How did my mother...

get anything done? I am starting to think the "playpen" was where we spent a good part of our day. She stayed home but there was no microwave, clothes were cleaned in a ringer washer (for a time) and hung on the line, food was grown and canned, many things got done. The clutter, while there, was no where near what it is in our house. Perhaps I'm remembering poorly but all I can recall is lots of kids and lots of noise and fun. Inside, outside, all sides.

So, kudos to my mom! I'm not all that. I'm not a retro-mom. I am homeschooling and I cook dinner most days of the week and I try to spend time with my little people. I don't do everything I should. Cloth diapers aren't fitting into the schedule right now. Some days I spend more time on here than with them and, for that, I am regretful.

Lately, though, I'm trying to consciously be with my kids more and live less in cyber-world. Once in a while, I take a few minutes to really appreciate the wonder of God's creation. Like, at 4 months old, my son's foot is exactly as long as my index finger.

At retreat, a recent "mother of five" passed along this poem to me. I had never seen the first two stanzas and now it makes much more sense. I like it. It's my new theme song ;0)

Song for a Fifth Child by Ruth Hulburt Hamilton (1921- )

Mother, oh mother, come shake out your cloth!
Empty the dustpan, poison the moth,
Hang out the washing and butter the bread,
Sew on a button and make up a bed.
Where is the mother whose house is so shocking?
She's up in the nursery, blissfully rocking!

Oh, I've grown as shiftless as Little Boy Blue
(Lullaby, rockabye, lullaby, loo).
Dishes are waiting and bills are past due
(Pat-a-cake, darling, and peek, peekaboo).
The shopping's not done and there's nothing for stew
And out in the yard there's a hullabaloo
But I'm playing Kanga and this is my Roo.
Look! Aren't her eyes the most wonderful hue?
(Lullaby, rockaby, lullaby loo.)

Oh, cleaning and scrubbing will wait till tomorrow,
But children grow up, as I've learned to my sorrow.
So quiet down, cobwebs. Dust, go to sleep.
I'm rocking my baby. Babies don't keep.