The Impossibility of Thirteen Clocks Chiming Simultaneously

A belated nod to our nation's birthday, from Walter McDougall's awesome Freedom Just Around the Corner: A New American History 1585-1828:

[T]he American republic was not the product of a spontaneous uprising of instant democrats against tyranny, nor the product of bourgeois versus proletarian class conflict. Otherwise, contemporary historians agree the colonists' anger over taxes, restrictions on commerce, colonial assemblies, and new western settlements, and perceived threats to religious liberty were all necessary conditions for revolt, but none by itself was sufficient. Nor do any of the historical theories answer two mysterious questions. The first is why colonists, especially some of the wealthiest, risked their lives, fortunes, and sacred honor over a thrup'penny tax or mere point of principle. The second is how the colonists managed to set aside their provincial, religious, and social divisions so that--as John Adams put it--"thirteen clocks were made to strike together." 

Those questions cannot be answered by reference to material or legal interests alone. Or rather, they can be so answered only if one grasps that most Puritans, Quakers, Cavaliers, and Bordermen, Old Lights, New Lights, and rational skeptics, invested their material and legal complaints against Britain with moral and spiritual meaning. Was the American rebellion caused by conflicts over wealth or ideology, a backward-looking Whig mentality or a future-oriented American dream, a secular discourse of human rights and equality or an evangelical discourse of corruption and virtue? The answer is all of the above, because the whole experience of the colonists dating back to 1607--and the twin vocabularies they used to interpret that experience--made self-government, religious freedom, economic opportunity, and territorial growth inseparable. Almost everyone from Massachusetts to Georgia could agree that: civil and religious liberty went hand in hand; liberty could not long survive without virtue; an exploding population could aspire to no liberty at all if its territorial and commercial expansion were artificially choked. 

And a nod to James Thurber, who shows us in a fantastic unique tale of romance, chivalry, whimsy, and better-than-Seuss tongue-twisters how inseparable [the] Time is from impossibility. Here, two of our heroes try to start the frozen thirteen clocks:

"I cannot start the clocks," the Princess said.

They heard the sound of fighting far above. "He faces thirteen men," she cried, "and that is hard."

"We face thirteen clocks," the Golux said, "and that is harder. Start the clocks!"

"How can I start the clocks?" the Princess wailed.

"Your hand is warmer than the snow is cold," the Golux said. "Touch the first clock with your hand." The Princess touched it. Nothing happened. "Again!" Saralinda held her hand against the clock and nothing happened. "We are ruined," said the Golux simply, and Saralinda's heart stood still.

She cried, "Use magic!"

"I  have no magic to depend on," groaned the Golux. "Try the other clock." 

The Princess tried the other clock and nothing happened. "Use logic, then!" she cried. In the secret walls they heard the Iron Guard pounding after Zorn, and coming close.

"Now let me see," the Golux said. "If you can touch the clocks and never start them, then you can start the clocks and never touch them. That's logic, as I know and use it. Hold your hand this far away. Now that far. Closer! Now a little farther back. A little farther. There! I think you have it! Do not move!"

The clogged and rigid works of the clock began to whir. They heard a tick and then a ticking. The Princess Saralinda fled from room to room, like wind in clover, and held her hand the proper distance from the clocks. Something like a vulture spread its wings and left the castle. "That was Then," the Golux said. 

"It's Now!" cried Saralinda.

A morning glory that had never opened, opened in the courtyard.

One Thousand--Ahem--Boons

No, really, Sister--thank YOU. Nice hat, too.

Maybe you've heard of or read Ann Voskamp's One Thousand Gifts. It's a beautifully written read--thought-provoking, lyrical, laughter-inducing and certainly tear-inducing. It also, from my obviously Lutheran perspective, ultimately ends up heaping law upon law on Voskamp herself and her readers by concluding that we have to give thanks in all circumstances. Period. So DO IT, good Christians! Always! No excuses! What I began reading with so much hope and delight ended with me slinking back to the library dropbox, wondering what went wrong.

And what went wrong, of course, is that we can't actually give thanks in all circumstances all the time or even act like doing so is some act of penance or some act of works-righteousness contributing to some partnership-with-Jesus contract deal. And since we can't, because we're poor miserable sinners and we generally know it (thanks for this, Adriane!), this book that tries to emphasize the good ends up shackling us with more impossible expectations rather than giving us the Great Thanks-giver Himself. Because ultimately I need to know that Jesus could give thanks all the time because He was God, and Jesus loved me even unto death, and His vicarious atonement isn't conditional on any merit on my part, like giving thanks always. Otherwise His work wouldn't be, well, a something-for-nothing gift. I realize the hyphenated adjective there is superfluous, but it's amazing how many people think of "gift" as more like the beginning of a bartering deal. "I'll scratch your back if you scratch mine. By the way, I've got an ingrown hair problem, but you're cool with that, right?" Thanks, but no. I'll take my birthdays and Christmases and back-scratching and Jesus without the sides of conditions. 

All that being said. Here I give you One Thousand Boons, my list of decidedly less--no, significantly less--than one thousand benefits that I* never, ever list when I'm coming up with things I'm thankful for. Enjoy, and go about your blessed life with all of its gifts and boons.

(*or anyone else, unless she's--or he's--crazy or warped. Join, please!)  

• The Friends of Meinders Community Library Annual Book Sale.  
• A room in which to lock myself into for five minutes of privacy. 
• That my belly button isn't in the middle of my head (that would be awkward).
• Angelika, who came up with those last two while 1) yelling at her kids through the locked bathroom door to give her some peace for five minutes and 2) explaining how truly awkward a belly button on the noggin would be. Yes, she's joined. She's actually probably a charter member.
• Accidentally dropped M & Ms under the kitchen table. That I find days later. (Surprise chocolate!)
• Bath salts and a sleep aid. Not used simultaneously but in tandem.
• And a glass of Riesling.
• The flip-down mirror by the passenger seat for mascara-application, hair-fluff-checking, and last-minute blotting of baby-stained clothing. Better than a personal stylist, IMPO.
• Bedtimes. For small children.
• Natch that. Sleeping children. 
• Anna Karenina, Madame Bovary, and Sister Carrie. To remind me that my life is actually pretty s-ah-w-eeeeeeeeeet.
• Ear plugs.
• Ice packs.
• Three-packs of kid underwear.
• My Hope Is Built on Nothing Less Than Jesus' Blood and Righteousness. And that's a for-real boon.

Far as the curse is found

Every year on Christmas Eve night, our church's Sunday School presents a pageant. The pageant includes lessons and carols, with some shepherds' robes, microphone feedback, candlelight, and the usual-yet-unexpected poignancy whenever children are involved in public confessions of faith. This year, the Sunday School teachers did an exceptional job preparing our youngsters to read and sing of Christ's coming. And despite a last-minute rash of kids getting the flu and a snowy, blowy Eve, Our Saviour's Sunday School did a wonderful job. Here they are right before the service.

Our small group is blessed to include Ali, a lovely, energetic girl who is developmentally disabled. She cannot walk without help and she cannot speak with words that we understand. But she smiles often, participates vigorously, and shows us how God makes beauty out of brokenness.

Ali's mother is one of our Sunday School teachers, and one of the ways Ali participated in the pageant was to light candles during one of the readings. Her mother helped her walk up to the Advent wreath. Then, she carefully wrapped Ali's fingers around the acolyte's brass lighter and lifted the flickering end bravely toward the candles. It took some doing, for it was difficult for Ali and her mother to get the lighter wick lined up just so against each candle wick. But as we watched Ali's rapt face glow in the soft light she lit and listened to the Old Testament prophecies and New Testament narratives of Christ's coming, we saw exactly why Christ came: to give light to darkness and to give hope to the weak. Later, while Pastor read of joyful noises and praise for God's good gifts, Ali lifted her voice to share her excitement. Her timing was perfect. She literally made a joyful noise as we heard about all of creation rejoicing in God's greatest gift.

One of my favorite Christmastime readings is Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol. In the story, Bob Cratchit tells his wife about taking their son, the saintly Tiny Tim, to church. "He told me, coming home," Bob says, "that he hoped the people saw him in the church, because he was a cripple, and it might be pleasant to them to remember upon Christmas Day, who made lame beggars walk, and blind men see." 

Parents of disabled children, including Ali's mom and dad, will tell you that their children are not perfect. They know, just as parents of able-bodied children know, that despite glimpses of sweet innocence and selflessness, children act in savage, selfish, sinful ways, ways that belie their angelic appearances. That's one reason why Lutherans baptize babies--we know our months-, days-, or even hours-old children have been infected with the sin of Adam. Their behavior shows this, but their bodies show it, too. Children scrape knees, break limbs, get infections, battle cancer. Some of the scars heal, but none of them disappear forever. And even the most saintly kid can't fix himself. Tiny Tim recognized this. Even at young ages, we see our children marked for death.

Papa and I witnessed this firsthand in our own home this week. Superman developed a low-grade fever a few days after Christmas. I kept him home, snuggled him, gave him lots of 7-Up and regular doses of bubble-gum Tylenol. But he still felt badly, and his body suddenly reacted to its illness by triggering a seizure. We took him to the Emergency Room within ten minutes of his seizure, and he revived, especially when the nurses prepared his hand for an IV. (Oh, the great patience of pediatric nurses!) He spent the night at Sanford Children's in Sioux Falls, at what we call the Castle (it looks like the Cinderella castle at Disney World). And we were relieved when his temperature disappeared after a night and the doctors concluded that Superman is one of about five percent of kids who experience febrile seizures, or seizures causes by a fever. He might have another one, but he might not. It's most likely that he will grow out of them. And we are very thankful that he is well now, asking for candy at every meal, and asking us, "Do you remember when I got to spend the night at the children's doctor?" Yes, Superman. We remember. And we always will.

In a feeling-apple-eatin'-good moment.

Few things are as terrifying to parents, I think, than when their children become physically unresponsive. Right after his seizure, Papa scooped up Superman and held him like a baby. Our son was helpless, and so were we. All we could physically do was to rock him and place him in the care of people who know how little bodies work and what they need. The experience with Superman was a mighty, visceral shock to remember that our son is not ours, that we did not make him, and that we cannot keep him well, or even keep him at all. His days on this earth are numbered. And this knowledge can cripple us with fear and anger.

Too often, I think the world manipulates the weakest among us. Many are manipulated because they are small or voiceless. Many are exploited as powerful political or religious examples that we thoughtlessly or knowingly parade in a voyeuristic show of pity to achieve other ends--our own selfish ends. But Christ came as a weak Babe precisely to show us that He loves each little one unto death. Because that's where Ali and Sam and every child, from the red-faced newborn to strongest Olympian to the frailest centenarian, is headed. And the Child gifted with myrrh, the embalming spice and funeral incense, reached for Death and struck it away, for us, forever.

On Christmas Day, we sing joy. We sing, "Joy to the world, the Lord is come." But even more, we sing healing. "He comes to make His blessings flow/ far as the curse is found." In the Christmas season, and for the rest of this year and every year, we need joy. But we also need to know that His blessings flow even into the very crevices of our sinful lives, into every dark and putrid corner, into every broken heart and annihilated hope that we suffer due to our terrible physical and emotional and spiritual frailty and that of those we love. We need to know that He, the mightiest and the greatest, made Himself the smallest and weakest and most nothing of men to save us, the ones who so desperately need Him. As this Christmas season closes, I pray you know and remember that He comes to defeat every curse that haunts and plagues you. He comes as the lowliest to lift you lowly ones up, to hold you like babies, to heal your brokenness. And he comes still to make His blessings flow.

A New Coat for Anna

Sometimes our library visits unearth surprising gems.

Awhile back, in an effort to stem the tide of Cars and cars and other tricked-out-merchandising paper collections otherwise labeled as "children's books" (I can't pretend to call them children's literature) that our sons our oldest son inevitably gravitates toward, I grabbed A New Coat for Anna, written by Harriet Ziefert and illustrated by Anita Lobel, from the Winter bin. It contained a few more words than the average books I read to them, but I thought--on the drive-by snag--that it "looked good." Well. I had no idea. P ended up loving this book, and because he loved it, so did S. In the two weeks we had it checked out, P practically memorized it, and even S knew all the steps.

The book is based on a true story about a little girl living with her mother in post-World War II Europe who needs a winter coat. There's no money or supplies, so Mom gets really creative and tenacious and they end up figuring out how to get a new coat in stages using barter to provide payment. A farmer's sheep provides the wool, and he gets Grandfather's watch. A spinner who spins the wool with an old spinning wheel gets a lamp. They dye the wool red themselves with lingonberries they pick in the depth of summer, and then a weaver weaves the red wool into cloth and gets a garnet necklace. Then Anna and her mother visit the tailor, who measures her for her coat, works his magic, and produces a lovely red coat in exchange for a teapot. Then Anna and her mother invite the farmer, spinner, weaver, and tailor over for a Christmas party--the happiest one they've had in years. And at the end, Anna goes to visit the sheep to thank them for their wool.

Simple story, this; not so simple lessons (beyond the hypnotic step process that seems to enthrall all young children). Lobel's frontispiece illustration is of a war-torn city. P wondered why it looked the way it looked, and I had to explain to a three-year-old, in the simplest way I could, what war is and what happens during war. I think I told him that wars happen when groups of people fight over places or people or things and ideas, and lots of people get hurt and places get destroyed. It's ugly. Sometimes it's necessary, but always it's ugly. And this is why I found myself loving this story--because even though war is ugly, and the aftermath can be brutally difficult--not that we Americans generally know anything about this, but I digress--people can band together for simple  moments of joy and thanks for life even after losing practically everything, including loved ones. A wool coat, and the people who help make it for a little girl, can inspire hope.

When Anna's first waiting for the sheep to grow their wool so it can be sheared in the springtime, she and her mother go to visit them almost every Sunday. At that first Christmas, she adorns their simple heads with paper chains and sings carols to them. At the end of the book, when she's wearing her red coat and visiting the sheep again, P started saying that Anna must have sung "Hark the Herald Angels Sing" to them. He was more right than he knew. "Peace on Earth and Mercy mild; God and sinners reconciled." What a fitting reminder.

What Selfless, Loving Motherhood Isn't (And a Little of What It Is).

It's probably not the smartest thing in the world to read Battle Hymn of the Tiger Mother while resting during "Quiet Time" to try to alleviate early pregnancy nausea. Don't get me wrong; this book holds many insightful, poignant thoughts about mothering that I fully support. I get sick, as does Chua, of so many cliches and generalizations about children that stem from "Western" parenting, most of which have to do with supporting self-esteem, of giving them "space" for creativity with minimal direction, of ultimately eschewing traditional discipline and education in favor of "letting them go"--which, too often it seems, is just a socially acceptable way for parents to let their kids do whatever they want so that parents can do whatever they want.

On the flip side is Chua, a self-described Tiger Mother, which, from my reading, means she is ruthlessly ambitious for her daughters, constantly pressuring, pushing, and yes, shoving them to do whatever it is she thinks they should be doing to achieve the top prize or recognition in whatever it is they're participating, be it extra credit in math class to get more points than any other student and stay two years ahead of the age group (especially the other Asian-American kids; they're the only ones who have their feet held to the same fire), practicing piano (all the way to Carnegie Hall at 14 for Sophia), practicing violin (a battle-of-the-wills with Lulu, who "wins" in the end and quits violin), or any other activity--except gym and drama--that's remotely competitive. I agreed with the expectation that children can achieve far, far more than what 99% of people, parents included, think they can achieve. I also agree with the invaluable lesson that parents should teach children how to work hard, and harder than they think they can or want to, in everything they do. There are extremely few substitutes for hard work, and I wish I had more discipline in that area. I know I'd spend less time thinking of how tired/exhausted/impossible a certain task would be and instead just do it.

But Chua's methods--screaming and yelling into the wee hours, heavily relying on derogatory, sarcastic name-calling to "motivate" her daughters and even to pressure her husband--are hardly worth emulating, and not just because they border on emotional abuse. As Christians, we hope to discipline and educate our children to learn skills and develop talents under an other-worldly umbrella; that is to say, we hope they can achieve great worldly success in academics, music, and most any area that enriches their minds and cultivates a confident yet humble spirit toward their neighbors. And that's where Chua's pedagogy breaks down. Her emphasis on excellence is admirable; but excellence for excellence's sake--that is, achievement's sake--is vacuous. Actually, it's even sinister. It can become the height of pride and narcissism without any moral direction. I couldn't help thinking as the book went on that all the people and institutions whose stamp of approval Chua sought for her daughters will all die someday, return to dust. And then what would her daughters' "successes" mean? As Solomon wrote in Ecclesiastes, "Vanity of vanities, says the Preacher, vanity of vanities! All is vanity. What does man gain by all the toil at which he toils under the sun? A generation goes, and a generation comes, but the earth remains forever" (1:1-4). And attaching all of her hopes (and fears) to her daughters' achievements, Chua establishes a metaphysical worldview, a cyclical, impossible pattern; achieve, and achieve again, and again, or you're nothing. You as a human being literally mean nothing. The criticisms about burning stuffed animals are paltry compared to this.

Not surprisingly, Chua is not deeply insightful about her motivations for being a Tiger Mother, a "typical" Chinese mother, other than to say that's how she was raised, and she's not about to embarrass her parents by producing children who aren't fantastically successful on paper. Her short comments on this are telling:

My answer [to the question, "Who are you doing all this pushing for--your daughters or yourself?"], I'm pretty sure, is that everything I do is unequivocally 100% for my daughters. My main evidence is that so much of what I do with Sophia and Lulu is miserable, exhausting, and not remotely fun for me. ... Unlike my Western friends, I can never say, 'As much as it kills me, I just have to let my kids make their choices and follow their hearts. It's the hardest thing in the world, but I'm doing my best to hold back.' Then they get to have a glass of wine and go to a yoga class, whereas I have to stay home and scream and have my kids hate me. (148)

Chua says something here that I agree with: that too many parents adopt the "I'm sacrificing for my kids" argument, all while vigorously pursuing their own personal (re: selfish) agendas. Maybe that's too harsh--maybe wine-drinking and yoga-posing is okay. But maybe it's what else Chua says that isn't okay--that "[staying] home and [screaming] and [having] my kids hate me," well, is just a teensy, weensy bit self-indulgent, too. Except it's easier to excuse than the wine-drinking because, well, it's hard. And if something is difficult, and not fun to the one doing it (no comments about the recipients), then it's not only excusable--it's completely worth emulating.

And weirdly, Chua never seems to even blink at this logic--maybe because that's how traditional Chinese mothers think, and she doesn't know how to identify fallacies in it. Being a recipient of dislike from her children places her in the ultimate martyr postion: the No One Can Argue With Me place. It's hard for her--never mind that most, if not all, of the negative attitudes in her home seem to stem from her own vitriolic temper--so no arguments: THIS is selfless, d****t. Guilt parenting at its most self-centered.

Yet Chua reevaluates some of her methods and approaches, and this stems in part from her beloved sister Katrin's agonizing battle with cancer. Chua actually begins to slightly quiet her ruthless tigress instincts in the face of suffering and untimely death. She wants to be with her sister and seems to recognize that children require emotional support, not just constant badgering. But Katrin pulls through, and Chua goes on, giving in on Lulu's violin lessons but not really changing much else. I think this is because she escaped facing the finality of death, the existential questions of why life is meaningful, because Katrin is still able to "prove" in her own career and as a mother that she is "successful". And I think Chua has probably invested too much in the misery, the exhaustion, and the illusion of self-sacrifice in tiger mothering to deeply evaluate it. There's something appealing to control freaks (of which I am one) to base all behavior and outcomes on measurable standards. If you can achieve it, then you are. Deviating from this way of thinking, of living, is not only unsettling; it's terrifying. Because the alternative is having to admit that you cannot ever prove your own worth.

The mothers that I most respect have understood that true service to their children unfolds out of real self-sacrifice--not out of self-proclaiming, self-justifying testimonies of success. It's the irony of our age: the best moms will never gain the publicity Chua has achieved because their work remains ongoing, humble, truly loving, and hidden. I was deeply saddened, and even queasy, by the end of the book--due, no doubt, in part by my pregnancy nausea and moodiness. Yes, Chua has an amazing resume, a highly successful career, and two high achieving daughters. But I doubt if her daughters have learned patience, compassion, and true selflessness from one of the most influential role models in their lives--their mother.

This one's for you, Mom! (and other sweet-tooth addicts)

This is "Cookies" from Arnold Lobel's Frog and Toad Together, which P and I have been reading together lately. We really like this story. We're with Toad at the end. Who are you with? Any alternate endings?

Toad baked some cookies.
"These cookies smell very good," said Toad.
He ate one.
"And they taste even better," he said.
Toad ran to Frog's house.
"Frog, Frog," cried Toad, "taste these cookies that I have made."
Frog ate one of the cookies.
"These are the best cookies I have ever eaten!" said Frog.
Frog and Toad ate many cookies, one after another.
"You know, Toad," said Frog, with his mouth full, "I think we should stop eating.
We will soon be sick."
"You are right," said Toad.
"Let us eat one last cookie, and then we will stop."
Frog and Toad ate one last cookie.
There were many cookies left in the bowl.
"Frog," said Toad, "let us eat one very last cookie, and then we will stop."
Frog and Toad ate one very last cookie.
"We must stop eating!" cried Toad as he ate another.
"Yes," said Frog, reaching for a cookie, "we need will power."
"What is will power?" asked Toad.
"Will power is trying hard not to do something that you really want to do," said Frog.
"You mean like trying not to eat all of these cookies?" asked Toad.
"Right," said Frog.
Frog put the cookies in the box.
"There," he said. "Now we will not eat any more cookies."
"But we can open the box," said Toad.
"That is true," said Frog.
Frog tied some string around the box.
"There," he said. "Now we will not eat any more cookies."
"But we can cut the string and open the box," said Toad.
"That is true," said Frog.
Frog got a ladder. He put the box up on a high shelf.
"There," said Frog. "Now we will not eat any more cookies."
"But we can climb the ladder and take the box down from the shelf and cut the string and open the box,"
said Toad.
"That is true," said Frog.
Frog climbed the ladder and took the box down from the shelf. He cut the string and opened the box.
Frog took the box outside.
He shouted in a loud voice, "HEY BIRDS, HERE ARE COOKIES!"
Birds came from everywhere. They picked up all the cookies in their beaks and flew away.
"Now we have no more cookies to eat," said Toad sadly. "Not even one."
"Yes," said Frog, "but we have lots and lots of will power."
"You may keep it all, Frog," said Toad. "I am going home now to bake a cake."

What We're Reading

Recognize these three guys? A Pres, a Secretary of Defense, and
...a future VP!
Check this out: The Rumsfeld Papers is an interesting archival site
released in conjunction with Rumfeld's memoir Known and Unknown.
  

How To Teach a Two-Year-Old to Read

Tangible Items Needed:

Wooden alphabet puzzle (or another tactile alphabet appealing to toddlers)

The Ordinary Parent's Guide to Teaching Reading

Magnetic dry erase board with marker and eraser

Magnetic letters (capital and lower case)

Blank note cards (to make letter cards and word cards)

Markers

Bob Books, Set 1 (optional)

Intangible Items Needed:

10-15 minutes of daily lesson time

Patience

Enthusiasm

An excited, precocious* toddler**
 
*"Precocious" defined loosely. Definitive characteristics of a precocious child: he breathes, eats, sleeps, bathrooms without extensive adult assistance. He seems excited about life, i.e. running laps around the living room, jumping on the bed, watching leaves blow on trees, listening to stories.

**A toddler is, by definition, a tangible creation. Yet I didn't want to get into some existential discussion of the differences between body and soul, so the toddler falls here under intangible. Because--let's face it--he's a lot harder to define and explain than, say, a marker. 

Directions:

1. First, start reading to the child at birth (or shortly thereafter. Like within the first week). One story before bed. One story at naptime(s). One story at 10:37. One story at whenever-you-trip-over-the-stuffed-bear-due-to-sleep-deprivation. Etcetera. Optional, but highly recommended as you wade through the post-partum fog--it'll snap you out of it, I promise!: Read The Well-Trained Mind.  



2. Stock the child's room, living room, kitchen, bathroom with books. Lots of books. Quality books, preferably older ones. Caldecott medal winners, Mother Goose, Beatrix Potter, A Child's Garden Book of Verse, Dr. Seuss. Encourage the child to read all the time. It helps if you limit TV. To less than half an hour a day (preferably none). And stock up on tape. Enthusiasm can be destructive (purposeful or unintentional).

3. Around the child's second birthday, get an wooden alphabet puzzle or some other tactile alphabet for the child to explore. Our P learned the alphabet in three weeks--because he kept bugging us to do his "letter puzzle" twenty times a day (one thing a parent can never say "no" to!). All kids are different, yada, yada, yada--I know all kids are not like P. Just remember that brain synapses are about 1000 times more numerous in the first three years of life than at any other time, so memorization is not only a novelty (re: FUN!) for little kids, it's highly possible.

4. With markers and cards, make letter cards. We made two sets; the first was for fun, making sure P knew both capital and lower case letters. ...

5. The second letter card set followed the directions from The Ordinary Parent's Guide to Teaching Reading, which is an awesome resource for any parent to use. It contains phonetics lessons broken down in very small pieces, with dialogue for the parent/teacher. It also contains additional materials to use, like a dry-erase board and magnetic letters. With the letter lessons, we sometimes combined two at once; we sometimes now take three days for one lesson. We might stop for a month or two if P's not picking up on putting letters together to read words. But he's reading sat, bat, cat, hat, bed, Ted, Nan (words found in The Bob Books)... and he'll be three in June.

YOUR KID CAN DO IT, TOO.

In Like a Lamb

We're beginning to see glimpses of spring here, despite the snow piles everywhere. I've heard birds chirping--such a solace after weeks and months of outdoor silence, excepting the wind--and I can smell spring coming. I kid you not. I'd like to think I'm smelling the Chinook so happily received by the Ingalls clan in The Long Winter... and actually, I probably am. Look at this!

Thirty-nine degrees! Bust out the bikinis--spring's almost here!

Books, Books, Books

What you can't see, due to all those cashmere folds, is the kid passed out after breastfeeding. With my little lug tugging away, I can excuse reading my way through the Library of Congress.


Ha, ha, ha. Almost 20 days after my last post and I'm STILL 0-24 on posting pics of the boys. Don't worry, though; J has the latest on his brand spankin' new laptop and I'm hoping he'll zip away and get that video posted (preferably in the next decade) of P singing "Fifty Nifty United States" with Grandma so it can become the next YouTube phenomenon.

But I digress. Aside from normal small children busy-ness, I've realized in the last few weeks that I've stumbled across more books in the last six months that have radically changed my outlook than I have since my formal education (which, truth be told, rarely gave me boosts of brain-esteem. More like urges to hit snooze... like twenty times. Or to grab a blow torch. To burn the books, of course! Sick minds, you.). So here's a few that some of you might enjoy, too (now, or later, as the case may be):

Dave Ramsey's Financial Peace University. Yes, I know it's not just a book; we took the class last fall and it kicked our rears. Now I'd like to think we're not paying the stupid tax anymore. And anybody with tenacity can do this! Awesome.

Maud Hart Lovelace's Betsy-Tacy books. I only read the last five (basically the high school books plus the last one), but they are terrific. I somehow missed these growing up; I had Laura Ingalls, Anne of Green Gables, Emily of New Moon, and several other lovable heroines to cherish, but my daughter--God willing! no shocking news announcement here!--will also have Betsy (who also lived in Minnesota!).

Malcolm Gladwell's Outliers. My kids will practice their instruments and study 10,000 hours just because of this book. And maybe because of Amy Chiu'sBattle Hymn of the Tiger Mother, but I haven't read it yet. In the meantime, lap up this gem.

Zac Bissonnette's Debt-Free U: How I Paid for an Outstanding College Education Without Loans, Scholarships, or Mooching Off My Parents. This book is so good it's sick. I want to pass out free copies to every college-bound kid I know. It's hilarious, the author is hot (hey--only the truth here), and it can save readers from six-digit debt--it's a win-win. The only downside is this book came out about ten years too late.

Michael Gurion's The Wonder of Boys. Okay, so the last half of this book wasn't so great, when Gurion's fixation with the biological order attempts rhetorical gymnastics to show that, hey, if your son is gay, that's completely normal and predictable. (It'd be funny if his logic wasn't so warped.) Now THAT'S a great way to plug a book! Until I run across another book on boys that's decent, the first half of this will have to do. It really made me think about relationships, including mine with J. Boys really do think differently than girls.

Willa Cather's Death Comes for the Archbishop. I love Willa Cather. And as my copies of her books are boxed and irretrievable in the basement (pending the final finishing), I had to get my fix--and why not through one of her classics that I'd never read? And boy, have I been missing out. This book is gorgeous. I can feel sand on my tongue right now just thinking about it. And I want to die in New Mexico.

Dr. Jill Lekovic's Diaper-Free By Three. I literally grabbed it off the shelf as I was running by (my typical library-browsing approach now that I have small children), meaning to skim it for tips on tweaking P's potty habits. Holy crow, every mom of a six-month-old should read this! I'm sure other books have better step-by-step directions--Lekovic prefers the anecdote-style how-to over the list--but the theory of early potty training hits a home-run here. She reviews the medical literature and shows how potty training that begins after the age of two is, pun intended, in its infancy in terms of early training and its thousands-of-years history. I literally started reading this yesterday and got so excited that S started sitting on the potty an hour later. We tried it twice again today, too! He squirms, but that's normal--I'm just super-pumped that we're starting now, so he'll be essentially diaper-free sooner (like very feasibly by the end of THIS--2011--year!). Disclaimer: don't freak out if you think I'm a nutso mom--read the book! Even if you have no kids! SOMEBODY you know will benefit from your new-found knowledge.

Jennie Chancey and Stacy McDonald's Passionate Housewives Desperate for God. This one's the real kicker. I actually read it about a year and a half ago, but I re-read it last November just to soak in its Scriptural reminders (and cultural-debunking) again. As a woman fairly recently released from "the grind," as the world calls it, and slowly learning the amazing, daunting vocation of motherhood, I needed to hear from other moms that staying home to make a home actually does benefit my children, my husband, and me--and NOT because everything is hunky-dory. Far from it. "But he said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.'" 2 Corinthians 12:9. I couldn't have read this book three years ago; honestly, I'm still struggling to accept the self-lessness God blesses me with as I get to train and love our sons. But He's pruning me, slowly but surely. (Of course, I've got the whole black-heart-of-a-sinner thing forever on this earth, but all you REAL Lutherans get my drift, in that very non-Reformed, non-works-righteousness kind of pruning. You know, the white-garment, God's-own-child-I-gladly-say-it kind of baptismal righteousness.)

I hope to post more books up here for you all to peruse and enjoy--probably not on a regular basis (ha, ha, ha!), but every now and again. Now excuse me, I have to go reread me some Bo Giertz before I turn in (and dream about all the books coming through interlibrary loan).