After reading yesterday’s post, my husband shook his head and said with a sigh, “I never did understand kids who played with things how they were intended. I certainly never did.” (Thus confirming my suspicions that my kids get their out-of-the-box thinking from him.)

“My brothers and I used to play smash-up derby with our matchbox cars,” he said, chuckling. “You know, making two cars have a head-on collision. But,” and here the chuckle turned to a full throated roar of laughter, “it wasn’t good enough to just smash them together like that, so we threw them as hard as we could against the concrete wall. Smash-up derby, ha!” We were both bent double, slapping our knees.

Once we regained composure, he picked up his book and headed over to the sofa. “We used to have something like a hundred matchbox cars…”

Thankfully, my kids weren’t present for the telling of that tale. I wouldn’t want them to get any (more) ideas.

One of our chickens died. It was an old biddy—we have a bunch of them and they’ve been slowly dying off. It always makes me happy when a kid reports that another chicken bit the dust. One less beak to feed, I reason.

My husband buried this latest fatality, and several days later the dog dug it up and drug it all over the property.

Newsflash: three-day-old, half-decomposed dead chicken does not smell like roses.

And then my husband drove over the carcass. He thought his wheel was slipping on wet leaves, but it was really dead chicken.

Newsflash: three-day-old, half-decomposed, dead mashed chicken is putrid beyond belief.

My husband was in a hurry to get back to work, so he paid the girls to rebury the smoosh. But still, the stench lingered.

A little later when I went outside in search of some fresh air and steadying, hands-in-the-dirt work (I was flipping out at my kids way too much), I kept catching whiffs of mashed chicken. My stomach actually heaved.

Romantic notions about country living are just that, notions.

My husband fell off a roof yesterday.

He came home after work and said jovially, “Well, I had a little adventure today!”

“Yeah?” I said distractedly, for I was in the middle of attempting to make my supper of barley, hot dogs, and beans taste a little less like a supper of barley, hot dogs, and beans.

“Yep. See if you can guess what happened.”

I paused and looked at him. Hard. There was something funny about the way he was smiling and the sheepish air about him, and then it hit me—

“You fell off a roof!”

“Uh-huh.”

“No!”

“Yep!”

“How high up?”

“Eight feet.”

“No! Don’t tell me this stuff! I don’t want to knooooow!” It made no difference that he was standing in front of me, happy, healthy, and whole. The back of my neck tingled and tears pricked my eyes. I set down the container of chili powder and gave him a bear hug.

“Don’t dooo that,” I scolded, as though he had fallen off the roof just for the heck of it.

He had been working on an old metal roof. His foot slipped on some green fungus and off the roof he went, scrabbling and grasping all the way. He landed on the gravel in a Spiderman-like crouch. And he’s fine.

It’s the first time he’s ever fallen off a roof. I hope it’s the last.

This same time, years previous: and the fort goes up (Just re-read it and what I noticed was my baby’s fine, white hair. Gave me a heart-pang.)

Dear Karen,

Yesterday you left me a sweet comment in which you called my children “creative” and “ingenious” and then bemoaned your propensity to squash your own children’s creative endeavors. You finished up by saying, “Obviously chores still need to be done and part of our job is to teach our children to focus & finish what they started. How do you teach that and still allow room for ideas & experimenting & creativity?”

Karen, your question makes me laugh my head off. Not at you, no, no, no, but at the idea that I could possibly give a neat and tidy answer to such a neat and tidy question.

But hey! Whaddaya know, the answer is playing out right this very minute. Let me walk you through it.

*The kids are in rest time.
*I am sitting on the sofa drinking coffee and typing as fast as I can.
*Not too long ago, my youngest son tiptoed into the room and snuck a pair of scissors off the art table.
*I pretended not to see him.
*I’ve been listening to the sound of packing tape being ripped off its roll ever since.
*It’s like listening to nails on a chalkboard, only it’s ripping up my inner calm, not my eardrums. *My hackles keep jumping up and down and squealing “Mess!” “Destruction!” “Waste!”
*But then my brain shouts back, “He’s happy!” “It’s just tape!” “He’s being quiet!” “SHUT UP, YOU STUPID HACKLES!”

Conclusion: my kids do creative things because I am ignoring them. Also, because I am lazy.

In fact, I’m so not supportive of their creative endeavors that they often have to sneak them. Like the other day when they threw the not-to-be-used-outside blankets out the window and fled across the yard to the clubhouse. Luck was not with them that time, for I spied them sprinting across the yard and ordered them back. Win some, lose some—choose your side.

I’ve always wished my kids were the type of kids to sit around and read books, color in the books meant for coloring, play board games according to the rules, build intricate lego towers in the room designated for lego building, and take only the toys they were going to play with out of the toy box. But it is not to be. From the get-go they’ve been toy box dumpers, wall and furniture colorers, book walkway layers, etc. In short, they’re messy. And it drives me up a wall. (I also kind of admire them for it, but let’s keep that our little secret, shall we?)

If my kids are creative, it’s not because of anything I do. More often than not, their creativity is fueled by the sense of adventure they get when they tiptoe around behind my back. Sometimes they’re outright disobedient. Other times they’re just secretive. They operate under the assumption that it’s easier to ask for forgiveness than permission. And they’re right.

Here are some examples:

1. If they had said to me, “Hey Mom, we’d like to make a little house for the chicks by cutting holes in their carrying box, making walls with scrap lumber, spread newspapers all over the floor, and then sprinkle mash everywhere,” I would’ve said no. But they did not ask and this happened.

2. If they had said to me, “Hey Mom, we’d like to use sharp tools and Papa’s stuff to build a crossbow and then park it on the porch and shoot things,” I would’ve said no. But they did not ask, and it happened.

3. If they had said to me, “Hey Mom, we’d like to take the huge sheets of cardboard that are out in the barn up to our room, trace ourselves, cut our body shapes out with utility knives, and then color them,” I would’ve said no (but only to the utility knife part). But they did not ask, and it happened.

4. If they had said to me, “Hey Mom, we’d like to tip the fort over by using a rope to attach it to the mower and then pulling,” I would’ve said no. But they did not ask, and it happened.

And now the fort is no more. (Hallelujah.)

5. If they had said to me, “Hey Mom, we’d like to go sit on the roof for awhile,” I would’ve said no. So they asked their papa instead.

At least they asked about that.

The truth is, creativity is messy.

The truth is, there are no neat solutions for the creative mess problem.

The truth is, I’m lazy. (I already said that, I know.)

The truth is, I am a huge stickler for getting jobs done, and for getting them done quickly. I give orders so fast my kids’ eyes cross. I set timers, get frustrated, yell, and dole out more jobs when the first ones aren’t done fast enough, etc. I’m a cross between a yapping terrier, Frank Gilbreth, and Captain Von Trapp. (He was on to something with that whistle.)

Because, truth is, once the kids are done with their studies and chores, then it’s more free time for me (and them).

Back to that raking hay chore. It was issued by The Papa, so I wasn’t really involved. However, when I realized they were poking holes through a tarp (after I had given clear instructions to not make holes in the tarp), I did deliver a long-winded lecture and have the wayward gypsychild call The Papa to get the go-ahead to proceed.

So Karen, mostly, I follow my kids around like a hawk while they’re doing the work I’ve given them and then the rest of the time I totally ignore them. Does that answer your question?

Oh yes, about all that nails-on-blackboard tape-ripping my son was doing? He made something, but I’m not sure what.

I’m pretty certain whatever it was was inspired by this creation my elder son made the day before.

While I was writing this post, off and on because I get interrupted all the live-long day, a couple more creative endeavors sprouted.

First sprout: I asked my daughter to fetch the wheelbarrow and come haul away all the weeds I was yanking from my flower bed. It took her a good fifteen minutes to report to active duty…because she had been busy making herself a harness so she could pull the wheelbarrow instead of push it.

Second sprout: my son disappeared into the barn, there was lots of hammering (that I chose to ignore), and then he emerged with a mini-caravan.

And so it goes, the chaos and creativity hand-in-hand.

xo,
me

this same time, years previous: another one of those homeschooling rants, puzzling it out, a milestone

It all started with a chore. My son was supposed to rake up all the cut grass in the field, load it into the trailer, and then dump it where we dump the big pile of grass. But once the wagon was full of grass, he (and his sidekicks, because when the trailer is involved there is always extra help) got sidetracked.

If I wrote a children’s book, I would title it, If You Give a Kid a Wagon Full of Hay.

If you give a kid a wagon full of hay, he’ll want a blanket to cover it with. He’ll find himself an old dirty blanket from the barn, but once he lays back in the soft, blanket-covered hay, he’ll realize the sun is shining in his eyes. So he’ll (once again) rummage in his papa’s barn till he finds a suitable piece of old tarp and some metal poles…

And so it went.

When I finally looked out my kitchen window, I was semi-stunned to see a gypsy caravan parked in my yard.

It even had reins.

The inside was surprisingly roomy and comfortable.

There was stale old popcorn for nourishment.

Of course they had to take their house on wheels for a spin around the pasture to see if it could withstand all the bouncing and jouncing.

My husband got home from work, and I headed out on a walk. When I returned, Spiderman had entered the scene.

It was like Times Square had descended upon us. Just a little bit disconcerting.

My daughter shoved an invitation-slash-contract under my nose, inviting-slash-ordering me to take a ride aboard The Dogwood Wild Runner. I signed it (I had no other option), and the kids burst into cheers.

They waited impatiently while I popped a bunch of potatoes into the oven for our supper, and then I walked down the deck stairs and into my waiting chariot.

They had gussied it up considerably with…Um, what’s this? Blankets and pillows and all manner of not-to-be-used-outside bedding? But I said not a word and instead leaned back onto a cushy pile of pillows. It really was quite comfortable.

The mower engine was so loud that talking was impossible, but we couldn’t really talk anyway since we were busy clenching our teeth together as we jittered and jolted our way through the field.

At the far end of the property, the drivers swapped places, and then we headed back home, just as a light rain began to fall.

My husband oversaw the caravan tear-down, and, well, that’s what happens if you give a kid a wagon full of hay.

The end.