Behold! A new skill.
It was one of those un-diagnose-ably slow mornings. Nothing had gone wrong, but things weren’t
going right either. A brutal case of
insomnia meant I got to sleep when I was supposed to be waking and the extra
hour cat nap did nothing to counteract the 4 hours’ sleep deprivation. When I finally awoke the colour grey had hijacked the landscape. Gone were the
sunny blues and yellows of the day before, as thick clouds moved in and were
pouring large amounts of water on all creation, turning the sky, air and roads
the color of slate.
The rains had returned.
Deciding I needed a vat of tea, I made my way to the kitchen
and filled the kettle, listening to the gutters mimic faucets as the tap
matched the sound I heard through the window.
“Wet,” I thought to myself as I watched the rain spill out of the gutters
without any respect for the containment architecture. I pulled cups from the cupboard and emptied
the tea pot. I was an hour behind
schedule which meant the girls were still in bed, thankful for the unknown
circumstance that had delayed my arrival in their respective rooms to coax them
into consciousness. Heating the teapot,
I stared out the window and prayed something non-coherent about the weather, my
mood and the day ahead.
Those who reside in the Pacific Northwest know intuitively
that the return of the rain is permission from the universe to cancel all appointments,
errands and activities, as well as any remotely constructive behavior that
would stop one from curling up under blankets and reading books. Home-schooled children seem to observe this
unstated shift in the seasons, much like squirrels obey the call to store food
for winter. It’s uncanny. I had serious
doubts anything productive was going to happen in my household and sent up
another feeble prayer that my fatigue wouldn’t act as an excuse for the vice of
sloth.
Soon after mugs of tea were distributed, children appeared
and school books were taken off shelves.
Though nothing was being done with great speed, some work was being
accomplished so I felt optimistic. Turning
my attention to my own chores, I putzed the morning away in relative peace. Hubby was home so he valiantly set to math
homework which filled my heart with giddy joy.
Turning my attention to email, I realized one of my children had been in
her room for a fair number of hours without checking in. I assumed it was because she was in a study
groove and quietly peeked into her room to see her on her bed in the middle of
a convincing pile of books. I shut the
door quietly without interruption. The
day passed lazily and before long, everyone was tucked into a corner, listening
to the rain and reading a novel of their choice. All except my strangely absent child, who had
hidden in her room the entire day.
When the family found each other in the living room at
dinner time, my hubby commented on the rainy day and asked for a report on the day’s
activities. I knew what two of the girls had done as I was within arm’s reach all day,
but what the third had accomplished was a mystery. I listened for her response, trying to decide
if it was history or science that had taken up most of her time.
“And what did you do?” My hubby finally asked addressing his
girl.
“I was amazing!” She stated confidently.
“You were?”
“Absolutely.”
“And what exactly did you accomplish?”
“Well, not exactly what you might expect,” she smiled and
looked somewhat embarrassed. It was an
interesting combination of facial expressions because she was looking pretty
pleased with herself. I secretly hoped
she might have been doing some drawing again, but I was definitely curious. “What does that mean?” I asked.
She sighed. “To be
honest, I spent an inordinate amount of time learning how to wiggle my left ear. And I’ve actually figured it out! I can wiggle my left ear, but not my
right. I couldn’t get that one.”
I was about to ask if she was kidding, using slightly more
adult language than was required but I was beaten out by her two sisters who
thought that spending 5 hours on learning
how to wiggle an ear was a fantastic investment return. Impressed, they asked for a demonstration which my daughter graciously provided, pleased to showcase her new skill. I looked at my husband in utter amazement. He returned my gaze with an expression which
made clear I was the primary teacher of his progeny; therefore everything wrong
with the ear wiggling child was my fault. Shaking my head, I glared at him in return,
but figured he was probably right so I’d better let it go.
I sat perplexed, as the girls discussed the difficulty of
locating muscles and facial manipulation.
Their delight at the discovery of a new skill fueling their hope that
the unthinkable was possible: if someone could learn to wiggle their left ear,
certainly the sky was the limit. I sat
wondering if they were in fact my children and came face to face with the
realization that there is more wrong with home-schooled children than people
could possibly realize.
So I am sitting here, trying to figure out how to come up
with some form of encouragement when the biggest accomplishment in my household
this week is that one of my children has learned to wiggle one of their
ears. Sometimes I feel like the playing
field is never slanted in my favour.
If you, like me, tend toward analysis and introspection might I take
the opportunity to remind you that not all of life is measured by productivity,
output and accomplishment? (Not that ear
wiggling isn’t accomplishment because clearly it is…) Life is also composed of memories, enjoyment
and silliness. So I’m asking the Lord
for renewed hearing this week: ears to hear the joy of our little people, their
ridiculous natures and outlandish ideas.
Ears to hear the kind words our Creator speaks as the world changes and
groans. That I might have ears to hear where love is leading and the courage
to follow. If when all that is done and
I have some extra time, I might pray for the ability to wiggle my ear too,
cause I’ve always wanted to do that.
Stay dry this week,
xoxKaren
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