How does a crying baby know if you’re sitting or standing? I mean, how does he knooooow? Why is being over my shoulder at an altitude of five feet so much better than three feet? And while we’re on the subject, how do they know exactly when you’re walking out the door?

I already know that I have the best babies. Don’t try to tell me any differently. They are always the cutest, the cuddliest, the sweetest I’ve ever seen. (The fact that they have only an ordinary mother to show for themselves is a cross that they will have to carry in life. You can’t win them all, you know.) Yes, I’m still in the newborn fog: happy, in-love, and…tired.

It is in this tired state that one shouldn’t make huge decisions. I’ve learned this. That’s why I’m mentioning it. You shouldn’t chop off all your hair, hock your maternity clothes, and tell your husband that he needs to find a permanent housekeeper because you just quit—at least, not all in the same week. No, after a woman has a baby, she should not operate heavy machinery, sign legal documents, or visit the hairdresser. When one is sleep deprived, one doesn’t necessarily think through the consequences of one’s decision. That’s why if you color your hair, you should use the washable kind.

No, I didn’t chop off my hair, but I did gather my maternity clothes to go out on loan. But this time, I put my initials on them. Because you just never know.

If you are going to take all five of your small children grocery shopping with you, it’s best not skip lunch and the toddler’s naptime beforehand.

Ask me how I know.

Usually I’m not this daring, but sleep deprivation must have squandered any good sense I had left. I’m not the only mom who stops by the bakery for free kid cookies with sprinkles and then at the deli for overpriced longhorn cheese to masquerade as lunch, am I? It’s not like I let them eat the produce before it gets weighed.

But I do regret opening the goldfish box. Things were going well without it. I just opened it because someone asked. It’s not as if my mind was on the shopping list, because that was left in the deleted file on my laptop. I was on a mission –divide, conquer, and pay. I thought the goldfish were a small token of my appreciation for keeping up with a fast-walking Mommy-on-a-Mission.

In keeping with my typical life, the toddler drops the entire jumbo box on the floor and wails. Of course, the Mom With One Kid From Aisle Two who asked earlier if my kids were always this good rounds the corner just in time to see the display. I smile, of course.

The lady who asked if they were all mine keeps walking. Then, I bump into someone from Real Life while sweeping up the goldfish with the side of my foot. She laughs and I force another smile. Then she hugs me, smushing the newborn in the Baby Bjorn on my stomach. The paper towels fall out, the baby wakes up, and I look for the man who tells me that I’m on Candid Camera. But he never shows.

Our regular cashier congratulates me on finally having that baby. The kids buy overpriced candy at the checkout with their own money while the people behind us get impatient. I forget the sour cream; I almost forget my purse; but I do not forget any kids. Yes, it’s a good day.

The Lord’s mercies are new every morning, and tomorrow when the sun rises, I hope to have another chance to request His mercy for the day. And then, I’ll do my own part and feed the kids before I take them out in public.

I never understood parents who tried to “live out their dream” through their kid. But now, I think, I might have an inkling of the sentiment.

My son plays baseball. It’s not that I’ve ever wanted to play ball. But my kid plays baseball, and so I suppose that makes me a Baseball Mom.

Being a Baseball Mom is much more prestigious than being a Soccer Mom. First, my son doesn’t have to play with girls anymore. (In the minor soccer leagues, the teams are co-ed.) When he played soccer, my son was out for blood, and that doesn’t fare well with the girls… or their Soccer Moms. And frankly, even at this age, the boys are better athletes than the girls are. (You wanna argue?) Baseball has always been a man’s sport, and thankfully, the feminists haven’t sissified it yet. Only the boys play baseball. Which is the way it should be.

Where else can you sit in the stands while some 5-year-old little brother yells, “Hit it home, you Yankee!” ? Too, there are no hokey decals that I have to put on the bumper of my minivan when your kid plays baseball. Yes, baseball is better.

Not only does my son get to play with the big boys now, he’s also pretty descent. In fact, the coach for the other team yelled at the batter, “Hit the ball, buddy…but DON’T hit it to that kid.” Then—in the moment that changed everything—he pointed at my son. Yes, in one defining moment, I now knew why parents get all crazy in the stands. That’s my kid.

The way I see it, I had to own it when he was an infant and knocked over the display in the grocery store. When he was three and walloped another kid for taking his snack, it was me who had to stand up and say, “Yeah, that’s my kid.”

And so now, when onlookers ask whom that kid belongs to, it’s only right, fair, and just that I get the chance to coo humbly, “Yeah, that’s my kid.”

It comes with the territory of motherhood. And while he’s on top of his game, I’m taking it.

I try not to have a myopic view of life, but sometimes I fail on that account. I remember on my wedding day that I went to the store on an errand. I recall thinking that it was odd that everyone was going about their business as usual. I mean, didn’t everyone realize that this was a special day? Twenty-year-old brides are probably some of the most self-absorbed people on the planet. Well, at least this one was.

Moms with a new baby might run a close third. (In case you’re wondering, two-year-olds take the second place prize.) As a member of the postpartum mom club again, the clue to why I might be a little myopic in my perspective is that in our nightly family prayers, the top prayer uttered every night from my lips goes like this, “And Lord, please help the baby to sleep longer tonight. Please.” It is customary for me to pray for wisdom, to pray for our children to love and obey Jesus, and to ask for forgiveness for the many sins I’d committed earlier that day. However, the way I see it now, I’d probably sin less if I got a few more hours sleep.

I had the privilege to play for a funeral yesterday. This was the second one I’d played for this year already, and this time, it was for the unexpected death of a man the same age as my husband. As with most people, I ponder my mortality at these events. What am I doing with my life? What am I leaving behind? Will they say that I was faithful? Will God call me faithful? How much time do I have left?

In light of the life-and-death significance of a funeral, does God care about sleeping babies? Of course He does. We ought to bring all things to Him. When we bring the dailyness of our lives before Him, we acknowledge His sovereignty over all things. The danger, of course, is forgetting that His Kingdom is big. When we bring the small details of our lives to Him, we ought to remember, too, that His kingdom extends beyond our four walls to the four corners of the earth. It is not only about the moment, but also about His Church that began with Adam and Eve and extends to future generations.

So, tonight when we pray again together, I will remember to pray that my new son will love, serve, and fear the Lord as His older siblings do—and that it will be the same for their children and their children’s children. Of course, I still will pray for him to give his mother a little rest… and I won’t say aloud which one I think would be the greater miracle. A little sleep ought to clear up the dilemma.

It’s not like I was eavesdropping because eavesdropping is rude. But I couldn’t help overhearing a conversation, as our whole family was parked in the bleachers to cheer on our favorite baseball player. The conversers sat behind us, and I wasn’t going to give up my front row seat just to avoid hearing a simple conversation. You know?

So, the two women are talking about a family they know with six (!) kids. I am pleased to note that everything they had to say about the large family was very positive. They note the wide age range of the kids and one remarks, “Yes, well, if she’s going to have sooo many, at least she had the common sense to space them out—and be done with six.” The other woman agrees.

So, of course, this amuses me, not offends me. You can’t have a lot kids and be the kind that gets uptight too easily. It’s just not good. So, I counted up my brood while I sat there. Yep. Still only five– which is one less than six.

Whew. That was close. (I think I struck out on the spacing, though.)

Someone asked for some family read-aloud recommendations after I mentioned what our homeschool day looked like. Here is a good link. We’ve only read a few of the selections on that list. However, I know the guy who put that list together, and his recommendations are always top notch. Currently, we are rereading Wisdom and the Millers, a compilation of short stories involving the mischievous Mennonite Miller children and their Dad-who-always-knows-a-Proverb-perfect-for-their-little-mishap.

While the Miller series books are age appropriate for our little brood, we usually try to read books about one or two levels higher than their normal reading levels. If you are new to reading aloud, however, make sure your first experiences are accessible to most (if not all) of the family.

We first began this ritual when our firstborn was a preschooler. As the children have gotten older and more used to active listening, we’ve read slightly more difficult texts. For example, we chose The Boxcar Children series when the oldest ones were four and five, and my husband currently reads G.A. Henty novels very late at night with our seven-year-old. (I am personally bored senseless with G.A. Henty, but my husband says that he is learning a lot of history and enjoys it. To each his own, eh?)

Perhaps you might experience periods of reluctance from the children as we have. (Though, I don’t remember too much of it, as any reluctance was always short-lived.) They enjoy and look forward to reading in the evenings. If you experience any lack of enthusiasm, however, you might try our remedy. We give them the option of going to bed or staying up later to hear the story. Invariably—maybe these are just my kids?—they always choose to sit quietly and listen. They usually hang from the couch upside down, though.

So my husband just launched another Atlas V rocket, but he seriously doubts our ability to ever grow a respectable crop of backyard strawberries. (Though our production didn’t near that of a commercial grower, I’d say we did better than the year before.) Yes, some things are rocket science. Growing strawberries is one of them. Filing a tax return is another.

Children are just cheap pieces in a society that wants them only as cogs in its dark culture[;] [F]uture consumers [--] the more distraught the family life, the better consumers they are. ~Northern Farmer

After reflecting on that tidbit from Northern Farmer, I finally placed a hold on a copy of Crunchy Cons. Per the internet buzz, Crunchy Cons is the book written by Rod Dreher, a Birkenstock wearing, countercultural conservative. The interview with the author is well worth a read. You’ll agree and you’ll disagree, but you’ll be glad you took the time to read it. (Click over, but don’t forget to come back.)

In the interview, he relates a conversation with a family who critiques the typical Ameri-Christian lifestyle, one in which faith and practice are compartmentalized. I’ve thought as much for years, but if you mention it aloud, the “Jesus-Is-Your-Buddy folks” will pull out the trump card. The ace of spades, of course, is, “Judge not…” Since I live in a glass (chicken) house, however, I’ll duck and allow Rod Dreher to toss a stone:

I interviewed a woman for the book who lived with her family in Midland, Texas. She and her husband were Presbyterians, and they were church planters there, and they had eight kids, and they were home schooling, and they ate a lot of natural food, and no TV, the whole magilla, and you know she told me, “It’s the weirdest thing, we’re living in the most Christian, most Republican place we’ve ever lived, and we look around and we can’t see how people’s faith affects the way they live their lives at all. They’re all captives to the consumer culture. They’re all buying their kids the most expensive new things. She said that’s not how Christians are supposed to live; that’s not how conservatives are supposed to live. They’ve sold out to the values of the world, and think that as long as they profess to hold the beliefs of the Christian faith, that that’s enough. (emphasis mine)

What does rejecting modern consumerism have to do with living Biblically? Just this: it is impossible to live a Biblical life while being “captives to the consumer culture.” It’s that easy– once you consider that Christians are called to be slaves to only one Master. It’s about being thoughtful, aware, and deliberate about our decisions. It’s about thinking through the consequences of our everyday choices. It’s about choosing how to live life, instead of just allowing “them” to tell you how to do it or just doing it because that is what we do. It is about fulfilling your purpose to glorify God and to enjoy Him forever.

If you decide to turn on the TV, at least let it be because it is a thoughtful choice–not just an automatic ritual, the habitual flick of the wrist every evening. If you’re really feeling adventurous, ask and answer the question, Hey, wait a second… why do I have a TV, anyway? (Yes, we have one.)

Of course, the problem isn’t that we disagree that consumerism has run amuck, but that we’re so entrapped that we don’t even realize we’re slaves. In spite of this trend, however, there is a growing movement of Christians who are merging their Sunday faith with the rest of the week. They’re unplugging, literally and figuratively. The blinking lights of many modern gadgets might arguably be neutral in nature, but to the degree in which we are captive to their rule, our own lights will only continue to be overshadowed.

Some people have mistakenly thought that, well, this Crunchy Con stuff, you’re telling people they’re not as good if they don’t eat organic, or if they don’t live in the right kind of house, or wear the right kind of clothes, and I tell them, boy, you have the wrong idea. Like I said, my wife and I shop at Wal-Mart when we need to; this is not an ideology. This is about living out the call to holiness in every possible way. We do the best we can to put God and our family first, and in the book I’ve identified some ways I think of doing that, from a conservative point of view, but these are means, not ends in themselves. ~Rod Dreher

I should’ve seen this coming.

Several weeks ago, a nice fellow emailed me to ask to reprint a post I’d written here for a small publication. I replied in the affirmative and looked forward to seeing my very first article in print. Long time readers will remember what happened with my other “first article in print.” (Instead of printing it, they used it for an online “bonus” article, and I can’t even link you up. The link is expired, just like my writing career.) While we didn’t break open the bubbly, I did casually mention it to my husband in a noncommittal way. He thinks I’m famous, but my fame hasn’t helped me get out of scrubbing bathrooms yet.

So, the magazine arrives in my mailbox last week, and I flip through it looking for my name. (Wouldn’t you secretly skip all the other articles too if this was your first time in print?) Of course, you know this is coming: I never found my name. I did, however, find my article. And there it was, plain as day. The by-line read:

Amy who?! (My name is Amy Scott, if you don’t know.) It serves me right, the way I see it. You can’t be famous and humble at the same time, and the latter trait is better for all the people who have to live with you.

They say that you shouldn’t count your chickens before they hatch. There’s a reason for that, I found out.

I’ve written several times about our garden: about the things I’ve learned, about the things that still puzzle me, and about the skills I still lack. Apparently, one of the many short-comings I still possess is the tendency to count one’s chickens. Case in point, once I learned to plant strawberries in October instead of spring, I informed my husband that our strawberry problems were solved. Of course, this was a lesson I learned after we’d rowed out 100 plants, but since the problem was solved, I was sure I’d be picking barrels of them to feed my family and then hocking the rest in a profitable strawberry lemonade stand, in which I’d use my kiddos as slave labor. It never occurred to me that maybe I did more than one thing wrong.

So then, I find out that there’s a particular kind of strawberry that you have to plant in Florida. Special Florida strawberries. Roger that. So, in this final latest attempt, I plant special strawberries at the special moment, and I even go for broke, and plant them with organic, homegrown compost. (The only thing I can do right is grow dirt. Can my self-esteem handle this detail?) We got a few strawberries, but my husband says that he’s seen strawberry fields and ours ain’t looking similar. We chew our $0.38 a piece strawberries several times before swallowing.

So, when a strange looking vine appeared in our garden a few weeks ago, I decided to let it grow. I later diagnosed it as a watermelon vine, sprouted from a previous year’s planting. We never ate watermelon that year, by the way. The raccoons tore into them the day they ripened. The blasted varmints didn’t even eat them, just tore them up (which is what I’ll do to their beedy-eyed necks if I see one).

Ahem. So, when we were in the grocery store last week and noticed watermelons selling for about three bucks for just a quartered section, I pulled my kids aside.

“Listen, kids. That’s too much for watermelon. [I’d learned in earlier years not to use the word “rip-off” as my preschoolers would ask too loudly in earshot of the manager, 'Mommy, can we buy that or is it a rip-off?'] In just another week or two, the juice will be dripping from our chins from our own backyard watermelons.” The Scott kids cheer with delight, and we leave the store with the kids bought off with a promise of future seed spitting contests and Mom absorbed in a self-congratulatory smile. The Proverbs 31 lady is a wise steward of funds, eh?

So, here it is, our first “watermelon” crop:

I planted pumpkins over three years ago, and they never took. I don’t make this stuff up just so I have blogging material. It’s too hot outside for that.

It’s a good thing that my oldest daughter isn’t 16 yet. I’d never have gotten away with the haircut I just gave her. Things are different for a kid. Nobody looks at you funny if your clothes don’t match. You’re allowed to eat peanut butter off a spoon with a straight face. And the calories don’t immediately attach themselves to your hips.

I didn’t mention last month that my birthday made me an age that ends in a zero, a milestone birthday. It dawned on me that I can’t keep referring to myself as a “girl.” It also occurred to me that when a teenager shouts, “Hey lady,” that now I probably need to start answering. People stop me in the grocery store all the time to ask where stuff is. This is a sign. If having five kids hasn’t clued me in yet, the remark from my firstborn should have sent the message, “Is this a picture of when you and Daddy got married? You look different.”

It is a good kind of different—hopefully, with aging comes God’s answer for wisdom. But if not for me, then at least my husband has a few gems of his own. I was lamenting last night that I was afraid that my life is passing by too fast. Not trying to be grossly introspective, but there are still things that I want to say, do, and think. I know that I am still young, but I also know that time is speeding up. My husband cautioned me not to be looking always ahead for what’s next, but to enjoy what’s right in front of me. By nature, I am an impatient visionary and a go-getter. It is hard for me to be stationary, to stop and smell the proverbial roses. But in always looking for “what’s next,” I can easily overlook the blessed joy right in front of me.

As my husband finishes his admonishment, our 22-month-old walks over and puts popcorn in our mouths. She smiles and runs to get more. I take my cue, stop talking, and enjoy the moment.