Kings

B:  Has been working very hard on our garden.  I asked him weeks ago why my kitchen floor was not loaded with seedlings in trays lain out in the sun that shines through our glass doors and he explained that this year, he would be "ammending the soil." 

Planting vetch, for instance, in last year's corn patch.  I don't think I believed that "vetch" is a plant and not a Yiddish word.  He will also spend his summer building hot-boxes (low-lying green houses) using windows he bought at an auction.  He has been digging holes for the currant and raspberry bushes and has abandoned hope for growing blueberries.

All of which is to say that this year--with its structural improvements, climate-considered plant choices and long-term soil improvements--marks his own mental adjustment to being a resident of Colorado Springs, and not a guy who is going to move to a farm in Missouri any time soon.

One might ask why he should bother at all.  This is a high dessert.  Is food supposed to grow here? 

I think he does it for the fun of it.  (Though it never seems like fun when the hail comes in late June and wrecks shotgun-like havoc upon all his efforts.)  For something to do with the kids each evening as they go out and tend the garden together. 

I realize this time around that there might be one more reason:  He has dominion out in that yard.  He gets to plan what goes where.  He gets to yank out weeds that do not belong.  Until the hail comes, anyway, he gets to be King over a patch of Earth.


G: Gemma's performance in The King and I was this past Friday night.  Not the whole musical.  It was a 17 minute production where each of the 12 kids in her class had 3 lines to say and they all sang 3 songs from the show. 

Of course, once you take everything out of the original production that you don't want to explain to 7 year-olds (you know--the harem stuff, sexual slavery, xenophobia) you only have about 17 minutes left anyway. 

For 3 months, we've been driving around with the soundtrack of her 3 songs.  "Getting To Know You," which, before this, I thought was from an Oldsmobile commercial; "I Whistle a Happy Tune," which provides a helpful strategy for frightful situations:

Whenever I feel afraid, I hold my head erect
And whistle a happy tune so no one will suspect I'm afraid. . .

The result of this deception is very strange to tell:
For when I fool the people I fear, I fool myself as well.

Got that, friends?  So, say, if you are ever cornered by a tiger who has just escaped the zoo and you feel afraid, put on a fresh face, whistle a happy tune, and you'll fool not only that tiger, but yourself as well.


I particularly liked her final song, 'Shall We Dance?'  Rogers and Hammerstein (or whichever one was the lyricist) could be so coy. . .or maybe it was a 1960's thing.

Shall we dance?
On a bright cloud of music, shall we fly?

Shall we dance?
Shall we then say "Goodnight," but mean, "Goodbye"?

Or, perchance,
When the last bit of star has left the sky
Will we still be together with our arms around each other and will you be my new romance?
With the clear understanding that this kind of thing can happen
Shall we dance?  Shall we dance?  Shall we dance?

Love it!  "This kind of thing can happen."  Indeed! 

I'm not even googling for these lyrics, you know.  They're locked in my head.  For. Ev. Er.

They're locked in Joshua's, too.  His favorite is also this last one and he loves to shout out Yule Brennar's line--the numbers he calls out as Anna is teaching him to dance and he is trying to keep time. . .

That is, Gemma sings, "Shall we dance?"

And Josh says, "1, 2, 3 and!" 

"On a bright cloud of music, shall we fly?"

"1, 2, 3 and!"


OK, OK, back to "G,"  -- the show was Friday evening.  She was so cute.  So cute.  A parent's job is to identify what special talent and fire and passion God has put into a child, and for Gemma, the theater is not it.

But she delivered her lines with great confidence and effect, and she danced away with the other children of the king and, this part  surprised me: she smiled the entire time she was on stage.  I'm telling you: crazy cute.


J: Gemma's was the second of 6 performances in a row, by classes that are all run by the same school.  We had planned to make a quick exit after Gemma's, mostly in consideration of him.  It was almost 8 PM, after all, and how long and late should he be expected to keep quiet and still?

(And this wasn't being rude to others.  It meant that we would be leaving our front row seats that I had arrived 60 minutes early to secure, and other parents could then sit closer and take great pictures.  Plus, there were several minutes between shows in which we could leave without interrupting anything.)

But he didn't want to leave.  He wanted to watch the next one!  So we did.  He and Daddy stayed in the front row and the Burches and I left our good seats and stood in the back.

Then Daddy decided that he had totally put in his time--his own kid's show? yes, but how many shows full of strange children should he be expected to endure?

Josh wanted to stay.

Daddy tried to bribe him with a reminder that we were headed to Applebee's with Miss Betsy and Amy for our after-show celebration. 

He wanted to stay.

So we did.  Through the fifth show, at which point I was prepared to lie to him and tell them there were no more.  There's no way I wanted to get stuck in the parking lot when the whole audience let out.

But after the fifth performance, he stood up and announced in the darkened auditorium (as one cast left and the set was being changed for the last time), "Mommy!  It's Time to Go!" 

I love that he loved all these performances. 

He likes to perform himself.  For Gemma, anyway.  Tonight, as we drove home from AWANA, he had put a cardboard crown onto a balloon and making the balloon-king announce all the laws of the land.  Things like, "You have to clean up your toys and you have to stay inside unless your Mommy or Daddy says you can go outside. . ."  Gemma was cracking up and he loved it.

We pulled into the garage.  He opened his door and shouted, "Announcing: The King of Colorado!" 

Furlough

Had the government shutdown this weekend, Bryan, a non-critical government servant, would have been sent home without pay. 

We would have welcomed a furlough because Bryan could use the time away right now to make one last trip back to the land in Missouri before we sell it.  (Praise God!  We have a buyer!  Perfect timing, too. . .)

And I kind of liked playing up the "buckle down" mentality.  Bryan told the cul-de-sac kids he would pay them to help bag up his dead grass rakings.  He came in to gather their salary and asked, "Do you have any singles?"

I said, "Singles?!  We're facing a furlough!  We should pay them with quarters."

Alas, the gummint men figured something out, Bryan will go to work on Monday and he will have to make his trip on Easter weekend, instead. 

Got me thinking of the nature of "furlough," though.  No pay, but no work, either. 

And how I, personally, can't be put on furlough right now.  The last time I worked regularly during hours that were counted by others was 2003.  And only half of that year. 

Maybe you're thinking, "You do work regularly, Amy, you just don't get paid a salary." 

Eh.  Not really. 

When the kids were babies, yes.  That was work.  It was work I didn't like doing, though I was thankful to be doing it. 

I consider my days now, though.  I get up and dressed before the kids awake.  I drink my iced coffee and eat breakfast while I read the Bible.  (Bryan and I are reading "The One Year Bible" that has all the scriptures arranged chronologically and then divided into daily readings.  It has been a real joy so far.)

Then the kids wake up. 

Gemma comes right down, says "good morning" and makes her breakfast.

Joshua sits on the top step, says, "Good morning, I love you" in a groggy voice and he sags and wavers so much from sleepiness I worry each time that he'll topple right down the stairs.

A few minutes later, he thumps down and sits next to me on the couch, curled up.  Gemma finishes eating.  I'm done reading my Bible.  I pick up theirs and read aloud, then we read library books, then Gemma reads aloud to me, then I read history aloud to them (by which time Josh is ready to make his breakfast and eat).  We practice AWANA verses, then the kids go upstairs to get dressed while I empty the dishwasher.

We have a snack and then go downstairs for schoolwork until a mid-afternoon lunch.

Our kitchen is sunny when we eat.  Sometimes the kids get out their little tray stands and have lunch on the soft rug by our back door, right where the sun is shining in.  They sit with their backs against the glass and feel cozy.

Then we play a game together.  And read more.  Have a quiet time when the kids can do whatever they want except talk to me or put their eyes on a screen. 

Then the cul-de-sac kids get home from school and they all play outside until dinner.  I work out upstairs.  Check e-mail.  Make dinner. 

Bryan gets home at a nice hour nowadays.  Usually by 5, often by 4:30.  After dinner, we play a game all together.  Read more.  Put the kids to bed.

This is my whole day.  It's not work.  It's a dream come true. 

I participated in a phone survey today, mostly because that's the only way to make the survey company stop calling back.  Towards the end of it, she asked me how I would describe my profession.  I told her, "I'm a superhero,"  and she laughed.

Why do people always laugh?

Maybe being a superhero each day is work.  If so, how blessed am I to have found my dream job?  No furloughs here, I'm glad to say.

B, G and J: Our Circles

B:

This story starts with me and a program hosted by a church here in town.  The program hosts Chinese teenagers for 2 weeks.  The kids spend the day learning English and American culture and their evenings and weekends with host families.

How exciting!  What a great experience for our kids, a great way to use our guest room in the basement, a great way to share the love and message of Jesus with a person who might not otherwise ever His Good News.

I flashed the brochure to Bryan and spooke rapid-fire about what a terrific idea this was for our summer.  Then I noticed the look on his face and stopped talking.

No smile.  Just a furrowed brow.  A quizzical turn in the corner of his mouth. "Are you serious?" he asked.

I don't know what my face looks like when it is dumbfounded, but I was dumbfounded.  "Yes. . .?" 

"Babe," he began, "I cannot begin to imagine what that would do to my security clearance. I don't think there's enough forms out there to fill out to make this OK.  I would have to be debriefed afterwards!"

Oh. 

"Especially the Chinese!" he shouted, shaking his head.

Oh. 

Good illustration of how our two lives are really one life--you know, same house, kids together, growing old together--and yet our two lives mostly happen in two different circles.  Mine, in a happy cul-de-sac, as we happily homeschool and toodle around town for this activity or that, where the daily plan is all about scheduling our days to limit stress and maximize work and the other part of the plan is having something ready for dinner. 

His world involves planning that I don't know anything about because he can't tell me, but now I realize it involves mental alarms sounding off at the mention of "Chinese teenagers." 

I wanted to test this out, though.  Was he being dramatic?  Was it really that big a deal?  At Col Putko's (I LOVE that guy!) fairwell party, I told this story to several of Bryan's co-workers.  Every one of them started laughing the moment I said, "Chinese." 

The most memorable of their comments:  "One e-mail home from the kid at your house and the whole family back in China gets a raise!"


G:

As you know, the superheroes frequent the used market.  Thus far, I've managed to clothe our children in about 95% used items.  Hand-me-downs.  Garage sales.  Collecting bigger clothing and keeping it in a box until it's the right size. . .  I have a pretty well-oiled system. 

But Gemma is growing out of this mode.  There's not as much used clothing around for elementary-aged kids because they don't grow as quickly as they did in the baby years, so that one dress is going to last 2 years, not a mere 6 months, at at the end of 2 years, it is not going to be in great shape, the way the one that fit for just 6 months did. 

I'm OK with all this.  I have no problem shopping in real stores.  Good values can be found on a sales or clearance rack.  So there Gemma and I were: in Old Navy, shopping for pants for me.  Also in Old Navy--and this is where they must make the majority of their money--is a kids' section, including a big rack of t-shirts and shorts, all in the cutest patterns.

The price was good.  I told Gemma she could pick out 2 tops and 2 shorts and that was a thrill for her.  I hadn't realized until that moment that part of having your Mom collect your clothes from the used market means that you don't actually pick out what you are going to wear. She's never complained about this.  But I could tell by her wide eyes that she was liking the opportunity to select. 

This one, this one, these and these, she decided.

I said, "Oh, I'm not sure these two really match," as I placed the top by the shorts.  I looked twice and said, "Oh!  These are cute together!" -- genuine surprise, here.

I looked up and she was looking back, a slight smile, serenely confident that of course they looked cute together.

I looked back to her selections.  "But these two, I think these might be too busy. . ." second take. . .she was right again.  They looked really cute.

"Oh," I said again.  Her look remained the same. 

As we walked to the register with our clothes, I said, "I think you might be better at this than Mommy is."

What was her look this time?  "Yyyyeah. . ." 


J:

He still loves to hug.  A very cuddly boy.  And I love hugging him.

The other day, I was cuddling him up in my lap and he said, completely, as a statement that needed no explanation:   "Mommy, my love goes beyond." 


A:

I judged a speech and debate tournament in Arvada, CO last Saturday.  I was so excited about the opportunity that I cleared it with Bryan, commited to being there and then mapquested the discovery that Arvada is a 90 minute drive from here.

Not ideal.  But I'm glad I went.

The tournament itself was a pleasure.  I just love judging these things.  Love it!   I used to to quite a bit of this work before Gemma came along, and this past Saturday marked my happy return to it after a 7 year break.  It's my idea of a great time.

But there's more:

I was chatting with a fellow judge who, I learned, lives in Manitou Springs.  I know just one other person who lives there, and it's a town of what?  40 thousand people?  I wasn't going to say, "Do you happen to know. . ." 

But later we got to talking about something else that related to this other person I know.  So I mentioned, in telling my story, "a doctor--he lives in Manitou, actually--that-"

"Is it Matthew?" this judge asked.

No way.

"Matt Mayfield?" I asked him, because this is that one other person I know who lives in Manitou.

Yep.  This judge is the Mayfields' neighbor.  His daughters dog-sit the Mayfields' akita.

Mathematically speaking, what are the chances of this, exactly? 

Nope, it's not a coincidence.  It's a God-incidence.  So fun. . . so fun.