I wish I could Google my house

The Good Doctor has been looking for our copy of The Screwtape Letters...not, of course, the easily found one that's included in a beautiful collection of C.S. Lewis' works that lies picturesquely on his bedside table. He wants the tiny, old, red, frayed, cloth-bound one that he read the first time he read the book.

I can't find it, either.

I also can't find my camera battery charger. In a whole tangle of camera battery chargers, I can't find the one particular charger that I need for one particular camera. Nor can I find the stickers that are supposed to go on the car tag of the new Suburban. Or the third big square pillow form that I got to go on the May Baby's bed. Sadly, this list could go on and on.

I am so spoiled by being able to walk over to the big Mac (Big Mac! Hahaha!) in the corner of my kitchen, whenever anyone has a question about anything, and type it into the blank space and find the answer. "What time do the Rebels play?" "What kind of insect is this?" "What are the words to this song?" "Do they have flamingos in Europe?" So, even when I need to find some physical thing in my house, my first instinct is to "Google it." I want to be able to type the name of a physical object into the search bar and, instead of having Google tell me where I can buy one, I want it to show me where it is in my house. And I'm not particular about how it would tell me: it could give a written description or a photo or an X on a floor plan of my house. I just wish I could Google my house.

Too bad I can't.

(Yeah, I was going to take a picture of the book for this post but, as per the inspiration for writing it, I can't find the book. So then I was going to take a picture of the computer, but my camera battery is dead. And I can't find its charger. If I could show you a photo of my desk, you'd be surprised that I can find the keyboard.)

Books

I copied this photo


from The Pioneer Woman's blog. I don't know where she got it, but she showed it under a post called "Stuff I Like" and since I like it, too, I'm putting it here. Isn't it funny, though, the difference in perception? I've actually been thinking about that lately and started another post that I was thinking of calling, strangely, "Violinists and Fleas"...okay, right, back to my point.

PW likes the look of this room because of the white couch and the shelves. I, on the other hand like...no, I LOVE...the stacks of big books used as a coffee table. And the red print on the pillows. But mainly the books.

With hope in our hearts and wings on our heels...

I ordered the DVD of Chariots of Fire last week; I thought it might be interesting to the September Baby since he is starting to run cross country track with the PCS team. I remember feeling inspired to sign up for track when I first saw it...that didn't stick. But, honestly, I was just looking for an excuse to buy the movie.

I realized in reading the cover, that I was the same age as Win is now when I first saw it. Good grief. It really doesn't seem that long ago...1981. I wonder if it will impress him as it did me. I can still recite parts of the movie along with the actors. And, like it did me, the music has already made an impression on the February Baby, and when he's doing homework asks to have the soundtrack playing on iTunes.

(I can't help but muse a moment on the difference in the ease of watching this movie now...a few clicks of the mouse on Amazon.com...as compared to, gulp, almost 30 years ago. We had to drive or, in my case, be driven to Jackson to see it. And that happened more than once, if my memory serves. Then when it finally came out on video, friends of ours borrowed an extra VCR in order to copy it...hmmm...I think that really might have been illegal. Ooops. Surely the statute of limitations has run out on that crime by now, so I won't feel bad about ratting them out here, on this my unvisited blog.)

I've not had the chance to really sit and watch the whole movie...I've listened, awash in nostalgia and that C.S. Lewis type of joy, while The Three watch it in the car. But I look forward to the time when I can. And in watching the boys play their sports...whether track, soccer, or football...I pray that they will "feel God's pleasure when they run."

This week

It's been a crazy week...having a day off on Monday was wonderful, but then it seemed that five days worth of "stuff" was being crammed into a four-day week! Track, football, homework, a birthday party...you know, all the stuff. And then one by one the Three started getting sick, so we added in doctor and pharmacy visits and make up work. Crazy.

But it all doesn't seem as stress-worthy as it would have before this past Tuesday. Tuesday afternoon we found out that the 21-year-old daughter of friends died Monday night. Now I can remember that it is a privilege to be able to drive the Three all over the place, to read with them, to look over their homework, to pick up their medicine, to make their sandwiches.

And today is September 11. Eight years ago, thousands of people learned of the death of family members and friends. My babies were close under my wing, making the trip back to Hattiesburg from Yazoo. Now they're old enough to go to school and be away from me all day; soon they'll be gone longer, weeks at a time; soon they'll be 21.

And I wonder...am I teaching them what they need to know? Am I pointing them to God? Am I being a "joyous mother of children"?

God help me to be so.

The Season Begins...

The Good Doctor has a meeting on Thursday nights and so doesn't get home until 7:00 or so. Tonight when he got home, the Three had already eaten supper and done their homework. Two were upstairs playing Halo and the September Baby was watching a James Bond movie (Goldeneye with Pierce Brosnan), resting his brain from memorizing the squares of 1 to 30.

Kiper walked into the family room and said, "Hey, Win, there's a football game on. Will you pause the movie?"

"For how long?" Win asked.

"Until January," was the answer.

Number 71

 

This is the February Baby. He is in fifth grade. At PCS, fifth grade is the year they begin learning the Westminster Shorter Catechism. The first question is "What is the chief end of man?" The answer is this: "Man's chief end is to glorify God and to enjoy Him forever."

I know it's early days yet, the season is only a month old; but I think, at least in this stage of his life, this boy was made to glorify and enjoy God by playing football. I mean...look at him!

And he is loving it. And he is pretty good at it.
And I'm so thankful. And I pray that God is bringing Thomas' motivation for playing into line with His own motivation for creating Thomas...and football... 

to glorify Him.

(I don't know if this is only a Nelson thing, but I do know it's not very gracious, but for some reason, victories over the papists are very, very satisfying. Tonight the fifth grade Bobcats beat the Sacred Heart team. )

And besides...

A back to school story for the first of September.

The May Baby is going to a new school this year and repeating second grade. We were completely angst-ridden over this decision and ended up springing it on her about a week before school started. In our defense, I must point out that it would have been a disaster to inform her of the pending change in her life before we'd made a final decision ourselves. And it took a while for us to make a decision.

She misses her friends at PCS dreadfully and for the first couple of weeks that's all she could talk about, even though by all reports, she seemed to be behaving well and doing her work just fine at her new school. Then last Monday, when I picked her up from school, she got in the car and said to me, "My day was great!" I was so thankful! So relieved! So happy! I quickly began texting Kiper and all our parents as I asked her what had made her day great. They'd done art; they'd made patterns; they'd gone to the Treasure Chest. Great!

The next morning, I walked her upstairs as usual to the school and the director was in the common area. Ella walked on to her class room and I exchanged a few pleasantries with the director. Before I turned away to go back downstairs, she said, "Can I talk to you for just a minute?"

Yikes!

But, it's okay, I reminded myself, Ella had had a great day yesterday.

Mrs. H led me into the little computer room off the office area and asked earnestly, "Did Ella tell you what happened yesterday?"

My heart began to sink. "What could it be?" I thought. "But, wait, it can't be anything awful; she had a 'great' day!"

So, I responded, "Um, she said she had a great day yesterday."

"Well," Mrs. H said, "Betty Lou got kicked in the face...and it was Ella."

If I hadn't been in a school full of innocent little ears, I would have cursed on the spot. In point of fact, I am not completely confident that the words, "You have gotta be sh!++!ng me!" did not escape my lips. I hope not. But I assure you that's what I was thinking.

So, the story unfolded. Betty Lou accused Ella of kicking her (in the FACE!) but as Mrs. H delved deeper into the events, it transpired that Betty Lou, having an impulsive moment, was smacking Ella repeatedly in the arm with her snack bag. Ella asked her to stop, but the child did not, so Ella kicked her. The whole incident was cleared up, turned into a Bible Story, hugs all round, and things were fine, but Mrs. H (rightly) thought I should be informed.

I refrained from pointing out that the kid was obviously begging for it, but thanked her for handling it so wisely, apologized for my child, and laughingly mentioned that I had to reckon it progress in the right direction, considering the fact that Ella had actually asked the child to stop hitting before she kicked her.

I left the school trying to decide whether to send a follow up text to our families recanting my praise from the previous afternoon, but I was too demoralized even to talk about it. My baby girl...a violent scofflaw! (Even though, as I said, the child was clearly demanding to be kicked.)

I feel that I showed great restraint in not bringing it up as soon as Ella got in the car when I picked her up that afternoon. I waited until we got home and I could put my arm around her and ask her about it. She immediately began defending herself: "We were standing on steps and I wasn't trying to kick her. I was just...I was stomping my foot...and it slipped!"

"Now, I know that she was annoying you and wouldn't stop even when you asked her to," I said. "But are you sure? You didn't mean to kick her?"

"Yes! And besides..." said the May Baby as she pointed at a spot near her hairline on the left side of her forehead and drew her finger diagonally down across the bridge of her nose and under her right eye, "...today you couldn't even see the mark..."