Hello! It’s me (imagine that!) just popping in with some wonderful bits of juicy goodness to share with you!

1. Our family is finishing up a wonderful read-aloud: Because of Mr. Terupt. I first heard about it on NPR. They said something like, “The next book of the month is Mr. Terupt,” and I ran right to the phone, called the library, and put it on hold. This book has everyone—EVERYONE—enthralled. My seven-year-old, my 14-year-old, my husband. Which is quite a feat and I’m very proud of NPR for making such a smart selection. (And of myself for heeding their advice.)

2. I am musically challenged. In other words, I don’t listen to music hardly ever (gasp), nor do I know much about it (gasp, gasp). But I do enjoy it. Enter Songza, a website dedicated to musically clueless people like me. The playlists are sorted by mood. Ha! Now moods I know! Say, for example, I’m gearing up to bake cookies mid-afternoon. Do I want a dance party? Loud and festive Christmas carols? Something to mellow me out? Whatever my situation, songza has it covered. (Thanks, Karen, for the heads-up.)

3. Speaking of music, my parents sent me this link to a TED talk about classical music. I liked it so much that I had the older kids watch it, too. And then we had a conversation about the Holocaust.

4. And speaking of TED and NPR, check out this lecture on…wait for it…grammar. I first heard bits of the talk on the radio while I was fixing lunch for the kids, and then when they were in rest time, I watched it on TED. It’s about the dark side of the subjunctive and the strength of the indicative and it totally rocked my world. The guy bubbles with amazing quotes, such as (yes, I took notes), “…spinning my wheels in the quagmire of the subjunctive.” Goose bumps!

5. Best blog post of the week goes, hands-down, to Mama Congo with “It’s Beginning to Look A Lot Like…depression.” I laughed and I cried and then I read it all over again (over my husband’s shoulder) and laughed even harder. I guess you could say it struck a chord? (Attention all expats: READ IT.)

6. My older son is reading a book on the Birmingham children’s march, as well as Uncle Tom’s Cabin. I am reading them, too, in an effort to know what it is I’m having my kid study. I can read the children’s march book just fine, but Uncle Tom’s Cabin is almost too much for me to handle. After watching 12 Years  A Slave, I can hardly bear to read the horrors. Which makes me think that, for me, the movie bordered on the traumatic. This week I read an “On My Own Biography” book about Aunt Clara Brown to the children and I almost burst out sobbing. It’s like I have PTSD or something. What makes it even crazier is that I want everyone (over the age of 26, preferably) to go see it. Hey world! Watch this movie! It will traumatize you! (Aren’t I a good salesperson?)

The plan for today is a good house scrubbing, a trip to the tree farm, company, and a Christmas concert. However, the snow is falling steadily (beautifully!), so we may switch to baking, books, movies, popcorn, and cider. (The cleaning will happen regardless.) Have a great weekend!

I’m a little worried about getting older. When I think about it, I feel sad.

This is silly, I tell myself. Growing old is a privilege. It’s a gift. Why feel sad about it?

In every previous stage of my life, I looked forward to the next one. When I was six, I wanted to be seven. When I was ten, I sat in church and realized that in the year 2000 I’d be twenty-five and probably (hopefully! eek!) married. When I was 20, I looked forward to adventure and babies. When I was 30, I looked forward to babies not being babies and making a garden and homeschooling and turning our new-old country house into a home.

And now I am 38 and I have never been happier. I’m in the thick of family suppers and every-bed-is-full and piles of picture books and art projects, and stinky, dirty shoes of all sizes piled by the back door. We have each other. We have energy. We have ideas and opinions and dreams. We have work. We have friends and money and space to call our own. We have life. It’s all I ever dreamed of and then some.

But.

The children will leave. The dreams will dissolve into memories. Our health will fade. We will slow and eventually stop.

This is silly, you say. Why whine and moan when everything is just fine? No need to make a mountain out of the molehill.

But, I say, don’t you see? I’ve been improving—physically and mentally—all my life. But that improvement won’t continue on forever. My mind will trip. My body will hurt. I will die.

I have always looked forward to the next stage of life. This time, I’m not so sure I want what’s next.

I try to be logical.

1. Every stage has been better than the one before. Trust the track record.

2. Each life stage—childhood, teenager, young adult, new parent—has had its share of angst and turmoil. In each stage, something is lost and something is gained. Getting old is just another stage. Focus on what’s to be gained.

3. And when all else fails: Girl, SUCK IT UP. You’ve got no choice but attitude. The train’s not stopping so you might as well enjoy the ride.

And yet…

P.S. A thought-provoking, brand new TED talk by Stephen Cave on the four stories we tell ourselves about death. (It is not death I am anxious about (at least not yet), but the decline that precedes it.)

We have some new patterns around here. They are probably old hat to most of the rest of the world, but in our little kingdom, it’s a brand new invention. It’s called:

1. Keeping our bedrooms tidy.
2. Saturday cleaning.

I’ve told you before about the minefield that is my children’s rooms. (Or was, rather. But hang on a sec.) My younger daughter, in particular, was notorious for trashing, dumping, tossing, and hurling all the contents of her shelves, dressers, closest, and bed with in two minutes of going to her room. It mattered not her mood. She walked in. The room fell apart. Period.

The other kids’ rooms were better, but not by much.

(Our room wasn’t that hot, either.)

And then we went to Guatemala and got a maid. Because the maid did the cleaning and not the sorting and putting away, we all got in the habit of making beds and putting our stuff away on a daily basis. And then we came home and kept doing it.

The kids don’t do this on their own, mind you. I make them. But hey! I MAKE THEM.

We have a system. Every morning they:

1. Get dressed.
2. Brush teeth and hair.
3. Make bed. (No hospital corners required.)
4. Straighten room. (In other words, pick up and put away EVERYTHING.)
(5. A few other things depending on the child.)
6. Come to me.

When they come to me to report they are finished, I do a quick check. Some days I run upstairs and peek between the sheets for toys and underwear, and other days I say Fine and call it good. And then I give them a star.

Yes, a star. (A hand-drawn one, not a sticker. But still.) Fifteen stars and they got a free pass on the dishes. The next fifteen earns them five sticks of gum. I haven’t decided on the third set, just yet.

Two key rules: if I have to prompt them to do their tasks, no star, and if they fight amongst each other, no star. I was drill sergeant strict the first few days (as evidenced by a streak of starless days), but now we’re in a drama-free pattern, more or less.

Which all leads to Point Two: Saturday Cleaning.

I’ve always been opposed to Saturday morning cleaning. It’s such a killjoy.

Whoo-hoo!!! It’s Saturday! Pajamas! Pancakes! Play—


Oh crap. Time to clean.

But then I woke up one Saturday and realized that the whole house was pretty much picked up (or, rather, the things in the house were picked up) and it wouldn’t take us but an hour or so to go top to bottom with a dust cloth and vacuum.

It took a couple Saturdays to get my husband up to speed with my plan (i.e. brainwashed) . The man is fundamentally opposed to dusting. Plus, he likes to do things his way and on his schedule, so, Sure, I’ll clean, and then he starts vacuuming the downstairs and I’m all like, WAIT. WE HAVEN’T EVEN DUSTED YET. AND BESIDES, EVERY DODO KNOWS YOU START UPSTAIRS AND WORK YOUR WAY DOWN.

It wasn’t exactly the best way to start out.

But then, whenever my husband was around, I started randomly asking people what’s the best way to clean a house, and everyone declared up and down and forwards and back that ANY DODO KNOWS YOU START UPSTAIRS AND WORK YOUR WAY DOWN.

Three cheers for aggressive passive aggression!

So now Saturday morning we run around the house, cleaning weapons in hand. The kids do their regular pick up and any other jobs that we bark at them, such as Sort the shoes! Empty the trashes! Dust the baseboards! Bring in wood! Wash that window! Shake that rug! And before you know it, we’re done!

Our new patterns are so basic, so simple, that I have a hard time believing that it took me this long to catch on.

Mom, stop rolling your eyes.

But then I realized two somethings else:

1. We came back to a very clean house. Drawers and closests and shelves were empty. Toys were in the attic. Walls were painted. There was no clutter. It was a perfect time to hit the reset button. And…

2. My children aren’t little anymore. They still make a ton of Dirty, but they also chip in an awful lot. (Not voluntarily, mind you, but I’m choosing the half-full cup this time.) Perhaps leaving the country for most of a year helped us to better see, appreciate, and utilize the jump in their maturity? Perhaps I’m getting smarter?

Now when my husband walks through the house picking up stuff, he chant-roars, “You know how to keep a house clean? CONSTANT VIGILANCE!”

And that, my dears, is all I have to say about that.