A Bouquet of Freshly Sharpened Pencils

I've seen your pictures on Facebook. Your kids are back in school. Mine too. Or at least they are lying around in their pajamas reading banned books like Call of the Wild and Uncle Tom's Cabin while I dutifully categorize our personal library and straighten up the glue sticks.

They have entered 3rd, 5th, 7th, and 9th grades. I am the teacher of all subjects. And the secretary, the principal, and athletic director. My salary is unprecedented because it is zero.

As we dive into our sixth year of homeschool, I am often asking myself, "What am I doing?" Usually the curriculum is purchased in June, ignored in July, and begun in August so we can take a vacation in September. This year is entirely different. I forgot to buy curriculum. Or maybe I meant to forget. Whichever it was, there aren't any math books on the shelf with labeled names. Today I bought folders. Not sure yet what they're for but I bought them. I may need them.

I've got four very different kids. Some love math and science and others loathe it. Some are found sneaking books to church, in their beds late at night, or at friends' houses. Some think books make great coasters. Some are dyslexic and good with their hands. Others have soaring vocabularies and brilliant reasoning skills. They are all dangerous. And beautiful in their own way.

I never thought it would last this long. As I am writing this, Number 1 is doing high-school biology in her room. Number 2 is disassembling a bike tire and re-installing a tube. Numbers 3 and 4 are singing the names of the United States while hot-gluing boxes together to make....something. This morning we read poetry and books about early civilizations. Some of the people in the pictures were topless (there wasn't censoring in BC) and nobody seemed to notice.

It's worth it. Beyond the struggle, the planning, the pep-talks. It's worth it.

Confessions of an Introvert

I am an introvert.

I am not ashamed, but I am realistic. I have four kids and I homeschool. Sometimes I secretly long for the early mornings spent shopping at the Russian supermarket where I would drive for thirty minutes, shop for an hour, check out for thirty minutes, and drive back home all in complete silence. Upon arriving home, no one would be up yet so I would grab a cup of coffee and sit. Silently. Alone.

It's different now. The kids have grown out of naps and early bedtime. My son plays baseball and football. There are team meetings and parent planning sessions. My girls have ballet, babysitting jobs, and social calendars. I lead a small group at Bible Study and teach two classes at homeschool co-op. My social sphere has never been so big and I have never done so much talking to so many people in an average week. Sometimes it's exhausting.

My husband is an extrovert. He's everyone's favorite at a party. He's easy to talk to, always asks the right questions, and never tires of new surroundings. I am happy to hang on his arm, nod and smile, and eat my food. But he can't always be there. I have to improvise. For the sake of our family, I have to change my title, even for an evening.

Some of you reading this may be surprised. You may think to yourself, "But she has people over all the time. She is always throwing holiday parties and having get-togethers. What do you mean an introvert!?"

It's true I assure you. I recharge in stillness. I feel energized by total isolation.

I just heard someone say today, "People need people." We do. Even I need people. It's just that I need people in small doses, one-on-one sitting across kitchen tables, at a coffee shop, or in my living room. I need people to volunteer to pick my kids up from youth group, to bring me a coffee now and then, and to ask me for help so I can return the favor. I need people to make me laugh, to play games with, and to tell me I'm not a crazy person to think that wearing heels at eleven isn't ok. I need people to want to be with me and to give me the freedom to say, "not tonight."

I confess, sitting quietly in my room with a book and some chocolates sounds pretty good. But then again, sitting with you and a book and some chocolates sounds even better. Maybe I'm something of a people-person. Maybe I'm just a person and that's half anyway. And no matter what, when you leave my place, I'm always glad you came.

Upstairs, Downstairs

It's been three months since I've written. I did move again so that counts as something, but truth be told, I have felt uninspired. There were baseball playoff games, ballet recitals, Spring Concerts, and other standard American customs which I have been ducking for years. It's not all bad, just demanding of my time, energy, resources, and minivan. So many hours in the minivan. I swore I wouldn't be that lady. But this Spring...I was.

So we are renting a large house for at least the next two years. My priority while searching was four bedrooms and a place for a schoolroom. My husband's priority was a Ping-Pong table in the dining room. We both got what we wanted. The upstairs has four bedrooms and two bathrooms. The main level has a schoolroom, living room, kitchen, half bath, and dining room complete with a Ping-Pong table.

And then there's the downstairs. Some of you may know that when we moved into our temporary place back in January that it came with a 26 year-old itinerant speaker. Now he lives in our basement at the new place.

Ten years ago, If I had made a list of things I would never have imagined doing, it may have looked like this.

1. Move to Russia
2. Homeschool my four kids
3. Encourage my husband to take a job where he travels the world 65% of the time
4. Move to Washington DC
5. Communal Living

There are many more, I'm sure, but I want to land on item number five for a moment. Since I aim to protect his online presence just as I protect my kids', we will simply call him M.

M lives in the basement. He has a bedroom, a bathroom, a living room, an office and a job. There are virtually three separate levels in the house. We live upstairs, he lives downstairs. But when we're all on the main floor, we're just living...together. We share meals, laughs, and assigned laundry days. Number 4 beats M at all board games. Number 2 challenges him to Ping-Pong and beats on him like a brother. He questions Number 1 about hard topics and she is helping him learn how to live with girls. Number 3 tells him everything honestly, especially pertaining to his wardrobe, which she finds appalling.

He's not a Chris Farley motivational speaker. He has real substance and got his Masters at Oxford, which we use to mock him when he makes a mistake. "Did you learn that at OXFERD?"

When my husband is in town, M is his golfing buddy. They talk politics and religion while drinking beers. Together, we all play Settlers of Catan, taking turns gloating about our world domination. He is a fly on the wall observing our parenting, oftentimes in the corner chuckling at some child's indignant behavior. I can't help but laugh too. I think my kids are getting a better mom out of the deal. M to me is like a little brother. I am trying to help him find his way in this big crazy world and avoid some of the unseen pitfalls. He encourages me to keep being myself with my family. He's met our parents, we've Skyped his.

I'm sure some of you have concerns. Some of your concerns may be legit. Honestly, I would wish a 26 year-old Itinerant Speaker on all of you. I can't explain the why. It just works and I am thankful for it.

American Tradition (Guest Blogger)

Baseball. America's Pastime. The Boys of Summer. All three names represent the greatest game ever played. There is something nearly spiritual about the dew covered diamond early in the morning, the smell of a leather glove, the crack of a wooden bat, the roar of the crowd, and the taste of a ball park hot dog. Nothing comes close to the unbelievable thrill and excitement of the opposing batter swinging, his bat desperately seeking to connect with the red laced, cork centered, leather bound projectile, only to miss completely, giving tremendous elation to the home team fans rising to their feet as the ball strikes the catcher's mitt with a smack. Yet, even greater than this is the joy and delight I see on the faces of my children as I look down the row of seats and watch as their eyes light up in the reflection of the night-game lights, while they eat Cracker Jacks and observe history repeating itself and being made all at the same time.

Baseball has a long tradition in the U.S., dating back to the 1850s. The game survived The Great Depression, both World Wars, The Black Sox Scandal, the Steroid Age, and the big strike in 1994 that caused the cancellation of the World Series. Young ball players all over the country have looked to baseball’s greats for inspiration. Players like Gil Hodges, Mickey Mantle, Babe Ruth, Jackie Robinson, Hank Aaron, Wade Boggs, Reggie Jackson. Some of my personal favorites are Nolan Ryan, Rickie Henderson, Ken Griffey Jr., Frank Thomas, Travis Fryman, Cecil Fielder, and Randy Johnson.

I remember my first major league game at Tiger’s Stadium and I still have the miniature wooden bat my dad bought as a souvenir for my brother and me. I recall countless times of sitting in front of the TV on a Saturday afternoon watching the game, or being on the road headed to either grandparents' house listening to Ernie Harwell on the radio. It was through these mediums that I directly or indirectly became involved in Little League Baseball.

Twenty-five or so years later, I am standing next to my wife and daughters on a spring day that could rival paradise, leaning on the fence in center field watching my son take part in his first Little League Baseball Opening Day Celebration. My eyes well up with tears as I see him enter the field in his new uniform among the 3 to 400 other players pounding their gloves eagerly awaiting the highly anticipated first pitch of the year. But before one ball is tossed, one bat is swung, or one strike is called, three things must happen. First, local representatives from the Veterans of Foreign Wars march proudly out to just behind the pitcher’s mound displaying our nation’s colors. Second, the local flag is tipped in salute to Old Glory as the riflemen stand with their weapons paralleling their bodies while the first note of the National Anthem blasts from a trumpet. Every player and fan stands focused on our flag with their hat or hand over their hearts paying tribute to our country. The third, and most compelling to me, is the recitation of the Little League Pledge. I don’t recall ever saying this pledge when I was young but to hear it being said by an entire league of ballplayers was worth all the effort on its own. The pledge goes like this;

I trust in God
I love my country
and will respect its laws
I will play fair
and strive to win
But win or lose
I will always do my best

As the ceremony comes to a close you can feel the excitement building as every young ball player waits to hear those magic words. Their palms are sweaty, their hearts pound, and their legs are restless. And like a horse out of the gate as the bell clangs at the start, the league commissioner yells, “Play Ball!” With ball caps flying through the air, the season officially kicks off.

I am proud of the baseball tradition my family and I have maintained through the years. For my son I hope that he remembers the seven seasons I coached high school baseball and the time he spent helping as the bat boy or tossing a ball with the players. I know that he’ll remember being fans of two home teams, our beloved Detroit Tigers and our local Washington Nationals. I hope he remembers his first major league park experience at Camden Yards and his first trip to Comerica Park to watch the Tigers at home. But most of all I hope he remembers the pledge; to trust in God, love his country, and always do his best. If that is not the greatest American tradition I don’t know what could be.

Journey to a Gold Mine (Liberia)

I have invited my husband to guest blog. He recently returned from his second trip to Liberia so he will undergo his second 21-day observation period for potential Ebola. He was not exposed. We are not afraid, but the view from his lens is poignant, lovely, and worth sharing. Here is his submission.


It was hot. I was wearing jeans, boots, and two t-shirts (one to catch the sweat before soaking through the outer shirt) thinking I would be comfortable in the air conditioned land cruiser that would take my team and me into the countryside of Liberia to retrieve generator parts from a local gold mine. I sat in the front seat with my knees nearly pressed to the dash leaning into the stream of semi-cold air narrowly escaping the vents. Despite my efforts, my outer shirt was soaked.

Throughout the journey my Liberian colleagues would explain the historical significance of each intersection, bridge, and village we passed. Many of the explanations revolved around the horrific events of a twenty year civil war. We approached an intersection and one of the Liberians said that this spot was very dangerous. There were people being shot in the intersection as they were trying to get to and from their homes. Other times he would describe the check points that were prior to bridges, roads, and the self-proclaimed border regions surrounding the city of Monrovia. You were lucky to get across a bridge or out of the city he explained. He spoke of the worst human atrocities one can imagine.

As we ventured further from the Monrovian border our progress would be slowed by large pot holes in the streets, goats crossing, pedestrians dangerously close to moving vehicles, and motor bikes darting from here and there with little respect for caution.

We came to the first of many police check points and moved through without issue. We were traveling in an American plated vehicle and Liberians love Americans. Some officers would salute while others would wave and smile. At the second checkpoint the guard lowered the tow strap to allow us to cross. Just as we began to pick up speed on the other side, another officer came running alongside the vehicle telling us to stop. I rolled down the window, said hello, and questioned the misunderstanding. The officer said even though we have American plates and are free to proceed, no one is allowed to continue without washing their hands! We all quickly complied by getting out of the car, walking to the bucket of bleach water, rinsing our hands, and having our temperatures taken. This is just one of the many ways Liberians are being proactive in the fight against Ebola.

At the last of the checkpoints I was returning to the vehicle and heard a group of children calling out what sounded like “wave at me!” I ignored the commotion at first thinking that it was a ruse to try and sell something from their roadside stand. When I asked for clarification from my Liberian colleagues they explained that the children were yelling White Man, White Man. I turned back around, gave a big wave and said “Hello Kids!” Beaming smiles of joy and excitement stretched across their faces.

To say that I was humbled by this experience would be severely understated. We passed village after village and hut after hut that appeared to be abandoned or unfinished, only to discover that people were inhabiting these types of places. There were children rolling tires and playing with soccer balls that looked like balls of yarn, clothes hanging from wire or string or laying on the ground to dry in the sun, men sleeping in hammocks made of old ratchet straps, and women cooking in open pits. Some houses were made of brick while others were made of mud, cinder block, thatch, or even plain palm branches. Most places had a central well pump for water and were without electricity. Although, there were a few villages with generators powering wires that were strung in the air on hand made poles or trees which couldn’t have provided power to more than one or two lights in a few of the homes.

In the distance ahead I could see a group of people gathered near the roadside. This was not anything unusual but I did notice a collection of buckets and tubs lining each side of the street. As we came closer I could see women leaning over the buckets washing their laundry using the water from a roadside stream. Many of the women were topless because of the need to wash the shirts they were wearing. To protect their dignity and maintain some sort of decency, when the vehicles were close enough some women would cross one arm in front of their breasts to keep from exposing them to the passersby. Others, however, stood with no shame as they continued with the task at hand. We continued on passing palm trees with coconuts, pineapple bushes, and rubber trees all while being tossed side to side traversing the local dirt road.

The ride home was different. I saw the huts and villages with new eyes. I tried to put myself in their homes, among their people, wearing their clothes, drinking the water from the well, and having virtually nothing. It was difficult to imagine. Then to add the torture of a twenty year civil war, being forced from my homeland, and now struggling with the overwhelming devastation of Ebola, it seems beyond any one man or woman’s capability. Yet the people of Liberia live on.

Breathing out

When we used to ride the metro in Moscow, it was crowded. I mean where your face is in someone's coat and your arms are glued to your sides except for the occasional jolt which requires that you stabilize yourself and inadvertently touch someone's backside. Sometimes it smells...so you hold your breath. That's what it feels like to live in a three bedroom apartment with a homeschooling family of six.

We've finally made the transition into our temporary housing. It's like a fairy-tale. There are six bedrooms, foosball in the library, a parlor with a baby grand piano, a theater room with surround sound, a basement, a schoolroom, two dishwashers, two sinks, a double oven,and a ping-pong table in the dining room. All of our earthly belongings (in boxes) fit inside one room downstairs. Humbling. And freeing.

I am convinced we can go through the boxes over the next four months and get rid of even more stuff. I mean, seriously, who ever looks back at old Bible Studies? And even though we scanned several thousand photographs (from the old days of film and negatives) why am I saving the pics? Am I seriously going to put them in albums? No. Nope.

In the past few years, we have had professional movers. I sat in a chair with a cup of coffee and pointed. That was the extent of my involvement. Granted I sorted and organized before they arrived, but mostly, they did the work. I did the feeling, like taking pictures and crying out goodbyes.

This time, my moving crew consisted of four people; my husband, Number 1, Number 2, and myself. For twelve hours we loaded two-wheeled dollies into the elevator on the fourth floor and loaded up the rented U-haul. It hurt a little more, in places like my wallet and my back. Did I mention it rained all day and that three other movers were monopolizing the elevator at the same time? True story.




We parked the U-haul at the new place and headed to a hotel for the weekend. The family who actually lives in the house wasn't leaving until Monday, but we had to be out of our apartment so there was space in-between. I imagined that once at the hotel we would swim, play games, and frolic about. It was more like beers on the couch and falling asleep in-between sentences. We were exhausted.



Now we are in the house. My kids haven't asked to play electronics all week. They've been up and down the stairs, enjoying the freedom of all the open space, and outside playing with new friends. My immediate place of comfort, the kitchen, was quickly organized and scented with warm chocolate chip cookies. It's the moment of breathing out. I know we will be somewhere smaller when this is over, but for now, our winter resort is looking pretty good.