Musing

(I don't know how to edit this, but the date should actually be April 22.)

So I was doing a little preliminary copy editing for a friend who is about to self publish her second book, and I thought to myself... Shall I write a book? It's percolated around in my cranium for years now, but I've never had a subject or the time. Still don't. But it sounds both intriguing and terrifically maddening, so maybe a few years down the line? Maybe when I run away to Tahiti. Titles? Subject matter? "They" always say, "Write what you know." I don't know that I could do that without ending up in a lockdown unit. I might actually kill me. Or maybe it would save me, who knows?

As I mentioned previously, I'm working on getting G evaluated for ADHD (inattention only?), and am feeling so torn about how to get him through school successfully. Meaning: sane, compassionate, and educated. I think those are straightforward goals, perhaps even admirable? But how to do this without making waves? If the kids don't return to the school they're currently enrolled in, it won't be the fault of the school. The administration is working waaay outside their comfort zones in order to accommodate the students already, something most institutions don't do well. They have my admiration for their efforts. Nonetheless, they exist to serve the needs of the group, not the individuals. My kids are individuals and they only get this one shot at childhood and learning how to be good people. Argh. Or urf.

Any thoughts?

Church has become a marathon event. We drive 45 minutes to a lovely place: intellectual, but not condescending or stuffy; cheery, but not nauseating; warm, but not cloying; busy, but not impersonal. The music is awesome, transcendant. We love it. It's just durned hard. I'm blessed to be tag teaming the service with another mommy (or two) sans daddies, for different reasons than myself. It's just that when we have nine children, ranging in ages from brand new (nursing complicates things) to 10 yrs., and only two or three adults, well, it can be a contact sport. Especially when the kids would really benefit from at least stern looks from their own dad when trying to cut up. Still, for the most part, we manage fairly well. And no one has thrown up their hands yet, so on we go. I think we've made progress in getting them all to sit and with less and less fuss. Suggestions?

Also, though things continue to improve in practical terms as far as being more and more able to haul kids, feed kids, etc. with less and less hands on help, I do wonder how I will manage to shepherd these little ones toward being kind and compassionate thinking adults without completely losing it. As much as I love them and would not trade the privilege of mothering them for anything, it's hard work and it lasts about nineteen or twenty hours a day most days. I tell G all the time, as he's fussing over math or something else that feels insurmountable, that he must do this like one would eat an elephant: one bite at a time. I'm sure that's the case with child-rearing (or adult-rearing, depending on how one views it). Still, it's tough to keep things fresh and exciting. I'm glad that I read about this and so much more. I'm glad that I have like-minded friends with which I can discuss this all--really sane, articulate people who aren't afraid to call it as they see it, good or bad. I'm especially glad that I am the beneficiary of prayers from literally around the world. I could not walk around under the realities of life without divine intervention called down by earnest people everywhere. (You know who you are and I and my babies thank you.) I think the eating the elephant one bite at a time thing is an example of that. G was feeling really bad and needed something, I didn't know what. I opened my mouth and out came the elephant analogy. He thought it was hysterical and could pick himself up and go on. (The charm is wearing off, though, so suggestions are appreciated.) Any helpful hints on how to keep this up?

Q seems to be losing patience with the thumb and arm/shoulder massage. Poor baby. I wish he could just be okay without intervention, but I feel bad even thinking about complaining. There are so many mamas out there who would give anything, truly anything, to be able to intervene on their baby's behalf. Q is alive and mostly happy, growing and smiley, when he's making eye contact or hears my voice. I wish he didn't have this crap to go through, but I am blessed to have him and get to love such a sweet punkin. I have thought many times that he is the grace note in my life. If I didn't have him and his sibs to be striving for, I think I'd be face down on the floor. Ironic that at least half my agony exists solely because of the kids--the consequences they suffer in all this.

Well, I could go around and around on that topic forever. It seems to only make me feel worse and never come up with any new answers, so I'm going to bed as quickly and quietly as I can. Or not--there's the baby. He "heard" me!

Hug those little guys. Sleep well, y'all.