Helicopter Parenting, Grandma’s Attic, For Real Farm To Table, and Exit Options
Confession: My sweet friend Dana and I did some serious helicopter parenting today. Between the two of us, we have eight children. We’d planned a bunch of play time at the local springs today, but the weather wasn’t cooperating, so we hit up our local history museum for some sweet air condition and indoor play on a gray day.
The museum has a “grandma’s attic” area packed with great dress up clothes. We rummaged through crazy outfits and dressed up with the kids and pretended to go back in time with them. I’m talking not even a slight hover. We actually got in between them! We had quite the time pretending to step back around the corner of time and act like we were somewhere between Little House on the Prairie and Woodstock.
Dana isn't pregnant. That is a bunt cake pan!
After a bit of a reading and rest, George came home from work and was ready to start processing our pigs that have reaching processing age. It’s always hard. It catches us in the belly and the heart and the head. We prepare, but then it still is a punch in the gut. The kids are awesome helpful. They grab supplies and bring drinks to daddy and give moral support. That’s all I have to offer George – moral support. I can’t stomach much more than that (that is until it is processed!) He is such a hero. He sticks with it. Patience and perseverance. He was drenched in sweat from head to toe with slow, tedious work. That’s exactly what processing meat is.
Processing. Aren’t we all? I find myself wondering if I’m somewhere that someone might open fire. And it they did, what would I do? Would I run? Would I fight? Would I protect? I realized I was looking for exits. I’m thinking through what’s the best option. Moving targets are hard to hit, but visible. Is hiding the right move? I think I’ve decided that getting out is key, but it might not even be an option. Would I want to save the life of a perfect stranger or protect my own for my family? Then the question arises. . . Will I carry a gun? I don’t want to. I really really don’t. But, is it foolish not too? So if I don’t, do I need to take a self-defense class and always be on the look out for what my exit strategy will be?
I pray that I can raise my children safely. I want to take them bowling and to museums and to parks and to the grocery and the library and have confidence that I’m not marching my kids into danger.
I don’t want to live in fear, but I don’t want to pretend we live in Candy Land either. So, in the meantime, I’m loving and living and helicoptering and praying for every heart to be at peace and find rest so that we can all play like we are in “Grandma’s Attic” and love this awesome life we live.