We are a homeschooling family of six living on a 2.5 acre farm with our eleven hens, three turkeys and one overly confident west highland terrier. The noise level in our home is indescribable. The amount of laundry is harrowing. Our mudroom lives up to its name. I am an admitted book addict and anglophile. I love tea, gardening, chocolate, novels, tropical fruit and going to the bathroom by myself.
My husband and I met in the Windy City. We fell in love writing letters (as in actual snail mail) back and forth between Chicago and the rural mountains of Honduras. He is an engineer, musician, writer and knows how to rock one heckuva farmer’s tan! We were married on the coast of Florida and proceeded to have four boys in five years.
Those four all-American boys possess the explosive ancestral cocktail of Cuban, Russian and Sicilian cultures.
When the first two were born, strangers would ask, “Are you the Nanny?”
When the last two were born, strangers (and some family members) would ask, “Are you crazy?”
I was boy-crazy growing up. Technically, I still am, just in an entirely different way. As a young girl, I spent every Sunday chasing two little boys around the churchyard trying to steal kisses. (Sorry, Danny and Danny!) The majority of my friends, during those formative girlhood years, were male. I spent my recess hours catching lizards and playing in the dirt. I loved climbing my Abuelo’s tree and eating mangos right off the branch. I was exceptionally gifted in the art of torturing my non-tomboy younger sister.
No bug was too gross to catch. No tree too tall to climb. If you told me “boys only” you were issuing a direct challenge.
And so the Lord blitzed my life with boys and chickens.
Legos on the floor.
Jam on the tabletops.
An assortment of broken arrows, lightsabers and wooden swords have a permanent living space in the linen closet.
The bathroom is in a permanent state of “Oh God, what is that smell?”
Someone is always inventing something around here.
I have a vase by the sink that never lacks a bouquet of weeds from the yard, roots still attached, lovingly gifted by a wide-eyed, dirt-streaked little boy.
I am thankful for my husband, who puts Jesus first, loves us with a forgiving heart, and always asks, “What can I do to help you?” the minute he walks in the door.
I have been promoted from boy-crazy tomboy to Mama Hen in this farm boy realm of tender sweetness and untrained circus-quality chaos.
Welcome to Farmhouse Schoolhouse!