Looking down at my unpainted toes which rest on grape juice-stained carpet, I realize that there is a price to pay in having children. It isn’t just the sleepless nights, Kid #2’s latest charade, and the time on your knees for their souls—the physical, emotional, and spiritual costs. Kids cost money, too. Furthermore, the more kids you have, the more resources you usually need (though, not nearly what the government says you need).

In an email to Rod Dreher, a reader writes,

…we have generally found that evangelicals are pretty good in identifying worldliness in the church with regard to sexual issues: adultery, fornication, pornography, divorce and the vulgarity of the media. The sin of lust is well recognized and condemned. But with regard to the worldliness of consumerism there is near silence. The sins of greed and envy are virtually ignored. There are prayers for “financial freedom” but this is understood as “God, give us more money so we can pay for all our stuff.”

Reestablishing community, in the family and in larger society, combats the individual’s tendency to think life is all about himself. If one is prone to be excessively self-indulgent or weakened under the influence of our consumerist culture, the larger community is there to remind the individual of his place. If you don’t believe me, then you haven’t tried to hoard the last piece of cake for yourself among a traditional family. You will be found out, and you will be called on the carpet for your indulgence. The concept of a family economy, wherein each member is valued for the gifts and talents that they bring to the table and not just seen in the context of what they cost, is lost on my generation. (This is why children are more regarded as liabilities than as assets.) Too, we work not for its own pleasure, but rather for the stuff we’ll get at the end.

This past week our family worked on several projects, and I caught myself remarking several times, “This is the good life.” Work was the entertainment; tangible progress after many hours labor was the reward. If you give children responsibility for their own little enterprise (as opposed to just using them as free labor and expecting them to be jolly about it), they will develop an appetite for worthwhile projects. We look for ways to match each child’s giftedness with their own domain. As the children get older, I look forward to turning over things to their supervision and expertise.

After the children were tucked in bed last night, my husband and I stood on the front porch. The cool breeze swayed the rocking chairs, the fountain water ran quietly in my flowerbed, and the gardenia scent was strong on the breeze–products both of our family’s toil and of Providence. I told my husband again that this was good, and he agreed.

In the comments on the post below, I was asked to clarify what I meant by matching children with their gifts. I said,

If you give children responsibility for their own little enterprise (as opposed to just using them as free labor and expecting them to be jolly about it), they will develop an appetite for worthwhile projects. We look for ways to match each child’s giftedness with their own domain. As the children get older, I look forward to turning over things to their supervision and expertise.

I didn’t mean to imply that when dinner is over, everyone thanks me for the privilege in allowing him or her to sweep, wipe the table, and load the dishwasher. There are regular chores that need to be done daily, and the responsibilities for those are divided up according to ability. If we waited until everyone liked what they were doing, nothing would get done. The seven-year-old fills the dishwasher; the six-year-old clears the table; the four-year-old sweeps. I usually put away leftovers and hose off the toddler. My husband bounces the newborn.

As far as allowances go, I haven’t thought that one through entirely, but my initial reaction is against it. The kids don’t know what allowances are yet (Homeschooling Advantage #435), and so we haven’t had to address it. They earn money other ways, and I’m not initially inclined to pay them just for clearing the table or keeping their room clean.

But getting to the example you asked for, my son has shown an interest in carpentry (much to my woodworking husband’s delight). We bought our seven-year-old his own set of tools, not fake plastic ones. He wears a tool belt, just like his Dad. We don’t give our kids “busy work”; they can smell it a mile away. So, this weekend my son built a trellis for our grapes. It looks just like the one my husband built for my climbing rose bush, but maybe a little more crooked.

It requires time and energy to allow young children some oversight in these things. In the time my husband spent overseeing it, Greg could’ve built three trellises, but the end goal is not efficiency. In a few years, I’d like to see my son building things for a profit, enjoying the fruit of his labor. For now, hopefully the fruit he’ll eat will be of the real kind. (That would be the grapes. Ba-da-bing.)

This is what I meant when I said that we try to match the kids’ interests with worthwhile projects. There are better examples I can think of, but I wanted to give a concrete and recent example from our own home. To flesh out the entire concept, I highly recommend Joel Salatin’s Family Friendly Farming. Don’t let the title fool you, however. Salatin explains the wisdom in giving children control of an enterprise (in his case—agrarian ones, but it is easy to see how this applies to non-farming households). In turning over projects, children develop an enthusiasm, ownership and care that they otherwise wouldn’t. Since my children are still very young, they still need a great deal of oversight, but we try to let them some degree of autonomy, as much as is reasonable.

My future carpenter is reading over my shoulder as I type. I asked him (just to make sure that I wasn’t being a fraud here) if he enjoyed building the trellis this weekend. He replied, “Yes. Why wouldn’t I have?”

Some jobs need to be done. I suspect nobody will develop an affinity for taking out the trash, but when it comes to projects and their future enterprises, we do our best to match them with their interests and then turn over to them some measure of executive oversight.

My lack of posting of late is due to more than just being busy. It happened this afternoon that I was grumbling about the lack of efficiency with a certain project my daughter and I were involved in. It was slow going. So my husband says, “You know, I recently read something about that very thing.”

Oh great. He’s going to quote me. But just when you think it’s bad that your spouse is watching you, try having a handful of kids eyeing your every move. It is not just the Lord who is watching. (“Oh Lord, You have searched me and known me; You know my sitting down and my rising up.”) It is good to be a part of a first-rate family. You are never lonely.

Speaking of family, I love having my church family as well. I rarely leave a church dinner without the kitchen crew hunting me down to pawn off the leftovers. Just this morning, my husband returned from the men’s breakfast with a huge casserole. People stop me in the parking lot to hand over their goods. “Oh, honey, we can’t eat all this. You take it!” I try to make sure that my kids aren’t scraggly looking. No, I think it’s just because there’s so many of us. I hope.

Speaking of food, the little one is chunking up. He’s nine weeks now. Someone requested a picture, and I will happily oblige.

And just so you know that nobody goes hungry around here…

Speaking of working and eating, a nice reader, Danica, sent me this email regarding the discussion on allowances. I mentioned earlier that I was inclined against it, but that I really hadn’t given it much thought. She weighs in with her thoughts on the subject.

I’m the oldest of nine kids, and we learned to work at rather early age–right about the time my mom was tearing out her hair trying to keep up with the toddlers and babies! When young, we were given rewards for a week, or maybe a month, of faithfully accomplished chores–maybe got to pick out the movie for family night, or got to do errands with Daddy for an afternoon. But when questions of allowance and all the other kids we knew came up, my Dad replied that neither he nor Mom got paid for their contribution to the family effort; if we’d like to start paying Mom for our schooling, laundry, cooking, shopping, etc, then he might consider paying us for our [meager] efforts. (That quieted us down pretty quickly!) We knew early on that we were a family unit, all expected to pull weight, and in turn, all entitled to the pride of having a wonderful family.

One thing, though, that I think was really impacting for me: Since we got no allowance, and any money we earned was expected to be put in a savings account, my parents paid for our every expense. … I can’t begin to tell you how deeply secure that made me. Somehow that seemed like God to me–my earthly dad making sure I had all the money I needed every time I walked out the door. Because of that, we learned to be responsible (how we hated to think we would ever waste a penny of my dad’s hard-earned money!), but we also learned that Daddy would take care of us, no matter what.

Speaking of allowances, I wonder if we should grant one to the Bible society that sent me this in the mail.

It’s supposed to help me remember to pray. And send money. I don’t know what’s worse— these shirts or that my husband’s immediate and only reaction was, “Hey, we gotta send that to Purgatorio!”

It’s difficult to get a picture of your family when there are little ones. Then add in a timer and a rigged tripod. Whew. This is the best I could do. (In case you’re inclined to compare this latest picture with the one on my “About” page, I’d like to note that I do own more than one shirt.) Here we are.

I’m guessing we won’t make the front cover of a magazine. We’re regular folks. We eat frozen waffles from a box, and in this picture, it looks like our kids are having fun. But I didn’t say that out loud. I love Front-Cover-Families, just so you know. Honest.

It was a hot spring day, and I had loaded up my newborn and 19-month-old toddler in the double stroller to make our bi-weekly walk to the local produce market. Though more than six years have passed, I’ll never forget the moment. When we reached the store, a kind old woman stopped to compliment my newborn daughter and pinch her toes. My firstborn son lay his body over her in protection and gave her a look that said, “Don’t touch my sister.” Not yet two-years-old, my son had an innate desire to protect his younger sister.

Now he has three younger sisters to safeguard and a baby brother to rough-up. My firstborn is all-boy, yet very kind.

Shannon wrote:

I’ve noticed that your oldest son seems to be pretty chivalrous towards his little sisters. Any tips on how to teach that?

Men crave respect and admiration. If we want our boys to become men, we should treat them as what we want them to become—men. Sometimes my husband will catch me “talking down” to our son, criticizing him, or being generally impatient with him. Greg will pull me aside and tell me to respect and honor him for the man that he is becoming, not the boy that he still is.

When I arrived at church this last Sunday, my son flipped off a swing and ran to the van when he saw me drive up. He carried in his baby brother, who was in his car seat, for me. As we were walking in, I remarked, “Wow. You sure are strong. I’m glad I have you.” By feeding his need for affirmation, a desire to serve and protect (women, specifically) is nourished. That’s the thing about men—if you give them your respect and approval, they’ll go to war for you every time.

My observation is that boys with involved, godly fathers have the best likelihood of becoming godly men. Boys who have a man to throw a ball to, work on an engine with, or to take them fishing have the best defense against our feminized culture. I’m not saying that boys of single mothers are doomed, nor am I minimizing the influence we mothers have on our sons. But many mothering mistakes are forgiven and minimized when a boy has his dad. For me,anyway, this is good.

My son has moments where he’ll tease his sisters, but they are few. On those occasions, my husband will come down hard and swift with a stern reprimand, “She is your sister. You are to defend her, not knock her down.” If he is inclined to backtalk me—again– it is my husband who will bark, “She is my wife. Don’t talk like that to my wife.” Greg is very agreeable and easygoing, and so his infrequent reprimands are enough to shock my son back into his senses.

Ask for his opinion and input. Call on him to squash bugs. Slip him a treat under the table for working hard. The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, after all. (This works for grown men, too. I know about these things.)

Today my son turns eight-years-old, and I couldn’t be more proud. (Am I allowed just a moment on a humble blog?) He is a fine young man. Last night, my husband and I looked at him as he slept. He was curled up in a blanket, having fallen asleep clutching a brand new Detective Kit that his buddy gave him for his birthday. He is a future man, still wrapped up as a boy. I respect and honor him, especially in public, but all I really want to do is hug his neck and tousle his hair. I am a mother, after all.

He wears hand-me-down clothes and smiles at me. He is only two-months-old, but when I laugh, he copies my sound. I tell the children to handle him gently, but they insist on getting close to his face. They fight among themselves to be the one he notices.

As I study him, I can’t help but think of the privilege he enjoys. He will have his mother’s attention all day long. When he is older and looks to the bleachers, there will always be a crowd. He will be rocked to sleep on his mother’s breast, never knowing that the method is outdated. He will never recall the day when he first heard about Jesus, as they were the songs he heard in the cradle, before he even knew.

But you are a chosen race, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people for his own possession, that you may proclaim the excellencies of him who called you out of darkness into his marvelous light. ~ I Peter 2:9

Mothers are front porch rockers
a string of pearls
and warm cookie dough in counter mixers.

Mothers are window box geraniums
sand on your toes
and gardenias that bloom in May without fail.

Mothers are gingham curtains
crooked country houses
and glass chandeliers with a missing light.

Mothers are summer fireflies
a sagging hammock in two old trees
and flannel sheets when the snow falls.

Mothers are kind
like the smell of coffee
whose scent I want to be.

In the scheme of things, I know this is small, but I’ve used too many brain cells considering the matter. It needs to be settled once and for all so I can get some sleep at night.

Blog posts more closely resemble newspaper articles than book titles, hence, I contend that Example 1 is the correct way. Why, then, does everyone use Example 2?

Solve this and take the 3 a.m. feeding, and I should be good to go.

I’ve been reading Elisabeth Elliot since I turned 16. There is one message that weaves itself in all her words—Jesus message, “My life for yours.” It is a good message because it is a Biblical message. One doesn’t need be a mother to appreciate Elliot’s words on the subject of “Motherhood and Profanity”:

But what have buying groceries, changing diapers and peeling vegetables got to do with creativity? Aren’t those the very things that keep us from it? Isn’t it that kind of drudgery that keeps us in bondage? It’s insipid and confining, it’s what one conspicuous feminist called “a life of idiotic ritual, full of forebodings and failure.” To her I would answer ritual, yes. Idiotic, no, not to the Christian–for although we do the same things anybody else does, and we do them over and over in the same way, the ordinary transactions of everyday life are the very means of transfiguration. It is the common stuff of this world which, because of the Word’s having been “made flesh,” is shot through with meaning, with charity, with the glory of God.

But this is what we so easily forget. Men as well as women have listened to those quasi-rational claims, have failed to see the fatal fallacy, and have capitulated. Words like personhood, liberation, fulfillment and equality have had a convincing ring and we have not questioned their popular definitions or turned on them the searchlight of Scripture or even of our common sense. We have meekly agreed that the kitchen sink is an obstacle instead of an altar, and we have obediently carried on our shoulders the chips these reductionists have told us to carry.

This is what I mean by profanity. We have forgotten the mystery, the dimension of glory. It was Mary herself who showed it to us so plainly. By the offering up of her physical body to become the God-bearer, she transfigured for all mothers, for all time, the meaning of motherhood. She cradled, fed and bathed her baby–who was very God of very God–so that when we cradle, feed and bathe ours we may see beyond that simple task to the God who in love and humility “dwelt among us and we beheld his glory.”

Those who focus only on the drabness of the supermarket, or on the onions or the diapers themselves, haven’t an inkling of the mystery that is at stake here, the mystery revealed in the birth of that Baby and consummated on the Cross: my life for yours.

The routines of housework and of mothering may be seen as a kind of death, and it is appropriate that they should be, for they offer the chance, day after day, to lay down one’s life for others. Then they are no longer routines. By being done with love and offered up to God with praise, they are thereby hallowed as the vessels of the tabernacle were hallowed–not because they were different from other vessels in quality or function, but because they were offered to God. A mother’s part in sustaining the life of her children and making it pleasant and comfortable is no triviality. It calls for self-sacrifice and humility, but it is the route, as was the humiliation of Jesus, to glory.

To modern mothers I would say “Let Christ himself be your example as to what your attitude should be. For he, who had always been God by nature, did not cling to his prerogatives as God’s equal, but stripped himself of all privilege by consenting to be a slave by nature and being born as a mortal man. And, having become man, he humbled himself by living a life of utter obedience, even to the extent of dying, and the death he died was the death of a common criminal. That is why God has now lifted him so high. . .” (Phil. 2:5-11 Phillips).

It is a spiritual principle as far removed from what the world tells us as heaven is removed from hell: If you are willing to lose your life, you’ll find it. It is the principle expressed by John Keble in 1822:

If on our daily course our mind
Be set to hallow all we find,
New treasures still, of countless price,
God will provide for sacrifice.

This afternoon I had an epiphany of sorts, and I hope you don’t mind my sharing this detail. We eat a lot of chicken, red meat on rare occasion, and fish only when we go to a restaurant. The only thing we eat more of is produce. The chicken is a versatile bird and useful in a number of dishes: in the oven and crock-pot, on the grill and stove. The annoying thing, however, is the task of cutting and chopping raw chicken pieces. I don’t enjoy that part.

One way I’ve avoided cubing or cutting chicken manually is to cook the chicken all day in a crock-pot on low. (Add water, bouillon, salt, and pepper.) The meat shreds itself by falling apart at the end of the day. I use this shredded chicken in numerous recipes, freezing extra for later use. Another method for cubing chicken is to cut the chicken in one-inch pieces while it is still slightly frozen.

Well today, just before the chicken fell apart, I took several breasts out of the crock-pot and cubed them with a knife. The knife went through the chicken with ease; there was none of the usual sawing and conniving. Just the tiniest pressure and the chicken was cubed in one-inch pieces in minutes. Beautiful. I put it aside for tomorrow’s Kung Po.

I love it when I finally figure these things out. My apologies to those of you expecting a greater epiphany in my story.

The problem with writing a formal review of Crunchy Cons is that I finished it a few weeks ago. All the great points I wanted to make are lost now in the deep recesses of my junk drawer. If I think up something, I have to write it down immediately or say it. If I say it, chances are that it’s too loud in here so nobody can hear. So, I have to write it down. Which I didn’t.

But I thought it was worth mentioning the book here, even if I didn’t get a free copy for doing so. (Don’t ya’ll know that’s why there’s so many book reviews on blogs?) Crunchy Cons—subtitled How Birkenstocked Burkeans, gun-loving organic gardeners, evangelical free-range farmers, hip homeschooling mamas, right-wing nature lovers, and their diverse tribe of countercultural conservations plan to save America (or at least the Republican Party)—will cause you to nod your head in agreement on one page and then have you “tsk, tsking” on the next.

My tsking arises mostly because author Rod Dreher is a Catholic Republican and I’m a Protestant Constitutionalist, but that’s just details. Dreher’s mission of the book is to “explore ways that we who espouse conservative values can live more true to them, despite living in a society in which the structure of the economy, the influence of mass media, and the prevailing cultural mentality serve separate us from our values, our families, and our communities.” (p. 13)

Most of the public criticism of Crunchy Cons arises from side issues, not from the fact that Dreher’s work did a lot of what he set out to do. His chapters on food and consumerism are the most worthwhile in my opinion. In them, he recounts several stories of families who dropped out of the mainstream, bought farms, and are raising their children without the competing pressure of conventional culture. These people aren’t retreatists. Rather, they’ve decided that the present culture rots, and instead of raising their families to continue serving debt and a depraved Hollywood culture, they’ve structured a lifestyle that avoids those pitfalls.

While not everyone can pack up and move to the country tomorrow (our own family is an example of this), but as Dreher, a downtown dweller, says, “There are many ways in which we can live more conservatively no matter where we are. The most important thing we can do is toss out the television or commit ourselves to drastically curtailing its use. Putting ourselves and our families on a strict mass-media diet is vital; how can we ever hope to think on the Permanent Things if we fill our minds with nothing but ephemerality?”

While Dreher gives lots of page-time to the virtues of agrarianism, it is only because agrarianism espouses a lot of the values lacking in our mainstream culture. Quoting a guy named Caleb, Dreher observes, “Evangelicals have a great deal of energy and zeal, and that’s a good thing. It’s borne great fruit in some ways. But it’s tempered hardly at all by depth and rootedness. …One year it’ll be The Passion of the Christ, and the next year it’s Rick Warren and The Purpose Driven Life. There’s a lot of susceptibility in Evangelicalism to cultural shifts.”

I was a little disappointed with the chapter on “Home.” Though I wholeheartedly share Dreher’s aversion to suburban McMansions and favor quality older homes with front porches and personality, I thought a chapter with this title should’ve been more than just talk about architecture. His points are valid, but perhaps a more appropriate title would’ve been, “Houses,” if you catch my meaning.

Dreher isn’t really saying anything all that new. What makes this book different from traditional cultural observation books (such as Neil Postman’s work) is its accessibility. There are lots of stories to hold the reader’s attention, and the writing is clear and straightforward. This isn’t code for “dumbed-down.” It’s worth reading.

Feeling brave and being inspired by Coffeeswirls’ nifty new side RSS feed, I decided to go for broke and learn how to install a plugin. Learning to install a plugin taught me a few things:

1. Read the directions very carefully.

2. Don’t skip any steps.

3. Only download plugins where the designer doesn’t speak in code and assume that you know stuff.

4. Read the “read me” file.

5. When it doesn’t work, see #1.

I did successfully install two plugins, but a few bugs prevented them from working properly. As it happened, I came across a new-to-me feature at del.icio.us which is a lot easier than installing a plugin. Anyone can do this. Linkrolls are a way for you to have your latest del.icio.us bookmarks displayed as part of your website. I’m tired of being a link miser. If you look under the recent comments in my sidebar, you’ll see “Also Worth Reading,” which are links that I really enjoyed.

With Linkrolls, you can add any link with one click. You don’t have to login to your blog or mess with any HTML. One click of a button, and it’s done. The small black text underneath the link is my two-cents. This is the Dummy Rip Off version of the Challies A La Carte. I’m such a wannabe.

The weird thing about this is that Linkrolls is RSS powered, but if you read this blog by RSS, then you can’t see the updated links unless you pull up the site. I’m sure there’s a way around that, but I don’t know it. Doesn’t matter, a girl can only handle so much change at one time anyway.

As a side note, if you don’t yet use an RSS reader (such as Bloglines or Feedburner) to read blogs, you really should consider it. I finally set up an account several months ago, and I can’t believe I waited so long. Even if you read only three blogs regularly, it is a huge time saver. I thought you’d have to know .php stuff, how to unzip files, and other html-super-code language, but in fact, it’s really easy. Try it out. Your computer won’t self-destruct if you push a wrong button. That’s just in the movies.

There are many times that I revel too much in my own importance, but none so much as when it’s lunchtime. As I whipped up lunch this afternoon, I smugly noted that nobody could do my job. It isn’t rocket science, but it does require (ahem) experience and intricate knowledge. A hired temp couldn’t manage the task. Only me. This is what I know:

Kid #1: Turkey, Salami, Mayo, Cheese, tomato, toasted on 2-4 slices of sourdough

Kid #2: Salami, Mustard (light on the mustard), on 2 slices of wheat

Kid #3: Salami, Mayo, Cheese, on one slice of wheat and cut into sections corresponding with her age

Kid #4: Will blessedly eat her sandwich however you make it, but will finish it and always ask for more.

Kid #5: Milk (and could you please do it now?)

Additional notes:

You might have noticed that I like to crow about my kids, but please don’t test the waters by offering them a wrongly made sandwich. It’s just not pretty. These are my kids, and I know stuff.

It isn’t only during lunchtime that I think of myself more highly than I ought. If my arrogance was confined to my sandwich-making, I wouldn’t have too many problems. As it is, there are many occasions that I need the reminder of Galatians 6:14, “May I never boast except in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, through which the world has been crucified to me, and I to the world.” We are daily being poured out for Jesus. It is easier to do that when I remember my rightful place.

I always get tired of standing when pushing little ones on the swing. My son figured out a way around it, though. He sat on the monkey bars and pushed with his ankles for a good half hour. Think I should try it?

We went blueberry picking yesterday, and as it happened, we learned more than just how to pick a few berries. Regular readers will recall that my gardening efforts need tweaking, and I always welcome the opportunity to tweak. When we arrived at the fields, our host was more than helpful–showing us the water fountains, bathrooms, berry buckets, and the best rows to pick from. The farmer lingered around, eyeing our family and seemed surprised that the kids were working. He told us that a woman with two strapping teenaged boys just left and how he got onto them for sitting in the shade while their mother picked berries. Seeing that he was feeling chatty, I took it as an invitation to ask a few questions.

After picking, we planned to meet up with friends who graciously offered to host us at their vacation retreat. (I highly recommend staying there if you’re in the area. And even if you’re not.) The hour was getting late, and it probably wasn’t the best time to ask an organic farmer about government regulations. Boy howdy, did he get all riled up! The stories were worth standing in the heat, though, getting bit by fire ants.

I noticed that about folks–you just ask them a question about a subject they enjoy and it’s hard to get a word in edgewise. He had a captive audience between my husband and me, and I gathered that he didn’t mind our asking all about the culture, profitability, and business of growing blueberries. We learned more in that hour than all the books I’ve read on the subject, and I also noticed that most of the information I’d read was bogus. The farmer explained that raising berries is more of an art than a science, and I believe that he is correct on the matter. We paid him about $24 for the blueberries, but I’d say that’s a pretty inexpensive education.