eight months of fiona elspeth

Eight months old! I can’t believe it. This smooshy girl is happily wearing 12 month clothes, while laying contentedly on the floor without even the faintest desire to sit, let alone crawl. A bottom tooth surfaced last Friday — tada! No fever or crankiness or anything. Just a little sharp spot.

She rolls everywhere and finds the teeniest bits of junk to put in her mouth. Jameson’s task of vacuuming has been bumped from do-it-because-Mama-gets-twitchy-otherwise all the way up to LIFE-SAVING MUST!!

She goes bananas when her daddy walks in the door, doing her very best to compete with mobile siblings for his notice. She is thrilled to be carried by Jameson from room to room, despite his seeming awkwardness. She knows how to turn on the drama, whether it be a cheesy smile or fake sob. Mostly, though, she’s just happy to be — be in my arms, be among her siblings, be here with us, being a part.

(Don’t know where she gets that double chin. HAHA.)

last weekend

My boys sang a song for Grandparent’s Day (an annual event through the home schooling program we’re a part of, consisting of choir performances, a talent show, and yummy muffins and coffee cakes!) They worked hard and courageously, completely unfazed by the last-minute nature of it all. They sang with sweetness and joy. Watching them perform from my vantage point at the piano, I purposely memorized the shining eyes, the quivering mouth overcoming a bout of nerves, the dimples, the clear soprano boyishness of it all.

“Boys, I will remember that song forever. I’m going to keep it in my heart.” Jameson smirked and retorted, “Oh yeah? What about when you die? That’s not forever, is it?”

Boyishness, I tell ya. Every variety.

(And now I can’t upload the video. *sigh* Good thing I’ve got it in my heart, because I’ll just never be very good at files and MBs and error codes and such.)

*****

Last Saturday was the final game day of the Upward basketball season. Excitement was high. It was even higher when I said we could stay for the cousin’s games. And it skyrocketed when I announced that after basketball, there was a Grandkid Playday at Nana and Papa’s! Things just don’t get any better.

Missing a handful of babies. Just the “big kids” for special events like this!

Things just don’t get any better.

seven months of fiona

She’s been around seven months, or so the calendar says. Gone like a breath. Sweet days, but fleeting.

Happy. She’s found a happy groove. Rolling all around the room, never ending where she began. Talking and screeching and loving to be a part. So big. So cheerful. So precious to us all.

six months:

five:

four:

three:

two:

one:

new:

See? Just like that.

It flies. It drags. It’s sweet. It’s terrifying. It’s highs and lows and calm and turbulent and mundane and beautiful and everything in between. But in the end, it passes. A wise man knows, numbers, and remembers his Creator.

means, ends, and tyrannical tools

You know those “job descriptions” of a mom that include everything from taxi driver to medic? They’re funny to read, and they’re certainly true enough, but confession:

I get things topsy-turvy.

I easily get into Nutritionist mode and forget that that’s not actually my job. Learning about health and nutritions is simply a means to an end: nurturing and caring for my children. I get into Housekeeper mode and suddenly we will have a clean house! Now! OR DIE TRYING!!

My means become the end. And my true end becomes collateral damage.

*****

You’ll hear me and so many other home schooling mamas say, “Your curriculum is a tool, not a master. It’s there to serve you, and not the other way around.”

I think of that this week. I have lots of tools in my box — not just my “mom” box, but in my “life” box. But too often I stop seeing them as tools to serve me in my goal as disciple and disciple-maker, and I begin serving them. An organized home is a blessing as I raise children who love order and work and peace. But an organized home is a terrible slave master, showing no mercy, when I let it become tyrant rather than tool. Healthy eating is a serious responsibility with lifetime effects, and I want us to be responsible with these bodies. But nutritional eating is a master that will drive you to the brink of nervous breakdown if you let it become your end, and not the means. Those are just two examples, but I’m amazed at how well that applies to every single good endeavor. (Being On Time to Church, Family Devotions, Modest Dress, Coupon Clipping, Real Play Only, Chore Charts, Gas and Mileage Savings, Bible Study Attendance, Exercise, Good Book Reading, Theological Studies… All fabulous tools and terrible Masters.)

*****

Who’s in charge here?

That’s a question worth asking myself regularly.

What’s the End (knowing and loving Jesus, and loving those I’m called to in a way that shows them Jesus), and what are the means? The end usually requires the means (don’t throw babies out with bathwater), but let’s not get lost somewhere in the middle, chasing our tails.

Hone my skills with the tools in my box. Learn how to use them. Walk by the Spirit, knowing which tool to use when, and when to lay your favorite one aside for a season. The Holy Spirit isn’t a tyrant: when I feel like I’m slave to a dictator (including my own selfish desire for clean and quiet), chances are I’ve lost sight of the Goal and have become servant to a tyrannical tool.

Down with tyrants. I’m all for freedom.

*****

Because we all like pictures in our posts:

day by day

Routine days. The kind you crave come mid-August, the kind that can drive you mad by March. And not just routine; in my life, in this season, routine also means little. Chats that don’t get much deeper than cool battle scenes in Star Wars and what color socks are your favorite and you’re responsible for the arm that just jumped out and hit your sister, even though you swear it did it on its own. Tasks that are not much more demanding then deciding if the aqua dress is light enough to slip in with the whites, or the slightly more complex balance of screaming babe while toddler calls for you after falling in deep snow. Beauty that is as simple and sweet as a perfect freckle and toes that are pink and the sounds of harmony rather than bickering.

These have been my days.

Trench-digging, stone-laying. Sometimes muddy and mucky and awful, sometimes with pretty rocks that fit together without even trying — but still. Foundations. Being faithful day in, day out.

Seeing past the surface and confidently giving yourself completely to the silly chats and mundane tasks and simple treasuring, because it’s about loving people made in the image of God. More, calling hearts to Christ and shaping arrows to fly true.

*****

Football fans with their daddy, watching the Superbowl. I had no idea 5 year olds could watch for 4 hours. But they can.

Sun that shines so often here in the frozen north.

The Susan Constant and Jamestown. Sometimes learning is a bit messier than a textbook and pencil. But so much more fun.

My girlies watch while I do my little morning exercise. Some day we’ll be drinking coffee together in the wee hours, three women serving Jesus. For now, they’re my little princess babes.

Watching and waiting for our paperwhites to bloom. Hurray!

That awkward hour before dinner. All four gathered and entertained for at least a few minutes. (Don’t worry; I’m watching Fiona, although she just doesn’t move much yet, in true Sinclair fashion.)

Always something to amuse: Jameson dusted the table and turned our family of elephants into “shrimp cocktail.”

A snowy day yesterday meant fresh fields of sparkling diamonds today.

Snow forts are the thing.

This one. Growing every day. Reminding me that all of these days really do add up to Time.

today.

Today was a real day.

Real exhaustion.
Real tears.
Real love.
Real need.
Real tenderness.
Real togetherness.
Real correction.
Real forgiveness.
Real weakness.
Real strength.

*****

I almost bailed on going outside. I really did! I was just so tired I was falling asleep standing up. But I figured, if I’m going to do that, there’s no reason I couldn’t do it outside. Right?

Two hours.

120 minutes slipped by while we got completely caught up in warmer temperatures, sun on our faces, exploring the woods, and brushing snow off an “ice rink” on a frozen-over clearing. I stood with my face to the sun, and then looked out over the wide field. Three little people, all in their own little worlds, laying face down in the snow, studying and feeling and being mesmerized.

It was the perfect day for 15 acres of country.

I felt beyond blessed.

*****

She sings. For two hours, she treks and falls and sings the whole time. Then she recounts every detail at dinner time and ends with, “And wasn’t dat pun [fun], Mama?” So, so fun, little lady. Because you are.

William made maze after maze, hoping to stump Jameson and me. He also escorted Beatrice and me back to the house at the end of our day, making sure to clear branches and hold our hands. Gem.

This boy. He just loves me, and it amazes me. He cares about me and notices me. He’s quick to help if he senses I’m tired or down. It doesn’t matter how rough a morning may have been, he’s cheerful and whistling and setting a pace of joy for every activity. He forgives me, long before I repent. A true gift.

And this is what she did for two hours, only zipped inside my coat inside my ergo. Snug as a bug. We “skated” and danced and climbed together. I sang in the middle of the woods at the top of my lungs, and she never stirred. Happy to be near me. Always.