“Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, “Do it again”; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, “Do it again” to the sun; and every evening, “Do it again” to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.” -GK Chesterton

Early on in my parenting years, when my oldest was about four and her sister was one, I read them the first three Little House books. I had read the series before as a child, but appreciated them so much more as a new mom, with two young children, living frugally on my husband’s teaching salary and the humble amount I brought in doing freelance writing from home. Reading about the simplicity of life on the prairie was simultaneously inspiring and encouraging. If these parents could make such a beautiful life for their children with such humble means, surely we could, too.

It sounds funny perhaps, but I had a lot of parenting revelations while reading these books. I loved the descriptions of food and cooking, the dedication to using as much of their resources as possible to avoid waste. I loved how the children delighted in sitting outside and listening to Pa play the fiddle. And I was also thrilled to learn the Ingalls girls only had one bath per week, which reassured me I wasn’t a bad mom if I didn’t bathe my children daily. 

But there was one facet of life on the prairie that was a major paradigm shift for me: the willingness to repeat. And repeat. And repeat. 

I always had a tendency to turn up my nose at repetition. I think this was pretty typical for most kids growing up in 90s suburbia. Words like “hand-me-downs,” “leftovers,” and “second-hand” were whispered in secret tones, lest anyone find out you had eaten the same thing for lunch on two consecutive days. As a teenager I had a running mental record of which outfit I had worn when, lest I be seen wearing the same thing to church two weekends in a row. 

This aversion to repetition carried into my adult years. I remember feeling immense pressure as a newly married wife and mother to make novel, exotic meals every night, because God forbid I make the same thing twice in a week. I felt my children and I had to have a different outfit for every day of the week, especially for Sundays. I put so much effort into avoiding repetition, without every really thinking about why.

To this day I’m not even sure why. It’s not like my husband pressured me – to my chagrin, he’s perfectly content to eat the same thing for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, day in and day out. I think it was just one of those habits of mind that carried over into my adult psyche, without me even realizing it.  New is just better.

That’s why reading these books was truly a paradigm shift, and it’s a lesson that has resurfaced through the years as my other kids have read them. Just recently, in fact, my son read Farmer Boy. I was reminded that each person in the family had one Sunday outfit. Just one. Father in his black suit, Mother in her merino dress, his sisters in their hoopskirts, all wearing their Sunday best proudly — just like they did the week before, and the week after, and probably until the clothes were unable to be worn any more. 

Funny enough, as much as we parents always want to give our kids the next new thing, young children actually love doing the same thing over and over, as Chesterton notes. I remember years back, we were getting ready for a birthday party. My oldest, who was about nine at the time, was horrified that her younger sister, Sunniva (about age six) was wearing the same dress she had worn to the last birthday party. “Didn’t you wear that dress to the last party?” she said, aghast at even the possibility.

Sunniva gave her the most puzzled look and replied, “Of course I did. It’s my party dress.” 

It’s so simple, right?

Nowadays, novelty is not my area of forte. Instead, I find myself striving to “exult in the monotone,” as Chesterton says. Not a weary or sad monotony, but a life-giving stability, as hinted at in the musical sense of the word — a oneness of tone, a drone underlying all the busy-ness.

I find myself seeking that long, single tone that goes on and on beneath all the ornamentation and harmony (and yes, sometimes the chaos).

And then, the real trick – to have the strength to keep it going and not to tire of its humility.