, no bad luck is involved if I happen to break the chain–remember chain letters?! I was so convinced those truly contained some sort of mystical luck properties–but I like the post and I like Ashley. So here we go…

1. Thank the person who nominated you!

Thank you, Ashley! I have loved reading Ashley’s blog–knowing her in one context (as fellow teenagers attending Rift Valley Academy in Kijabe, Kenya) and then discovering who she is as a truly incredible person through her writings is just simply fun. I love being surprised by people, and connecting with Ashley through the blogging world has been such a nice surprise.

2. Share 7 things about yourself:

In case the blog isn’t self-centered enough, here we go:

1. I seem to have a thing for young adult fiction that may or may not be all that well-written–I devoured the Twilight series and the Hunger Games trilogy in a period of time that made me forget I was the mother of three small children.

2. I like to eat brownie batter way more than the actual brownies.

3. I haven’t named a single one of my children. I lost on every single one. (But I do love their names).

4. I can’t resist the movies off the street in Addis. They rarely work and Caleb always gets mad at me for wasting the $1.10, but I just can’t walk by them.

5. I still think I’m blonde. In my mind, I’m blonde. In the mirror, not so much.

6. I don’t like any of those interactive, questiony-type games. Like Apples to Apples or that Conversation Cube. If I’m going to play a game, it’s going to be Scrabble.

7. I’ve got three sick, tired kids right now and I’m two days from home. The downside of this life I live.

3. Share 7 of your blog posts that fit into the following categories:

Most Beautiful: The picture quality is terrible. But the moment was truly beautiful.

Most Helpful: Helpful to you as readers? Oh man I don’t know. So instead, a post still helpful to me–the reminder that raising these children of mine is messy and lovely and hard and wonderful. All at once. And that is okay.

Most Popular: I think you all liked the one about us getting our work permit renewed. Given that this was a total of 8 words, I’m not sure this speaks volumes about the quality of my writing in general.

Most Controversial: Do I do controversy? I don’t think I do. And if I do, then I don’t think anyone actually cares enough to post a comment.

Most Surprisingly Successful: I had no idea my aunt and my grandmother and a whole lot of other people I deeply love and respect would like this post so much.

Most Underrated: This was funny stuff, people! Whatever.

Most Pride-worthy: I feel like everything I wrote on this page is real and true and all me. Every word, I still feel it. And that makes me feel proud.

4. Nominate 7 other bloggers:

I have to confess. I only know 7 other blogs. But they are great ones. And if I had better internet capabilities and could peruse blogs to my heart’s content, I’d still love these 7 blogs.

beckshmeck

beatysinindia

benjaminandkelly

paulandbecca

ourjourney

ashleyintheapple

smithsinethiopia

So I’ve reached the end of this exercise and realized it was kind of like one of those chain emails where you fill out like 76 different questions on everything from whether or not you like chocolate or vanilla and what song you are listening to RIGHT THEN. And I think at the end I’m supposed to throw out some props to Google Reader, which I hear is great but I’ve not taken the time to set up for myself. But I will, okay? (Is that a good enough endorsement?) All in all, though, Ashley, thanks for the boost. Having the word ‘award’ in one of my blog titles really feeds my vanity.

Daisy (She’s Two)

You should see her. Her hair has decided to make an appearance and it almost always resembles a rat’s nest. She’s tiny, barely tipping the scales at 20 lbs. She wears a bracelet of Daasanech beads that Elsa made her for her birthday.

You should hear her talk. It’s been a long time coming, but she can pretty much say whatever she wants to now. As long as it is only one or two words. And if you want to understand her, you’ll need a good foundation of “Daisy-ese.” For example, ‘bunany’ is a banana. ‘Rura’ is brother. (Or Ezra, we’re not really sure. I guess since they can be one and the same, it doesn’t really matter.) ‘Selsa’ is Elsa. ‘Tack’ is snack or truck, you’ll be able to decode it from the context. ‘Mook’ is milk. ‘Wee-wee’ is movie. And there you also have her favorite things: bananas, her brother, Elsa, snacks, trucks, milk and movies.

You should see her swim. About a month ago she decided going under water was way more fun than staying above water and there’s been no stopping her ever since. We went swimming over the weekend and I think the tiny little body flopping herself into the water and swimming underwater a couple of feet garnered a lot of stares. She didn’t appreciate people trying to grab her off of the ladder going up to the slide. Somebody forgot to explain to this two year old that most two year olds can’t swim.

You should hear her getting her education from Ezra. He’s taken it upon himself to immerse her in all things Ezra. He takes advantage of our two day car rides to increase her vocabulary in all important words–’kickstand’, ‘bow and arrow’, ‘leopard’, the names of each member of the Lukins family, ‘KTM’. I recently discovered that she now knows how to turn any object into a weapon, point it at me, and shout ‘pew pew pew!’ I didn’t teach her this.

You should see her play with Elsa. She alternates between screaming at Elsa for trying to ‘mother’ her and following Elsa around in utter adoration. I love to watch my daughters be sisters.

You should hear her whenever I try to sing. She scrunches up her little nose and shrieks ‘NO! SUNSHINE!’ Apparently the only song I’m allowed to sing out loud is ‘You Are My Sunshine.’ You better believe I obey her.

You should see her turn two. She ushered in the milestone by throwing the biggest fit she’s ever thrown to date. She also fell asleep curled up by my side after dinner at a friend’s house, so I think it all balances out.

You should see her…my sweet baby girl growing up.

They Might Not Be Geeks After All

They can ride bikes. See?

I don’t think I can quite put into words what it was like to see these two take off on these bikes. A really great bike can be hard to find in Ethiopia, and so when friends of ours were headed back to the US and offered their bikes to our kids, we snatched them up. The first afternoon Elsa and Ezra had the bikes, they took off. Within a week they were racing; within ten days, standing up on the pedals. Caleb and I, we couldn’t stop grinning.

 

Sometimes we start wondering how the choices we make will affect our kids. (Sometimes? All the time.) And sometimes we wonder if maybe they may end up with a higher weirdo quotient than other kids who aren’t, you know, home schooled and living in the blessed nowhere. So to see them do this classic American childhood thing–riding bikes–was such a moment.

 

Don’t get me wrong. I like the life they lead. I like that they learned to ride a motorcycle at age 3. I love that they know the names of all the birds. The fact that they think sitting in the sand for church with goats and cows interrupting the service is normal–thrills me. They accept just underwear as proper attire and that doesn’t bother me one bit. Riding in the car for two days in a row just to turn around and do it again a week later is a typical road trip and I am awed by their flexibility. Three snakes share our home and all three kids have no qualms about holding them (unlike their mom). Living here, the life we get to share with our kids, is the number one blessing in our life, and makes anything else we may give up worth it.

 

But that doesn’t stop me from sometimes missing things for them that they don’t even know enough to miss. Soccer teams, gymnastic lessons, changing seasons. Sunday school in a language they can understand. Water-skiing, libraries, Barnes and Noble story hour. Christmas lights. Cousins…

 

They might have no clue about graham crackers. But they can ride a bike. Happy, happy day.

An Accidental Homeschooler

I have a secret.

I actually might like homeschooling. Or I actually might believe in it. Which, coincidentally, isn’t really the same thing. Yet…fingers crossed. I mean, I still feel like a complete dork even writing about homeschooling–like someone far more legit than me is going to pipe up and say ‘Hey there, lady-with-three-months-of-homeschooling-under-her-belt, pipe down’. And I still kind of duck my head when talking about homeschooling, trying to separate myself from ‘those’ people who homeschool (don’t try to deny it, you know who I mean), as if whatever I’m afraid of catching really might be contagious.

But thanks to some wise advice from a lovely lady with a stunning homeschooling success rate (the evidence being four self-possessed, interesting, well-spoken, and beautiful nearly-grown children), I’m slowly moving from homeschooling by circumstance to homeschooling with conviction. It’s a journey I’ve needed to make, especially with a love of education and learning hanging in the balance. This friend of mine introduced me to the writings and ideas of Charlotte Mason, a British educator in the 19th century. Within her writings, I’ve found a philosophy of education I can believe in for my children, one that I finally can grasp without the nagging feeling that what I’m giving my kids is second best to what they would have received from a traditional school education.

The Charlotte Mason philosophy focuses on education as a science of relationships, meaning that what we learn is a result of having formed a relationship, a bond, with whatever it is we’ve encountered, in the world or in a book. Meaningful relationships have the best chance of developing within the context of approaching learning through the framework of education as an atmosphere, education as a discipline, and education as life. What has begun to dawn on me in the last few months is that it isn’t my responsibility (in fact, I’d be doing my kids a disservice) to re-create ‘school’ for them. It’s my responsibility to introduce them to a world worth learning about, in every way I can. The gift that has been given to me through this realization is the chance to recognize the life they live as truly valuable. The life they live, the life we live, has intrinsic value simply because of the nature of living it.  There is nothing sterile about this life. My children are slammed with real beauty and real ugly every day. My greatest challenge as their mom in this context is to not let them become immune to either one, but to help them fully digest it to the best of their one, four and five year old abilities.

The details of the Charlotte Mason method of education are superb. Using ‘living’ books rather than text books or work books; employing the habit of narration (having a kid ‘narrate’ what has been learned, orally or in composition form) to ascertain comprehension rather than questioning or testing; utilizing short lessons; leaving kids the freedom and time to pursue their interests; and emphasizing the importance of nature within learning are just a few of the ideas that have made me a believer in this philosophy of ‘home education’.

And a believer I actually am, although you may hear me still cling to my ‘I was forced into homeschooling’ mantra, on the days I feel particularly ill-equipped. Truth be told, though, I’m kind of glad I’ve been forced into this. I don’t know if I would have the confidence to not put my kids in school if I had the chance. I don’t know if I could deny them the friends, the activities, the sports, the chance to not have me for their teacher. I don’t know if I could give up the chance to just be the mom, and to not constantly struggle to find that balance between the role of teacher and the role of mom. At the same time, how thankful am I that I am not sending my five year old off for 8 hours a day. How thankful I am that she gets to play most of every single day, with a slight interruption to do her handwriting and her math and her reading. How I covet that time for her–the time for a real childhood–and how thankful I am that right now, I can protect that for her.

What a new understanding of faith and love it has taken for me to be able to embrace this for us. I know many within the homeschooling world choose to keep their children close out of a decision to attempt to control what their kids are exposed to. They want a certain filter in place for anything their children may encounter. For people like this, I think it would require great faith to send their kids to a traditional school. For me, though, it takes so much more faith for me to keep them close to me, in light of what I know about myself. It requires me to trust that God, in all His goodness, loves my children so much more than I do. It requires me to trust that He sees them as real people, like I’m learning to, and that He has created them to be capable of so much. It requires me to trust that He’s given them fantastic brains, inquisitive minds, and individual passions that will carry them through all of the ways I will fail them. It requires me to remember that He hasn’t made a mistake in calling us here to this place for this time of our lives, and that He will continue to enable me to do this life that is sometimes so foreign to me. With my head bowed in prayer and my hands held out to hold the hands of the little ones given to me, I thank God for making me an accidental homeschooler.

You and I

He likes vanilla. I like chocolate. He’s a motorcycle guy. I’m more into bicycles. He likes pasta. Give me rice any day. He thinks the vast openness of the desert is beauty. I need some elevation. He likes acacia trees. I like evergreens.

 

I couldn’t live without books. He only reads if it falls into one of three subject matters: motorcycles, adventure travel, or the history of East Africa. I drink a little coffee with my cream and sugar. He takes it straight up black. I die a little without cold cereal. He likes pancakes. I think the ever-elusive answer to the question of parenting probably is hidden in the next parenting book I’ll read. He’s not so optimistic.

 

He still thinks Creed is a good band. I like Amos Lee. He thinks Pamela Anderson is pretty. Really? He’s never late. I am. He orders Ambo at restaurants. A Coke is the main reason I go out to eat. He wants to take the roughest, muddiest route to anywhere we go. I get motion sick. He returns phone calls. I completely suck on the phone. He tells great stories and is a good conversationalist. I mumble and tend to go mute for no apparent reason, other than I’ve used up my quota of words.

 

He might gag if served a bagel or pudding. I could eat bagels and pudding on a daily basis. He knew he wanted to marry me at 15 years old. I was 21 before I realized I wanted the same thing. He’s always known his home is Africa. I used to think I’d live in America and coach basketball. He thinks adding a can of tuna to any dish will enhance it. I know that’s not true.

 

I barely ever think I’m right. He’s convinced he nearly always is. I mutilate songs regularly. He’s got a great voice. I have a terrible memory. He remembers nearly everything. I think pets are best kept outside. He’d turn our house into a menagerie if I let him. He’s completely anti-placemats. I think it’s a silly thing for him to care about.

 

Today he turns 29. Happy birthday to my complete opposite and my best friend. Somehow, you and I, we make it work. And I love making it work.

A Delayed Thanks Giving (We Had A Crazy Week)

I’m thankful it wasn’t his head.

I’m thankful it wasn’t his neck or his back, but his hip.

I’m thankful he was thrown on sand, not on tarmac or gravel.

I’m thankful he waited until he got home to collapse on the porch.

I’m thankful his grandma was praying for him.

I’m thankful his parents were on their way home from Addis Ababa.

I’m thankful we found out that the closest hospital’s x ray was out of order (before we drove 6 hours to get there).

I’m thankful the rain stopped long enough for his parents to get home to take care of our kids.

I’m thankful the cell network worked all day on the day we made plans to have him helicoptered to the next closest hospital (11 hours away).

I’m thankful for Markus, the pilot for Helimission, who came to get us.

I’m thankful the hospital’s x ray machine worked.

I’m thankful there was a surgeon there to read the x ray.

I’m thankful the x ray was clear.

I’m thankful I didn’t have to drive him 22 hours over rough roads to get the answer we needed.

I’m thankful he is going to heal.

He’s not thankful for the dog who darted in front of him while going 65 kilometers per hour on his motorcycle.

I’m thankful he didn’t kill the dog. Don’t tell him.