Marian Vischer

Oh Yes She Did

Twenty-five years ago I dressed my younger brother up like a girl. Hair bows, make-up, pink skirt, the whole nine yards. It was one of my favorite pastimes. I find comfort in the fact that he now is a manly man, a devoted husband and father who loves sports and flatulence. Thankfully, his cross-dressing was simply out of submission to his older sister’s bossy and manipulative ways.


Recently I found solace in my brother’s normality because Blondie did this to Cupcake.



The girl dressed the boy up like a girl, complete with smeary lipstick and purple eye-shadow.



Who loves the camera?



I don’t think I’ve ever told Blondie that I used to dress Uncle Aaron up as a girl. Clearly she inherited the makeover gene. As I’ve said before, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Opportunity Cost



My economist husband enjoys using terms like “sunk cost” and “economies of scale” in our regular conversations. Such language is usually met with a rolling of the eyes. Supply and demand curves don’t thrill me, much to his chagrin.

But sometimes his economics jargon comes in handy. Every now and then one of his classroom concepts hits so close to home that I want to stand up and applaud.

In this case, the credit goes to John Start Mill, the classical economist who came up with the theory of opportunity cost. I’ll explain in a minute. {Believe me it’s all related.}

I haven’t blogged in two or three weeks. My unintended bloggattical is merely a symptom of this season.

Between homeschooling and making sure Cupcake doesn’t burn down the house while I teach, I am spent by 1:00. Too many people and too many tasks seem to require me for completion.

On any given day I want to pretend run away. When I leave for the store my husband says, “Call me when you get to Mexico.” We laugh as I pull out of the driveway but we both know he’s half-way serious.

I’m not alone of course. I’m simply one among the multitude giving voice to the struggle of the everyday.


Lately the simmer of trying to balance it all has cranked up to a rapid boil. I am often paralyzed by too much needing my attention all at once. The immediate takes precedence and anything that can wait does exactly that.

I want to paint the hutch, so desperately needed for inside storage, that sits in my garage. I want to put away summer clothes, clean out, give away, restore order, write a little, and help others. The chocolate drool stains on my furniture glare at me every time I walk past. I would flip the cushion but I already have.

The non-urgent simply has to wait.


I feel justified in my desires for order and peace. But when I survey the land with brutal honesty, I am left with one painful conclusion:


I want to own my time. I want to make time sit down and obey…but it won’t listen, much like my 2-year-old. There is a time for everything but time itself is not mine to subdue.

And this brings us back to our economics lesson.

Opportunity cost: the value of the next best alternative forgone as the result of making a decision. (Webster’s)

My example: The opportunity cost of homeschooling is that laundry doesn’t always get done in a timely manner or at all. The opportunity cost of having young children at home is a less than orderly household. The opportunity cost of making ends meet means that economist husband teaches extra classes and is gone much of the week.

{And I am thankful. For employment in uncertain times, for the time with my children at home, for a million blessings I could list right now.}

We make decisions that we hope will benefit our family both now and in the long run but the opportunity costs are time and resources for other things that might bring about “visual peace,” more room, time for ourselves, and time for others.

I used to work full-time outside the home. The opportunity cost of a fulfilling career and extra income was eventually {for me} too much stress and missing my kids. Now that I’m home full-time, the opportunity cost of being here is missing certain elements of my career and having far fewer dollars.

I doubt that John Stuart Mill ever considered opportunity cost for modern-day moms, both those in and out of the home. But I consider it every day.

There is a season, an opportunity for most everything. Seasons don’t last though. A new one arrives and we celebrate. It persists for a time and we endure. It changes, finally, and we welcome another. Sometimes we’re glad it’s gone. Sometimes we grieve, forever, that it will never return.

Lately I’ve been less than celebratory over this particular season. I want endless opportunities and no cost. I begrudgingly endure, complaining my way through the laundry and the mess and the tantrums. I’m tired of my own whining.

My soul longs to trudge through with grace and gratitude.

Recently, I pondered a passage that I’ve heard a hundred times, ancient words considered anew as a welcome salve for this season’s irritations.


There is a time for everything,
and a season for every activity under heaven:
a time to be born and a time to die,
a time to plant and a time to uproot,
a time to kill and a time to heal,
a time to tear down and a time to build,
a time to weep and a time to laugh,
a time to mourn and a time to dance,
a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
a time to embrace and a time to refrain,
a time to search and a time to give up,
a time to keep and a time to throw away,
a time to tear and a time to mend,
a time to be silent and a time to speak,
a time to love and a time to hate,
a time for war and a time for peace.

a time to change diapers and a time to get a shower ,
a time to teach pronouns and a time to eat chocolate. {SAHM translation}

Words to live by. Apparently John Stuart Mill wasn’t the first to articulate opportunity cost…

Class dismissed.

Crumbology



Today I decided that I am in the business of crumbs.


There are the obvious crumbs of course. Bits of toast, Cheerio’s, and Cheez-It’s swept up several times a day. There are also odd, misplaced crumbs such as the rogue piece of popcorn I found in my bedroom yesterday or the half-eaten granola bar beside the toilet left by someone who decided to snack while they sat.


There are crumbs that have nothing to do with food at all. Toy crumbs, for example, like microscopic Legos or a Polly Pocket stiletto, the arm of a plastic T-Rex or the vinyl whiskers that fell off a miniscule cat.

While doing laundry today I discovered yet another classification of crumbs: laundry crumbs. Laundry crumbs add insult to injury for a laundry-phobe like myself. They are the little articles in the basket that sift to the bottom amid the larger items like t-shirts and jeans…tiny bits of my family’s wardrobe that live to torment me. Sport socks for toddler feet, kid underpants, and tiny t-shirts. Much like a bag of potato chips, laundry crumbs sink to the bottom of the bin so that I am forced to reckon with the lot of them all at once.

Today was one of those days where I actually saw the bottom of the laundry bin. As I unloaded the dryer, I marveled that 52,174 items of clothing managed to sneak into just one load. One toddler sock is harmless enough but when they ban together, it’s like some sort of evil laundry monolith sent from the devil.

As I stripped duvets and unrolled pillowcases from the kids’ beds, more crumbs hit the floor. Plastic palm trees, a rock, a Barbie shoe. It’s as if my children expect the Apocalypse and want to have some secret junk stashed away while the rest of the world goes up in flames.

The crumbs never end. But as I began to ponder their significance, I realized that crumbs tell us a lot. What do archaeologists do? They study crumbs. They dig up the scraps and fragments of former civilizations. Everything we know about history, we owe to crumbs.

So what would our crumbs say about us? I wondered. {Besides the fact that we have too many socks.}

From the laundry crumbs, one can assume that tiny people live here. From the table crumbs, one can gather that we like cookies. A lot. From the Lego appendages and the crayon shards under the sofa, one might guess that the tiny people are creative. From the paper crumbs, the tucked-away letters and journals, one would even learn that we have loved and sinned and suffered and been restored. That we still struggle…but we are not without hope.

In our crumbs, I see provision.

And so today, I celebrate the crumbs in whatever form they take. To sweep up tiny morsels and be grateful for cookies, to put socks in drawers and bless the tiny feet that fit inside them, to place Lego’s in plastic bins and delight in the imaginative play that happens here, to reflect on our story and give thanks for redemption.

Here’s to crumbs.

…………………………………………………..
Linked to “Tuesdays Unwrapped” {Chatting at the Sky}

A Celebratory Thursday




Today was an unschool-homeschool day. We had planned to go to the apple orchard in the mountains but the forecast was hot and muggy so we postponed our trip to a day that’s more Fall-like.


My kids, however, had anticipated a field trip all week. So I decided we’d make today one of those homeschool days that I intend to have but never do. A day of baking cookies and playing games. A day of real-life activities that teach, engage, and promote blissful togetherness.


We stayed in our pajamas. We baked 6 dozen of the best chocolate chip cookies ever. We did not brush our teeth until late in the day…which is gross, of course, yet a luxury by kid standards.


It was, in a word, fantastic. The kids loved breaking out of their pencil and paper routine. I loved being one of those cool hands-on moms. Cupcake loved getting in on all the big kid fun and eating unhealthy amounts of cookie dough.



He even celebrated the day by learning to undress himself, diaper included. I discovered him naked and full of glee. {I am quite sure this new-found independence is going to make my life increasingly difficult but all the more blogworthy.}

He’s wearing nothing but cookie here.


I learned something today. It’s something I already knew…but more in theory than in practice. Intentional spontaneity. These little ones are growing up before my eyes. Moments race by like wild horses. I can grab hold and enjoy the ride or stay safe and live with regret. By nature, I tend to do more of the latter.

Yes, math and writing are necessary parts of life…but a day off every now and then will not relegate children to a life of ignorance and squalor. They will not remember every day of multiplication and phonics rules; they will {hopefully} remember the occasional days of cookies and pajamas and monopoly.


When I reflect on my own childhood, the days of school and homework all run together in a monotonous flow of routine and drudgery. But I still remember the excitement I felt when my dad announced we were going to see a late movie together one Sunday evening…a school night. How delightfully scandalous.

I remember when he took all four of us out of school for an ENTIRE week to go to Washington, D.C. for a presidential inauguration and all the free festivities and attractions our nation’s capital had to offer. I was a sophomore in high school at the time. {And I do remember being more than a little behind after missing a week of genetics in biology class…not that any of it matters now.}

I remember my very patient mother giving me free reign in the kitchen to make cookies and messes. I remember watching TV movies together while picnicking on a blanket in the carpeted living room. As it turns out, much of the best stuff I remember is the stuff of spontaneity and togetherness. Stuff that typically wasn’t allowed. Stuff that was free or nearly free.

I want those little-big things for my own kids. Though it sounds simplistic and even cliche, I’m learning that little things make big impressions…and hopefully lasting memories.

My kids told me it was one of the best days ever. It was for me too.

………………………………

I also learned that 3 sticks of butter in a batch of chocolate-chip cookies is worth every single calorie.


Seasonal



Lately I’ve felt like this photo. After going through difficult seasons of drought and pruning and feeling stuck forever in the dirt, I’ve enjoyed freedom and beauty and the sun on my face.


In the midst of stress and busy-ness and still-tough circumstances, I have felt a oneness with my Creator and enjoyed the glorious perspective that comes from peace. Seasons like this are precious. For every moment He allows me to rise above my no-good self, I’m crazy grateful.

But this world is broken and glory is fleeting.

Just as I am feeling extra-radiant, the rapid fire of one harsh element after another pummels my blooming self. Nothing earth-shattering. Just a series of everyday-variety scattered storms not even on my radar only moments before they touch down. Suddenly I am a withered, near-unrecognizable version of my former self, face-down in the all-too-familiar dirt.

People push buttons. I react with uglyness, even if just on the inside. My inner monologues are eloquent and harsh and put offenders in their rightful place, this heart going from pure to punitive in 2 seconds.

My eyes gaze upon a pretty picture and the contentment I’ve striven so hard for vanishes in a cloud of envy and idolatry, this contented spirit going from have to have-not instantaneously.

I do for someone again and the joyful love and service I’d just grabbed hold of spirals out of control, colliding head-on with resentment and I-deserve-better-ness. We need some respect up in this place, I want to scream.

No longer beautiful or flowering, I can’t believe I fell so far so fast. I want to kick the dog but we don’t have one. I’m tempted to pull out sad coffee house tunes and wallow in maudlin melody.

But I know there’s only one road back to the wondrous place I’ve just toppled from. A road whose well-worn path these calloused feet have traversed countless times.

Humility. Confession. Repentance. Praying for more water, more light, even more pruning…though I wince from the pain every. single. time. I beg for grace and strength and supernatural to rain down life abundant.

This withered soul clings desperately to the hope, the good and perfect promise, that mercies are new every morning…beauty from ashes propping me back up to my glorious place in the sun.

A Story

I love to read. Evidently I learned pretty early, some of my first memories being those of my Grandaddy and me on the sofa reading Beatrix Potter stories, tiny books just perfect for a young child’s hands.


I assumed that my own children would form early and lasting relationships with words, just as I did. But for my oldest child, this has not been the case. Everyone told me it would simply “click” one day. I smiled and nodded and hoped desperately they were right. She just started 3rd grade and I’ve watched her book-loving peers leave her in the dust. She has too.

The issue became even more complicated when her 5-year-old brother started reading circles around her months ago. As their mother, I’ve walked the tightrope of encouraging one while comforting the other, baffled that two children from the same parents have brains that process so differently.

I’ve waited for the elusive “click.” I’ve talked with anyone who will listen, trying to pinpoint possible disabilities. I’ve researched and talked with school district people about reading services for home-schooled kids. There are none. And while I could hire private tutors and specialists, it requires money we do not have.

I reluctantly began talking to God about it (yes, after I’d done everything else first.) She is, after all, His child. He formed her down to the very last cell. I asked Him to send me experts and answers and money. I’ve prayed for wisdom. I’ve asked Him to multiply my time and energy so I can provide what she needs.

God can be dramatic. I love that. {It’s further proof that I’m created in His image.} Sometimes stuff happens and I know that it could only come from Him. One good thing about being a skeptic like me is that you get to witness His bigness quite a bit…evidently that’s the only way I get it. He moves big so I’ll finally believe big. I imagine Him saying, Girl, I see your pleas for experts and money but I have something bigger and better. Again.

We are in the last chapters of The Trumpet of the Swan, a book I loved as a child. The older two and I piled on my bed with our book while Cupcake napped. After a chapter, I decided to rest for “just a few minutes,” promptly falling asleep with seconds.

You will not believe what happened. This child who can hardly sit still for more than five minutes stayed beside me and picked up the book. While I napped, she proceeded to read the entire next chapter of the book…9 pages of small print with words like “civilization,” “balustrade,” and “cygnets.” It took her an hour but she did it. When I woke up, I saw this:


She had indeed read the whole chapter. {She nonchalantly told me all about it, down to the details of Serena nearly having her wings pinioned if not for the brave and true Louis coming to her rescue.}

It was, undoubtedly, a miracle. I don’t know if things have permanently “clicked”; time will tell. But today was a breakthrough.

As she walked away, I cried at the kitchen sink, overjoyed and shamefully surprised that God would answer so lavishly. Again.

Sometimes I’m reluctant to pray for certain things because, well, it could always be worse. I don’t ask God to help my child read because she could be terminally ill or have a devastating disability instead. I should just be grateful that it’s not the worst. All too often, that’s how I look at my problems. My apologetic and guilt-laced prayers are timidly tossed up to Him and I don’t really expect much in return because…It could always be worse.

After all He’s done for me (and oh, there are stories), I’m embarrassed that my faith can still be so anemic.

I am slowly getting bolder though…and He is infinitely patient with me.

I haven’t shared with her yet that I’ve been praying for her, that just this morning I begged the Father to help us with this whole reading thing.

But I can’t wait to tell her what He’s been up to.

………………………………………….

“Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you.” 1 Peter 5:7

Perfect



Last night I snuggled tight with Brownie in his bunk. It was late, time for tucking in and prayer. And make it quick, I thought, because I will soon fall asleep and there is still a sticky, piled-up kitchen yet to clean.


The prayer was much the same as I’ve heard before. Thankfulness for the day, please no bad dreams tonight. And then, it was different…

Thank you for your commandments and help me to obey and help me to be perfect.

The air went out of me.

I asked myself a million questions all at once. What have I done wrong? I rarely even utter the word “perfect.” Our church doesn’t preach perfect.

Yet somehow, in his almost six years here on Earth, he has believed a lie: perfection is possible. It is, in fact, the goal.

He finished the prayer and I scrambled to recover, grasping for magical mommy words to snuff out the lie.

Baby, there was only One who was perfect. Please don’t ever think we expect you to be perfect. All the trying in the world won’t make you perfect. It’s why we need Jesus.


And then I told the same thing to myself.

Beyond the Busy

It’s over. Summer came and went and was glorious. The heat will persist for a good month or two, but the freedom to flap about like a clothes-lined shirt won’t be back for another nine months.


The resurgence of busy has worn me slap out, like jumping from a 5K to a marathon within a week. Even though we homeschool, our days are not typically spent on field trips and nature walks…much as I would like that. We have schedules and obligations much like the rest. Couple that with a little teaching on the side, my first gig in 2 1/ 2 years.

Once an activities addict, I now run from obligation and responsibility as if it will trigger relapse. Never very savvy with taking life “one day at a time,” I look at Fall in its entirety and want to make like a bear. Hibernation sounds nice. And quiet.

I’m learning to find quiet in unconventional ways. Quiet is a state of mind. And a gift. More and more I’m caught day-dreaming. More and more stealing scraps of time to run off with book and journal until the tiny, pajama-clad troops come knocking.

Busy-ness is toxic. Manning says, Our controlled frenzy creates the illusion of a well-ordered existence. We move from crisis to crisis, responding to the urgent and neglecting the essential.

I do. Neglect the essential that is. I misplace my identity in the busy. The only good and true me. The one my Father calls Beloved. Desperation drives me toward reassurance.

Moving “from crisis to crisis” looks different for everyone. For me it’s spilled milk and a crying toddler; a sad friend and late-night prep work; balancing it all and a too-tight budget; accepting the melancholy and simply responding to the immediate.

He is showing me though, that there is life beyond the busy. A life of calm and peace, elusive though it is on any given day. When my eyes suddenly get wet and my nerves quake, when it is too loud and too much, I beg for stillness and He tells me who I am.

Crises still come like waves upon the shore, but there is peace.

……………………………………………

How do you find still amid the busy?

From Field to Fairway



My neighborhood is a former cow pasture. A few homes have backyards with trees and shade. We do not. Instead we have a near-acre lot and not a single tree, save for those lining the back of the property.


And because I swing toward the ungrateful end of the spectrum, I have long lamented the treeless field known as my backyard.

How will we ever afford to properly landscape? What in the world are we going to do with all this? It takes forever to mow. I wish we had a lot like _______.


I envisioned clusters of oaks and hydrangeas, surrounding a grandiose swing-set-tree-house thing. Maybe a DIY water-feature outlined with flag-stone. An in-ground pool…because it is hot here for so long and a girl can dream. I have long been discontent with the field, too much resembling its former cow-pasture existence.

Southern Living will mess you up like this.

But something happened over the summer that shook the discontent right out of me.

Five-year-old Brownie took up golf.

And by “took up” I mean hours-a-day of driving, chipping, and putting, even in the 100-degree Southern heat and humidity. Last week I rolled out of bed only to find him out there in the field, club in hand, ankles slathered with the wet grass his sneakers had christened before 7:30. He forgets to eat, forgets to drink, forgets time itself out there in that field.

Conversations are now peppered with words like rough, par, 7-iron, eagle, and chipping wedge. He talks about Tiger, Phil, and Lucas as if they’re the neighbor kids. He dreams of being great like them.

……………………………..

Daddy, how many years has Tiger Woods been practicing?

Buddy, you need to go to sleep.

But how many years?

Oh, about 25. (just throwing out a number)

Pause.

Then I’m gonna practice 26.

……………………………..

His technique and skill are intuitive, so I’ve been told.

And so, the field has become a par 3. The Man mowed a fairway and green, topping off the design with a regulation cup and flag that cost $20, pretty cheap by landscaping standards.

It’s not what I’d envisioned for my lot. But my vision is rarely in keeping with His, the One who created a little boy with brown, curly hair and a passion for golf. A boy who could sure use a wide-open space for hours every day to hone his skills.

Too often, my vision is impaired. My narrowly-focused eyes don’t see the gift I’m smack in the middle of.

I watch the boy all day long through the back-of-the-house windows, his resolve inspiring…

And I’m more grateful than ever for a God who saves me from what I think I want.*

………………………………………..

Linked up with Melissa at The Inspired Room (A Beautiful Life Friday.)

Also linked up (later) with Emily at Chatting at the Sky (Tuesdays Unwrapped.)

………………………………………..

*Last sentence paraphrased from an article by Kathryn Donovan Wiegand, “Childrearing Interlude” in Finding God at Harvard. “Thank God, who saves us from what we think we want” are Wiegand’s words…they have become an oft-used mantra for me.

Price My Space: Master Bedroom

The Nester’s having another Price My Space party and I decided, very last-minute-like, to join in. On a whim I tidied up my bedroom today, dusting and all. This was because I was so depressed by the general state of affairs regarding the rest of the house. Sometimes I just pick the easiest task to complete, simply to feel better. Sort of like writing stuff on your to-do list that you’ve already done just so you can cross it off and feel productive. Not that I’d know about that.


I won’t go into great detail on my bedroom. If you want the low-down on this room’s Nester-inspired makeover, go here.

Picture 1: Bed & Bedding, Night-Stands, Decor

TOTAL: $290-ish for everything you see in that picture (including a headboard, but excluding the mattress) and accumulated over 9 years.



King-size headboard: $59 at Pottery Barn outlet 4 or 5 years ago. No lie.
Bedding: $50 king comforter 8 years ago; $20 king duvet 2 years ago (plus 2 shams not shown); king chenille shams $1.50 each at Old Time Pottery; mattelasse coverlet and shams ($20 – $25 at K-Mart 8 or 9 years ago and swiped from Cupcake’s nursery); throw pillows: square one free from my mom; bolster pillow $7-ish 8 or 9 years ago at T.J. Maxx…also swiped from the nursery.
Above-bed decor: $5 for all the plates (shopped the house and thrift stores); $2 shelf at a garage sale 8 years ago; $5 or less for candle holders, candle, and starfish.
Night-stands / Bookshelves: $50 each at Wal-Mart 2 years ago (not the best quality but what we needed and could afford.)
Lamps: $5 each 4 years ago at Target on clearance.
Botanical prints: Free (crazy-old frames I spray-painted; botanical prints free from The Vintage Moth.)
Bridal portrait: a sweet and generous gift from my parents.
Other Accessories on night-stands: $5 or less.

…………………………………………………

Picture 2: LOVE Wall

TOTAL: $80-ish


I scored everything you see here from a clearance rack, thrift store, Hobby Lobby, or my own personal stash.

………………………………………………..

Picture 3: Pottery Barn Sumatra Chifferobe

TOTAL: less than $400 at Pottery Barn outlet and the love of my life.


I dreamed of this perfect piece for a good 3 years before the outlet had one (a little scratched) at just the right price. Lucky for me, we just happened to have the money for it at the time. Those days are long gone but I’m sure glad I have this piece. It will last forever and is super-functional and versatile…

Plus it hides our 1990 T.V.


……………………………………………….

Picture 4: Office Nook

TOTAL: $65-ish (not including very old computer…which we already had.)


Diploma Frames: $5, mats included, from Dollar General (of all places); $10-ish memo board from 8 years ago; set of 3 prints FREE from The Vintage Moth; IKEA frames also free (from my sister.)

……………………………………………….

Picture 5: Random Wall

TOTAL: $6


$2 shelves from PB outlet years ago and spray-painted black; candle holder /vases free from my sister’s wedding; free prints ripped out of a thrift store art book I had sitting around; $1 frames; 50-cent pears from thrift store; trunk was The Man’s from college.

…………………………………………………

Picture 6: The Nester’s Bird Cage

TOTAL: Free!


Yep, I scored that sweet little bird cage from her swap-meet a week-and-a-half ago…and I didn’t even know it was hers until after I got it. It’s the perfect memento.

And there you have it. This room comes in at around $850, including all furniture except our mattress. Oh, and I forgot to talk about my mistreatments but you can read about those here. They were nearly free.

I’d just like to mention something before I go. If you have builder beige walls and little to no decorating budget, a monochromatic look may be the way to go. In my case, I simply layered whites, creams, and taupes. You don’t have to worry about matching everything up. You can paint existing or thrift-store furniture black or white and it will all look great together. It wouldn’t have been my first choice but it’s what I had.

As it turned out, I LOVE IT! It’s soothing and restful and quiet…all of which this crazy mom could use a bit more of.

And ya’ll, just to keep it real…the rest of my house is so trashed right now, you would just die if you saw it. And this is why I’m going to march directly into that serene master bedroom and shut the door.