To the woman who said she wouldn't consider homeschooling, who said her house would never look like an elementary school classroom, who teetered on not letting her toddlers finger paint, because, well, we didn't want her to go over the cliff with crazy, and who was eventually brave and said yes to God to home school: You are eating your words. Yummers. Do they taste good?
So my mother always says to never say never. She also quotes my grandmother who said "It's easier to go up than down." Who lived the depression and knew what wants and needs really were. And every year I get it in my head I want to move massive amounts of furniture around the house, things going up the stairs, things coming down, and all remade. Because I like to create. And God was gracious enough to give me a strong (hot- yes I know you are red-faced, my love), patient, spontaneous husband. We are furniture moving. The kind where you don't have play dates over not because it's messy but because they can't fit through the blocked door. Or find their toys. Or their shoes to escape. Or the bathroom so they go on the floor. (Ok, I will pause to say this almost happened to me, not visitors.)
I like to create, reorganize. As a matter of fact if you are reading this blog and I've been in your house, I have probably reorganized it, remodeled it, and redecorated it. In my freakin head. Not that I disagree with your taste or whatever, it's just what I do. I lie in bed at night and dream up scenarios in my head. HGTV in my head. It is my happy place.
So we have this ridiculous waste of space 14 ft bedroom ceiling. One time we had a contractor come over to give us a quote on some shelving. I had previously told my husband that I was going to ask him about my big plan. This plan involved shortening our waste of space 14ft bedroom ceiling and using dead space above it, redoing the whole dern thing and making a storage/craft room above it. Brilliant, right? Hubs said it wouldn't work without adding some support through the ceiling, bumping up the roof, and while that could be done, it probably wasn't worth it. Well, I love my husband but I needed to hear it form the horse's mouth, so to speak. (He was not part horse, at least as far as I know...)
The nice contractor just looked at me when I asked him this question. Kind of like, "Is she really asking me this?" I suppose he didn't laugh because I was dead serious. Like a child with a crazy plan, I needed to hear his voice. His answer. In my minds eye he knew everything. It's what I do. I am now working on making my daughter's bedroom bigger using our entryway. I know it can be done.
So all this furniture moving makes a girl kinda crazy and a bit grumpy. And a lot sentimental. You see, I agreed to homeschool last year. (I agree with you God. Remind me of this when things get crazy tiring soon, K?) Well, this mama wanted to just survive the first year. Buy a table, make space, get a bookcase. Don't go crazy. There. Done and Done and sometimes done. We home schooled. Now we are doing it again this year. Things are feeling more settled, permanent. So I am settling into my role as teacher/mama/nutritionist/driver/coach/hugger/lover of all things pink. That is one role. All in one. And it makes me have different personalities, at least it seems. It's not from my kids. It's God. And like my pulling weeds post, I am only getting stronger.
I have a strong woman who has gone before me. My mother. She taught for 32 years. She retired and gave me all her best teaching stuff. After 32 years, you have quite the collection. So I saved it all. In the garage, the attic, upstairs, downstairs, in my closet. Bathroom closet? I better go check...
Saved it all. I also saved all my teaching stuff from 5 years of mostly giggles with children. That's what I did because they were the best. And I have married all her stuff, all my stuff, and all my daughter's homeschool stuff into one gigantic shelving unit stacked ceiling high.
I held each and every one of my mom's teaching materials. Looked through it. Saw her notes, years of teaching notes. Kids names every now and then. Some things she highlighted just for one child. Just for one she planned sometimes. That was a different era. Schools have changed. I'm not going to hover here, but it used to be different being an educator.
Some were old artifacts- from when she started teaching. When schools were still segregated. When she taught that year segregation was undone. And that same year she married my dad and had to leave mid-year- leaving that one African American boy she worried about. What would the classroom look like for him brand new to the classroom? He was the only one and goodness knows teachers are part mothers. (Just a note- it's an unspoken thing and against teacher code of ethics to leave mid-year. And my mom was super dedicated to her profession. In fact she can't get away to this day...I suppose marrying my dad was the only thing that has ever stopped her.)
And it's history I have. It's the old phonics texts she used. It's my "love in any language" materials from teaching English as a Second Language. It's my newer materials I have for my daughter that we now laugh through. (I will admit we have cried through too and stopped and picked back up because no one needs to get to a place where we all hate learning.) It's all married into this gigantic colorful elementary school looking mess of books from different times, teaching theories, styles, all good. The stuff I never wanted to be my home "decorations". I continue to save, consult, compare, and teach from these things. It's good stuff. Good enough to keep, save, and keep teaching long after my girls are grown. Because it's what I do.
And I love how God writes our story this way. Moments made into memories, placed on a shelf and before you know it these things create your story. Create your life. How you see others. And sometimes it doesn't always go the way you thought it would. And you talk to God about "our plan" and realize it was never yours to begin with. It's a surprise around every corner, looking at God wondering what will be next, knowing you will be taken care of. That's what he does.
And I'm hoping my girls remember my time gently instructing them. And giggles and hard times that make us closer and I'm sorrys and will you forgive mes. And I hope they learn. Not to be scholars, although that's fine too, but growing into the young women God created them to be. "I love you warts and all" as my mom says...
And my precious girls, if you are reading this, you do not remember mommy throwing dinner together in a hurry, naked, with a towel wrapped around her head, running around crazy to get somewhere on time. Because that right there is just plain crazy talk.
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