Marian Vischer

Glimpses of Home: Busy Birdcage

A sweet friend recently surprised me with the loveliest pedestal birdcage. I directed her sister’s wedding and she thanked me in birdcage. It’s so lovely. I can’t tell you how much I love it.


I decided to paint it blue and put it in my living room. It’s basically the only thing in our very-lived-in room that has no functional value other than prettiness. A girly spectacle that houses moss, a fake nest, and a chippy ceramic bird.


I should have known the bird would have a flurry a friends just an hour later.



Nothing here is sacred…

Or perhaps everything is.



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Don’t forget to enter the Padalily giveaway. Winner announced Monday!

It’s a Giveaway!



Giveaway extended until Monday, March 15th. Check out this video to see the Padalily in action {and for a good laugh!}

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Hello Padalily.


You are clearly one of the coolest products ever invented. My arms and back wish they’d had you to ease the load when they toted baby Blondie and baby Brownie around in those cumbersome infant car seats oh-so-many years ago.

I tried to hold the car seat in the crook of my arm. Really, I did. I know it’s better for a new mommy’s tummy and back. I know it allows a new mom’s hands to be free for other things like diaper bags and holding their bigger kids’ hands. But my arms are wimpy and I gave up, forced to carry the car seat by my side as it slammed into my legs with each step. By the time I reached the church nursery each Sunday, I felt like I’d been through war.

Where were you then, Padalily?

All of my friends who had babies pre-Padalily are jealous. Clearly, you are the superior baby shower gift. And when I give you away at a shower, all of the other gifts are sulking in the corner amid the discarded gift bags and curly ribbon. Boppy feels old and deflated. Hooded towel knows she will always be important but wishes she was made of gorgeous fabric like you. Even the monogrammed onesies, so tiny and timeless, are no match for you, Padalily.

You are the perfect gift, a plush and stylish pad that wraps around the handle of an infant car seat. You are arm candy for mommies and eye candy for babies. You are my go-to baby gift, easy to wrap, easy to ship, easy to give, and easily the favorite gift of any mother lucky enough to unwrap one.

Your designer fabrics cause me to swoon and that amazing foam stuffed in between your gorgeous and colorful prints makes me wish you were the size of a mattress. I long to take a nap and dream of you right now.


Coco Blue, I love you.
Coco Blue-


Retro Camo, I would follow you into battle.
Retro Camo-


Divine Damask, heavenly.
Divine Damask-


Kashmir Karat, there are no words.
Kashmir Karat-


I love you even more because you were invented by Lily Winnail, an amazing mom who was tired of her bruised arm and brought you to life at her sewing machine during baby’s nap-time. Now she juggles three kids, a home, and a full-time business run out of her guest room.


Thank goodness she no longer juggles an awkward-to-hold car seat and an ice-pack to soothe her sore arm.

She knows that moms juggle enough things as it is.
An infant car seat shouldn’t be one of them.

So, A La Mode readers unite! I beg you, for the love of mommies, save their arms one Padalily at a time. Helping a new mom out has never been so easy…or so stylish.

So click on over to the Padalily site and get shopping. And because Lily is so generous and just happens to be my best friend, she’s offering us a sweet deal: 20% off your order! Just enter the promo code SCOOP when you check out. There’s also an amazing sale this week only: buy one Padalily, get one half off!

So go ahead, buy 40. You have my permission.

And when you no longer have your infant car seat, you can use the Padalily to cushion the handles of your green bags or the shoulder straps of duffels or large totes. You can wrap it around seat belts or use it as a little bolster pillow for your older kiddos when they fall asleep in their car-seats.

To be entered for a chance to win a free one, just leave a comment and let us know if you’ve ever heard of or seen the Padalily before this post. You can even tell us which one you’d pick if chosen as the lucky winner. I’ll randomly select a name from the comments on Monday, March 15th. Giveaway closes at noon EST on Monday the 15th. The winner will get to choose the Padalily of her choice, compliments of Lily.

Be sure to provide a way I can contact you {blog or an e-mail address in your comment.}

You can also follow Padalily on Facebook. You’ll be the first to know of new designs, sales, and the latest Padalily buzz. This helps spread the word to all your friends and it only takes 10 seconds. Lily greatly appreciates it!

Good luck my friends…and may the mom with the heaviest baby win!

Boxing up the Bows

Nine years ago I gave birth to a 7 pound, 9 ounce bundle of baby girl.


She was born March 2nd. By March 3rd she had a bow in her hair, a little parcel of pink yarn tied into a bow and stuck to her newborn head with a smidgen of gel.


Her birth ushered in pink-colored visions of tulle and patent-leather Sunday shoes. I clipped teeny tiny barrettes into her fine baby locks and squeezed chubby toddler legs into ruffle-bottomed tights for church.

All along the way I’ve relished every part of little girldom. Years later I can still recall each outfit, each pair of little shoes, each special occasion…and the hair-bow that commemorated it.

For years we’ve had an entire bathroom drawer devoted to the housing of bows and ribbons, bows she no longer wears but that I couldn’t bear to put away.

About a month ago I realized it had been well over a year since a bow had graced her thick, blonde hair. I knew the time would come when we’d say goodbye to bows but these kinds of transitions are not the sort we celebrate with pomp and circumstance.

I’d put off the task for months, preferring to keep my emotions closed up in a dark place just like the hair-bows. But on a random Thursday evening I finally got up the courage to do the unthinkable and the inevitable:

I boxed up the bows.

Giant tears plopped into the drawer, mingling with the polka-dots on the brightly colored grosgrain ribbon. Clearly, I have a hard time letting go.

I struggle to relinquish her to the passing days and the changes that come as little girls grow into bigger girls. She thinks it’s silly that I cry over the loss of each baby tooth and she certainly didn’t miss a step when I cleaned out her bow drawer. Rather, she was thrilled to have more space for her growing collection of earrings and nail polish.

She fixes her own hair now. I bite my tongue when I see that her pony-tails are crooked. I watch her admire older girls and try not to notice as she fiddles in the bathroom with new hairstyles that are a bit more modern and grown-up. I suppress a giggle as I count numerous bobby pins and clips she uses to hold her big-girl hairstyles in place.

I wish I’d never begrudged a single moment of hurrying to fix her hair so we wouldn’t be late for stuff I can’t even remember now. I think of all the times I quickly brushed through her tangles while she said Ouch! and I felt annoyed. I think of the countless moments I twisted rubber bands to secure her braids or clipped a hair-bow in without a second thought, unaware that those days would be gone in a flash.

Saturday was her birthday party. I took her and a couple of her friends roller skating, followed by pizza, cake, crafts, incessant giggling and much nail polish. As she got ready for the big event, she asked, Mommy, can you help me get the tangles out and blow-dry my hair? You’re better at it than I am.

I jumped at the chance. And it probably comes as no surprise that I fought back tears as I brushed and dried, brushed and dried, the trivial becoming ceremonial as I fixed my girl’s hair…even though there wasn’t a hair-bow in sight.

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The Messy Truth



My mothering skills last week rivaled Joan Crawford’s performance in Mommy Dearest. Sadly, it wasn’t acting for me. It was real life. It was one of those weeks in which stress, sickness, sleep deprivation, and selfishness created a perfect storm.


I snapped…more times than I can remember.

By Thursday I collapsed on my bed in tears. I said to myself, I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this.I wondered why God gave me these precious children to teach and nurture. Surely someone else could do better.

Too enraged and distraught to even pray, I did the worst thing I could do…I went on about my day, trying and failing time and again in my own strength.

And every time I failed, every time I said and did things that were wrong and harsh and uncalled for, I sipped the toxic brew of failure. By week’s end I was drunk on guilt and self-loathing, too inebriated to grasp for any rational thought whatsoever.

I tried to write and couldn’t even string two words together. I was a mess.

Friday morning I read this post of Emily’s. Her words couldn’t have been more timely.

Shame is what happens when we let guilt fester and sink deeper and don’t deal with it. Shame seeps into our skin when we aren’t looking and takes our spirit hostage. And then she sits down heavy and masks herself as us so we can’t tell the difference between the two. {excerpt}


I realized then that Shame had taken up residence in me, kicking Grace right on out and locking the door. The two cannot coexist. No house is big enough for the both of them.

Sometimes I think failure isn’t an option when you’re old enough to know better. And while I am certainly old enough, I was reminded through the words of a song that I am still very much like a child, a baby even. A child who stubbornly believes she shouldn’t need to be picked up and dusted off so often still by her Father.

The words coated my still-fresh wounds with healing truth…

And like a newborn baby
Don’t be afraid to crawl
And remember when you walk
Sometimes you fall…so
Fall on Jesus
Fall on Jesus
Fall on Jesus and live.*

Some falls are worse than others. At times it’s the sheer frequency of the falls that make it so hard. Some weeks I feel as if I never make it up off the floor before I stumble again, tripping over the mess I haven’t allowed Grace to clean up.

So I’m in the process of cleaning house. And like some of those hoarders you see on TV, I’m finding that it can be hard to let go of the stuff that caused the clutter and mess in the first place. Ironic.

Thankfully, Grace doesn’t care how messy it is. In fact, Grace works best in a mess…and she never says that you’re old enough to know better.


And thank you, Emily. Your words helped give voice to my own and enabled me to at last string two words together…and then some.

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*Come to Jesus by Chris Rice

Slaying the Loch Ness Mommy


I don’t know a single homeschooling mom who keeps a clean house, day in and day out. I’ve heard she exists, much like the mythical Loch Ness Monster or Bigfoot. People talk of her, some believe they’ve even caught a glimpse, but I fear she’s simply legend.


Her elusiveness both troubles and comforts me. If she is real, that means it is actually possible to simultaneously home-educate and maintain cleanliness and order. Sigh. Yet another reminder that I do not have it nearly as together as I could. Or should.

But ultimately, the fact that she is probably {mostly} mythical, comforts me. It means I’m believing in the impossible. It frees me up to relax, to let go, to settle in and cozy up with a simple yet profound reality:

I can enjoy a clean and orderly home. I can enjoy my children. I cannot enjoy both of them {to the utmost} at the same time.

I choose children.


I choose to slay the mythical Loch Ness within and simply rest in the mess.

There. I’ve said it. I mostly believe it…but I am still making peace with my resolution.

And if by chance you are the Clean-House-Homeschooler-Loch-Ness-Bigfoot, I beg you, please do not leave a comment telling me that you exist…

It’s much better if I believe that you don’t.


O Minivan, Minivan, Wherefore Art Thou Minivan?

You can refer to me as “Dr. Scooper” from here on out. I have a PhD in Minivanology.

We are happily and safely home, transported to this much-loved place by our much-loved, new-to-us minivan. Thanks for your kind thoughts and prayers on our behalf. {If you’ve no idea what I’m talking about, just read my last post.}

My body is weary and my mind is spent. I’ve realized in recent years that my graduate-school research skills have an annoying tendency to hijack everyday decisions. Our latest quandry regarding an unexpected minivan purchase was just another example of my OTD {Over-Thinking Disorder} run-a-muck.

I can tell you more than you {or I} ever wanted to know about minivans…everything from the transmission of a Dodge Caravan to the A/C specs of a Nissan Quest.

How we reached any sort of decision in a timely manner is, in fact, a small miracle…especially when you are shopping with three children and one of them says directly to the sales agent: I hope our new van lasts a really long time because our old one just left us stranded on the side of the road at like, 3 in the morning. It was out before I could even pinch her.

So much for The Man’s professional attempt to keep that information on the down-low. We should have just walked in wearing signs that said: Desperate for minivan today. Name your price.

We are thankful for God’s faithful provision and relieved to have finally completed our unplanned mission, truth-telling youngsters notwithstanding.

The Scooper, PhD

Plans

The Man and I have a penchant for spontaneity and adventure. We have delightful memories from the myriad last-minute treks and trips during the 18 years we’ve known each other. And I’ve decided our many mishaps along the way sweeten the stories immensely.


But in recent years it’s become harder to live life the way we used to. Kids and grown-up responsibilities have a way of changing things. Last week, however, a spontaneity front came through our region and carried us off to faraway family for a snow-filled weekend.


It was fun to feel free and crazy, to look at each other repeatedly and ask, Are we really doing this? It was fun to talk to my husband in the dark, early-morning quiet while the kids slept, lulled to sleep by engine hum against their I’m-going-to-stay-awake-til-4-am wishes. It was fun to giggle and talk about dreams and what-if’s while we munched on too many salt and vinegar chips and drank Coke.

It was fun until our van died on an Indiana interstate exit at 4 a.m. At that point, “free” and “crazy” was not fun. It was a regrettable whim.

As the tow-truck pulled us to a nearby dealership and we prayed and I wiped my leaky eyes, Blondie busted out with an impromptu remake of a recent hit: Van broke down. Van broke down. Lookin’ like a fool with your van broke down. Thank the Lord for those moments when tears give way to comic relief. I laughed until I cried. Again.

So, it’s one of those weekends turned weeks when you simply make do, when you embrace adventure of a different sort.

I’d like to say I’m good at that. I did, after all, just do a little series on the topic. But this “making do” is harder…and I’m no good at it. I prefer the kind that involves spray paint.

After a weekend of snow and sledding and hanging out {everything I had planned}, I am now faced with the reality of a week that is not at all what I’d had in mind…

A week away from home and husband, a week of doing school without our books and supplies, a week of hunting for a new van, a week of hoping that we are not imposing entirely too much on another {very gracious} family…whose plans we have now trampled all over.

{I am beginning to feel like the Cousin Eddie of the family: Now don’t you going fallin’ in love with that RV, Clark. We’re takin’ it with us when we leave here next month.}

Plans gone awry have turned me to mush. I fight back tears as I meander through Kroger and munch on illegal amounts of sample cheese. I dab eyes as I can’t seem to find a body-wash poof {because exfoliating makes everything better} and pay too much for diapers. My mind is clearly elsewhere as I try to remove Cupcake from the shopping cart four times and finally yank off his snow boots to get him out…only to discover that he’s still buckled in.

After the dust of spontaneity has settled and the adrenaline of crisis has worn off, I realize that I do not like having to alter my plans so much. I selfishly grip my oh-so-commonplace agenda like my toddler grips his favorite toy and when it’s ripped from my hands, I fall apart.

I’m realizing that spontaneity is fun…but only when I’m the one planning it.

And in my rare moments of clarity, I know that this mishap too will one day “sweeten the story.”

Making Do Part 3 {A Series}: Chalk It Up

A high half-wall / unusable bar separates our eating area from the kitchen. Since we have one of those really open floor plans, builders do things like that to delineate one space from another I suppose.


{Here’s an old picture to show you the “Before.”}

I like the half-wall. And I would like the really high bar if I had a ladder to sit on while I drink my coffee. Bar stools tall enough for my bar simply do not exist in real life. The Man and I have discussed modifying the Empire State bar but that would require expertise and supplies. We’re a little short on those at the moment.

So, we have just made do without it.

Unfortunately, the half-wall is prone to being bludgeoned by kitchen chairs and sneaker-shod kid feet. It was streaked and smudged and scratched only days after a fresh coat of paint.

{BEFORE}
{Yes, that is a llama. She joins us for school and meals on a regular basis.}

Recently I traded something I no longer wanted for a half-full can of chalkboard paint my neighbor no longer wanted. It was exactly enough to paint the dented and smudged half-wall. Yay!

{AFTER}

{I write our Classical Conversations weekly memory work up here…until Cupcake sees fit to do a little work of his own.}


I don’t know why I didn’t chalk it up sooner. It took 45 minutes for 2 coats of paint. It’s perfect for the space since the kitchen table is also our homeschool area. Best of all, it was free and can be painted over when when I tire of it.

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So that concludes my mini-series on “Making Do.” It wasn’t until I finished these little projects that I realized the blessing and provision inherent in all of them. The wall and the rug rehab didn’t cost me a dime. The hutch needed only paint and a few supplies.

All of them made me crazy happy and met very real needs.

Sometimes I’m completely without the means to make the changes I want…or so I think. It’s one thing to have $50 to spend on a rug instead of $500. Fifty dollars is still fifty dollars. But sometimes I have zero.

I’m learning that times of want almost always provide magical options I would have never considered during times of relative plenty. Funny how that works.

I’ll bet you have a neighbor who will gladly give you some paint in exchange for a lamp. You may even have a rug with Kool-Aid stains that’s just begging to be flipped…

And if you do, I want to hear all about it.

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{Linked up with Kimba’s DIY Day {A Soft Place to Land}


{Linked up with Melissa at The Inspired Room.}

Recipe for a Redneck Snow Day

Ingredients:

  • Handful of Southern children who rarely see snow
  • Light dusting of wintry mix
  • Roasting pan
Mix together and enjoy!

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On a totally different note, last night I was blessed to attend a concert by Christian singer-songwriter Laura Story.


In the midst of our wintry weekend, her music warmed my soul and lifted my weary spirit. Go check her out…you’ll be glad you did.

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Advice for College Presidents


Often I wonder how I got this job, that of full-time mommy, gentle and capable manager of home and hearth. A job for which I had zero preparation.

Most days I feel like an Army general who never went to basic training. Leading small, lower-ranking people who wholeheartedly put their trust in me, who believe I know exactly what I’m doing. I masquerade as one who is competent and ready, but worry that at any moment someone will properly examine my credentials and discover I’m a fraud.


As the Fake-General-Mommy, I frequently wonder how I got here.

How is it that none of my education covered anything I actually do in real life? How is it that I spent precious time and energy reading books and writing papers on things like European and American consumer culture and examining Western hegemony…yet most days I simply do not have a clue?

Perhaps colleges and universities need to revise their course offerings and graduation requirements.

Women’s Studies should spend more time on how you feel like you’re going to die when giving birth and less time on gender as a social construct. And speaking of construct, I will tell you something that can never be reconstructed: stretch marks. Where is the course on that?

General Education requirements should include topics like:
  • The Big Bang Theory: What Happens When Two First-Born’s Marry
  • How Not to Panic When Your Child Asks You What Sex is in the Middle of Church
  • How to Maintain June Cleaver-esque Composure During Hormonal Shifts
  • How to Administer First-Aid Even if Blood and Vomit Make You Pass Out
I could have used those courses.

Instead of internships at law firms, students should have to live with real families {the ones with real children} and try to do it on their own for a week. Instead of Student-Teachers, “Student-Mommies.”

Unless you can simultaneously drill multiplication facts while preparing a healthy dinner and answering questions like “Mommy, have you ever caught on fire?” while keeping your newly-potty-trained toddler from peeing on the couch {again,} you should not be able to graduate.

So for all of you college presidents who read my blog, one bit of advice: Humanities and Biology have their place. But your coffers will be full and overflowing if you can equip future alumni for the hardest job they will ever face: parenthood.

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The third and final post in the Making Do series coming soon…