I keep trying to write three posts and I think the ideas are conjoined . Because this blogging thing is like giving birth. In five years, this post won’t vomit on the couch, but otherwise…. I digress.
In no particular order, I’ve been thinking this:
The poetry is there. It’s there in the sh*t days. It’s there in the drudgery. It’s there in the “WHEN YOU HAVE A NOSEBLEED IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, GET ME!!!
DON’T LEAVE THE BATHROOM LOOKING LIKE SOMEONE WAS KILLED IN HERE!!!”
It’s there when you are fried from stress and worrying about your kids. Roaming the house with your insomnia for companionship, you look out the window at your ugly little neighborhood robed in peace and, at long last, quiet.
When you fight back.
When you surrender.
When your love looks like hate.
And you love something you should hate.
Life is simply lyric.
Whether we think so or not.
The next thing is this:
There is a trend in our area to make your homeschoolers take a 5th year of high school if the parent and the Independent Study Program administrator agree it would be a good idea. To me this is like flunking your senior year. A few months ago, a couple of moms tried to get me to hold my daughters back.
NO FREAKING WAY. They will turn 18 a week after graduation which makes them among the youngest of their class, but it isn’t as if they are a whole year ahead. Their credits will be completed. I couldn’t, in my right mind, come up with an excuse to make them stay longer.
THEY’VE GOT TO GET OUT.
Sure. I want them to stay. I’m a mom and I’m supposed to feel nostalgic and resistant at the same time. But that isn’t a sign something is wrong. It is a sign something is very, very right. They are designed, like the birds and fish and bears and stuff, to mature. Grow-up. Launch out on their own.
They need to find work they love. They need to fall in love and get married and
finish the last of that box of wine during a power outage and 9 months later give me a grandbaby. I’ve earned her (Mickey won’t enter this discussion, but allows that all grandbaby girls will be issued a baby cheerleader outfit upon arrival).
Chatting with the therapist, I bemoaned that I was opposite of someone who is the “my kids speak four languages, play the musical instruments of dead cultures, and the governor calls them for advice” homeschool mom. She pointed out that could be a way of keeping busy so you don’t have to think about relationships. It could be true, because girls our age were taught to build a resume (Look out!!! French Club President, coming through!!!), so colleges
and our peers could rank us.
It healed my lonely soul. I’m still growing in who I always have been, which really never was that. I can stop measuring myself by the unit used to measure another kind of creation. I can stop comparing apples with asparagus.
God has given me the desires of my heart.
For these three things, I am deeply grateful.