So, it's dumb, but we did this. Yay!

Half of me thinks Sensory Bins are stupid. As I’ve written before, kids are exposed to textures and scents etc. just by living life. A Fall sensory bin, for instance, is pointless. If you want your child to see colored leaves, look outside. Take a walk. If you want your child to smell fall spices, bake an apple pie with your child.

The other half of me was positively giddy while I put together this Fall Sensory Bin. I couldn’t wait for the kiddos to wake up from their naps and see it and be curious. As expected, it was the first thing Zuzu asked about when she wandered out. “What’s that?” Is it for ME? she was asking. Can I touch everything in there?

 

I filled the bin first with puffed corn cereal. The little white sacks are cheesecloth pouches. One’s filled with ginger, one nutmeg, and one cloves. There are a couple cinnamon sticks in there and the rest is obvious.

Both children were allowed to taste the puffed corn while the bin was still fresh. After a couple days I retired the bin and the cereal is now in a bag waiting to be fed to ducks.

The bin occupied and brought pleasure to my kids for as long as I hoped and expected it would, however long that was—ten minutes, or twenty? Twenty minutes one day, ten minutes the next? The best part was smelling the cheesecloth and the cinnamon sticks. Ginny and I baked together later in the day and we compared the smell of the spices from the sensory bin to the smell of the spice jars.

It was silly but it was fun.

"NO, Bear!"

Fall. My version of shouting ...

This fall has been freaking amazing. People haven't been shouting it enough. People don't shout anything like that. People should walk out of their doors, look at the trees, and SHOUT "Wow!" And then look for their neighbors, and say, "Did you ever see such beautiful fall colors?" To which the neighbors would exclaim, "It is amazing, isn't it?" And this should happen literally every time we walk out of our doors, because the trees are changing every five minutes. It's like watching time pass ... It's like a fairy tale where something important has to happen and the deadline is when the last leaf falls to the ground. At this point we would be getting nervous because many trees are already empty, and many are only half full, and hardly any are yet green. We've lived in Wisconsin for six years and this is the prettiest fall. Normally, you get some trees that turn bright fall colors, and you eagerly watch for the rest to turn, then one day they're all a stinky rusted brown. Very disappointing. But THIS FALL, all of the trees have, at different times, seemingly caught fire, blazing gorgeous red and yellow. When you drive into the country it is jaw-dropping. And another thing about this fall: great, big, heavy, heaving, gray misty clouds have come, the kind that are layered in the sky, clouds on top of clouds, lovely and interesting to look at. This is appropriate for fall, if you know anything about my opinions of the world. Sunny fall days are beautiful but CLOUDY fall days are woooooonderful. If you set those gray billowy layered clouds in the background, and put in front a bright red tree, a bright yellow tree, and an evergreen, and then start a breeze in motion that wafts a continual  shower of yellow leaves across the scene, well that is Fall, and it's meant to be enjoyed with a cup of something hot and fragrant, and it will make you have philosophical thoughts and feel so inspired and alive. Other seasons are nice but fall is when I feel like I can fly.

I'm glad we skipped naps and got dirty

Somehow we ended up taking a walk through the neighborhood, Zuzu in the wagon, Bear dangling from the Baby Bjorn, well beyond nap time. I had decided I wanted to do a Fall Leaf activity when they woke up. So before putting them down, I told Zuzu I was taking Bear out in the backyard to collect a couple leaves. She became enthusiastic, said she'd come too, and dashed to her bedroom, where she retrieved her quilt. She then went outside and climbed into the wagon.

I was immediately on board with the wagon-and-quilt set up, even though I had really planned to just step outside, pick up one red leaf, one orange leaf, and one yellow leaf, and go back inside. A fall leaf collecting walk with a quilt seemed like a better plan. So I strapped Bear onto my chest and we set off.

We discovered that the leaves this fall didn't turn red, or orange, or yellow. They turned everything all at once. We couldn't stop picking up more. Each leaf was a gorgeous myriad of fall colors, all the reds and oranges and yellows together, along with green and purple. Each time we parked the wagon under a tree that had shed leaves, Zuzu hopped out and we both sought the loveliest leaves and ignored the brown crunchy ones. Then she stored them in the wagon. We soon had armfuls.

Then we came to a tree whose leaves were little bitty. They had turned yellow and fallen in piles. The obvious thing to do was to scoop up handfuls of the little soft leaves and let them fall through my fingers. It was a sunny day and the leaves floated and fluttered through the patchy light in a most beautiful way. "Look Zuzu, it's raining leaves!" I said. She squealed laughter and jumped under the shower of leaves. And for one second I wanted to hold back, to cut her off, to keep things clean. But the next second all I could see was the happiness of the moment. The little leaves, and dirt, and maybe bugs that I scooped up with the leaves landed in her thick golden curls and stayed there. Over and over again I scooped leaves and let them flutter down on my daughter's head and all around her, while she squealed and jumped, her upturned face glowing with joy and fall sunlight. And Bear watched all this, kicking his legs against me with furious glee.

I'm glad we did this. I'm glad we are here, disregarding nap time, getting dirty. Come what may, tired children and leafy hair. Those were my thoughts on that glorious fall afternoon.

I don't even remember if the kids napped or not when we got home, but I think not. We sorted the leaves, a great big pile on the kids' little wooden table in the sunroom, and we admired them, and we praised God for the work of art He performed on each of these leaves, such tiny things in the universe, and my brain hurt with trying to contemplate God's greatness and the fleetingness of life.

Often I look at my darlings, my sweet little girl and baby boy, and the love I feel makes my heart ache, and I think, "I want to keep this." I want this moment forever. Every day I want to be able to watch Zuzu trotting around with her curls bouncing. I want to nurse Bear until his eyes roll back, perfectly content with the world. How do I keep this? How do I hang on?

Most of the stuff we do I won't remember. Most of the stuff Zuzu says I won't remember. (I kind of want to leave a voice recorder running all day long every day so when she grows up I can listen to her adorable two-year-old voice as much as I want.) Most moments are like the leaves that grow and change and fall and turn brown and crunchy, that we walked past without admiring. But sometimes we have moments that become Important, because they are so full of wonder, or happiness, or new understanding, and those are the moments that stay in the memory. So I can't keep Zuzu two years old (she's already hurtling toward her third birthday in November, and I CANNOT slow her down), and I can't keep Bear a baby ("don't walk yet honey please"), but I can collect a few moments, maybe an armful, like dazzling green, purple, red, orange and yellow leaves. Zuzu's upturned face, and little yellow leaves fluttering around her. This was one of the Important moments.

I can't make the moments last, any more than I could save our collection of leaves from getting brown and crunchy by the second day. Time slips through my fingers like the little yellow leaves that fluttered back to the ground. What am I to do, other than to be happy in these moments, to skip naps and get dirty, to admire God's beauty and to praise Him?

A is for Apple; H is for Humbling

I drew two dots on the chalkboard. “Now watch,” I told Zuzu. “I’m going to draw a line connecting those two dots.” I drew the line, and then I drew two more dots. “Now you draw a line connecting those two dots.” She picked up her thick piece of chalk and drew a line just as I had instructed her. The line curved and wiggled a little, but it followed a single path from dot to dot. I congratulated her. We continued this until Zuzu had successfully completed the letter A. I was thrilled, and she was thrilled that I was thrilled. So we decided to do it again. I took the dry paintbrush that serves as our eraser, and brushed the board clean.
    This time, Zuzu’s first line was impressively straight, about as straight as my own chalk lines usually are. After she’d drawn it, she picked up the paintbrush and wiped it out. Then she looked at me and smiled. I cried, “No! Don’t erase it before we’ve finished! Now you’ve got to draw that line over!” This made her hang her head, and her bottom lip came out in a pout. She obediently picked up her chalk and drew the line again, but as she did so, tears welled up in her eyes and flooded onto her cheeks.
    I melted. I scooped her up and told her I was sorry and that she hadn’t done anything wrong. Of course she hadn’t done anything wrong—she doesn’t really understand what letters are yet, so the concept of drawing an A is a bit beyond her. As far as she knew we were just drawing lines and erasing them. She thought I’d be pleased with her erasing like I was with her drawing. Such a small incident, but I know how small things can feel big to tender hearts.
    Being a mother takes energy. It takes energy to chase kids around all day, and to discipline kids, and to play with kids; but the thing that makes me the most tired is the humbling. Coming down off my high horse over and over. Asking a two-year-old for forgiveness. Trying to let each lesson sink in, feeling my heart being molded and shaped and softened. I’m not talking about Mommy Guilt. I’m not—the kind that comes with stress and self-doubt, that shrinks the soul. I’m talking about the simple practice of recognizing and admitting my fault, a practice that makes me kinder, more patient, less self-centered; that enlarges the soul. Afterwards I’m worn out and a bit sore, as though I’d been exercising. Maybe it’s kind of like exercising, where being fit is being humble.
    It is possible, given the frequency of humbling moments in my life, that I may someday be in shape!

“Put on a heart of compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience” Colossians 3:12b