That is one awesome-looking word. From now on, this is the term for school chaos, which encapsulates a typical morning at the Helmeschool perfectly.
I sit down at the head of the table, kicking Abel out of the comfortable chair, and pull my school cart closer so that I can be supremely lazy and not have to budge to grab anything for some time.
My coffee and my hardly-drunk water glass are just beyond my perpetually half-filled-out homeschool planner, just within the reach of kid binders which are shoved and pivoted at unexpected times just so that near-spills can occur often and gasp-inducingly.
Toni begins her morning pilgrimage from the living room, crawling toward me through the detritus on the kitchen floor crying piteously and assailing my fragile eardrums, which have already been under attack for some time by four other children who are simultaneously asking me to read them the instructions on their Little People workbook, correct their paragraph on Desert Tarantulas, explain why 4,569 x 5, to their reckoning, equals 5,678,978,875 and why would that be because they did it all right! and whether they can skip cleaning their (filthy) room today, just for once.
Oh, the eardrums. They’re actually physically quivering under this auditory assault.
My kindergarten scholar loves her new workbooks and her pencil case.
I feel lucky to be drawing a model of a cell with two actually interested kids.(We love the Golgi bodies especially. Their ridiculous name and curved pancake appearance makes them easy to appreciate.)
My house looks like a picture from Worse Homes and Gardens; the fridge is a masterpiece of randomly placed greasy handprints, my faux leather couches are wearing at an exponential rate, every horizontal and vertical surface in this place is covered with germs, grease, crumbs, and spiders caught guiltily wrapping up their latest kill.
The dishes and the laundry are never done. I tidy the homeschool room and kitchen after all of school and breakfast and lunch are done and the next snacky kid undoes the whole thing in an effort of admirable catastrophic efficiency.
Yesterday I was discouraged enough to moan all date long about this to Jarret; today I feel positively positive, as the sunshine warms my arm through the open patio door and the sound of kids playing somewhere outside wafts in with a bit of coolness, a fly, and a grasshopper or two.
I’m in the middle of For the Love, by Jen Hatmaker, and it’s having a nice, gracious effect on my soul right now. Our houses and kids and ourselves don’t have to be perfect! Duh! How much of my life is frequently ruined by forgetting this pivotal truth? Seriously. None of this is that huge of a deal.