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! 
 When we exhausted our possibilities at the museum, the rain wasn’t falling so we headed for the park. Of course it immediately rained, and then it didn’t rain, and so on.  It even rumble thundered here and there. We just kept right on playing with the kids. We eventually put on our bathing suits and joined the kids in the spray ground. Dana led some serious leaping and darting and ducking under and over water spouts. Right there in the middle of town, we were screaming and squealing and laughing. The kids weaved in and out of poles and spouts and benches with bikes and riding devices. We played our hearts out. All of us. Finally, we gathered our piles and lugged them back to the cars to head home for some rest.

 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.


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