motherhood – Rebecca Jeffries

Caleb and his ABC scripture cards

Ok, again… too long since last post. I promised I’d avoid the POD (Pit of Despair) this summer and I’m happy to report: I DID!!! Another post will outline my strategy for success on this. For now, I have other news.

We’ve spent this summer, Dwayne and I, wrestling with a major decision: What to do about school for the kids???

Our oldest has been getting by with online school, middle had a sad excuse for a fourth grade year, and baby is only 3. Bottom line, we were looking for some good solutions for our kids when it comes to school. Private school is out. Can’t afford tuition, plus our last experience with private school was not too great. Public school, while I have no problem in theory with it, didn’t do the trick for my kids either. Especially Levi struggled mightily this past school year and nothing I tried seemed to work. Nothing major, just barely passing grades and little actual growth. Translate this: 2 frustrating hours of homework every night until somebody or everybody cries and nobody knows what we’re doing wrong. Now that Mackenzie is accepted to NOCCA, meaning we won’t arrive home until 7pm to start the aforementioned homework torture routine, we needed a new direction.

I had a thought, a daring, crazy thought that I knew my husband would immediately reject but I couldn’t keep it out of my mind. So I brought it up.

He didn’t reject it. He thought about it. I thought about it. We prayed about it. We sought advice of trusted friends. We decided to go for it. I’m going to say it really fast so it won’t seem so ca-razy.

I’mhomeschoolingmykidsandstillworkingfulltime.

Oh my gosh, I said it. I know this is taboo so you’ll still be my friend, right? Even if you think I’m nuts? Thanks, I knew you would.

I’ve rearranged my schedule a bit, so I’m up at 5:45am, and by 7:00 the kids and I are doing school core studies. (The bus for public high school stops on our street at 6:45am in case this seems crazy early to anyone.) Roughly three hours later I head to work and then tap out with stepdad who does afternoon reading, driving to field trips, music lessons, P.E. and the drop off at NOCCA where Mackenzie has been accepted as a student of culinary arts. Around 6 I leave work and head to NOCCA to pick up my girl, and we all reconvene at home around 7:00 to have dinner, get baths, and drop into bed. Weekends include some prep time and coaching from my very own homeschool professional, Janet, is in abundance.

Ya’ll, for a while I totally doubted if I could do this. I sought help from various sources, validation really. I asked a homeschool blogger for advice, but got something like “I understand. I work full time AT HOME too.” Hmmm… I know it came from a good heart, but I felt like it meant “NO way can a work OUTside the home mom do this.” But the truth is, it’s doable. Not easy. But possible. Kids who are professional entertainers, missionary kids, and even regular old American families, all homeschool in unconventional ways…so why not us?

Since this IS still the US of A and my school choice for my kids is still my business, I considered keeping quiet about this because I fear the judgemental attitudes of others. However, I’ve had so much fun the past three weeks and so much joy with my kids that I had to share this with ya’ll.

We’ve memorized scripture verses, learned about sea turtles, dolphins and alligators, learned spelling rules and cursive handwriting, analyzed and written our own poems, studied prohibition and Lewis and Clark and more. And this was all during our “trial run” before regular school started. You know, in case we couldn’t handle this schedule we’d still be able to start regular school and keep trying to figure something out. But the trial run only served to prove to me that this CAN work.

I’m looking into my children’s eyes. I’m spending the FIRST and best part of my day concentrating on them, not just the last and most irritable moments. My son has learned more in three weeks than I saw him pick up over the entire second semester of last year. I’ve been able to determine some areas that need attention, ones I didn’t realize were lacking.

Since Levi was a baby, I’ve been haunted by a night when I, against what I KNEW God was telling me in my heart, allowed a doctor to catheterize him. I knew it was unnecessary, but was afraid to go against the doctor’s orders. I never want to feel that way again. It turned out, my “feeling” was right, he was fine and there was no bladder infection. I caused my baby unnecessary pain by being scared to just be his mom. Not anymore. In my heart’s deepest places, I want to give whatever it takes, do whatever it takes to love these babies and introduce them to God and give them a happy life. I know that God will direct me and give me everything I need to do what He wants done for these three amazing creatures He created in my womb. I’m so excited for what we’re doing. Whether we do it for the next year only or for the rest of their school careers, I’m enjoying every minute in this uncharted territory. Maybe it’s a lil’ weird, but I’m cool with that. I’m happy to be mommy to these three, wife to Dwayne and whatever else God asks me to be.

Minivan Mojo

By Rebecca | November 11, 2012 - 5:33 pm | Thoughts Poured Out

1 Comment

I’ve finally got my dream car. It’s a sleek silver seven-seater. My husband is way too cool to drive it, but when I get in it I feel like the coolest, ever. I’ve called her Sylvia.

There’s nothing quite like the feeling of being a minivan mama.

First, there’s the fact that it’s the ideal mode of transportation for children. The seats are just at the right level so that my toddler can get in and I can buckle his seat belt while standing up straight. No longer do I have to lean in and over to wrestle with the buckling two-year-old while my rear end (“trailer” as my daddy would call it) is the only part of me out in the daylight. Try this in a skirt and you’ll go directly to your local minivan dealership. No longer do I have to try to figure a graceful way to back my behind out without hitting my head or falling, readjust the clothing, and look around hoping nobody was watching my show. Sylvia’s got my back (side) and has preserved my dignity many-a time. There’s a veritable playground in there, so I can open the back, toss in the toddler, and load groceries to my heart’s content knowing he’s safe and sound, out of the parking lot… and he thinks it’s the greatest since he got to climb in the back. There is room for several gadgets at once, so the two-year-old, ten-year-old, and teenager can all travel in harmony and comfort. Whether we’re going two blocks or a thousand miles, this does untold wonders for my sanity. Since my minivan is practically a living room in itself, I can climb in with the kids, close and lock the doors and take my time getting everything situated and ready to go.

Second, there’s the thrill of driving the minivan… alone. There are the compartments and pockets and cupholders, all with MY stuff tucked away just the way I want it. I get in, shut the door, start her up, and breathe in the cavernous space behind me. Space. My space. Quiet space. Maybe this isn’t a big deal to you, but I haven’t peed by myself on a regular basis in almost 15 years. I share a bedroom with a guy who likes everything just-so. I’ll often come home and my bedside table will be bereft of the books I’ve been reading or the earrings I stuck on the dresser top so I could grab ’em quick will be back in their hiding place… and he’s a chef so the kitchen isn’t exactly my domain either. But my van… (hear soft music) my van is my space. Drop the last kid off at school and honey, you’ve got a bubble bath on wheels all to yourself for ten whole minutes!! I’ve got napkins, snacks, a change of clothes (for a two-year-old, but still…), magazines, makeup, and a little money all right where I want and need them to be. I’m sorry, Sylvia’s not available for loanership. But I just may invite you in by calling you on my hands-free blue tooth system. Sylvia knows all my friends’ names and numbers and calls them on voice command. I’m not trying to show off, I’m only sharing my shock and awe that I actually figured out how to make her do it. Sylvia’s very discreet and won’t leak a word of our conversation.

Haven’t made a believer out of you yet? Well, don’t discount the minivan’s romance factor. Add a couple of pillows and the right beverages and “parking” takes on a whole new level of luxury. (Also disproves the misconception that married people with kids no longer have fun.) We can steam up windows with the best of ’em. (So what if we don’t leave the driveway?)

Sylvia holds my extra brochures and business cards and keeps the pee-pee accident kit discreetly hidden. Or she’ll proudly display the toys and dirt and roll up to the playground lookin’ like the mommy-mobile extraordinaire, with extra wet-wipes to loan to the mom with the Camry. She’ll seat a business executive and won’t (hopefully) leave an old french fry stuck to his pants. Or she’ll open her doors to six of my girlfriends and become the ride of our lives. Sylvia can serve a family dinner if need be, and even has a kid-watching mirror so I can glimpse mine enjoying ice cream or cheeseburgers or whatever we’ve found to get into.

Maybe it’s silly… but ol’ Sylvia makes me feel like I’m ready for whatever my wonderful life demands of me. I’m thinking about getting a theme song and some loudspeakers… maybe hydraulics….

Maybe not. But it’s still ON like pecan when Sylvia and I get on the road. Grab ya sunglasses and let’s go for a ride!!

Mama’s Peace

By Rebecca | November 5, 2012 - 10:06 pm | Thoughts Poured Out

2 Comments

Her fingers clicked across the keyboard as she typed a few words. Then, just as many times, she tapped the delete key. How to pull some kind of coherent thought from the fragmented bits that swirled incessantly in her head?

Lists. She could make lengthy, detailed lists of all the things she needed to do. She could bullet the bills, errands, library books, phone calls, emails, notes to teachers, and plans to arrange. Grocery lists, menu lists, and birthday gift lists. She could jot forever the undone tasks that haunt her mind at night, keep her from focusing at work, and steal her miniscule lunch break time.

Laments. She could wax poetic about her stress and shortcomings. She could write long complaints about the way things are, and paint wistful pictures of how she wishes they were. She could give in to the longing sob that lurks in the back of her throat at every thought of her mother, father, sister or brother. She could explain why everyone should cooperate with her plans, and expound on the misery that results when they don’t. She could compose a heartbreaking account of betrayal and brokenness, nearly drowning in the sorrow of it all.

Laugh. She could throw up her hands and laugh at her ineptness. She could give in to the cheshire cat smile that would make anyone wonder what she’s up to. She could let out the giggle that erupts instantly at the sight of her two year old boy. She could snort with her ten year old son at words like “fart” and let herself thoroughly enjoy that his presidential candidate choice is based on that candidate’s opinion of McDonald’s. She could roll her eyes with her soon-to-be fifteen year old daughter and enjoy the inside jokes just the two of them share. She could send her husband a steamy, silly text message and wait with baited breath for his reaction.

Love. She could let herself feel the painful tidal wave of love that threatens to burst her heart each time she kisses her children goodnight or good morning or goodbye. She could plan an unforgettable birthday celebration for the husband whose love overtook her life. She could try… just try to love that someone she just can’t stand. She could bake something, write something, give something to try to show her adoration for those friends that see her through the best and worst. She could mail something to her mom and dad, Fedex something to her sister, fix up the guest room for when her brother comes to stay. She could forget the remark, overlook the mistake, let go of the offense. She could remember a name, remember to hug, remember to look an old person in the eye. She could let the tears fall because she knows no way to contain her affection for a God who loved her first.

Her chest heaved a sigh and she did the thing she hadn’t yet dared to consider…

She let go. She let go of it all and let it fade with the daylight. She loosened her grip and let the load she’s carrying settle into a pile that will still be waiting for her in the morning. She dropped the notion of perfection and propped her feet up on the ottoman of “good enough.” She popped the top of something cold and slipped into a tub of something warm. She kicked back and let Jesus take the storm of wife, and mother, and professional, and writer, and sister, and daughter, and friend, and citizen, and believer, and somehow bring about….

Peace

Femininity Forgotten? (A lesson in alliteration)

By Rebecca | May 2, 2012 - 11:48 pm | Thoughts Poured Out

3 Comments

Somewhere in the avalanche of my life it’s here. Maybe I lost it in the piles of practical shoes in the bottom of my closet. Maybe I left it at the security checkpoint in the airport, or the self-checkout line at Winn Dixie. Perhaps I dropped it as I ran to catch my two year old boy, or maybe it fell out the window as my car whipped around the corner just in time to get my nine year old to school. It could be under the papers on my desk, or maybe I forgot to save it on my computer. It’s probably beneath that baby weight I still haven’t lost, or lying beneath the mountain of ideas and thoughts labeled “save for later” that I keep in the back of my mind.

It’s my femininity. My mystique. My girly, giggly, high-heel-shoe-loving, red-nail-polish-painting, hot-tea-and-honey-drinking femininity. The part of me that sleeps in lace and shaves her legs every day. That little itch to go shopping, try on clothes at leisure, make cupcakes and light candles.

I’m not sure exactly when or where, but at some point I let my femininity slide to the back burner. It’s always there, mind you. I’m not saying I’ve been less feminine. I guess I’ve just been allowing my femininity to manifest itself in a different, less desirable way. More fussing than flirting. More lamenting than laughing. More stress than sweetness. More stomp than sashay.

Aw, sure I have plenty of reasons why. Plenty of excuses about time crunches, weariness, stress, money worries, and crazy schedules. But all that never seems to go away. There’s really no reason I should stop enjoying the gift of being a woman. It may mean making time for the fru-fru, or stopping to smell the roses—literally. But whatever it takes, there must be some prettiness preserved, some girly-ness glorified in my day to day existence.

It’s odd, I let the fun part of femininity fall by the wayside during times of overload and stress, but that fun femininity may be the very thing that relieves or at least makes the chaos more enjoyable! Really, what stress can’t be lessened by a bubble bath or a pedicure (or both)? If I must rush out the door, wouldn’t I rather do so in a cute pair of shoes? Is there any outlook that isn’t improved by the right lip gloss or a spritz of my favorite scent? Why not write my to-do list in pink ink? Why can’t the practical be enhanced by the pretty, the everyday be shrouded in just a bit of mystique? Why not trim the trials in a little lace?

God made me a female and I’m glad He did. I just sometimes let the pressures crowd out the pleasures when it comes to being a woman. So this is a reminder for me, and any others out there who may need to recall the fact that being a girl is glorious, femininity is fabulous, womanhood wonderful. My femininity isn’t exactly something that can be forgotten. But it can be flattened a little if I let it.

And I don’t want that. I want the sugar and spice, swirl-around skirts, patent leather pumps, and polka dotted purses. I’m glad I know what cucumber water is, and how to keep mascara from clumping. I’m glad I can be sincerely grateful to God for gel nail polish and purse-sized hand sanitizer. So bring it on, crazy life! I’ve got laughter and love, lotion and lipstick. I’m female, and THAT is FUN!!

Can’t Do That In Heels!

By Rebecca | February 1, 2012 - 10:59 pm | Thoughts Poured Out

2 Comments

This morning I was all dressed and ready for work. I had on what I call a “sophisticated businesswoman costume” complete with a cute pair of heels. I was checking on the dog, helping my oldest with her vocabulary, and packing a lunch when I heard a ringing sound. I looked up to find that my toddler had my phone in his hand and was making a call. I took a step toward him so that I could grab the phone and avoid disturbing who knows who from my contact list, but as slippery toddlers tend to do, he ran.

Funny how little legs can move so quickly. Not so funny how I couldn’t keep up with him. I tapped and clopped after him in my high heels, doing my best not to slip on the tile floor and end up in the emergency room. Guess what? High heel shoes aren’t made for chasing speedy little boys with impish grins and ringing cell phones in their hands.

Caleb giggled and I kept tapping and clopping, feeling larger and more clumsy with every step. Around the dining table we went, through the kitchen and into the next room where big sister was working on vocabulary. Mackenzie stuck out her hand and helped me catch Caleb and I snatched away the phone. We discovered then with a sigh of relief that he was calling his big sister. We disconnected the call and I proceeded to finish the morning craziness, inching ever closer to tears. With a few minutes left before time to leave and a few things left to accomplish, I kicked off the heels so I could function as mom. And function I did, as I started the dryer, put on some makeup, fixed breakfast, and then, in my last act of motherly bravado, changed the poopy diaper that appeared at the exact moment I should have been walking out the door.

I stepped back into the heels, grabbed all the necessary stuff, loaded the car and backed down the driveway with a sigh. My heart is always heavy as I end my mommy time and start my professional businesswoman time. Did I do what I should? Was I too crabby? Will they remember how much I love them? Did I forget the cookie dough fundraiser? When will I get around to hemming his pants? Do I have enough diapers?

Tonight, after everyone was in bed, I realized as I squeezed out the last of my contact solution that I forgot, again, to pick up more today. I also forgot to get the alka seltzer I like to keep on hand, and the orange soda Mackenzie needs for a science experiment. There are some documents in my purse that need to be scanned and emailed. They’ve been there 4 days now. So I’m letting the tears flow at this point. Sometimes I have to let the spinning plates drop and just cry over my inability to do it all. Sometimes I have to nurse the blisters that pop up from trying to chase tiny boys while wearing high heel shoes.

Maybe I’ll invent a pair of perfect shoes. Ones that look sophisticated and gorgeous, but have traction for running after two-year-olds, with comfort that makes standing in the grocery store line a pleasure, and of course they’ll match every outfit.

But there is no such perfect shoe, just like there’s no such perfect me. It’s impossible. What I’ll do is keep living my life, keep loving my kids, keep working hard, keep learning and growing and chasing, and make the best of the times when I just plain have on the wrong shoes.

And I’ll keep smiling. I CAN do that in high heels!

Tag Archives: motherhood

Pig Lips

Uncharted Territory

Minivan Mojo

Mama’s Peace

Femininity Forgotten? (A lesson in alliteration)

Can’t Do That In Heels!

Recent Outpouring

Recent Dialogue

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