Author: Faith

There are nine of us now in the Pickle Patch: Erick, Faith, Fiona, Campbell, Georgia, Abigail, Levi, Hermes the cat, and Gracie the labradoodle. In June 2011, after spending most of our lives in major urban centers, we moved across the country to a small town in the middle of Vermont. This blog is about Vermont, and motherhood, and life -- three things that are often fun, frequently hilarious, and sometimes difficult.

Luke…I am your father.

WARNING: If you have not yet seen the first Star Wars trilogy and don’t like spoilers, DO NOT READ THIS!!

 

I saw my husband destroy the future of a 5-year-old boy.

Here’s how it happened:

Last month, Erick and I went on what passes as a “date” for us these days: we left the girls with their visiting grandparents, and took our cars to get snow tires put on. Because it would take over an hour to get the snow tires on both cars, we decided to go for a walk in the neighborhood behind the tire dealership.

Since we live in a small town, it was inevitable that we’d run into somebody we know. In this case, we ran into some good friends from church: a mother and her two sons, playing outside. The oldest son, age 5, had recently discovered Star Wars thanks to some “easy reader” books in his kindergarten library. Let’s call him Lucas. As we approached, Lucas and his younger brother were racing around a grassy field, using sticks as light sabers.

Since Erick has three daughters, he doesn’t get to engage in much light saber play these days. So while I talked to the mom, Erick happily jumped into the action, declaring himself Boba Fett and submitting to 30 minutes of poking by little boys with sticks.

As it began to get dark and we walked our friends back to their house, Erick and Lucas discussed whether the Jedi or the Sith win at the end of Star Wars. “Of course the Jedi win,” said Erick, “The good guys always win in the end.”

Lucas’s mom, who wasn’t entirely thrilled by her son’s exposure to the violence in Star Wars, seized on this as a teachable moment. “Right, Lucas,” she said. “and it’s like we talked about: if somebody’s being mean, instead of fighting back, you can show them how to be kind.”

“Yeah,” Erick added, “Like when Luke Skywalker finds out Darth Vader is his father, Luke gives him a chance to do good at the end.”

Lucas stopped short, and looked up at Erick with huge eyes. “Wait,” he demanded, “Darth Vader is Luke Skywalker’s FATHER?!?”

Erick and I slowly turned to look at each other, our faces twin masks of horror: eyebrows raised, mouths in silent O’s.

Because, of course, the discovery that Darth Vader is actually Luke Skywalker’s father is a pivotal plot point in Star Wars, and it isn’t revealed until the end of the second film. Lucas has yet to watch any of the Star Wars films, but now it’s too late; Erick has ruined the experience for him. While his friends watch innocently, set up to be shocked along with Luke at this horrible revelation, Lucas will now know what’s coming. With one sentence, Erick stole his innocence. It’s the equivalent of announcing that (WARNING: More spoilers!) Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy don’t exist, or that Rosebud is a sled.

I shared this story because I think it’s funny, but there may also be a point to it. Sometimes, as parents, we’re perhaps a bit too quick to jump on those “teachable moments,” to become didactic and rush to impart deep life lessons to our children. Our intentions are completely honorable. But could it be that, in doing this, we rob our children of the magic that comes from direct experience? Simply put, we talk too much. We didn’t need to tell Lucas that the good guys win in the end; eventually, when he watched Star Wars, he would’ve figured that out for himself.

This parenting gig, it’s like flying your X-Wing Fighter into the Death Star without a radar. May the force be with you.

On Expecting a Fourth Child

Room for another?

In my last post, I announced that we’re expecting our fourth child in early June. This may have surprised some of you, but not as much as it surprised us! That’s right; if it wasn’t already obvious, this child was a WHOOPS!

Let me be clear right away that I’m totally aware of what an unfair blessing it is to conceive a child without trying. So, when I say that this child was a WHOOPS!, I don’t mean that we aren’t happy to be expecting, or that we don’t already love this baby.

It’s just taking me a while to process.

I had convinced myself that we were through having children. I’d laid out all sorts of rational arguments against having a fourth child. I’d even written down my logical progression from wanting a fourth child to wanting a dog, and that story made up the bulk of my last post. If the ending of that post seems abruptly tacked on, that’s because IT WAS. I wasn’t expecting to be expecting. The big news was supposed to be the dog.

But, here we are.

When you’re pregnant with your first, second, or even third child, people are so happy for you. “Congratulations!” they squeal.

When you’re pregnant with your fourth child, most people aren’t quite sure whether to congratulate you. “Wow,” they whisper, and their eyes get really big and scared, like you’ve just told them that you’re starting a cult — which, in some ways, I guess you are.

And when you’re pregnant with your first, second, or even third child, it can be such a fun and creative thing to figure out how to break the news to your husband. When I found out I was expecting Campbell, Fiona handed Erick a little jar with two pickles in it — get it? Because we were going to have TWO pickles in our family.

Here’s how it went with #4. Scene: Dawn. Erick sitting on our bedroom floor, checking his email.

ME (emerging from bathroom): Um, so, I think I might be pregnant.

ERICK: You’re SERIOUS?!?

Four children seem a little…excessive. We will now have no extra room in our minivan, no empty seats at the dining room table. And I can’t even imagine how much MILK we’ll go through in a week. (Note to self: Need larger refrigerator, stat). Erick has pointed out that, if we ever want to get those little personalized stick-figure family decals for the rear windshield of our van, we’re close to running out of space.

I feel guilty: Guilty about our family’s combined carbon footprint. Guilty because we’re contributing to overpopulation. Erick tells me not to worry, that in his professional opinion as a PhD-holding economist, our family won’t make a significant difference in these problems. But I know that if everybody thought that way, we’d be in trouble. And most people DO think that way.

Also, I feel anxious: Anxious about having to go through the whole pregnancy/childbirth/newborn thing AGAIN. Anxious about where we’re going to put one more child. Anxious that this baby will be a BOY (we aren’t finding out) — what will we do with a BOY?!? Anxious that Erick and I will never have another date night for the next decade, because frankly, I think four children (and a dog) is even a little too much for the grandparents to babysit.

I’ve written before about my tendency to add things like children, chickens, and dogs to our lives, motivated by the adage that “You can never have too many things to love.” Although this fourth baby wasn’t an intentional addition, it’s reminded me that another good (but hard) reason to add things is this: It keeps me from any illusion that I’m in control.

I grew up in a pretty controlled environment. I was an only child, and the only pet I had (aside from some fish that cooked when the aquarium heater malfunctioned) was an outdoor cat who didn’t like us very much. So, for the first half of my life, I honestly believed that it was possible to be in control of your life; it was possible to have a spotless house, clean clothes, neat hair, and perfect grades. This kind of thinking caused me endless trouble and anxiety, because the implication is that if you’re not in total control of your life, you’re failing.

When you have three (almost four) children and a puppy, it is impossible to be in total control. Erick likes to say that we’re “Beta Parents:” parents who admire some of the IDEAS of alpha parenting (like teaching your child a foreign language, practicing flashcards, serving only organic foods, and using cloth diapers), but are just too exhausted and burnt to actually follow through. Kiddo Four will cement our status as Beta Parents. Family creed: “Sometimes, a B is just good enough.”

You can either see that as a freak-out-worthy situation, or you can see it as freeing. I’m trying to choose the latter. (Some days I choose it better than others).

So, bring it on Kiddo Four. We are waiting to love you in our own imperfect, not-in-control way. I hope you like dogs, and sisters.

Surprise!

And then there were  four: Three girls and their dog.

When Georgia was born, we were positive that she was our last child. Three seemed like a good place to stop: large without being TOO crazy. There was a certain logic to three:

-The logic of space: We still had an extra seat in the minivan, and an extra place at our table — you know, for Elijah or whomever else happened to drop in.

-The logic of stuff: We had girls’ clothing and toys that had now been used three times — a pretty good run for the money, which also called to mind the horrible alternative: what if we risked another child, and it was a BOY?!? We’d have to start all over again.

-Erick’s logic: Erick noted that many of the families we most admire have three children, and “they must have a good reason for that.” (Of course, we later learned that for some of these families, child #3 was an accident, and others sorely regretted not adding another child before it was too late, but that’s another story).

Also, the cinnamon buns that we sometimes like to eat for breakfast are sold in packages of five.

Then, around Georgia’s first birthday, I started having feelings of longing. I knew these feelings well; in the past, they’d resulted in two things: Campbell, and Georgia.

I wanted a fourth child.

I promised Erick that I wouldn’t raise the subject until he was done with his first year of teaching. So, on the last day of classes I was waiting outside his office door, with my sales pitch carefully prepared. It went a little something like this:

-If we don’t give Georgia a buddy of her own, how will she function within the sisterly relationship of Fiona and Campbell, who’ve proclaimed themselves, “MORE than best friends!”????

-We have three wonderful daughters, whom we adore. Why not add one more????

-Another child would add more love to our family. Isn’t more love ALWAYS a good thing????

Erick kindly refrained from pointing out the loophole in what I thought was a logical “more is always better” argument. Because more ISN’T always better. If that were really true, we’d live in an overpopulated world of obese, promiscuous, hoarding venture capitalists. (Hmmmm….)

ANYWAY, the point is that Erick didn’t share my longing for a fourth child. For the very first time in our 10-year marriage, this put us on opposite sides of a Major Life Decision. (That statement is less a testament to the strength of our marriage than a tribute to Erick’s amazing agreeableness).

You can see where this is going, can’t you?

Yep: WE GOT A DOG!

Here’s how it happened:

Also around Georgia’s first birthday, I started experiencing headaches, body aches, and exhaustion. These symptoms lasted throughout the summer. Whatever it was remains a mystery, but while the doctors ran me through a series of tests to determine the root cause, there was no question of pregnancy. First I was on antibiotics, then I had to have an MRI, then I had to have another MRI, and until we knew what was going on, we weren’t sure a pregnancy would be safe.

All of which made me frustrated and sad. But it also gave me time to think. I looked at our life and realized that three kids is a LOT of kids! In fact, most doctors would probably assume that the cause of my symptoms was: my children. I looked around for proof that we should add another child to the mix, and the proof just wasn’t there. Instead, I was snapping at my kids, counting the days until preschool started, and bribing my four-year-old to have “quiet rest time” by handing her my iPod. Don’t get me wrong: I love our three kids, I can handle three kids. I just couldn’t see how having a fourth child would do our family any favors.

Then I noticed something else: Brinkley, our neighbor’s dog who’d adopted us as his second-string family. I when I was doing yardwork, Brinkley would often come over to keep me company; he’d romp around, then sit at my feet and stare lovingly at me. I really liked that. I also noticed how our girls loved Brinkley: he was a prominent figure in their conversations, and every time they spotted him outside they would RUN to play with him, which kept them entertained for hours.

But he wasn’t our dog.

So, one day I said to Erick, “How about, instead of a fourth kid, we get a dog?”

I didn’t realize it at the time, but here’s a tip for anyone who wants a dog, but whose partner isn’t into the idea: First, say that you’d like to have a baby. (For added drama, moon around for a few days, sighing over baby pictures and tiny baby clothes). Then, say, “How about, instead of a baby, we get a dog?” And watch the relief fill their eyes. It’s a great bargaining strategy.

So, we got a dog, which made much more sense than having another baby. Yes, I KNOW that dogs are a lot of work, but when it’s a choice between a dog and a baby, the dog is a tropical vacation; an adorable, adoring creature whom we won’t have to send to college, and who does add more love to our family — without ever screaming, “Mommy, you’re being MEAN!”

You can read more about our dog, the amazing Gracie, here.

On the very day that we put down the deposit on Gracie, we found out that I was pregnant. Further proof that, whatever else you might say about God, he’s got a spot-on sense of comic timing.

That’s right, folks: Kiddo FOUR, due in early June.

Youngest child no longer….

I Hate Housework, Two

Earlier this year, I published a post on this blog (“I Hate Housework, Too”), in which I confessed my tormented ambivalence towards housework: Having grown up in a spotless house, I have high standards for cleanliness, but I hate the actual effort needed to reach those standards. I admitted that my own house suffers from “creeping kids’ stuff,” which I handle through a combination of breaking the cleaning into manageable pieces, and shrugging off any oversights with the “I have three kids” excuse.

While I was writing that piece, and for about five minute afterwards, I felt great. I felt like I’d finally found equilibrium when it came to the state of my house.

And then, because this is real life, I went right back to stressing  about housework. In fact, my husband will tell you that housework is almost always the straw that breaks my mental health — and with it, the overall mental health of our family. I can handle the kids screaming and the dog barking, but if I feel like the house is spinning out of my control, I start to become unhinged. “I need some degree of neatness in order to think!” I’ll wail to my husband, who will in turn catch my stress, and so on, until the whole family is entangled in my stress cycle.

Of course, with three young children and now a DOG, the house is constantly spinning out of my control, and any effort I put into wrestling it into a state of basic neatness is undone minutes later. HOWEVER, just the other day I had a revelation that I think may change my perspective for good. It came to me, oddly enough, while washing the dishes. Here it is:

MY HOUSE IS NOT ALIVE.

That seems like an obvious statement, and it is. But to expand a bit: I am surrounded by living things that, at this moment, depend on me for their physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual growth. My house is not one of them. My house has no chance of ever going out into the world and making a positive difference. No matter how I care for it, my house is slowly breaking down, and will continue to do so until the day (decades hence, I hope) when some young, investment-banking couple from Manhattan will arrive to gut the place and install granite counter-tops and jacuzzi tubs.

My house is not going to attend my funeral and eulogize me for the amount of care I gave it. And while we’re on the subject, have you EVER been to a funeral at which it was said of the deceased, “She was so CLEAN!”?

No, my house is not alive. But my daughters, and my husband, and my dog, and my family, and my friends, and mySELF, they are alive. Am I prioritizing my time and energy and mental health accordingly?

It my be that I’m alone in this war with myself over the state of my house, this pointless battle to maintain a baseline of cleanliness. But in case I’m not alone, perhaps this thought will help you, too: your living space is not going to feel hurt if you neglect it a little. The living beings who surround you, they’re another story.

Here’s hoping that you and I can let ourselves off the hook for good this time!

Fiona.

Self Portraits by Fiona

Fiona turns five tomorrow. Just as with Friend Parties, I doubt I’ll be writing a birthday post for each of our children every year. For one thing, this is going to embarrass them very soon; for another, not many people (aside from their grandparents) are interested in me writing nice things about my kids. It’s boring, and maybe a little braggy.

But right now, you’re going to have to deal with it, because Fiona is turning FIVE. My firstborn, the one who scared us all with her early and dramatic arrival. Of our three daughters, Fiona is the one I still can’t see in her baby pictures. What I mean is: as newborns, Campbell and Georgia looked like themselves — they looked like they do now, only smaller and balder. Perhaps because Fiona was so tiny and fragile, when I look at her baby pictures I can’t see any trace of the tall, strong, beautiful, energetic almost-five-year-old who lives in our house.

Erick will tell you that Fiona is the daughter who is most like me. That’s probably true, poor girl. Of the three, she’s the most sensitive, shy, and nervous, and she’ll probably have to work through the same issues that I did as she grows. She’s a real person, like all of us, with flaws and neuroses to overcome.

But because today is Fiona’s birthday, I’m going to tell you my very FAVORITE thing about Fiona:

She wants to make everything special.

Fiona loves celebrations — holidays, birthdays, any excuse to celebrate — and she’s in her element when she gets to help plan an event. Whether or not the celebration is for her, Fiona has a CONCEPT. She knows exactly what paper goods, food, gifts, and party games should be involved. She wants everything to be fun and beautiful, and to conform to a theme. She wants to make cards, dress up, and  play pin-the-SOMETHING-on-SOMETHING (in the past we’ve played, “Pin the tail on the cat,” “Pin the mane on the lion,” “Pin the feather on Pocahontas,” “Pin the seed on the watermelon” — you get the idea).

It’s not just official celebrations, either; Fiona is great at celebrating people, making them feel special just because. I can’t tell you how many times she’s suggested that we send a card to one of her grandmothers, or prompted Erick to buy me flowers, or asked me to bake something for someone we love. When our next-door neighbor cleaned up the bodies of our dead chickens (another story), Fiona — completely unprompted by me — met our neighbor at the door with a little “Valentine” that she’d just whipped up.

I’ve always said that I don’t care if my children are smart, or talented, or beautiful; the most important thing to me is that they grow up to be KIND.  So far, it looks like Fiona is heading towards kind, but here’s the best thing about it: I had nothing to do with it. Honestly. Fiona was born this way. It’s a trait that began appearing once she was old enough to start being herself. And that’s why it’s my very favorite thing about Fiona: because it’s nothing I had to teach or nag her about, it’s just who she is.

Craft Update: Owls and Mermaids and Chickens (Oh My!)

At first, my husband didn’t read this blog — at least, not regularly. He was more like a “check in every few months” type of reader. But when I gently told him that he might be missing major insights into my inner life, that some 300 readers might possibly know me better than my own husband, and that I might just post embarrassing stories about him, he subscribed to the blog feed.

Now that he’s a regular reader, Erick is my most honest critic. So, he tells me that things have been getting a little…heavy…on this blog lately. I know, I know: What’s WITH all this life and death and introspection?!? Where are the cute photos of our girls, the puppy updates (coming), the humorous anecdotes about our pest-control problems?

All I can say is: those cycles of life and death that I’ve been writing about apply to blog topics, too. And what with autumn’s darker and colder weather, the butterfly that never hatched, and the backyard chicken massacre, lately I’ve been kind of on the death side of the cycle.

But that’s about to change; the upswing is starting with this very post. Because, my friends, today I am writing to gloat — er, SHARE — about my latest craft projects!

Those who’ve been reading for a while will recall that, when we moved to Vermont, my mother gave me her old sewing machine. Last winter, I decided to start becoming a craftier person by sewing some dresses for the girls.

Well, my craftiness took a vacation for the summer. But now that it’s fall-becoming-winter, I’M BACK! It gets dark at about 5 PM now, and I’ve got to find something else to do around here at night. We seldom go out after dark, since that involves babysitters (i.e. MONEY) and driving down empty country roads with the brights on. We don’t have a TV, and there’s only so much reading and writing and cleaning a person can do. Bring on the crafts!

Here’s the thing I’m most proud of: I didn’t use a pattern for any of the crafts below. They’re all things that I dreamed up in my head and then made real. Which is a lot of fun, and probably takes me to the next level of craftiness, don’t you think?

CRAFT #1: The Owl Pillow

We have a beige couch and beige chair in our living room, and I was feeling the need to inject a little color and fun into the place. So, I decided to sew an owl pillow. Why an owl pillow? you ask. Well, we have a whole bunch of barred owls who live in the woods around our house. All night long we can hear them calling Who-who-who-whooooo! I love these owls; they look stately and wise, and whenever I hear them I think, You go, owls! Eat those mice!!!

So, here’s what I did with some burlap, fleece, felt, and embroidery floss from Ben Franklin’s:

CRAFT #2: The Mermaid Fins

One of Fiona and Campbell’s best friends decided to have a Pirate Party when she turned five. There was no way I was getting my girly-girls to dress up in pirate garb, but MERMAIDS are another story. I designed these fins to work like wrap skirts. They look great, are super-comfortable, and the girls have been wearing them for dress-up long after the party. I may have to make one for myself.

CRAFT #3: The Chicken Stuffie

Okay, so first of all, my girls call stuffed animals “stuffies.” I have no idea why; it’s certainly nothing Erick or I ever said.

ANYWAY, when their 2-year-old cousin Aiden came to visit us in Vermont last summer, we weren’t sure if he’d like it here. Aiden lives in Orange County, CA, which is pretty much the epitome of planned suburbia. He lives near Disneyland. How would he handle our crazy Vermont-woods girls?

He did great, and it turns out — huge surprise to all of us — that Aiden is NUTS about chickens. When we took him to Shelburne Farms, that kid was chasing after hens bigger than himself and catching them with his bare hands. He couldn’t get enough of our chicks (R.I.P.), who were then still fluffy and cute in the brooder box in our garage.

So, when I started thinking about a Christmas present for Aiden, which I do early because (a) I have only one nephew, and (b) I’m clueless and terrified at the prospect of gifts for BOYS, the obvious choice was: make him a chicken stuffie! That way, he could have his favorite part of Vermont in Orange County — only it would be much more hygienic (and hopefully have a happier outcome) than the real thing.

I’m sharing this here because I’m pretty sure that Aiden doesn’t read this blog, and I’m trusting his parents to keep it on the down-low:

Of course, the predictable outcome, which I somehow failed to anticipate, was that once I showed it to the girls, Campbell said, “I don’t have a chicken stuffie.” So I suspect there may be a few more of these in my future.

There you have it: a little peek at what I’ve been up to in the evenings. See? It’s not all deep thinking around here!