February 14, 2012

7 lovely things

February 14, 2012/ molly balint

Good morning and Happy Valentine's my friends. Oh, I missed this place. I'm completely procrastinating on things like laundry and school work and showers and a huge mess in the kitchen from pink chocolate chips pancakes. But, it's been too long. So, hello. How about a list this morning, shall we?

1. I cashed in on my Christmas present this past weekend. A girls weekend away with two of my bestest cousins. We had grand plans of doing important things like historical tours and traditional working-farm visits--but it happily and comfortably turned into lounging and knitting in hotel rooms, long dinners out and antique shopping. It was perfect. And while, you know, I fought that mama-guilt about being away, it was such a good weekend. So so good. I have made it official that my husband can give me the same gift every year.

2. Do you see this aisle of goodness I stumbled upon in the very back of one shop? I may have had trembling hands when I took this picture.

3. First tractor-driving lessons with her great uncle. The report is that she's a pro and only stalled it out once. Learning to drive a tractor is on my to-do list. I think she just beat me to it. When asked if she wanted to trade in her pony for a tractor, we only got a roll of the pre-teen eyeballs.

4. My new favorite and also perfect Valentine's listening: Us & Our Daughters (with a hat tip to my music soulmate. You know who you are.) On their site they share that last year was a tough year for them and their love. But they took to songwriting as their therapy. It pulled them through and this album is the fruit of that time. It's beautiful.

5. Some love of the 4-hooved variety.

6. This knitted lovely is going in the queue.

7. Some love it's good to remember.

xo.

Molly

September 27, 2011

farriers & angels

September 27, 2011/ molly balint

When Ariel came under our care one of the first things we had to tackle was dealing with some of her drastic weight loss. We'd come to find out that she had Lymes Disease (ironically, so did Emma. Doubly ironic, they're on the same antibiotic), and another illness called Cushings Syndrome that was pretty rare for a pony of her age.

So every day, along with her grain she gets 40 pills to deal with the Lymes (Aren't you glad you don't take pony-doses of medicine??!) and a liquid medicine by mouth. And I watch in awe as Emma administers it. Slipping an arm over her head, reaching her finger in her mouth to pull out any grass or hay and squeezing in a dose of medicine, that the pony hates. I don't get involved, because if I did, Ariel would know something was up. It's better to keep things calm and relaxed so she doesn't get worked up.

And now the improvements in Ariel are really starting to show up. She's losing her bony look, there's even the bulge of some muscle in her back end, and we can tell--by the new spunky side she's showing--that she's feeling better, too.

Last week, Ariel had her first farrier visit here at our house. Brooke, who, along with her husband, is the farrier at the barn where Emma rides, Ariel's temporary home before she moved here--showed up to take care of Ariel's hooves.

It's a pretty neat process to watch.

And Brooke's encouragement about Ariel's progress and how she just "looked happy and content" is always good to hear.

It's funny, through the big decision of taking Ariel and the learning curve (mostly mine) of having a pony under our care, I have felt more than ever that so many people are on our side. That people are rooting for us, helping us, supporting us.

Last week, I got an email about Ariel's vet bill. The bill was a doozy. A horse-sized bill that makes one sputter and gasp just a bit. But I also knew this was part of the package. In that email I found out an "anonymous angel", who read my blog post about bringing Ariel to our home, had covered almost all of the bill. People are amazing.

God is good.

I just keep thinking for all the years of wishing and wanting and hoping that went on before Ariel was even a possibility, that patience and trust really pay off. When I get anxious about things, or want to force them to happen, my husband often reminds me to take the approach of waiting and knowing that the right doors will open. At the right time. We could have forced this pony thing to happen, or the fencing, years ago.

But we didn't.

And when the right door opened, there we were with open arms, ready to answer.

September 11, 2011

the new calm

September 11, 2011/ molly balint

Last Tuesday marked the Offical First Day of homeschool for us.

I love the start of a new school year in the same way I love January first. The fresh start. Time to make new plans, new resolutions. Time to get organized and simplify. (An excuse to buy a new calendar, moleskine and favorite pens .)

But last Monday, as the "first day of school" loomed ever closer, I was a crazed madwoman. I felt this pressure to have everything in place before the Big First Day. I needed every detail worked out and decided. I needed to have every paper copied, every hole punched, every note read.

On top of that, I needed my house to be perfect. Clutter gone. Floors mopped. Floorboards wiped. Closets cleaned out. Every speck of laundry washed, folded and put away. (that never happens.) One would think I was preparing for a real estate open house, or perhaps, to have the queen for tea. A tea in which she also happened to open every closet door and inspect under my bed.

No, silly, it's just the first day of school.

I don't know where it was coming from, but there it was--a suffocating feeling that this was my last chance to get everything together. That if it wasn't done by bedtime Monday, it was doomed to never be accomplished. Ever. Apparently my life, as well as my ability to accomplish any mothering task outside of the classroom was somehow going to cease the moment I slipped back into my teacher-mama clothes.

But then, hallelujah, in a moment, sitting on the edge of the tub watching a chubby baby splash carelessly in the bubbles, it struck me. That this craziness was nonsense. Big time. That I needed to move forward at my own pace. That I needed to find MY rhythm. Our rhythm.

I've often heard it said (okay, really only once, but I remember it often) that when a person starts their own business they must prepare themselves for the fact that it takes a good five years before they really have their feet under them.

And I've always found myself applying the same logic to homeschooling.

Last year, I wholeheartedly jumped in to a curriculum that was going to give me the structure and discpline that I felt our days so desperately needed. I wanted someone to tell me exactly what to do. I wanted a plan and a vision. I wanted to get on a path and systematically walk my way down it.

This year because of budget and because of the way that path seemed to go up a really steep hill at the end, and we got really tired and burned out, I decided to bag it.

Instead, I consulted a good friend who knew me and my children and my needs pretty well. And who also happened to be educated and gifted in curriculum design.

And late one night I sat in her little school room, at a tiny little kid-desk, and together we hammered out my year and figured out what seemed to fit just right.

But what fits even more, is the sentiment behind everything we're doing. It's the new calm.

That first day, we just jumped in. Instead of feeling the tug of the clock, we tackled bedrooms and laundry before we opened any books. It felt good to work to the hum of the washing machine running upstairs. And the sloshing of the dishwasher from the pantry. Instead of feeling the push to tackle lessons in every subject, I just let it be. We did Math, until Math was done. We read, until we didn't want to read anymore. When we got hungry, we ate. When it seemed like a good time to go check the pony, she did. When there was an itch to practice piano, we scratched.

It's funny, how much we got accomplished. How nice the day felt. How good it is let go. How comfortable it is to seek out our rhythm versus some contrived and conceived pressure from who knows where.

If only I would learn this lesson I apparently need to learn multiple times in this parenting journey. That so much of this happens naturally. We don't have to work so hard at it. Yes, it's work. But we're doing it. Naturally. There's goodness and learning and priceless, indespensable moments and experiences happening in every single day. Homeschool mom. Public school mom. Private school mom. It doesn't matter. It's happening for all of us.

It's the trusting enough to let go. It's the freedom to find your own rhythm. It's the new calm. It blows through every day, if we'll only take a moment to feel it brush against our cheek.

September 06, 2011

joy in the sorrow

September 06, 2011/ molly balint

Last May, I shared about the passing of my friend and neighbor, Sarah.

But one thing I didn't tell you in that story was my last "conversation" with Sarah before she died.

Just days before, she sent me several messages through twitter (of all places) curious to know if we had any interest in her pony, Ariel.

If you've been reading this blog long enough, you'll know that my daughter Emma is a horse girl. From her depths, the girl loves horses. Childhood "passions" come and go, but Emma's love of horses has only grown deeper roots in her little heart.

She has been riding and taking lessons since we moved back to Maryland. I watch this video of her, four years ago and I am reminded that she has been waiting for "a pony of her own" for quite a long time.

But a pony is no small commitment. If I had a dollar for every time I answered the question, "When do you think I'll be ready for a pony of my own?", I'd have enough dollars for seven ponies by now. Aside from being old enough for a pony, or having enough know-how, the big, glaring issue was right outside my kitchen window.

A farm with no fencing.

You can ask any of my close friends to know that I've been trying to figure out ways to get this little farm of ours started, to find the money in our squeezed-tight budget for fencing. (It is SO expensive!) Should I do something on kickstarter? Should I get a job? Should I make stuff and sell it on etsy?

Meanwhile, I'm telling my anxious daughter that some day the time will be right. Pray, I say. God knows your heart. And He already knows the perfect pony for you. And He knows when the time will be right.

I often needed to remind myself of the same things.

When Sarah sent me those series of messages, asking if we were interested, something jumped in my heart.

Little did she know, that many of our errands brought us driving right past her house. That Emma would often get quiet in the back seat, hiding her tears--not just for a pony, but for Ariel. "She's the perfect pony for me. I don't think they have anyone riding her right now. Do you think they'd ever sell her?" And I'd give her my same words of wisdom, which by now she could probably recite to me by heart. Pray. Wait. When the time is right....

That morning, when Sarah asked me, I immediately got on the phone with Dan. Teary, nervous. I had no idea that Sarah was just days from the end of her fight, but I knew this was one of those things she needed to settle.

Dan simply said, "Tell her yes. We'll just have to figure the rest out."

We didn't tell Emma anything. The heartbreak if anything fell through would have been horrible.

The man who owns the barn where Emma has been riding for the last several years said to bring Ariel there. She could stay until we were ready. For free. A gift.

But for a handful, Emma spent every morning this summer at the barn--taking care of Ariel, learning from the wonderful people who work and board their horses there, from my stepmother, who has taught her everything she knows.

Eventually, with all this planning and fussing, she began to put the pieces together.

"Is Ariel going to be mine?"

Finally, last week, in the middle of the aftermath of Hurricane Irene, Ariel arrived home.

By perfect timing (and God'd faithfulness to Emma's prayers, I believe) we found the funds for fencing. While we were in Virginia, a team of Amishmen descended on our farm and installed it.

Everything has come together. The timing is finally right.

And there, in the midst of the sorrow of losing Sarah, is the big, bright glow of joy. She's sitting bareback on a pony grazing in my back yard.

June 21, 2011

for the ones you love

June 21, 2011/ molly balint

Last weekend, while I was in Bellport, I got some hard family news. My brother found out that he had melanoma on his cheek. A tiny, almost insignificant spot, smaller than the end of a pencil eraser. The first thing my sister and mother said to me was "Don't google it." For many people, the outlook with this type of cancer is grim.

The news really threw me for a loop. Surrounded by family that weekend and trying to digest what I was hearing, the fear of the unknown, really put a heaviness in my heart. I fought back tears the whole weekend and into the coming week.

Surgery was scheduled for last week and then the waiting game began as we all waited to hear if the cancer had spread to the lymph nodes that they also removed.

When my mother called me on Friday, she was crying. But it was tears of relief. God is good. It did not spread. The doctor was confident he removed all the melanoma. Radiation will follow, but mostly as a precautionary measure.

Last week, I made an appointment to see a dermatologist. I carry the "red hair gene" which makes me 4x more likely to get melanoma.

One bad sunburn before the age of 18, doubles your chances. I've had a few of those.

I write this post today, not to scare or be overly dramatic but mostly because I wanted to share. And I wanted to share a video that my brother's wife sent to me. Please take a moment to watch it for me. Follow the links, and stay informed, for all the ones you love.