Assumptions and Dirty Diapers ...

When the baby comes into the school room with something resembling chocolate on her mouth, do not assume it to be chocolate ... just saying!

Ms. Pre-Viable Turns Two ...

Ms. Pre-Viable rides a bike

Ms. Pre-Viable opens a gift


Ms. Pre-Viable has a snack

Ms. Pre-Viable likes the Blue's Clues

Ms. Pre-Viable loves the outdoors

Ms. Pre-Viable wants to take a drive

Snarky tone? Perhaps. I am extremely thankful to all the doctors and nurses who tended to Emma. But, the truth is, they did not want to. They wanted to let her just die. "Go to sleep, and when you wake in the morning she will be gone." But she wasn't. And, yes, it was expensive to have a baby in the NICU. Especially for seven months. But she survived. She is amazing, and intelligent, and thoughtful, and contemplative ... the adjectives abound. We love her dearly. And she is two - so watch out!

The Measure of a Life ...

I was reading the blog of a family who lost their 9 year-old daughter on Good Friday. She had struggled from birth with various illnesses and genetic disorders, eventually lost her sight, underwent a heart transplant ... The list of suffering went on and on. It was painful to read, and to reflect on the sense of loss this family must feel.

Losing a child - I came so close to experiencing that heartache. When I rock Emma to sleep in my arms each night, I silently thank God for allowing me to keep her, to know her, to watch her grow, and laugh, and teach me all He has in mind for me to learn through her. It has been a profoundly life-altering experience. And sometimes, when grief for the passing of my father overtakes me, I feel the need to check myself, apologize for mourning the passing of a man who had 75 years of life, as though this loss cannot possibly hold the same sense of pain, sadness, life-altering grief as the loss of someone who is young.

I am not attempting to compare the loss of a child and an old man - one had a chance to live, to love, to have children, travel, grow old, the other did not. However, I believe the measure of a life to lie not in years, but in the impact it has on those left behind. A newborn child never had a chance to be known, but do not deny the importance of that life to the grieving mother and father. The body found on the road-side may not have a name, and may be unclaimed, but someone is impacted by this very anonymity, the fact that a human being died so uncared for, so alone, so unclaimed. An old man passes away and leaves behind a wife, children, grandchildren, and friends, and there is also loss, and sadness, and grief, for what was, what is, and what will never be again - the common thread for all these being a life that once was is no more.

For me, it is the loss, the feeling of a void, the sense of confusion at the start of each new morning, as one's mind tries to focus on the day ahead and the checklist of loved ones to call upon includes a particular name, a particular face that comes to mind, words to say, thoughts to share ... and then the realization settles anew, he is no longer there, where he has been for so long, no longer accessible, no longer tangible, no longer alive.

My father was not an earthquake victim. He did not die in a tsunami. An immigrant to the United States, he served this country in the Army, but did not die the death of a war hero. He took his last breath at home, after years of suffering from various ailments. In the end it was terrible, for us to watch, for him to live through. He chose hospice, which turned out to be less beautiful and peaceful than we thought and were promised. But we were there for him until the end, the very end, his last breath drawn moments after my children kissed his forehead and said their hellos for the day - ultimately, their last good-byes. The void is great, the pain almost unbearable at times, the thought that he is truly gone not one I can wholly accept. Perhaps it is just that a life that means so much to others can never truly disappear - he is with us in memories, in the faces of the grandchildren who resemble him, in family anecdotes that feature him as the central character.

More than that, though, is the belief I have that he really is somewhere, whole again, free from the pain that ravaged his entire being for so long. During the last weeks of his life, he spent more time speaking with relatives and friends long since passed, than with those of us sitting vigil by his side. It was almost comforting to know he was receiving fellowship on a level we could not understand, could not offer ourselves, could not see, and for some, can not even fathom. The basis of a faith system, for me, is this idea that our souls, so unique to each one of us, so deep and profound and elusive to even fully define can not be killed, can not just end, go away, be silenced.

My father's soul lives on. The measure of his life in years may be over. But, spiritually, he thrives. For that, there is no measure.

When Life's Lessons Trump the Academics ...

We have been putting the finishing touches on a school year that began last April. Math and Latin, with lots of free reading, have been our focus. We have also been lending a hand tending to the kids' beloved Poppa.

Poppa is my dad. But, more than that, he is Poppa. When he was simply my dad, he worked. I saw him on Sundays and late Saturday afternoons. He took us to the beach on summer Sunday mornings - if we could get up early enough to beat the toll. Mostly, I remember him stretched out in his recliner on Sunday afternoons, sleeping until dinner.

I think my dad really became a father-figure after he retired and settled into being a grandfather. There is a picture somewhere around here in which he and my eldest son are sitting on the deck, backs to the camera, the sun setting in the summer sky, just a little boy, his grandfather, a golden retriever at their feet. The picture captures what is best about my dad - the ease with which he spent time with the grandchildren, the lack of needing to do something, the ability to just be with them - and let them be with him.

Even now, as I sit by his bedside, I feel the need to do something, anything - to be productive as his body continues to fail him, assaulted on so many fronts he can not possibly survive. My dad was always larger than life to me - his hands literally capable of bending metal, with huge sausage-like fingers, the hands of an iron-worker, impeccably clean and manicured, almost impossibly so in light of his vocation. It is hard to believe he is the same man whose shoulder blades now protrude beneath his shirt. It is hard to believe - and yet it is so.

My kids are taking their impending loss pretty well. They ask about Poppa every morning, and want to visit as often as possible. With each car ride home, however, my oldest daughter sits in the seat next to me and says, "Poppa looked good today, huh, Mom?" And I reply, "Yes, honey. He did." "He ate well, too, didn't he, Mom?"

It is then that I take her hand, grateful that she doesn't flinch the way most teens react to their Moms touching them, attempting to comfort where there is no comfort to be had, conveying to her that I understand, that I am here, that I know what she wants from me, but I do not have it to offer. She is crying then, I can see her reflection in the window. I continue to hold her hand as she silently weeps.

There are no books to teach our children about this kind of loss - the loss that hurts deep in the soul, the loss that makes us question our faith, the loss we will remember for the rest of our lives. They want their Poppa to get out of that bed and take them to the playground, sit outside and watch them ride their bicycles, make them cookies ... Their list of "Remember when Poppa used to ..." is quite extensive. They have such wonderful memories. And they share them so freely - with me as well as with each other. We are blessed to have the freedom to spend time with him, to sit by his bedside, to have each other as a source of comfort and understanding. There is no box to check on our daily schedule for these lessons. And yet, there is a sense that all our schooling - all our time spent together with our heads buried in books, all the field trips, all the read-alouds we have enjoyed, even all the times we have traipsed around the room singing geography songs at the top of our lungs - somehow it is all of that that has culminated in our being able to weather this storm as a family, to show strength at a time when we want to crumble - and to go on with responsibilities when our hearts desire a rest.

My Little Man ...

I believe I may dedicate an inordinate number of posts to that guy on the left. I am not quite sure why.

Sure, he is handsome ...

And his best friend is a wobbly-headed monkey who somehow ends up in my bed each night.

He (the boy, not the monkey) has a bit of an attitude ...

and loves with an intensity that will (literally) knock you over.

He is mischievous, rambunctious, devilish, impertinent, naughty, and unruly...
And the source of every gray hair on my head. He is my undoing, he has challenged me to let down my guard and love more, laugh more, and not be so perfectionistic in my parenting. He makes me unsettled as he hurls himself into the sofa, head first. His vocabulary is on par with my junior high student, but he is making me rip my hair out as he struggles with reading. He is the good, the bad, and the ugly of child-rearing, all rolled into one ball of endless energy, bountiful love, and an exuberance for life I, for one, cannot match. When he turned seven, he announced his attainment of "manhood" and said if he was Greek, he could join the army. (We were studying ancient Greece at the times.) He also informed me I was no longer allowed to touch his tushy (I have a penchant for pinching tiny tushies, but only in a completely normal, legal way) as that was for babies, not men. But, I still feel the warmth of his body next to mine each night, as he crawls under my covers and whispers, "I love you, Mom" and falls back to sleep. He has wormed his way into my soul and makes me ache in my womb when he hurts, so forgive the many posts dedicated to him. It is my way of sharing him with the world.

What All We Did This Week ...

First week of school in the New Year over!! Only X more to go!!! We say good-bye to the some of the titles above and the little men below - Middle Ages are a thing of the past. (Much to the chagrin of my 7 yo. He actually asked me if we could read SOTW II again.)

Along with SOTW Volumes I & II, we have completed an extended stay in Ancient Rome, so I am quite happy with our progress. History always seems to be our place-holder, our mark of progress, the spine of our school. The kids just love it, and can listen to read-alouds and audio books, color maps, and watch documentaries about historical figures and events all day long, if I let them.

We are beginning SOTW III, using My Father's World Explorers to 1850 as our guide. I must say, this Instructor's Guide is very well done. I have found my need for an IG to be more of a want, especially as the years go by. I am quite capable of designing my own course of studies for the children, and I do ... for the most part. But, I still convince myself that using one of these IGs will fill some potential void. The beauty of MFW is its simplicity - and music and art are scheduled for me. I love that! Books that I would have picked out on my own are scheduled, and the schedule is light enough that our love for rabbit trails can be fed without fear of getting too far off track.

We are also continuing with many of our programs from our last term, including Fallacy Detective. The kids are just loving this book - my 7-year-old requests it. All day long, I hear, "That's a red herring!", or "Don't use circular reasoning with me!"

Math is going well for all the little buggers, as is grammar, literature, and Latin. My 9 yo is using Matin Latin, and I am surprised by how much she enjoys the program. I had used Prima Latina as the introductory Latin class for the twins. But after researching Latin choices again, I wanted to give this one a try, especially since it emphasizes grammar more so than PL. We did a lesson on predicate nominatives this week, and she had no problem with it. I thought about supplementing with a lesson on the same topic from R & S, but decided against it. I am following the advice to let Latin instruction teach the English grammar - as much as it is a struggle not to supplement, supplement, and supplement some more.

So, that is the gist of our week. Our van is in the hospital after a lengthy period of illness that rendered it ... unconscious. So we have been house-bound. But we are making the best of our confinement. We exercise, play lots of chess, have a 1500-piece puzzle in progress, move the furniture around for a change of scenery, eat, and throw some learning in for fun. Hope your week was good, too!

Genius ... or Just a Smart-%#@ ...

Yesterday, this little bugger was doing math drills, on-line.

"You know, Mom," he began to inform me, "Technically, I could enter any letter from A to Z as my answer."

"After all, they're variables."

His oldest sister algebra lessons are going well - for him.