Lois Lyda

How exactly do I go about teaching my son to read?  Every time I ask, the answer always seems to be “read to him, and he will learn to read.”  Though this seems a bit overly simplistic to my overly achieving self (I have been reading heartily to my 4-year-old since birth with no “results”), I continue to just enjoy a good book with him instead of trying to explicitly push him to read. 

Sure enough, the other day at Walgreens, we had a breakthrough.  “That car costs two dollars, mommy” he says very matter-of-factly pointing to the bright yellow sticker on the shelf.  Then yesterday, he declared his favorite restaurant was the one with the “mmmm”, as he drew a large “m” in the air with his finger. I was a bit less thrilled about this one.  

Classical Conversations begins next week (www.classicalconversations.com).  Thanks be to God for these little confidence boosters as we begin our homeschool test-run.

At a recent conference, I stumbled across a book with this title, and i have since vowed to make it part of my vocabulary as a woman and mother to two girls; Feminine Loveliness.  In light of the push for women to “become the men they always wanted,” it may indeed be one of the most important virtues I could possibly teach my daughters. 

So, this Sunday, as we were rushing out the door to church, I topped my scrag-a-muffin bun with a satin ribbon.  At least three times my husband whispered ”I like your bow,” kissing me on the cheek and twirling the ribbon playfully in his fingers.  He really was quite taken.

 I used to downplay make-up and dresses.  I used to think these things made a little girl superficial and self-absorbed.  But as time goes by, and I see how society educates women, (to dress like men and work like men), I am compelled to nurture femininity in all its forms.  Why not wear bows and pretty dresses?  Why not encourage my daughters to love everything about being woman?  

Once, one of my nieces, when asked what she wanted to be when she grew up, (and said “a mommy,” as all little girls do), was ”redirected” by her aunt to think about “higher things” like being a doctor or a lawyer.  It is in these subtle ways that we betray our own kind.

Not long ago in Time magazine, there was an article about women in the military.  There were telling statistics showing how, for example, women are more prone to suffer from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder than men. Reading the article, I couldn’t help wondering what women are doing in the military to begin with. Why can’t we as a culture accept that God wired men for combat, while creating us for other purposes.  Wearing camo and holding a gun just like men doesn’t make us men. 

So I’m starting a campaign.  In my home.  With my audience of two.  To bring back feminine loveliness.   And if Eden wants to wrestle with her brother in a dress, or turn her baby dolls arm into a gun and shoot me, fine.  But at least let her do it with bows in her hair.

Maybe it’s the economy, maybe it’s bad stuardship, maybe it’s just our lot in life, but finances are tight. O so very tight.  It doesn’t help that Ben only gets paid once a month.  By monday, we were at $2 in our checking account, and we still had to survive five days until payday.   Ben took a loan from Emmanuel’s piggy bank and drove fourteen miles on his bike to the bank to deposit $4.  The teller tried her best to supress a chuckle as Ben scooted up to the drive-thru on his two wheel ride, lathered in sunscreen and dripping with sweat from the 100+ heat with Emmanuel’s four dollars in hand.  Then, having run out of water, and having not quite enough change to purchase a beverage, the cashier at 7-eleven took pity on him and even threw in a granola bar for his ride home.  It took him about three hours, but saved us from a bank overdraft fee, and God-willing, we’ll make it through til Friday. 

This has been the story of our lives for at least 6 months, where “scraping by” really means scraping by.  Sometimes I feel very small about this, feeling that if we have three children to look after, we should have more money to go around.  We have to learn to live with what we have been given. 

 ”. . .Give us this day our daily bread. . .” This is what we pray, what we are promised - enough for the present moment, not the unforseen future.  Sure enough, as we take each day as it comes, He provides all our needs.  This morning we had pancakes, there are beans on the stove for lunch.  I have no idea what we’ll eat for dinner, but I’m trying to learn to be thankful and to trust. We have never gone without food.  My famly in Argentina eat white bread  for two meals a day.  Infact many countries in the world survive, quite literally, on their  daily bread.  Surely we can too. But more than survive on the food He provides, we can be nourished by our faith.  

“Therefore do not worry, saying, ‘What shall we eat?’ or ‘What shall we drink?’ or ‘What shall we wear?’  For after all these things the Gentiles seek.  For your heavenly Father knows that you need all these things.  But seek first the kingdom of God and His righteousness, and all these things shall be added to you” (Matt. 6:31-33).

My son turns 5 in December, a crazy realization.  When he was two, Ben and I first started talking about school.  It seemed far away then.  Now, it’s just around the corner.  In a way, it seems our ever-evolving conversation actually hasn’t gone far.  It hasn’t really left the house, infact. 

When the two of us public school teachers became parents, we began the school conversation with what we didn’t want for our children: public school.  Then, before having discovered the limitations of a single-income, moved to our ideal:  private classical Christian school.  Now, it seems we may be about to settle somewhere in the middle: home school. 

When our conversation first began, as I said, we began with what we knew we didn’t want:  public school.  Let me say that Ben and I are both products of the public school system.  We both had positive experiences, and have few regrets about our education.  However, becoming teachers in this same system messed with our psyche.  We see things differently; things are more political, ambiguously humanistic, agenda-driven. There is the book that Ben picked up from one of his students, so gruesome in content, he tried to get it banned from the middle school library to no avail.  There is the ever expanding tangle of testing to the lowest common denominator, and the corresponding “teaching to the test” (meanwhile kids and teachers alike are bored stiff).  The complete lack of a framework from which to teach morality, substituted with mumbo-jumbo “character education” fluff.  And all in the greatest district in the state, and possibly nation (no I am not being hyperbolic). 

Having washed our hands of the “filth” of public school, we set our sights on our ideal, the classical Christian school.  We were willing to sell our house, live in an apartment, go into debt, eat Ramen for the next decade, you name it, to get our child into this school for  the “academically advanced”.  We attended an open house where a class of third-graders sang “This is my Father’s World” from memory, and we were teary-eyed with destiny. This school was counter-cultural, and not ashamed to say so.  They valued the classics, and they valued the purity of childhood.  Pop culture wasn’t just copied or ignored, it was fought hard against with virtue. This was our dream school.  There was just one catch; money. Ten thousand dollars a year for the course of 10 years . . .and this doesn’t include college or other children . . .sigh.  We worked our meager budget this way and that, trying to squeeze pennies into dollar bills.  We maintained that we wanted to give our child the best education, no matter the cost, but cost seemed to be an unavoidable stumbling block.

Then one day, we had an epiphany.  What if “good enough” was good enough?  What if giving them a slightly flawed education was better than a perfect one? We began to look into other options. 

A growing part of our school discussion had to do with “lifestyle”. Ben kept asking me what kind of lifestyle we wanted to live.  For example, I have always loathed the idea of the soccer mom. I would never want the carpool lifestyle associated with soccer, or any other after-school activity for that matter, because I don’t want to be rushing from one thing to another, disjointed, fragmented, and never together in one place as a family.  “Busy” is not a word I need to feel important.  Part of the reason I love my church so much is the lifestyle it promotes.  We worship together as a family, and the cycle of services make our faith a part of our family’s daily life.  So, in the context of schooling, what kind of lifestyle do I want for our family? I want us to be together.  I want our home to be the center of activity, the place where our kids look forward to being. Not “out there” but “in here”.  Practically, that means we will be spending a lot of time at home.  Now, don’t get me wrong, I pride myself on being able to get out the door faster, more efficiently, and more frequently with my three children than most mothers of one can. But, whether out or in, the home is where the heart is, so to speak.  

A few weeks past, I attended my first homeschool conference.  It was a big step for me, as I have not until recently considered homeschooling.  Obviously, I’m aware that people do it.  I just have never considered it for myself.  And this is the reason: I have a picture in my head of the flustered, overworked mother of octuplets, who never gets a break or a shower, and really needs both.  Some of the “arguments” against homeschooling - like the socialization myth - are not problematic for me (I’m a socially strong individual!).  But this image of the frazzled homeschooling mother is very problematic.  A scary conclusion I’m coming to is that I’m going to have to get over myself.  I’m beginning to believe that the single most important thing I can do is to nourish the life of my children’s souls.  “In places where widespread unbelief or invasive secularism makes real religious growth practically impossible, then the church of the home remains the one place where children can receive authentic religious instruction.  Thus there cannot be too great an effort on the part of Christian parents to prepare for this ministry of being their own children’s catechists and carry it out with tireless zeal” ( Pope John Paul II). My children are born into this world, but they are not born for this world.  It is my fundamental duty  (not the government nor private agencies) to prepare them for the “real world” to come.

 I had just finished my McChicken, when I notice silence in the “playplace”.  The usual stomping and yelling has ceased. “Emmanuel?” I call out, as I walk over to the plastic bubble hovering overhead, and prick up my ears.    Someone is whispering  ”You suck” over and over.  No answer.  “Emmanuel.  Answer me!” I start to panic internally.  Maternal intuition tells me something just isn’t right.  I want to run up the slide, but I’m holding newborn Evangeline in one arm, and Eden’s still at the table munching on fries.  “Get down here immediately!” I yell to the silence.  Feet frantically pound  plastic, and then my 4 year old bolts out of the slide and shoots into my arm, crying “I’m scared, mommy. I’m scared of that boy.  He said he’s going to kill me.”  I notice how flushed his face is, and I can see a red mark just below his eyebrow, emphasizing the fear in his eye.  “What boy?” I ask under my breath, as I quickly walk him back to our seat.  His head is burried in my lap, and he grasps me tightly. 

A few minutes later, I see a black boy, not much older than my son emerging from the slide with a cocky smile on his face.  He looks straight at me, no ounce of remorse or concern or fear.  Even without Emmanuel’s validation, I know it’s him.  “What else did he tell you?” I probe gently.  “He told me he lost a tooth, and that he didn’t care about me being four.”  This is my son who introduces himself to everyone as “Emmanuel James Lyda (emphasis on the “-da”). . . and I’m four.”  I knew he was telling me everything.  At four, he has no reason to lie.

At this crucial moment, I had a decision to make: to back my son, and confront the boy with the missing tooth, or to leave quietly under a guise of peace.  Confrontation is tricky, especially with strangers.  I mean, will the mom accept what I have to say appologetically, or will she react like her son did to mine, and bully me with a good dose of physical harm and mean-talk? I admit, I was chicken. When Ben got back from getting his drink refilled, I mouthed to him that we had to leave. 

Being the verbal processor that I am, it wasn’t until I began the process of retelling the story outside McDonalds that I - along with my husband - became angry.  Angry that , even though I always tell Emmanuel my job is to keep him safe, I hadn’t done a thing to protect him, at least nothing that he could see.  Once Ben heard the whole story, he wasted no time in returning to the playplace to confront the kid and his mother.  Unfortunately, they had already gone. This isn’t the first time where I have just let mean kids off the hook under the premise that “my kid isn’t perfect either.”  Thus, the good (but not perfect), peace making child has to go home, while the bully gets free reign of the play place.  

Once again, I managed to self-talk my way out of doing a humanitarian deed. Yes, to confront a child who is going wayward at so young an age is, I believe, humanitarian.  Because this kid who is a bully on the playground at four, and gets away with it (since the mother did absolutely nothing!), will grow up to be the  6th grader who brings the gun to school, or the corrupt leader of our larger “playground” of family or neighborhood or government or business.  And then it really does affect us all. Perhaps if this mother gets enough complaints, she’ll start to pay attention.  Maybe after four or five parents drawing attention to this behavior, she’ll wake up from her iphone-using euphoria, and notice what is going on around her.  That while she is having fun in her own palm playplace, her son is learning how to get away with McMurder.  And thanks to me, perhaps one day he will.

Pteronarcophobia is the fear of flies.  I never knew I suffered from this until today, when I entered my laundry room with a pile of clothes, and was stompeded (can flies stompede, since they have no hoofs?) by a legion of house flies.  That dreadful buzz still resounds in my ear;  the cocophany of 30+ muscas bouncing off the walls quite literally.  I screamed as I batted the air pointlessly (since those critters can dart away from death in less than a fraction of a second, and my maternal reflexes just aren’t that good - no matter how many children I swat!). 

Then I had a better idea, I sent in my 4-year-old son alone with the fly swatter.  For ten straight minutes Eden and I listened from outside the door as Emmanuel whacked to his hearts content , with the occasional triumphant “Ha! Got one!” Reentering “the bug zone,” we could see a few passed out on the floor, but what is the difference between 26 and 30 flies swarming a 5×10′ space, really?

 My next strategy was to open the garage door, and lure them to the trash can. Seemingly this worked, that is until I returned to the laundry room a little later, only to be greeted with the same furious buzzing as before. Did they call for back up? This means war. “I’m gonna bomb the place tonight”, I declared to my husband on the phone, who admitted I sounded a little crazy.   

The army of flies has now aligned on the kitchen sill, and I am lamenting the fact that I don’t own a can of  hairspray, and thinking about how based on even my bad math, by tomorrow, there will be over 100,000 flies  in the house, and I’m just about to flee the scene just thinking about how crazy that will make me. . . when Ben walks in the door with my toxic battle supplies. Let the battle begin.

I am currently reading a phenomenal book, The Purpose of Boys,  and recommend this book to anyone trying to raise a son in this generation. 

The theme of purpose has been dug up a new for me, third time a mom, as time for my own ambitions (whatever they may be) are zero to none.  A holy man once said,  “of all holy works, the upbringing of children is the most holy.” I have tried to let these words soak in, to believe this with all my heart that there is no greater calling that motherhood.  Yet every so often, I am brought back to face my fear of being without purpose in the world, wasting away on house cleaning, and menial tasks, and a generally purposeless existence lost in the day-to-day.  Perhaps it is just the reverberations of my turning a chapter in the age department.  Now 30, I am feeling the pull to, like Jesus, start doing something significant.  And while all my God-given biological make-up points to motherhood, I often slip into doubt, and wonder if there is “something more” that I should be doing with myself. 

A great gift to me on my birthday was a collection of letters compiled by my husband, and written by those I love, answering the question “my best memory of you”.  One of them was written by my father.  His most outstanding memory of me was my talent for the flute, and my giving up that talent “for some inexplicable reason”.  He wrote ”what a shame to not have continued with this outstanding talent.”  I abandoned a serious pursuit of music  half my life ago. But my dad’s words have struck deep, speaking to that inner fear of having no purpose, no “one thing” worth pursuing. Every so often, especially in recent years, my dad has asked me why I quit the flute, and I’ve stuttered to answer.  At first, the question surprised me, then I realized I didn’t fully know the answer.  But now I realize even in my foolish adolescent striving for attention and uniqueness, at 15, I needed to know that my purpose was not defined by what I do, but by who I am. It is no different at 30.  Now entering the third decade of my life, I am under no illusions of so-called talent. But I still want more than anything to have purpose.

Purpose is all around me. My husband has just finished graduate school, and his next project is to publish fiction.  Meanwhile, my 4-year-old son is a super hero fighting for good, who wants to be “a hospital man” when he grows up.  And here I am on the sidelines, cheering them on (while breastfeeding my newborn), yet secretly jelous of their confidence in and certainty of purpose, and all the while questioning my own.

It’s Week 3.  My husband the graduate student is out of touch.  Real life has hit home.  The hormones have plummeted.   I find myself having a very post-partum conversation with my absentee husband as we cross paths at 2am (me on my way out of bed to nurse, him on his way in from studying): “This might be a bad time to tell you that I misread my sylabus and next week’s not my last week.” he says, getting straight to the point as he slides into bed. Silence, followed by this tearful threat from the crazy, needy, sleep-deprived wife:  “If you don’t take tomorrow off, either I will die or one of your children will die.”  Talk about dramatic.  At least by the third child I am not anticipating that my husband tune in between pillow-subdued snores to mysubtle sniffling.  Stunned silence follows.  Then a quick phonecall to the subfinder is made.  Later, he tells me he remembers me to have said ” . . .or our marriage is over,” which I am quite sure I never said, but evidently the emotive message was strongly conveyed.

 After a good sleep - a few hours of childcare relief and breakfast in bed - I don’t feel quite so despairing.  I even take a shower, ridding myself of my really obnoxious nursing-mom BO and sour milk smell, and put on some maternity jeans.  Since it is now one day closer to Friday, I am feeling more optimistic about life.  I might actually live to the weekend.

It’s been a while since we enjoyed a weekend in the company of our family alone, with no other plans, parties, or people. I woke up to Ben cooking breakfast in the kitchen - a hearty protein feast.  Then we went on a family walk in glorious sunshine, and watched Emmanuel and Eden chase eachother round and round the rocks, giggling with sheer delight.  Took a mid-day nap.  Went to the library as a family, and filled up the book box to the brimm, all the while trying to teach Emmanuel the meaning of the word “selective”, which was unsuccessful. But at least we have enough “new” reads to take us through the birth and beyond.  Took an afternoon stroll around the wooden park with Eden, while Ben and Emmanuel went biking in the woods.  Watched Emmanuel ride fearlessly down a hillside at top speed, no training wheels.  Returned home just before dinner to find a Sonic gift card in the mailbox, so we all agreed on condiment-laden burgers and tots for dinner, and sat outside to indulge.  After the kids had tended to our flowers and trees by soaking them with bucket after bucket of water, they were tucked away in bed, and the husband and I dug to the bottom of the book box to find our free library movie selection - and enjoyed a light-hearted viewing of Nacho Libre.  A day with much laughter; the simple pleasures of family nothing can compare.

At 9am the midwife came over yesterday to “stir things up.” At 10, we went on a good, long walk in hopes to get things going. At 12pm, the husband called to say that he had an interview for a job we desperately desired.  At 1pm, I was busy bleaching and starching and ironing interview attire.  At 2pm, we were praying at our prayer corner to Jesus and experimenting with St. Xenia, patron saint of employment.  Emmanuel decided to cover all his bases and “pray for the whole world.”  At 3pm, Eden was flushed with fever, and demanding to be carried around by her very ripe-with-child mother.  At 4:15pm, the husband was interviewing at the High School while mass chaos was ensuing at home; my big boy decided he was also “not feeling well,” and so I was forced to bust out the grape flavored IBUprophen and Lady and The Tramp.  At 5pm, I was cooking in the kitchen inbetween braxton hicks contractions and little cries of “mommy make me feel better.” At 6:30pm the husband returned home . . .success!! And for some reason, just when things were stirred into a fury, peace was restored. 

I really wanted to have an Easter baby.  I thought this would be such a beautiful day to bring forth new life into the world.  The day the lilies shine (my favorite flower); the day of resurrection and joy after long awaited anticipation.  This day came and went. My next choice is Bright Week (the week following Easter).  Birthing a Bright Week baby sounds like a  lovely way to keep the celebration of Easter.  I love the story of the myrrh-bearing women who, after seeing the empty tomb become the first evangelists. Their sorrow turned instantly to joy; their faith fulfilled.  

“Forestalling the dawn, the women came with Mary, and found the stone rolled away from the sepulchre, and heard from the angel: why seek ye among the dead, as though He were a mortal, Him Who liveth in everlasting light? Behold the grave-clothes. Go quickly and proclaim to the world that the Lord is risen and hath slain death. For He is the Son of God Who saveth mankind.”

Alas, today is the last day of Bright Week! Only a few hours remain.  We’ll see if God stirrs my womb today . . .