Hearth and Homeschool

A pile of odds and ends, the leavings of the day, sit at the base of our stairs like a pile of rubble after a domestic avalanche of orphaned shoes, Hot Wheels, and broken pieces of chalk. This is the “go back” pile: the pile of items designated to be returned upstairs after I have whisked them off the floor in a speed clean session inspired by the Tasmanian Devil. 

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If you clicked on this expecting a feel-good piece about God’s graces overflowing, I apologize for the story you’re about to hear. This story is about as unspiritual as it gets. This is a story about a toilet. 

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“Mom, how big am I?” my son bounces on his heels, eagerly awaiting my answer.

“What do you mean, honey?” I ask. I am slow to look up from my reading, so I miss his gesture towards the wall. 

“I mean, how much do I weigh?” he asks. 

“We’ll have to go upstairs and see,” I reply, thinking of the digital scale in my bathroom. 

“NO!” he replies with uncharacteristic force for my usually mellow 5-year-old. “You know,” he says with a meaningful look, and this time I follow where he is pointing.

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One of the first blog posts I ever wrote was an earnest, idealistic piece on the importance of bringing our children to Mass. Several years and four kids later, those sentiments are as obsolete as that first blog. My own words pop into my head and my stomach churns — bloated from years of weekly humble pie.

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Several months ago, I was enveloped in the deep blackness of my autoimmune disorder. I had lived for several years with minimal symptoms following my diagnosis, but this past fall, it sucked me under.

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Our youngest son was the quietest in the womb. “Have you felt the baby move today?” my nurses would ask at our prenatal appointments. “No,” I’d reply, “But that’s not unusual for him.”

That stillness did not last. 

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It’s quiet in the dark, except for the screaming. I hold my one-year-old, skin hot from fever, as he writhes against me. “No, no” he cries, little hands trying to force me away. He wants neither down nor up.  I’m used to being the touch that soothes - a useless gift when everything hurts. 

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I laugh as the line turns pink. Earlier this week, I told my husband that although we had been trying to conceive our second child for a few months, just one week of juggling night school, full-time teaching, and taking care of our 2-year-old daughter had made me reconsider.

I wanted to postpone through this last semester of graduate school. Now, I can only laugh as I unceremoniously hand the test to my husband. His laugh echoes mine as he places his hands on my belly. “Another baby,” he whispers. We lock eyes and the reality of the life inside me takes hold. My narrow plans evaporate, love already blossoming.

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“Mommymommmymommy!” The breathless stringing together of my title is familiar, but the urgency with which my daughter calls is uncharacteristic. Her voice is laced with fear, so I rush into her room. The light of the early morning creeps into her room. It’s not enough to eliminate the darkness, just enough to cast deep shadows. 

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When I open the door and see my mother-in-law standing there, something inside cracks and tears escape down my face. I’m not dressed. Toys and bits of food litter the floor. I’ve been wracked with piercing pain and illness for days. Merely dressing and feeding the children has been a feat; nothing about this environment speaks to my competency as a mother. 

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