Debbie Harbeson has written a light-hearted PDF book about her seemingly insane decision to choose homeschooling. For a refreshing change from the ever-increasing commercialization of homeschooling, you can read this book for free!
As an introduction to the book, Debbie writes: "This is what happens to you, when you purposely allow your children to skip school to learn at home... and it's a riot!"
Sunday, January 30, 2005
Celebrity Homeschooling...
From this site:
Hollywood couple WILL and JADA PINKETT SMITH have decided to homeschool their children, because they're unimpressed with America's educational system.
The ALI co-stars have six-year-old son JADEN, daughter WILLOW, four, TREY, 12, Will's son from his first marriage and Will's nephew KYLE, 15, in their care. And all children but Trey are currently homeschooled.
Jada tells ESSENCE magazine, "(They are homeschooled) for flexibility, so they can stay with us when we travel, and also because the school system in this country - public and private is designed for the industrial age.
"We're in a technological age. We don't want our kids to memorise. We want them to learn."
Hollywood couple WILL and JADA PINKETT SMITH have decided to homeschool their children, because they're unimpressed with America's educational system.
The ALI co-stars have six-year-old son JADEN, daughter WILLOW, four, TREY, 12, Will's son from his first marriage and Will's nephew KYLE, 15, in their care. And all children but Trey are currently homeschooled.
Jada tells ESSENCE magazine, "(They are homeschooled) for flexibility, so they can stay with us when we travel, and also because the school system in this country - public and private is designed for the industrial age.
"We're in a technological age. We don't want our kids to memorise. We want them to learn."
The Drama King
"I don't want to act. I'll be embarrassed."
We were on our way to the drama club/birthday party of a fellow homeschooler when Monet, my nine-year-old son told me how he felt. While this didn't surprise me, I figured he'd get over it pretty quickly.
He didn't.
While his five-year-old sister, Sweetheart was changing clothes seven or eight times in an effort to find the "fanciest" outfit she could find, Monet was trying to figure out how to get through to me that he just didn't want to go.
I understand how he feels. He hates being the center of attention and is very easily embarrassed. He's the person in the family who always thinks he's being ridiculed, even when no one's talking about him.
The reason we call him Monet, after all, is because he's an artist. He's happiest sitting in a corner with a pencil and a sketchbook, inventing and creating beings, machines and stories that very few people could even begin to imagine. I suppose we really should have dubbed him Leonardo. Most of his drawings involve elaborate labratories or spy centers with detailed environments and Rube Goldberg type contraptions. At nine, he still sucks his thumb and can often be found curled up with his dog, his thumb in his mouth, inventing some new idea or storyline.
I was braiding Sweetheart's hair when Monet came in and made his announcement.
"I don't want to act. I don't want to be in the play. Everyone will laugh at me." My first reaction was, "Oh, don't be silly," but then I realized that he was serious. "Just watch, then," I told him. I could tell from his reaction that he was torn. I could see that he wasn't even sure he wanted to go.
When we arrived at the location of the birthday party/drama club meeting, Sweetheart was lamenting the fact that her braids were undone and her hair was a mess. She was practically a basket case. Monet was dragging along behind. Houdin was all over it, a natural performer. As we stood at the door of the library, Monet hung behind.
"I really don't want to act," he said. "I don't want to be in the play at all." I could tell, then, that he didn't just have cold feet. This was really worrying him.
I'm sad to say that I hadn't had a very good day. We were already about an hour late to the party and I was feeling disorganized and frustrated. I wasn't in the patient homeschooler mode that I should have been.
Or maybe I did just the right thing.
"Let's just go in. I can't stand out here in the cold, and we're already late. Just go."
I was surprised to see how many kids were there. And I was pleased by the set-up of the activity. A stage on one end of the room, chairs set up for all of the parents to watch the performance when we would return after about two hours of their rehearsing--they were even videotaping the whole thing. The guest-of-honor's mother, Jen, greeted us warmly.
"I'm so glad you could come! I was worried that you couldn't make it!" I grunted some response, bad day, frustrated, couldn't get moving. The standard.
"I understand," she said, and motioned the kids toward the stage.
"We just finished our first warm-up game. You really didn't miss too much. Come on up on stage, kids!"
The birthday girl came running, hugged sweetheart zealously, and pulled her onto the stage, shouting over her shoulder, "Come on, Monet!"
Monet stood still.
He looked at me pleadingly, "Please, Mom. I don't want to do it. I'll be embarrassed. People will laugh at me."
"Well," I reasoned, "that's fine, but everyone else is on stage. Do you think you'd be more embarrassed being on stage with everyone else, or being the only one sitting here, not participating?" It sounded like the perfect motivation.
(I could insert here how my child gave me some lesson on nonconformity, and how proud I was to be corrected, but that's not what happened. Maybe another blog.)
"I'll just sit and watch," he said.
So I wished Jen luck, kissed Monet on the head, and said goodbye.
When I climbed back into the van, I told Bo, "Monet won't participate. He's embarrassed." While we spent our two hour lag time at Sam's Club, I wondered how Monet was doing.
Since we operate on Parent Standard Time, we returned to the performance a couple of minutes late. Monet was on the stage, next to the birthday girl.
He was acting!
And I don't mean that he was just grumbling through his lines. I mean, he was ACTING!
I whipped out the camera. I took several photos. I beamed. I wished that all of the homeschool skeptics could see my son, my precious boy, standing up there acting his heart out, reading his lines as if he'd been rehearsing for a week.
When the play was over, Monet came running to me.
"Did you see me? Did you see me acting? Did you like it? How did I do? Did you notice that part where I said, 'God has been here, like, forever?' Well, the 'like' wasn't in the script! I added that myself! Jen said we should be creative, so I just threw that in! What did you think? Did I do good? That was fun! Can we do it again? Will she have another drama group? I can't wait to be in it! Wow, that was fun!"
I stood there, smiling, amazed. When Monet had run off to have a piece of birthday cake, I asked Jen what happened.
"Well, I basically stuck a script in his hand and told him he had to do it. I didn't give him a choice. At first, he seemed to struggle a little, and I offered to trade him parts, give him something easier, you know? But he said, 'No. I like this guy. This is who I want to be.' So, he sat in a corner and read those lines over and over again until he had them down."
Wow. I was so impressed.
It reminded me of the time that my husband Bo and I were traveling to visit his parents in another state when Bo made a sudden turn off of our regular course.
"What are you doing? Where are we going?" The sun was getting low in the sky, and we had already been running late, running on parent standard time with a toddler (Bard) and a baby (Houdin).
"I want to show you something," he said. What could he possibly want to show me? Did he even know where he was going? We were going to get lost in nowhere land and we were going to be even later to his parents house. I was a bit miffed.
"Just trust me," he said. "I think we can make it on time if we hurry."
After a few wrong turns, and a few desperate pleadings from me to turn back, we stopped in the parking lot of a national park. It looked like your average national park, except for the huge mountain of sand towering in front of us. Bo jumped out of the car, grabbed Bard from her carseat and called behind him, "Hurry up! Let's go!"
"Bo, did you read that sign? The park closes at dusk! It's about that now! What if our car gets locked in?"
He didn't even stop to answer my question. He just started running up the hill of sand.
I grudgingly pulled Baby Houdin from his seat and started walking, then jogging, and then running to catch up with my husband. I was not happy. I don't think I'd run more than four steps since either of my babies were born. But there he went, bounding up this big mountain of sand, and, if I wanted to keep from getting lost, I had to bound up after him.
I was becoming increasingly angry and impatient. I literally felt like I was taking three steps forward and two steps back as my feet slid down the sandy hill with each forward step I made. I was sweating. My legs were aching.
"Where are we GOING???" I yelled.
"Just COME ON!" He yelled back. "I think we can still make it in time!"
"IN TIME FOR WHAT???"
Halfway up the hill, I was about to give up. I saw Bo crest the mountain of sand and stand there for a second, not moving. He set Toddler Bard down and came sliding down towards me, grabbed Baby Houdin from my arms and said,"Run! Come on! Hurry up!"
What in the WORLD was this NUTCASE doing? What could be SO all-fired important?
When I got to the top of hill, panting and out of breath, about to slug my husband in the gut, I could see. I could see just what he wanted me to see.
It was one of the most beautiful sights I'd ever beheld. From the top of this huge sand dune, I could see the perfect sunset, the big ball of glowing orange reflected in the cotton-candy clouds and the blueness that was Lake Michigan. I was breathless, but not from the run up the sand dune. It was simply a breathtaking scene.
I guess sometimes we just have to do the things we don't want to do in order to realize that there is more out there than what we understand, more beauty than what we can imagine.
Sometimes, when we're forced to do something we don't want to do, we get the greatest rewards.
We were on our way to the drama club/birthday party of a fellow homeschooler when Monet, my nine-year-old son told me how he felt. While this didn't surprise me, I figured he'd get over it pretty quickly.
He didn't.
While his five-year-old sister, Sweetheart was changing clothes seven or eight times in an effort to find the "fanciest" outfit she could find, Monet was trying to figure out how to get through to me that he just didn't want to go.
I understand how he feels. He hates being the center of attention and is very easily embarrassed. He's the person in the family who always thinks he's being ridiculed, even when no one's talking about him.
The reason we call him Monet, after all, is because he's an artist. He's happiest sitting in a corner with a pencil and a sketchbook, inventing and creating beings, machines and stories that very few people could even begin to imagine. I suppose we really should have dubbed him Leonardo. Most of his drawings involve elaborate labratories or spy centers with detailed environments and Rube Goldberg type contraptions. At nine, he still sucks his thumb and can often be found curled up with his dog, his thumb in his mouth, inventing some new idea or storyline.
I was braiding Sweetheart's hair when Monet came in and made his announcement.
"I don't want to act. I don't want to be in the play. Everyone will laugh at me." My first reaction was, "Oh, don't be silly," but then I realized that he was serious. "Just watch, then," I told him. I could tell from his reaction that he was torn. I could see that he wasn't even sure he wanted to go.
When we arrived at the location of the birthday party/drama club meeting, Sweetheart was lamenting the fact that her braids were undone and her hair was a mess. She was practically a basket case. Monet was dragging along behind. Houdin was all over it, a natural performer. As we stood at the door of the library, Monet hung behind.
"I really don't want to act," he said. "I don't want to be in the play at all." I could tell, then, that he didn't just have cold feet. This was really worrying him.
I'm sad to say that I hadn't had a very good day. We were already about an hour late to the party and I was feeling disorganized and frustrated. I wasn't in the patient homeschooler mode that I should have been.
Or maybe I did just the right thing.
"Let's just go in. I can't stand out here in the cold, and we're already late. Just go."
I was surprised to see how many kids were there. And I was pleased by the set-up of the activity. A stage on one end of the room, chairs set up for all of the parents to watch the performance when we would return after about two hours of their rehearsing--they were even videotaping the whole thing. The guest-of-honor's mother, Jen, greeted us warmly.
"I'm so glad you could come! I was worried that you couldn't make it!" I grunted some response, bad day, frustrated, couldn't get moving. The standard.
"I understand," she said, and motioned the kids toward the stage.
"We just finished our first warm-up game. You really didn't miss too much. Come on up on stage, kids!"
The birthday girl came running, hugged sweetheart zealously, and pulled her onto the stage, shouting over her shoulder, "Come on, Monet!"
Monet stood still.
He looked at me pleadingly, "Please, Mom. I don't want to do it. I'll be embarrassed. People will laugh at me."
"Well," I reasoned, "that's fine, but everyone else is on stage. Do you think you'd be more embarrassed being on stage with everyone else, or being the only one sitting here, not participating?" It sounded like the perfect motivation.
(I could insert here how my child gave me some lesson on nonconformity, and how proud I was to be corrected, but that's not what happened. Maybe another blog.)
"I'll just sit and watch," he said.
So I wished Jen luck, kissed Monet on the head, and said goodbye.
When I climbed back into the van, I told Bo, "Monet won't participate. He's embarrassed." While we spent our two hour lag time at Sam's Club, I wondered how Monet was doing.
Since we operate on Parent Standard Time, we returned to the performance a couple of minutes late. Monet was on the stage, next to the birthday girl.
He was acting!
And I don't mean that he was just grumbling through his lines. I mean, he was ACTING!
I whipped out the camera. I took several photos. I beamed. I wished that all of the homeschool skeptics could see my son, my precious boy, standing up there acting his heart out, reading his lines as if he'd been rehearsing for a week.
When the play was over, Monet came running to me.
"Did you see me? Did you see me acting? Did you like it? How did I do? Did you notice that part where I said, 'God has been here, like, forever?' Well, the 'like' wasn't in the script! I added that myself! Jen said we should be creative, so I just threw that in! What did you think? Did I do good? That was fun! Can we do it again? Will she have another drama group? I can't wait to be in it! Wow, that was fun!"
I stood there, smiling, amazed. When Monet had run off to have a piece of birthday cake, I asked Jen what happened.
"Well, I basically stuck a script in his hand and told him he had to do it. I didn't give him a choice. At first, he seemed to struggle a little, and I offered to trade him parts, give him something easier, you know? But he said, 'No. I like this guy. This is who I want to be.' So, he sat in a corner and read those lines over and over again until he had them down."
Wow. I was so impressed.
It reminded me of the time that my husband Bo and I were traveling to visit his parents in another state when Bo made a sudden turn off of our regular course.
"What are you doing? Where are we going?" The sun was getting low in the sky, and we had already been running late, running on parent standard time with a toddler (Bard) and a baby (Houdin).
"I want to show you something," he said. What could he possibly want to show me? Did he even know where he was going? We were going to get lost in nowhere land and we were going to be even later to his parents house. I was a bit miffed.
"Just trust me," he said. "I think we can make it on time if we hurry."
After a few wrong turns, and a few desperate pleadings from me to turn back, we stopped in the parking lot of a national park. It looked like your average national park, except for the huge mountain of sand towering in front of us. Bo jumped out of the car, grabbed Bard from her carseat and called behind him, "Hurry up! Let's go!"
"Bo, did you read that sign? The park closes at dusk! It's about that now! What if our car gets locked in?"
He didn't even stop to answer my question. He just started running up the hill of sand.
I grudgingly pulled Baby Houdin from his seat and started walking, then jogging, and then running to catch up with my husband. I was not happy. I don't think I'd run more than four steps since either of my babies were born. But there he went, bounding up this big mountain of sand, and, if I wanted to keep from getting lost, I had to bound up after him.
I was becoming increasingly angry and impatient. I literally felt like I was taking three steps forward and two steps back as my feet slid down the sandy hill with each forward step I made. I was sweating. My legs were aching.
"Where are we GOING???" I yelled.
"Just COME ON!" He yelled back. "I think we can still make it in time!"
"IN TIME FOR WHAT???"
Halfway up the hill, I was about to give up. I saw Bo crest the mountain of sand and stand there for a second, not moving. He set Toddler Bard down and came sliding down towards me, grabbed Baby Houdin from my arms and said,"Run! Come on! Hurry up!"
What in the WORLD was this NUTCASE doing? What could be SO all-fired important?
When I got to the top of hill, panting and out of breath, about to slug my husband in the gut, I could see. I could see just what he wanted me to see.
It was one of the most beautiful sights I'd ever beheld. From the top of this huge sand dune, I could see the perfect sunset, the big ball of glowing orange reflected in the cotton-candy clouds and the blueness that was Lake Michigan. I was breathless, but not from the run up the sand dune. It was simply a breathtaking scene.
I guess sometimes we just have to do the things we don't want to do in order to realize that there is more out there than what we understand, more beauty than what we can imagine.
Sometimes, when we're forced to do something we don't want to do, we get the greatest rewards.
Friday, January 28, 2005
Friday Five: Food Memories
Quiet Life: "From Donna over at Quiet Life, the Friday Five:food memories. List five foods that remind you of home or your childhood."
In no particular order, I reveal my strangeness through my childhood food preferences:
Homemade french fries. These things got me into trouble because, while my mother's back was turned, I would grab the metal spatula and chop the heck out of the deep-frying potatoes. I loved them all crushed and smooshed into tiny pieces with bubbles of fat blobbing out everwhere. My mother never understood why her fries always turned out that way.
Cream cheese. When I was a child, I would come home from school to plop myself in front of the television to indulge in an ABC After School Special or The Little Rascals. I would grab a block of cream cheese, pinch off bits of it and roll them into little balls. These, I would eat with relish. Not real relish...I just mean that I would really enjoy them.
Margarine. As a toddler, probably barely old enough to open the fridge, I would eat whole sticks of margarine. Doesn't that put hair on your tongue??? Now we only have real butter in our house. I don't eat it by the stick, but just about.
Meatloaf. My mother made THE BEST meat loaf. I have tried and tried to duplicate it, but to no avail. I even remember mixing the cold meat, green peppers, onions, eggs and bread crumbs with my own little hands and squirting the ketchup on the top of the formed loaf. How hard could it be? But, alas, meatloaf eludes me.
Fresh fruits and veggies. We always had these in the house, because my mother grew a large garden and we made frequent summer trips to the muck farms where they sold the best, ripest, drippiest plums you'd ever want to eat. I could have lived on fruits and veggies, and for a while I even did. Ah, to have those simple, albeit odd, tastes again.
Thanks for the memories, Donna.
In no particular order, I reveal my strangeness through my childhood food preferences:
Homemade french fries. These things got me into trouble because, while my mother's back was turned, I would grab the metal spatula and chop the heck out of the deep-frying potatoes. I loved them all crushed and smooshed into tiny pieces with bubbles of fat blobbing out everwhere. My mother never understood why her fries always turned out that way.
Cream cheese. When I was a child, I would come home from school to plop myself in front of the television to indulge in an ABC After School Special or The Little Rascals. I would grab a block of cream cheese, pinch off bits of it and roll them into little balls. These, I would eat with relish. Not real relish...I just mean that I would really enjoy them.
Margarine. As a toddler, probably barely old enough to open the fridge, I would eat whole sticks of margarine. Doesn't that put hair on your tongue??? Now we only have real butter in our house. I don't eat it by the stick, but just about.
Meatloaf. My mother made THE BEST meat loaf. I have tried and tried to duplicate it, but to no avail. I even remember mixing the cold meat, green peppers, onions, eggs and bread crumbs with my own little hands and squirting the ketchup on the top of the formed loaf. How hard could it be? But, alas, meatloaf eludes me.
Fresh fruits and veggies. We always had these in the house, because my mother grew a large garden and we made frequent summer trips to the muck farms where they sold the best, ripest, drippiest plums you'd ever want to eat. I could have lived on fruits and veggies, and for a while I even did. Ah, to have those simple, albeit odd, tastes again.
Thanks for the memories, Donna.
The Final Hour: Driving the Amish
Well, here it is. The final hour of my little blogging stunt.
For the last twenty-four hours, I've been attempting to blog whatever happened to come my way. It's been a lot of fun, and I'm still not finished because I have pictures to upload and a few more stories to tell.
But I'll fill you in on my morning so far.
After waking to remember The Baby's moment of birth, I very reluctantly dragged my butt out of bed. Last night (or early this morning, actually), after I signed off her, the kids played blackjack and I waited impatiently for them to finish so we could read Mandy and get to bed. I didn't realize how tired I was until I crawled into bed. Suddenly, the pillow felt so good under my head, and I really hated to set the alarm clock for so early in the morning.
Aside from waking to remember The Baby's birth moments, I also had an appointment to drive an Amish girl to her aunt's house.
The Amish don't own cars, for the most part, but they do hire people to drive them from place to place. I've took on the job of driving the Amish about two months ago in an effort to help raise money for Bard's choir trip to China, and to get to know more about my Amish neighbors.
This morning, I had to pick up Lisa, a seventeen-year-old Old Order Amish girl who was going to be a mother's helper for Mae who just had her fifth child, a baby girl. I drove through the winding roads of this beautiful farm country and made my way to Lisa's house. She was ready for me when I pulled into the driveway.
The funny thing about young Amish people, I've found, is that they'll likely not talk to you unless you talk to them, and then they have a LOT to say. This was the same with Lisa.
"Do you have plans for the weekend?" I ask her.
"Oh, yes. My weekend is full. I have a birthday party tonight with the youth from my church, and then I'll be helping Mae again in the morning. Tomorrow, I'll be babysitting twins, and then on Sunday, it's church."
"That is busy," I say.
"I like it that way," she says. "I don't like to just sit around the house and do nothing."
It's not unusual on a day like today, winter's chilly temperatures about ten degrees or less, to see an Amish woman out early with the sunrise, hanging her washing on the line. I think of my own laundry at home, two washing machines and two driers, and still a stack that I can't seem to overcome.
Lisa talks about her grandfather, who passed away a few years ago, and how he's so much like one of the little cousins she'll be caring for today. "He just wouldn't get scared. You couldn't do a thing to make him jump. But he was silly and ornery and would just say the silliest things."
Before long, we've arrived in front of Mae's new but simple home, very neat and attractive with every thing in place. It's such a bucolic scene.
"Will it suit to pick me up at 5:00? I have plans for tonight." I tell her that it will suit. The terminology of the Amish in our area is funny, quirky, and I can't help picking up some of it. "I've done that once't already." Or "That really freaks me out," in a strong Penn-Dutch accent.
I think about what Lisa will be doing today, and what Mae won't be doing. Mae has had a mother's helper since the day her little one was born over a week ago. Her neighbors and relatives have cooked meals for her. Her sisters and neices have taken turns getting the kids on the bus and cleaning her house.
I think of my own house, a mess right now. While I intended to blog everything I do in a 24-hour period, the one thing I didn't do as much as I usually do is clean. The Before picture that I took of my kitchen yesterday still has no After picture to go along with it. While I don't understand everything about Amish culture, and I'm fairly certain I'd not like to be Amish, I do envy the sense of community. I wouldn't mind at all having a sister to call to help me come clean my house or take my kids.
I suppose that's one of the reasons I have longed for a larger family, and it's one of the reasons that I get so frustrated when my children fight. I want to build a community for my children. I want them to have someone on whom they can call when they need a hand.
It's peaceful in my house. This is fairly normal for this time of day, since I'm married to a Bohemian who gave his Bohemian genes to at least one of our children. The Baby's awake and has nursed, nursed, nursed and nursed. As I type, she's playing with her grandpa, my equivalent of a mother's helper, and he's singing happy birthday to her. He will likely sing it again, and again, and again, even after her birthday is over.
I've had fun blogging for you this past twenty-four hours. When I have the time and energy to think clearly, I'll post about what I've learned and the details of Sweetheart's date, including the Wal*Mart Shopping Card Fiasco.
But for now, I'm going to go recover from my 24-hour blogging stunt. :-)
Thanks for reading. Now, back to our regularly scheduled ONCE A DAY blogging.
For the last twenty-four hours, I've been attempting to blog whatever happened to come my way. It's been a lot of fun, and I'm still not finished because I have pictures to upload and a few more stories to tell.
But I'll fill you in on my morning so far.
After waking to remember The Baby's moment of birth, I very reluctantly dragged my butt out of bed. Last night (or early this morning, actually), after I signed off her, the kids played blackjack and I waited impatiently for them to finish so we could read Mandy and get to bed. I didn't realize how tired I was until I crawled into bed. Suddenly, the pillow felt so good under my head, and I really hated to set the alarm clock for so early in the morning.
Aside from waking to remember The Baby's birth moments, I also had an appointment to drive an Amish girl to her aunt's house.
The Amish don't own cars, for the most part, but they do hire people to drive them from place to place. I've took on the job of driving the Amish about two months ago in an effort to help raise money for Bard's choir trip to China, and to get to know more about my Amish neighbors.
This morning, I had to pick up Lisa, a seventeen-year-old Old Order Amish girl who was going to be a mother's helper for Mae who just had her fifth child, a baby girl. I drove through the winding roads of this beautiful farm country and made my way to Lisa's house. She was ready for me when I pulled into the driveway.
The funny thing about young Amish people, I've found, is that they'll likely not talk to you unless you talk to them, and then they have a LOT to say. This was the same with Lisa.
"Do you have plans for the weekend?" I ask her.
"Oh, yes. My weekend is full. I have a birthday party tonight with the youth from my church, and then I'll be helping Mae again in the morning. Tomorrow, I'll be babysitting twins, and then on Sunday, it's church."
"That is busy," I say.
"I like it that way," she says. "I don't like to just sit around the house and do nothing."
It's not unusual on a day like today, winter's chilly temperatures about ten degrees or less, to see an Amish woman out early with the sunrise, hanging her washing on the line. I think of my own laundry at home, two washing machines and two driers, and still a stack that I can't seem to overcome.
Lisa talks about her grandfather, who passed away a few years ago, and how he's so much like one of the little cousins she'll be caring for today. "He just wouldn't get scared. You couldn't do a thing to make him jump. But he was silly and ornery and would just say the silliest things."
Before long, we've arrived in front of Mae's new but simple home, very neat and attractive with every thing in place. It's such a bucolic scene.
"Will it suit to pick me up at 5:00? I have plans for tonight." I tell her that it will suit. The terminology of the Amish in our area is funny, quirky, and I can't help picking up some of it. "I've done that once't already." Or "That really freaks me out," in a strong Penn-Dutch accent.
I think about what Lisa will be doing today, and what Mae won't be doing. Mae has had a mother's helper since the day her little one was born over a week ago. Her neighbors and relatives have cooked meals for her. Her sisters and neices have taken turns getting the kids on the bus and cleaning her house.
I think of my own house, a mess right now. While I intended to blog everything I do in a 24-hour period, the one thing I didn't do as much as I usually do is clean. The Before picture that I took of my kitchen yesterday still has no After picture to go along with it. While I don't understand everything about Amish culture, and I'm fairly certain I'd not like to be Amish, I do envy the sense of community. I wouldn't mind at all having a sister to call to help me come clean my house or take my kids.
I suppose that's one of the reasons I have longed for a larger family, and it's one of the reasons that I get so frustrated when my children fight. I want to build a community for my children. I want them to have someone on whom they can call when they need a hand.
It's peaceful in my house. This is fairly normal for this time of day, since I'm married to a Bohemian who gave his Bohemian genes to at least one of our children. The Baby's awake and has nursed, nursed, nursed and nursed. As I type, she's playing with her grandpa, my equivalent of a mother's helper, and he's singing happy birthday to her. He will likely sing it again, and again, and again, even after her birthday is over.
I've had fun blogging for you this past twenty-four hours. When I have the time and energy to think clearly, I'll post about what I've learned and the details of Sweetheart's date, including the Wal*Mart Shopping Card Fiasco.
But for now, I'm going to go recover from my 24-hour blogging stunt. :-)
Thanks for reading. Now, back to our regularly scheduled ONCE A DAY blogging.
Joy Cometh in the Morning
I think it was after the alarm went off for the fifth time that Bo rolled over and asked, "What's up with that thing?"
"It's not the clock's fault," I told him. "It's me." I reached out for the alarm clock, turned it off, and attempted to put it on top of the headboard. Instead, it fell behind, making a racket on the way down.
"Well, I guess it won't be going off again."
It's time for me to get out of bed.
I've already been awake several times this morning. The first was at the moment of The Baby's birth. It's a moment that's very important to me, and I want to remember it here with you.
When I found out that I was pregnant, I really hadn't wanted to have another child. This is an area with which I've struggled for a long time. I so desperately want to be open to God's plan for my life, and I believe very strongly that every child has a purpose and great worth. Many times I've wondered what children I've missed raising because I wasn't willing to conceive them. I know this is futile thinking, but it's on my mind nonetheless.
But being pregnant with The Baby was a shock to me, in spite of my value of human life. Being pregnant was, I have to admit, the last thing I wanted. Already having four children, living in a small cabin, in a huge transitionary time, and struggling with my own body image as well as questioning my parenting skills and choices, I didn't feel that I was in a position at all to be have another child. I'm ashamed to say that when I saw my pregnancy test come up "yes," I prayed to God that it wouldn't be true, or that I could even just miscarry and not have another child. I am very, very ashamed to say that. But I wanted desperately to NOT be pregnant.
Do you know that, for whatever reason, that pregnancy was the absolutely worst one I've ever had? I had kidney stones, a bladder infection, and at one point, I had the flu so badly that I thought--almost HOPED--I was going to die. The snow and ice were thick on the ground so that I could barely walk the footpath to the cabin, let alone make my way back and forth to the outhouse the five hundred times a day I needed to go.
My live-in dad was undergoing biopsies for possible prostate cancer, and because he's unmarried, his care and keeping, scheduling and finances fall square upon me anyway. After his biopsy, he developed a severe bacterial infection AND had major back pain which rendered him incapable of leaving his bed, leaving me to empty his potty, which many times involved cleaning it up off of the floor, my nine-month pregnant belly hindering my every move.
I was SO done being pregnant. Boy, was I ready to have this baby.
This baby wasn't ready to be had.
About two weeks past my original due date, I was pleading with God. I know it's ridiculous. I know God has His own timing, and that pregnant women are like apple trees. Each tree is different, and while they're all apple trees, every tree's fruit ripens at different times, and each fruit on the tree ripens when it's ready. There is no "right time" for a baby to be born. But I was so very ready, and my branches were heavy with the fruit of this impending labor.
At long last, around 10:00 on the 27th of January, I knew the time was coming. I had no idea how long this labor would be, of course. Each of my labors were so very different. 36 hours, 24 hours, 16 hours, 1.5 hours...I couldn't tell if this labor would be a long one or a short one.
I labored all through the night while everyone slept. My sister-in-law, who was also my midwife, stayed by my side and listened to me complain and fuss. Something just didn't feel right to me. I was very worried over the health of this baby. What had happened? Somewhere along the line, between becoming pregnant and beginning labor, my heart had changed. Now, I wanted to fight for the health of this child. I wanted with all of my heart to hold this baby in my arms.
I did want another child. I wanted THIS child.
Though the heart rate of the baby was fine, I worried. Though my labor was progressing just as it should have been, I worried. Through the night, into the morning, all through my labor, I worried.
I feared. I cried. I prayed.
Finally, as morning crept in and the sun began to think about rising above the hilltops, those
final bearing down pains overtook me like the rush of a strong river current. And then, at just the right time, The Baby was born, welcomed into the world by her sleepy-eyed brothers and sisters who had come down from their beds to see her take her first breath.
"I knew it was a girl! I told you it was a girl!" Sweetheart cried. And she had. She'd told us all along that this baby would be her sister. No matter how we presented other possibilities, her mind was made up. This would be, she insisted, a baby girl. And she'd been right.
I called my mother-in-law to tell her that she had another granddaughter. She read this verse to me:
Psalm 30:5 For his anger endureth but a moment; in his favour is life: weeping
may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.
Tears ran down my face. Joy cometh in the morning.
And so, the baby's middle name would be Joy.
As I look out over these sun-kissed hills, I think about life with my sweet Baby. She is a blessing, a treasure, and her worth is far above rubies. She brings me so much joy. So. Much Joy.
The Baby and Sweetheart
"It's not the clock's fault," I told him. "It's me." I reached out for the alarm clock, turned it off, and attempted to put it on top of the headboard. Instead, it fell behind, making a racket on the way down.
"Well, I guess it won't be going off again."
It's time for me to get out of bed.
I've already been awake several times this morning. The first was at the moment of The Baby's birth. It's a moment that's very important to me, and I want to remember it here with you.
When I found out that I was pregnant, I really hadn't wanted to have another child. This is an area with which I've struggled for a long time. I so desperately want to be open to God's plan for my life, and I believe very strongly that every child has a purpose and great worth. Many times I've wondered what children I've missed raising because I wasn't willing to conceive them. I know this is futile thinking, but it's on my mind nonetheless.
But being pregnant with The Baby was a shock to me, in spite of my value of human life. Being pregnant was, I have to admit, the last thing I wanted. Already having four children, living in a small cabin, in a huge transitionary time, and struggling with my own body image as well as questioning my parenting skills and choices, I didn't feel that I was in a position at all to be have another child. I'm ashamed to say that when I saw my pregnancy test come up "yes," I prayed to God that it wouldn't be true, or that I could even just miscarry and not have another child. I am very, very ashamed to say that. But I wanted desperately to NOT be pregnant.
Do you know that, for whatever reason, that pregnancy was the absolutely worst one I've ever had? I had kidney stones, a bladder infection, and at one point, I had the flu so badly that I thought--almost HOPED--I was going to die. The snow and ice were thick on the ground so that I could barely walk the footpath to the cabin, let alone make my way back and forth to the outhouse the five hundred times a day I needed to go.
My live-in dad was undergoing biopsies for possible prostate cancer, and because he's unmarried, his care and keeping, scheduling and finances fall square upon me anyway. After his biopsy, he developed a severe bacterial infection AND had major back pain which rendered him incapable of leaving his bed, leaving me to empty his potty, which many times involved cleaning it up off of the floor, my nine-month pregnant belly hindering my every move.
I was SO done being pregnant. Boy, was I ready to have this baby.
This baby wasn't ready to be had.
About two weeks past my original due date, I was pleading with God. I know it's ridiculous. I know God has His own timing, and that pregnant women are like apple trees. Each tree is different, and while they're all apple trees, every tree's fruit ripens at different times, and each fruit on the tree ripens when it's ready. There is no "right time" for a baby to be born. But I was so very ready, and my branches were heavy with the fruit of this impending labor.
At long last, around 10:00 on the 27th of January, I knew the time was coming. I had no idea how long this labor would be, of course. Each of my labors were so very different. 36 hours, 24 hours, 16 hours, 1.5 hours...I couldn't tell if this labor would be a long one or a short one.
I labored all through the night while everyone slept. My sister-in-law, who was also my midwife, stayed by my side and listened to me complain and fuss. Something just didn't feel right to me. I was very worried over the health of this baby. What had happened? Somewhere along the line, between becoming pregnant and beginning labor, my heart had changed. Now, I wanted to fight for the health of this child. I wanted with all of my heart to hold this baby in my arms.
I did want another child. I wanted THIS child.
Though the heart rate of the baby was fine, I worried. Though my labor was progressing just as it should have been, I worried. Through the night, into the morning, all through my labor, I worried.
I feared. I cried. I prayed.
Finally, as morning crept in and the sun began to think about rising above the hilltops, those
final bearing down pains overtook me like the rush of a strong river current. And then, at just the right time, The Baby was born, welcomed into the world by her sleepy-eyed brothers and sisters who had come down from their beds to see her take her first breath.
"I knew it was a girl! I told you it was a girl!" Sweetheart cried. And she had. She'd told us all along that this baby would be her sister. No matter how we presented other possibilities, her mind was made up. This would be, she insisted, a baby girl. And she'd been right.
I called my mother-in-law to tell her that she had another granddaughter. She read this verse to me:
Psalm 30:5 For his anger endureth but a moment; in his favour is life: weeping
may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.
Tears ran down my face. Joy cometh in the morning.
And so, the baby's middle name would be Joy.
As I look out over these sun-kissed hills, I think about life with my sweet Baby. She is a blessing, a treasure, and her worth is far above rubies. She brings me so much joy. So. Much Joy.
The Baby and Sweetheart
I've made the announcement
Here's the truth.
I don't usually let my kids stay up this late. It's not that it's that big of a deal, because they can sleep late in the morning, but usually they're in bed by midnight. Tonight has been a special night, so I've let them play while I sit here doing this wacky twenty-four-hour blogging thing.
But I've just made the announcement that it's totally and completely time for bed, so we're going to read a chapter of Mandy and then it's time for prayers, and then it's time for bed. The younger kids will lie quietly and listen while Bard knits one last gift for The Baby. It goes with my one last gift for Baby, which I will photograph and post tomorrow.
Here's the other truth. I'm going to go to bed and sleep for a few hours and finish blogging in the morning. I have an Amish-hauling job at 7:00, and something about driving the Amish makes me very on time. For some reason, being on time for people who are in no hurry lightens the pressure and I can actually be punctual.
So, goodnight for now. Thanks so much for taking this wild ride with me. I'll see you for the last three hours in the morning. :-)
I don't usually let my kids stay up this late. It's not that it's that big of a deal, because they can sleep late in the morning, but usually they're in bed by midnight. Tonight has been a special night, so I've let them play while I sit here doing this wacky twenty-four-hour blogging thing.
But I've just made the announcement that it's totally and completely time for bed, so we're going to read a chapter of Mandy and then it's time for prayers, and then it's time for bed. The younger kids will lie quietly and listen while Bard knits one last gift for The Baby. It goes with my one last gift for Baby, which I will photograph and post tomorrow.
Here's the other truth. I'm going to go to bed and sleep for a few hours and finish blogging in the morning. I have an Amish-hauling job at 7:00, and something about driving the Amish makes me very on time. For some reason, being on time for people who are in no hurry lightens the pressure and I can actually be punctual.
So, goodnight for now. Thanks so much for taking this wild ride with me. I'll see you for the last three hours in the morning. :-)
Did you think you lost me?
Not a chance.
I'm still here, awake, and blogging. As a matter of fact, Bard and I have spent the past hour and a half uploading images to the first few hours of the blog. So, if you want to see photos of the day, you can go back and read the blog again. Or just look at the pictures. Your choice. Though I think the words are kinda nice, too.
As I type, the boys are still playing with The Baby's toys from her birthday. One of the things she received was a Brio-type railroad set that Bo picked up for $11.00. The Baby wasn't too thrilled with it at first, but Monet and Houdin are all over it. Good for them.
To whomever it was who wondered how I was able to sleep until 9:30, now you know.
I'm still here, awake, and blogging. As a matter of fact, Bard and I have spent the past hour and a half uploading images to the first few hours of the blog. So, if you want to see photos of the day, you can go back and read the blog again. Or just look at the pictures. Your choice. Though I think the words are kinda nice, too.
As I type, the boys are still playing with The Baby's toys from her birthday. One of the things she received was a Brio-type railroad set that Bo picked up for $11.00. The Baby wasn't too thrilled with it at first, but Monet and Houdin are all over it. Good for them.
To whomever it was who wondered how I was able to sleep until 9:30, now you know.
Thursday, January 27, 2005
You Take the Cake!
Here's a Piece for YOU! Thank you so much for coming to The Baby's birthday party!
It was two years ago right about now that I was trudging down the path to our little cabin in the woods, the tell-tale signs of labor intensifying with every step down that long, icy lane. Bo was at my side, and my sister-in-law, the midwife, awaited me in the warm, cozy cabin.
She had candles lit all over the room and my bed made up with my very favorite sheets. The kids were in bed and herbs were simmering on the stove.
I had purchased a special candle holder at Target as my birthing candle, my inspiration. It was a spiral holder with five tea candles in it, to signify the five children I would have.
I think I'll go light that candle holder right now, in celebration of The Baby.
Happy Birthday to The Baby
The kids just couldn't stand it. Bard was so incredibly ready to watch The Baby open her gifts, she just about yanked her off my lap. At first, The Baby seemed really confused. What's going on? Why are you waking me up? Why can't I just nurse and go back to sleep?
Then she saw the stack of presents.
Then she saw the cake.
And she was hooked.
Bard was so sweet, helping her open each gift by showing her the right place to start ripping it open.
Here's the part that I like--now all of my kids, regardless of age, are playing with The Baby with all of her toys. They're serving her the play food and making cookies with her play mixer. I can hear Bard saying, "Here's your five course meal. Here's the meat course with the tomato and french fries..." I hear Houdin saying, "Would you like a piece of corn, Baby? Here's a whole cucumber in the salad." The Baby is the center of attention. She's the princess. She's the star of the day.
It may only be a few minutes, but it will last in my mind forever.
A Last Minute Decision
We had two dilemmas--first, what to do for Sweetheart's date and secondly, what to do about The Baby's birthday.
The ever-popular and always-socializing fifteen year old daughter, Bard, is going away for the weekend on a youth retreat with her friend, Kat. Tomorrow is The Baby's birthday. As a matter of fact, as I write this, I'm remembering the day two years ago, about half an hour from now, when I realized that I was in labor. I know that everyone says it, but I just can't believe it's been two years since my baby was born.
The second dilemma, what to do for Sweetheart's date, had alternate solutions and problems. The movie was out, because of the whole crude humor thing. We talked about going to a special science storytime at the library, but, silly me, I had the wrong date. As I was discussing the possibility of celebrating The Baby's birthday early tomorrow morning, Bo offered, "Why don't we just have it tonight?" Seemed like a good enough idea to me.
We headed to Wal*Mart, armed with some cash and a couple of Wal*Mart gift cards that the kids got for Christmas from their Other Grandpa. It wasn't hard to choose things for The Baby. It was just hard for Sweetheart to focus on WHOSE birthday it was! I saw so many things that I thought would be "perfect" for The Baby, but I had to restrain myself.
We just started on a new budgeting system, which actually is very thrilling to me. I've been asking (read: "begging") Bo to take over our finances for many, many (read: "fifteen") years. I am SO incredibly PROUD and RELIEVED that he has now decided to take charge of our budget. It did prove a little frustrating tonight, though, because Wal*Mart has no shortage of cheap plastic crap that I didn't know existed but now my baby really, really, really needs in order to be happy, smart and well-adjusted.
If I were a good mom, I kept thinking, I'd buy her this. And this. And this. If I were a good mom, I'd have a party. We'd hire a clown. There'd be balloons all over the house. If I were a good mom, I'd make the cake myself, and we'd have the whole event professionally videotaped and mailed to each relative. If I were a good mom...
I thought of Tenn's post from School @ Home, and how most of the "junk food" that comes into her house is because she feels guilty for not giving her children what "normal" children have every day.
But my child is not a normal child. She's a very special child. And today is her very special day. So I'm thinking about this, about how to provide a much better legacy of her birth than just a few cheap toys from Wal*Mart and a grocery store bakery cake. It's making me depressed. The kids are now in the other room wrapping the presents Sweetheart chose tonight, and the gifts I've been collecting in the fruit cellar for the past couple of months. While I'm tempted to say, "It's not much," the truth is that that's just what I want it to be...not much. I want things to be simpler. My children really have no need whatsoever.
While the children were in the other room excitedly wrapping the gifts, The Baby crawled into my lap and demanded to nurse. She's now sleeping peacefully on my lap.
She has everything she needs.
The ever-popular and always-socializing fifteen year old daughter, Bard, is going away for the weekend on a youth retreat with her friend, Kat. Tomorrow is The Baby's birthday. As a matter of fact, as I write this, I'm remembering the day two years ago, about half an hour from now, when I realized that I was in labor. I know that everyone says it, but I just can't believe it's been two years since my baby was born.
The second dilemma, what to do for Sweetheart's date, had alternate solutions and problems. The movie was out, because of the whole crude humor thing. We talked about going to a special science storytime at the library, but, silly me, I had the wrong date. As I was discussing the possibility of celebrating The Baby's birthday early tomorrow morning, Bo offered, "Why don't we just have it tonight?" Seemed like a good enough idea to me.
We headed to Wal*Mart, armed with some cash and a couple of Wal*Mart gift cards that the kids got for Christmas from their Other Grandpa. It wasn't hard to choose things for The Baby. It was just hard for Sweetheart to focus on WHOSE birthday it was! I saw so many things that I thought would be "perfect" for The Baby, but I had to restrain myself.
We just started on a new budgeting system, which actually is very thrilling to me. I've been asking (read: "begging") Bo to take over our finances for many, many (read: "fifteen") years. I am SO incredibly PROUD and RELIEVED that he has now decided to take charge of our budget. It did prove a little frustrating tonight, though, because Wal*Mart has no shortage of cheap plastic crap that I didn't know existed but now my baby really, really, really needs in order to be happy, smart and well-adjusted.
If I were a good mom, I kept thinking, I'd buy her this. And this. And this. If I were a good mom, I'd have a party. We'd hire a clown. There'd be balloons all over the house. If I were a good mom, I'd make the cake myself, and we'd have the whole event professionally videotaped and mailed to each relative. If I were a good mom...
I thought of Tenn's post from School @ Home, and how most of the "junk food" that comes into her house is because she feels guilty for not giving her children what "normal" children have every day.
But my child is not a normal child. She's a very special child. And today is her very special day. So I'm thinking about this, about how to provide a much better legacy of her birth than just a few cheap toys from Wal*Mart and a grocery store bakery cake. It's making me depressed. The kids are now in the other room wrapping the presents Sweetheart chose tonight, and the gifts I've been collecting in the fruit cellar for the past couple of months. While I'm tempted to say, "It's not much," the truth is that that's just what I want it to be...not much. I want things to be simpler. My children really have no need whatsoever.
While the children were in the other room excitedly wrapping the gifts, The Baby crawled into my lap and demanded to nurse. She's now sleeping peacefully on my lap.
She has everything she needs.
The Seventh Hour: A Big Idea and A Big Fight...
I knew it would be trouble the moment I heard it.
Houdin invited the younger kids out to the snow fort to have a snowball fight. I thought about stopping it, but I decided to let it go. I was busy cleaning the kitchen and entertaining The Baby, so I figured a bit of fresh air would be good about now.
While they were out, I came up with a Big Idea. I don't know how this would go over, but I thought it would be kind of cool if you had a certain day, like Thursday for example, that we could refer to as Before and After Thursday. Yeah, Friday would sound better, but is usually pretty busy. Anyway, the premise would be that you would take a "Before" photo of one room in your house before you've cleaned it, and then you would clean it (like, duh) and take an "After" photo, and then post it on your blog. Whaddya think? Huh?
While I was having this epiphany, after I'd taken a "before" photo of my kitchen and had begun to clean it, I heard Sweetheart crying. Loudly. And then I heard loud footsteps. Very loud ones. And then a slamming door.
In stomps Monet, who is the child who most easily loses his temper, and he's half-crying, half-yelling.
"Houdin is being really mean to us! He's...he's..." he sputters.
"Well, walk away," I say. I try not to get tied up in blame and judging, but just try to help them cope with the situation by removing themselves. Sometimes this works, sometimes it doesn't. Houdin is directly behind Monet, a sure sign that he wants to be there to clear up the story, ie: defend himself.
The story: Houdin is 13. The other two are 9 and 5. They both come in crying, their faces red, rubbing parts of their bodies. They've been attacked. They've been hit. Hard.
Houdin doesn't understand the problem. It was a snowball FIGHT, he says. FIGHT being the operable word here.
Monet is inconsolable. I see him angrier than I've ever seen. He pushes his brother, screams at him to get away, and then...he says he hates him. And he really meant it.
See, the thing is, I tell Houdin, that you have a reputation for instigating, and in this case, you really, really hurt your siblings. He doesn't get it. It doesn't make sense to him, he says.
Look, I tell him, you're almost fourteen. They're nine and five.
Yeah, he counters, which is fourteen. And I was outnumbered.
I remind him of the time that he was having a water balloon fight for his thirteenth birthday, how he and his friends were having a great time outside the garage, and how Dad got this great idea to throw a water balloon from the second floor window. The balloon landed square in the middle of Houdin's chest. It scared him. And it hurt. I ask him, Do you remember that?
He remembers.
It's not the same.
He just doesn't get it. Dad's much bigger. They knew they were having a snowball fight. It doesn't make sense, he says.
Ice balls, I say, can hurt very badly. Like a baseball to the chest. Would you like me to demonstrate?
No, he answers. But he's still angry. He's not remorseful. They're just wrong, he says.
Well, they might be wrong, but they both hate you now. If that's the way it works, I don't think I'd want to be right.
Monet comes down with his journal and opens it to a page he's just written.
Bo just came home. I guess we'll be going on the date together.
The next blog you get will be AudioBlogged.
Houdin invited the younger kids out to the snow fort to have a snowball fight. I thought about stopping it, but I decided to let it go. I was busy cleaning the kitchen and entertaining The Baby, so I figured a bit of fresh air would be good about now.
While they were out, I came up with a Big Idea. I don't know how this would go over, but I thought it would be kind of cool if you had a certain day, like Thursday for example, that we could refer to as Before and After Thursday. Yeah, Friday would sound better, but is usually pretty busy. Anyway, the premise would be that you would take a "Before" photo of one room in your house before you've cleaned it, and then you would clean it (like, duh) and take an "After" photo, and then post it on your blog. Whaddya think? Huh?
While I was having this epiphany, after I'd taken a "before" photo of my kitchen and had begun to clean it, I heard Sweetheart crying. Loudly. And then I heard loud footsteps. Very loud ones. And then a slamming door.
In stomps Monet, who is the child who most easily loses his temper, and he's half-crying, half-yelling.
"Houdin is being really mean to us! He's...he's..." he sputters.
"Well, walk away," I say. I try not to get tied up in blame and judging, but just try to help them cope with the situation by removing themselves. Sometimes this works, sometimes it doesn't. Houdin is directly behind Monet, a sure sign that he wants to be there to clear up the story, ie: defend himself.
The story: Houdin is 13. The other two are 9 and 5. They both come in crying, their faces red, rubbing parts of their bodies. They've been attacked. They've been hit. Hard.
Houdin doesn't understand the problem. It was a snowball FIGHT, he says. FIGHT being the operable word here.
Monet is inconsolable. I see him angrier than I've ever seen. He pushes his brother, screams at him to get away, and then...he says he hates him. And he really meant it.
See, the thing is, I tell Houdin, that you have a reputation for instigating, and in this case, you really, really hurt your siblings. He doesn't get it. It doesn't make sense to him, he says.
Look, I tell him, you're almost fourteen. They're nine and five.
Yeah, he counters, which is fourteen. And I was outnumbered.
I remind him of the time that he was having a water balloon fight for his thirteenth birthday, how he and his friends were having a great time outside the garage, and how Dad got this great idea to throw a water balloon from the second floor window. The balloon landed square in the middle of Houdin's chest. It scared him. And it hurt. I ask him, Do you remember that?
He remembers.
It's not the same.
He just doesn't get it. Dad's much bigger. They knew they were having a snowball fight. It doesn't make sense, he says.
Ice balls, I say, can hurt very badly. Like a baseball to the chest. Would you like me to demonstrate?
No, he answers. But he's still angry. He's not remorseful. They're just wrong, he says.
Well, they might be wrong, but they both hate you now. If that's the way it works, I don't think I'd want to be right.
Monet comes down with his journal and opens it to a page he's just written.
I let Houdin read the note. "So?" he says.Dear Mom,
I'm so sorry I lost my temper at Houdin. Please tell Houdin that I'm
so sorry.
Love,
Monet
Bo just came home. I guess we'll be going on the date together.
The next blog you get will be AudioBlogged.
Today's Soundtrack
Here's the music we've been listening to today, courtesy of Rhapsody.
"Tales from the Vienna Woods Waltz, Op. 325" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"The Bat" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Tales from the Vienna Woods" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Annen-Polka" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Vienna Blood" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Pizzicato-Polka" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Roses from the south" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Trisch-Trasch-Polka" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Emperor Walz" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"A musical joke" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"The Blue Danube" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Thunder and Lightning" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Voices of Spring, Op. 410" - Johann Strauss, Jr
"Die Fledermaus (Overture)" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Lagunen-Walzer, Op. 411" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Tick-Tack-Polka, Op. 365" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Wein, Weib und Gesang (Walzer), Op. 333" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Annen-Polka, Op. 117" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Rosen aus dem Suden (Walzer), Op. 388" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Auf der Jagd (Polka), Op. 373" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Kunstlerleben, Walzer, Op. 316" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Unter Donner und Blitz, Polka, Op. 324" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Neue Pizzicato-Polka" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Freut euch des Lebens, Op.340" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Vom Donaustrande, Op.356" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"G'schichten aus dem Wiener Wald, Op.325" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Persian March, Op.289" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Liebeslieder, Op.114" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Kreuzfidel, Op.301" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Schatzwalzer, Op.418" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Das Spitzentuch der Königin" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Tales from the Vienna Woods Waltz, Op. 325" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"The Bat" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Tales from the Vienna Woods" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Annen-Polka" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Vienna Blood" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Pizzicato-Polka" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Roses from the south" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Trisch-Trasch-Polka" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Emperor Walz" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"A musical joke" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"The Blue Danube" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Thunder and Lightning" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Voices of Spring, Op. 410" - Johann Strauss, Jr
"Die Fledermaus (Overture)" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Lagunen-Walzer, Op. 411" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Tick-Tack-Polka, Op. 365" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Wein, Weib und Gesang (Walzer), Op. 333" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Annen-Polka, Op. 117" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Rosen aus dem Suden (Walzer), Op. 388" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Auf der Jagd (Polka), Op. 373" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Kunstlerleben, Walzer, Op. 316" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Unter Donner und Blitz, Polka, Op. 324" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Neue Pizzicato-Polka" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Freut euch des Lebens, Op.340" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Vom Donaustrande, Op.356" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"G'schichten aus dem Wiener Wald, Op.325" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Persian March, Op.289" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Liebeslieder, Op.114" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Kreuzfidel, Op.301" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Schatzwalzer, Op.418" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Das Spitzentuch der Königin" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
The Sixth and Seventh Hours...
Headache = Very Yes.
I call these my Titanic Headaches. The reason is because I had my very worst headache when Bo and I went to see The Titanic on the big screen for the first time. It was winter, snowy and blustery. We'd been in and out of shops, cars, and the theater. Therefore, I think my headaches are caused by sinuses. Only Motrin for Migraines and a sinus mask will help. I've tried drinking caffeine, not drinking caffeine, taking hot baths, going into cold air, sleeping, eating...nothing works except the Motrin and a sinus mask, heated up muchly in the microwave and placed directly over my eyes.
I finally made it downstairs to the kitchen, which was partially a mess, but not bad. We've been listening to classical music during meal preparations and, sometimes, into mealtime. I took a vote...Johann Strauss won. We started out listening to one of my very favorite pieces, Tales from the Vienna Woods Waltz, Op 325, which most people know as The Carousel Song.
When we first bought our property on which now sits our house, we would drive about an hour and a half to spend weekends at the cabin which sits nestled down in the thicket here (thus the name "Thicket Dweller"). On the ride, and often walking through the sun-spotted thicket, Bard and Houdin would sing these words to the tune of The Vienna Woods Waltz:
I threw together my own fresh greens for lunch to
day with grape tomatoes, cukes, broccoli, onions and sunflower seeds. I made an equally good salad for our Saanen
goat, Snowday, out of all of the peelings and stalks I didn't want to eat. A nice handful of shredded cheddar, and a nice dallop of bleu cheese dressing, and I was happy as rabbit. Are rabbits happy?
The Baby and Sweetheart were playing, dancing, singing about The Baby's approaching birthday, and then The Baby saw me. All smiles and running like her little life depended on it, she made her way straight into my arms, and we enjoyed sharing a good salad and some cottage cheese together. She's my cottage cheese eater. I'm so proud.
Monet sat at the table looking through the presidential flashcards. He determined that Abe Lincoln is his favorite. He seems to be popular in this house.
Sweetheart has asked me no less than eighty-two times when we're going on our date. I have to eat, I say. I have to clean the kitchen, I say. PATIENCE! I say.
I'm not sure what we'll do for our date, yet. I'm still thinking.
I was thinking about Racing Stripes, about my decision not to go see it because of the "crude humor," when I heard this exchange between my children.
Monet: "Sweetheart, are you wearing underwear?"
Sweetheart: "Yes. They're pink."
Houdin: "HO-okay. That was too much information."
Me: "Well, he did ask."
Houdin: "He didn't ask what color underwear she was wearing."
Me: "Yeah, but when you start a conversation, you have to realize that it's in motion and you can't always control it."
Houdin: "Monet, are you wearing underwear?"
Monet: "No. I don't have any."
Houdin: "HO-okay...you should have just said they were butt-colored."
Maybe Racing Stripes would be an improvement over the language here.
I call these my Titanic Headaches. The reason is because I had my very worst headache when Bo and I went to see The Titanic on the big screen for the first time. It was winter, snowy and blustery. We'd been in and out of shops, cars, and the theater. Therefore, I think my headaches are caused by sinuses. Only Motrin for Migraines and a sinus mask will help. I've tried drinking caffeine, not drinking caffeine, taking hot baths, going into cold air, sleeping, eating...nothing works except the Motrin and a sinus mask, heated up muchly in the microwave and placed directly over my eyes.
I finally made it downstairs to the kitchen, which was partially a mess, but not bad. We've been listening to classical music during meal preparations and, sometimes, into mealtime. I took a vote...Johann Strauss won. We started out listening to one of my very favorite pieces, Tales from the Vienna Woods Waltz, Op 325, which most people know as The Carousel Song.
When we first bought our property on which now sits our house, we would drive about an hour and a half to spend weekends at the cabin which sits nestled down in the thicket here (thus the name "Thicket Dweller"). On the ride, and often walking through the sun-spotted thicket, Bard and Houdin would sing these words to the tune of The Vienna Woods Waltz:
Hurry then away with me
To the forest pathways, free
Oh, the green world
Oh, the green world.
With the pretty wildwood flowers
Let us take the happy hours
And we'll crown every moment a queen.
I threw together my own fresh greens for lunch to
day with grape tomatoes, cukes, broccoli, onions and sunflower seeds. I made an equally good salad for our Saanen
goat, Snowday, out of all of the peelings and stalks I didn't want to eat. A nice handful of shredded cheddar, and a nice dallop of bleu cheese dressing, and I was happy as rabbit. Are rabbits happy?
The Baby and Sweetheart were playing, dancing, singing about The Baby's approaching birthday, and then The Baby saw me. All smiles and running like her little life depended on it, she made her way straight into my arms, and we enjoyed sharing a good salad and some cottage cheese together. She's my cottage cheese eater. I'm so proud.
Monet sat at the table looking through the presidential flashcards. He determined that Abe Lincoln is his favorite. He seems to be popular in this house.
Sweetheart has asked me no less than eighty-two times when we're going on our date. I have to eat, I say. I have to clean the kitchen, I say. PATIENCE! I say.
I'm not sure what we'll do for our date, yet. I'm still thinking.
I was thinking about Racing Stripes, about my decision not to go see it because of the "crude humor," when I heard this exchange between my children.
Monet: "Sweetheart, are you wearing underwear?"
Sweetheart: "Yes. They're pink."
Houdin: "HO-okay. That was too much information."
Me: "Well, he did ask."
Houdin: "He didn't ask what color underwear she was wearing."
Me: "Yeah, but when you start a conversation, you have to realize that it's in motion and you can't always control it."
Houdin: "Monet, are you wearing underwear?"
Monet: "No. I don't have any."
Houdin: "HO-okay...you should have just said they were butt-colored."
Maybe Racing Stripes would be an improvement over the language here.
Bard's essay thing
Hello, this is me Bard on this blog (Note from Mom...the previous line is an inside joke. It's something Monet says every time we record him. Hi, this is me Monet on this recording. Just thought you'd like to know). Mom wanted me to post this essay thing that I did for the local newspaper. I was supposed to write about my favorite president in 200 words or less. No brainer, for me anyway. I've been interested in Abraham Lincoln, and probably know more about him than your average 14 (almost 15) year-old kid. So without further ado, my essay/report/writing thing.
Did you know that one of the Presidents of the United States was barely formally educated? It's true. Abraham Lincoln was almost completely self-taught, even in law. He was an avid reader, despite the fact that he only went to school "by littles," and his entire schooling "did not amount to one year." Lincoln was hardly endowed with riches; he was, in truth, probably poor, especially by today's standards. One of the reasons for his relative poverty might have been because he was a failure as a shopkeeper. He would sometimes sit and read and not notice then a customer entered his store.
Maybe he was poor because he wasn't handsome. He was thought by many to be the ugliest man they'd ever met. He was also usually the kindest. He hated to tell people no, although he often had to do so. He tried to ease the blow of refusal with a clever, funny story. People probably left his office with a smile. He pardoned deserters, calling them "leg cases." They reminded him of a joke where a man said he was brave, but had coward legs.
Abraham Lincoln rose above his troubles by becoming President despite all handicaps.
The Fifth Hour: Planning the Date
After the bath (have you ever seen that Mary Cassatt painting? It's one of my favorites), Sweetheart gets all ready for her date. She has to change clothes, like, twice. Because my children have inherited a dry skin condition, they all have to lather up with expensive lotion really well each morning, afternoon and after every bath. It helps for a little while, but not completely. Sweetheart has a lotion that smells like cocoa butter. She applies it liberally.
I call Bohemian to ask him if he'd like to come with us on our date or if I should go now, during the day.
"Uh...um..." I can hear the keyboard clicking in the background. He's busy. He's distracted.
"I was just wondering...because I can go with her now, or I can wait until later and you and I can both take her out."
"Where are you...uh...um..." more keyboard clicking.
"Hello? Um, can I talk to my husband, please?"
"Yeah, uh. Today?"
"Yes," I answer, "I'd like to talk to him today."
"No, I meant that you can go today. Go ahead and go without me."
I hang up the phone and check the laundry in the drier. Jeans. Not dry.
I decide to check the movie listings on Fandango, entertaining the idea of taking Sweetheart to see a movie. The only thing I can find that might possibly be suitable is Racing Stripes. I check ScreenIt. Are you familiar with it? Excellent source of complete, detailed movie reviews. Do check it out.
After reading about the crude humor in Racing Stripes, I decide to forgo the movie. Not sure what we'll do.
Bard dressed the baby after her bath, and now she's with Grandpa. Headache still = not gone.
Currently, Bard is painting Sweetheart's finger and toenails and informs me, "Actually, her last toenail looks like she got her toe chopped off and it's all bloody. But, whatever."
I read http://schoolathome.blogspot.composts for today. I'm going to go downstairs and tape some freezer paper under the table. You have to read it to understand.
I call Bohemian to ask him if he'd like to come with us on our date or if I should go now, during the day.
"Uh...um..." I can hear the keyboard clicking in the background. He's busy. He's distracted.
"I was just wondering...because I can go with her now, or I can wait until later and you and I can both take her out."
"Where are you...uh...um..." more keyboard clicking.
"Hello? Um, can I talk to my husband, please?"
"Yeah, uh. Today?"
"Yes," I answer, "I'd like to talk to him today."
"No, I meant that you can go today. Go ahead and go without me."
I hang up the phone and check the laundry in the drier. Jeans. Not dry.
I decide to check the movie listings on Fandango, entertaining the idea of taking Sweetheart to see a movie. The only thing I can find that might possibly be suitable is Racing Stripes. I check ScreenIt. Are you familiar with it? Excellent source of complete, detailed movie reviews. Do check it out.
After reading about the crude humor in Racing Stripes, I decide to forgo the movie. Not sure what we'll do.
Bard dressed the baby after her bath, and now she's with Grandpa. Headache still = not gone.
Currently, Bard is painting Sweetheart's finger and toenails and informs me, "Actually, her last toenail looks like she got her toe chopped off and it's all bloody. But, whatever."
I read http://schoolathome.blogspot.composts for today. I'm going to go downstairs and tape some freezer paper under the table. You have to read it to understand.
The Fourth Hour: There's Too Many Kids in this Tub
Sweetheart has decided to take a bath in the Jacuzzi in my room in order to prepare for our date.
Yes, I have a Jacuzzi in my room.
Don't hate me. For three years, I took baths in an outside tub on the porch of a two-room cabin. In sub-zero weather. I deserve this.
Besides, I have five kids.
It's 2:00. My dad, who lives with us, comes upstairs to tell me that The Baby is still asleep. She slept with him last night, something she does sometimes when she gets too restless with me. He spoils her. She likes that.
"She was up 'til 2:00," he says. I'm amazed! She didn't have a nap and nursed and played most of the day yesterday. I figured she'd be totally ready for sleep by 10:00, tops. Since he spent many years working second and third shifts, nightime is his thing, anyway.
"Well, it looks to me like she's on a twelve-hour schedule, then," I tell him. "She's not napping. She's awake for twelve hours, asleep for twelve hours. I predict she'll wake up within the next ten minutes."
I was right.
The baby comes to me by way of Grandpa's arms, and she immediately wants to nurse. I wonder how many nurslings of this generation will find themselves hungry every time they see a monitor or hear the click of a keyboard. She nurses from one side and then, within minutes, decides to nurse from the other side. I don't know why she does this. No matter how hard I try to get her to stay on one side, she insists on switching. I guess I'm a softy, because I let her.
While she's nursing, Monet decides to harrass his little sister Sweetheart while she's trapped helplessly in the tub. He deftly grabs the spray bottle that I use to humidify Wilma, my one-eyed chameleon, and begins squirting Sweetheart with the cold water. She screams. He squirts. She screams. He squirts. My headache is getting worse.
"Monet, stop," I say. "That's not a toy."
He continues squirting.
"Put it down now," I tell him. I'm surprised by his disobedience. We haven't been having this problem lately. He keeps squirting. Now he's squirting it at the ceiling.
"I'M LOSING MY PATIENCE!" I shout. Great. Now I have to blog that I yelled at my kid. I should have very calmly but very firmly approached him and removed the bottle from his hands. Get-off-your-butt-parenting. It's too late for that. The yelling worked.
The Baby squirms from my lap. "Baff?" she asks.
"You want to take a bath with Sweetheart?"
"Yes. Yes. Yes," she says, giggling and pulling at her nightgown. I draw her nightgown over her head and take off her diaper.
"Can I take a bath, too?" Monet asks.
"Yep. Get in."
So, now, they're all in the tub. The tub toys that Houdin took out this morning are back in. They're taking turns holding their heads under water, counting to see how long they can stay under. Their own heads, that is, not each other's.
Too Many Kids in this Tub
Author: Shel Silverstein
There's too many kids in this tub
There's too many elbows to scrub
I just washed a behind that I'm sure wasn't mine
There's too many kids in this tub.
I read my e-mail:
- From Shannon, arrangements to meet so she can show me how to use a sewing machine.
- From my father-in-law, a snide comment: "I'm shocked to read that you're blogging!" He's a regular reading and snide-comment leaver.
- From my sister-in-law, an update on their lives and an explanation for why she hasn't written--my brother-in-law spilled coffee on their laptop.
- From my friend Steven: What do we do if we love you but we're too busy to read your blog?
- From Nesting Robin: I've been missing you.
Headache = still exists.
Third Hour (and then some): Spelling Lessons
First, let me clarify. I may not get this done every hour. I plan to try to start writing one hour after I post the previous post. It's taking me about 30 minutes to write each entry.
Now, on to the Third Hour...
Five-year-old Sweetheart comes into my room, the kitty-cat face that her sister Bard drew on her last night with eye-pencil still slightly visible. I wrap my arms around her in her morning hug and she giggles. When she pulls back, she looks at me very seriously.
"Is one nostril nose for breathing in an' the other for breathing out?"
"No," I answer, "they can both breathe in and breathe out. Look." I cover my nostrils one at a time and demonstrate. She does the same, and then hands me a pencil and paper and asks me to write the word "would." I do.
I hear silverware clinking downstairs. I hope it's someone putting the dishes away, and not throwing them around the kitchen. I later find that Houdin, indeed, put the dishes away.
Nine-year-old Monet enters my room, hands me the same piece of paper on which I wrote "would" for Sweetheart and asks me to write "those." Hmmm. I wonder what they're planning.
I check my e-mail. There are fourteen messages. Five are from Freecycle, so I check to see if there's any good stuff on there. A Hammond organ, dried roses, disposable nipples, large bouquet of artificial flowers, and a wanted for a mattress and box springs.
I get dressed, pulling on my favorite jeans. Gap, size 16, button fly bootlegs that I got at a yard sale for two bucks. I cut off the bottoms and they're so hip-ply frayed. I also pull on a t-shirt from the local coffee bar. I like the t-shirt because it's a cool color, it feels nice, and it's an indication to locals that I'm not a tourist.
I hear jump-roping downstairs. I feel a slight headache beginning. I take my vitamins.
It's time to get some things done. While I'm going about my business, the kids follow me around showing me things and asking me questions. Houdin is working on a new magic trick. He drops a quarter in a little green box and then magically produces it in his hand, shaking the box to show that there's no longer a quarter inside. I know how he does it. I tell him it needs more work.
Sweetheart appears again, with a new piece of paper.
"How do you spell 'can?'" She follows me into the laundry room, and I sing the "C is for cookie" song, and then explain all of the things that look like a C. She writes a C. She already knows "a" and "n" because they're in her name.
I pause from doing my laundry to take a picture of of Sweetheart writing her note, on which she has already drawn a little girl in a flowered dress and written the words, "Sweetheart (not her real name) and "Mom." As I finish clicking the camera button, she says, "You should take a picture of me eating ice cream." Houdin calls from his room, "Nice try, Sweetheart."
Monet is in his room, sitting at his desk writing in our journal. It warms my heart to see him there, his room so clean, writing in the magical book in which he and I share our thoughts of the day. I'm carrying his clean pajamas, which I would normally put on his bed for him to put away, but because I have such a wellspring of lovein my heart for him right now, I walk over to his dresser and start opening the drawers. "Third drawer," he says, smiling. Some days are like this. Other days are not.
Sweetheart: "How do you spell 'we?'"
Houdin asks if he can play RuneScape. "Have you done your three things and your chores?" This is a reminder to feed the goats, guinea pigs, clean his room and do three helpful things that no one has asked him to do.
"I've done the chores, but not the three things," he answers.
"Okay. After you're done," I tell Houdin, "I want you to write a GOOD first draft of your Favorite President essay. It's due in a couple of days." He agrees. He doesn't care for writing, and he's the one who really has a hard time spelling, but he agrees without argument. He cleans the bathtub toys out of my tub, cleans off the kitchen table, and does a load of dishes. The phone rings as Houdin brings his journal into my room to write his rough draft on my bed.
The phone call is from Bard's friend Kat.
"I have one question."
"I have one answer," I tell her.
"Is Bard still coming on the camp-out with the youth group?" I tell her that, yes, she is, and ask how much I owe for the trip.
"My mom's paying for it," Kat answers.
"Oh, no she's not," I say. This is a game that Kat's mom, Shawn and I play with each other. "I'll just have to find a sneaky way to pay her back. It's fifteen dollars, right?"
"Yeah, but she won't take your money," Kat tells me. I hear Shawn's voice in the background. "Don't steal my blessings!" She says.
"Tell her she's good," I say.
"You taught me well," she responds. I hand the phone off to Bard so she can chat with her friend. Now I have two kids asking me how to spell things.
Houdin: "How do you spell 'Franklin'?"
Sweetheart: "How do you spell 'go'?"
Houdin: "How do you spell 'scottie'?"
Sweetheart: "How do you spell 'on'?"
Houdin: "How do you spell 'Fala'?"
Sweetheart: How do you spell 'date'?"
Monet comes into my room with his magical book. He has written me a wonderful note in response to my note to him.
My note:
His note:
Dear Mom,
That would be cool! with all of those picturers in my book. Oh and
Sweetheart helped with the snow fort so write her a note. And go back to the
last note I wrote you and read the thing that has the arow coming out of it.
Oh and my favorite part of the story is when she barows the tools from
Jake.
Well, that's all.
Love,
Monet (smiley face)
I go back to my laundry. I find $5.00 and some change, a $5.00 wal*mart shopping card, a few magnetix, a hershey's kiss wrapper, a tissue, a spider pin made out of pipe cleaners. I don't know what I didn't find. I won't know until it's too late.
I eat a Luna Bar for breakfast. This is not unusual.
Sweetheart hands me her note. "Can we go on a date," it reads. She's looking at me with hopeful eyes.
"Yes," I tell her. "Make sure your room is clean and you have clothes on that match." I'm trying to think about what we can do on our date, and I'm hoping this headache goes away soon.
But it's not. It's getting worse, almost nauseating, and radiating through my body. I may have to take something, or lay down with a warm sinus mask.
Visited Full Life. Left a comment and a shameless plug.
"How do you spell 'left?'"
"How do you spell 'taxpayers?'"
"How do you spell 'turn?'"
I write a note in Monet's journal as I wonder what would happen if I got a call from one of my Amish neighbors asking me to drive today. I'd be away for more than an hour. I guess I'd just audioblog. That'd be cool.
"How do you spell 'package'?" Houdin asks.
"P-A-C-K-A-G-E," I answer.
"No," he answers, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "It's B-O-X."
Now, on to the Third Hour...
Five-year-old Sweetheart comes into my room, the kitty-cat face that her sister Bard drew on her last night with eye-pencil still slightly visible. I wrap my arms around her in her morning hug and she giggles. When she pulls back, she looks at me very seriously.
"Is one nostril nose for breathing in an' the other for breathing out?"
"No," I answer, "they can both breathe in and breathe out. Look." I cover my nostrils one at a time and demonstrate. She does the same, and then hands me a pencil and paper and asks me to write the word "would." I do.
I hear silverware clinking downstairs. I hope it's someone putting the dishes away, and not throwing them around the kitchen. I later find that Houdin, indeed, put the dishes away.
Nine-year-old Monet enters my room, hands me the same piece of paper on which I wrote "would" for Sweetheart and asks me to write "those." Hmmm. I wonder what they're planning.
I check my e-mail. There are fourteen messages. Five are from Freecycle, so I check to see if there's any good stuff on there. A Hammond organ, dried roses, disposable nipples, large bouquet of artificial flowers, and a wanted for a mattress and box springs.
I get dressed, pulling on my favorite jeans. Gap, size 16, button fly bootlegs that I got at a yard sale for two bucks. I cut off the bottoms and they're so hip-ply frayed. I also pull on a t-shirt from the local coffee bar. I like the t-shirt because it's a cool color, it feels nice, and it's an indication to locals that I'm not a tourist.
I hear jump-roping downstairs. I feel a slight headache beginning. I take my vitamins.
It's time to get some things done. While I'm going about my business, the kids follow me around showing me things and asking me questions. Houdin is working on a new magic trick. He drops a quarter in a little green box and then magically produces it in his hand, shaking the box to show that there's no longer a quarter inside. I know how he does it. I tell him it needs more work.
Sweetheart appears again, with a new piece of paper.
"How do you spell 'can?'" She follows me into the laundry room, and I sing the "C is for cookie" song, and then explain all of the things that look like a C. She writes a C. She already knows "a" and "n" because they're in her name.
I pause from doing my laundry to take a picture of of Sweetheart writing her note, on which she has already drawn a little girl in a flowered dress and written the words, "Sweetheart (not her real name) and "Mom." As I finish clicking the camera button, she says, "You should take a picture of me eating ice cream." Houdin calls from his room, "Nice try, Sweetheart."
Monet is in his room, sitting at his desk writing in our journal. It warms my heart to see him there, his room so clean, writing in the magical book in which he and I share our thoughts of the day. I'm carrying his clean pajamas, which I would normally put on his bed for him to put away, but because I have such a wellspring of lovein my heart for him right now, I walk over to his dresser and start opening the drawers. "Third drawer," he says, smiling. Some days are like this. Other days are not.
Sweetheart: "How do you spell 'we?'"
Houdin asks if he can play RuneScape. "Have you done your three things and your chores?" This is a reminder to feed the goats, guinea pigs, clean his room and do three helpful things that no one has asked him to do.
"I've done the chores, but not the three things," he answers.
"Okay. After you're done," I tell Houdin, "I want you to write a GOOD first draft of your Favorite President essay. It's due in a couple of days." He agrees. He doesn't care for writing, and he's the one who really has a hard time spelling, but he agrees without argument. He cleans the bathtub toys out of my tub, cleans off the kitchen table, and does a load of dishes. The phone rings as Houdin brings his journal into my room to write his rough draft on my bed.
The phone call is from Bard's friend Kat.
"I have one question."
"I have one answer," I tell her.
"Is Bard still coming on the camp-out with the youth group?" I tell her that, yes, she is, and ask how much I owe for the trip.
"My mom's paying for it," Kat answers.
"Oh, no she's not," I say. This is a game that Kat's mom, Shawn and I play with each other. "I'll just have to find a sneaky way to pay her back. It's fifteen dollars, right?"
"Yeah, but she won't take your money," Kat tells me. I hear Shawn's voice in the background. "Don't steal my blessings!" She says.
"Tell her she's good," I say.
"You taught me well," she responds. I hand the phone off to Bard so she can chat with her friend. Now I have two kids asking me how to spell things.
Houdin: "How do you spell 'Franklin'?"
Sweetheart: "How do you spell 'go'?"
Houdin: "How do you spell 'scottie'?"
Sweetheart: "How do you spell 'on'?"
Houdin: "How do you spell 'Fala'?"
Sweetheart: How do you spell 'date'?"
Monet comes into my room with his magical book. He has written me a wonderful note in response to my note to him.
My note:
Dearest Monet,
I had such a good time watchng you and Houdin build your fort today.
It's SO cool! I took pictures. I'll try to print some out so we
can tape them into this book.
Do you like the book Mandy? What is your favorite part so
far?
I (heart) you!
Love, Mom (smiley face)
His note:
Dear Mom,
That would be cool! with all of those picturers in my book. Oh and
Sweetheart helped with the snow fort so write her a note. And go back to the
last note I wrote you and read the thing that has the arow coming out of it.
Oh and my favorite part of the story is when she barows the tools from
Jake.
Well, that's all.
Love,
Monet (smiley face)
I go back to my laundry. I find $5.00 and some change, a $5.00 wal*mart shopping card, a few magnetix, a hershey's kiss wrapper, a tissue, a spider pin made out of pipe cleaners. I don't know what I didn't find. I won't know until it's too late.
I eat a Luna Bar for breakfast. This is not unusual.
Sweetheart hands me her note. "Can we go on a date," it reads. She's looking at me with hopeful eyes.
"Yes," I tell her. "Make sure your room is clean and you have clothes on that match." I'm trying to think about what we can do on our date, and I'm hoping this headache goes away soon.
But it's not. It's getting worse, almost nauseating, and radiating through my body. I may have to take something, or lay down with a warm sinus mask.
Visited Full Life. Left a comment and a shameless plug.
"How do you spell 'left?'"
"How do you spell 'taxpayers?'"
"How do you spell 'turn?'"
I write a note in Monet's journal as I wonder what would happen if I got a call from one of my Amish neighbors asking me to drive today. I'd be away for more than an hour. I guess I'd just audioblog. That'd be cool.
"How do you spell 'package'?" Houdin asks.
"P-A-C-K-A-G-E," I answer.
"No," he answers, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "It's B-O-X."
The Second Hour: None of them are adopted
I've barely left my bedroom.
I'd like to say that this is not a normal occurrence in my life, but it's true that by 11:38, unless there is a fire or an Amish neighbor has called me for a ride, I'm still in my room, making my bed, doing laundry (which is never, ever done), and reading my favorite blogs.
Today is no exception.
And here's the thing. I actually LIKE it this way.
So, this morning I've been visiting all of my most inspiring bloggy friends and hoping for a little treat from the wisdom that is in their heads.
As I mentioned, I popped over to Guilt-Free Homeschooling, and then I made my way down my blogroll.
Confessions of a Happy Houswife. This is a blog by a gal that happens to live about forty-five minutes from me, and she found my blog in this great blogging universe. I've come to realize that we are twins separated at birth. Hi, Shannon!
I skip the next couple, because I've read all of their stuff, and I'm in a hurry today, but Real Live Preacher is one of my favorite reads. I usually save him for after midnight, though.
I keep going to The Happy Homeschooler, but the blog is never updated. Am I missing something? I consider taking the link off of my blogroll, but I'm too lazy and too optimistic.
I skip down and just read the ones that have been updated, like School @ Home. I'm touched by Tenn's realization that her family's nutritional intake is slipping a bit. I can totally relate. We've been on a mission to change our eating habits. So far, so good. I say this even though I have not yet had breakfast this morning. It's in process, though. I promise. (Side Note: I just went to Tenn's Site again to link the above and I see that she has linked to my audio blog by The Baby. Thanks, Tenn!)
I skip on over to The Big Yellow House. Chris is one of my favorite bloggers. She's funny, she's smart, and I'm still waiting for my half of the best friends necklace from Target. Chris, did I ever mention how very young and thin you are?
And then (and here's where it gets very pitiful), I spent a good fifteen minutes shamelessly plugging my blog. I sent an e-mail to all of the people I love telling them to check out twenty four hours in the life of me. I only wish I were kidding.
Bard, my fifteen year old daughter, came in to say good morning. She insists on her twice-daily hugs, and many daily hugs in between. I love them. Every one of them. They remind me of something...ah, yes. Motherhood.
My dear fifteen-year-old daughter reads over my shoulder, and I explain what I'm planning to do today. She disappears for a while. When she returns, she announces, "I commented on your blog." She then chastises me for the misuse of the word "nonplussed."
"It means bewildered, at a loss for what to say, totally perplexed. Geeze, Mom. I'm surprised at you."
"Well, I meant it to mean that I didn't respond."
"You used it wrong. Might as well say, 'bemused' instead of 'amused.'" She rolls her eyes at me.
Bard helps me make my bed, reminding me that she'll be gone on a campout with her friend Kat starting tomorrow morning. She also mentions that she'll miss The Baby's birthday and asks if we can postpone it. Given my current financial state, I tell her, I may not have a choice.
Houdin comes in to harrass Bard. They run out of my room throwing good-natured insults at each other. I can tell that these are good-natured insults because they are both laughing. When the insults are bad-natured, only one of them is laughing. Moments later, she comes in and begins to questions Houdin's legitamacy.
"Did you *mean* to have Houdin?" She asks, her eyes narrowed with skepticism.
I laugh out loud. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, the way he is, it's like you didn't really mean to have him. I mean, look at him. He's nothing like the rest of the family. Are you sure he's really yours? Were you awake when you had him? Are you sure they didn't switch him? I mean, look at that weird eye thing that he does."
"What are you talking about? What weird eye thing?" I look at Houdin, who has just walked in the room.
"That weird eye thing. That thing where he opens his eyes and mouth really wide and the eyelids actually separate from his eyeball." Houdin demonstrates.
"No, he's ours. And yes, I did want him. I didn't mean to have him, but I wanted him."
I brush my teeth. I wash my face. I braid my hair and put on makeup. I don't do this every morning but, hey, I'm being watched today. The entire time I'm getting ready for my day, Houdin and Bard are sitting in my room, exchanging clever comments. Eventually, as it always does, the conversation turns to Homestar Runner. I actually snort a couple of times while I listen to their re-enactments.
I finally have had enough. Which really means that it's time for me to blog again.
"Go make some toast," I say.
"He should have to make it. He's the Cinderella," Bard says, pointing to Houdin.
"That means you're the evil stepfamily. All of them."
"No, not, because, see, it's backwards. He's the step-person and he's evil."
I actually have to count to three to get them out of my room.
I'd like to say that this is not a normal occurrence in my life, but it's true that by 11:38, unless there is a fire or an Amish neighbor has called me for a ride, I'm still in my room, making my bed, doing laundry (which is never, ever done), and reading my favorite blogs.
Today is no exception.
And here's the thing. I actually LIKE it this way.
So, this morning I've been visiting all of my most inspiring bloggy friends and hoping for a little treat from the wisdom that is in their heads.
As I mentioned, I popped over to Guilt-Free Homeschooling, and then I made my way down my blogroll.
Confessions of a Happy Houswife. This is a blog by a gal that happens to live about forty-five minutes from me, and she found my blog in this great blogging universe. I've come to realize that we are twins separated at birth. Hi, Shannon!
I skip the next couple, because I've read all of their stuff, and I'm in a hurry today, but Real Live Preacher is one of my favorite reads. I usually save him for after midnight, though.
I keep going to The Happy Homeschooler, but the blog is never updated. Am I missing something? I consider taking the link off of my blogroll, but I'm too lazy and too optimistic.
I skip down and just read the ones that have been updated, like School @ Home. I'm touched by Tenn's realization that her family's nutritional intake is slipping a bit. I can totally relate. We've been on a mission to change our eating habits. So far, so good. I say this even though I have not yet had breakfast this morning. It's in process, though. I promise. (Side Note: I just went to Tenn's Site again to link the above and I see that she has linked to my audio blog by The Baby. Thanks, Tenn!)
I skip on over to The Big Yellow House. Chris is one of my favorite bloggers. She's funny, she's smart, and I'm still waiting for my half of the best friends necklace from Target. Chris, did I ever mention how very young and thin you are?
And then (and here's where it gets very pitiful), I spent a good fifteen minutes shamelessly plugging my blog. I sent an e-mail to all of the people I love telling them to check out twenty four hours in the life of me. I only wish I were kidding.
Bard, my fifteen year old daughter, came in to say good morning. She insists on her twice-daily hugs, and many daily hugs in between. I love them. Every one of them. They remind me of something...ah, yes. Motherhood.
My dear fifteen-year-old daughter reads over my shoulder, and I explain what I'm planning to do today. She disappears for a while. When she returns, she announces, "I commented on your blog." She then chastises me for the misuse of the word "nonplussed."
"It means bewildered, at a loss for what to say, totally perplexed. Geeze, Mom. I'm surprised at you."
"Well, I meant it to mean that I didn't respond."
"You used it wrong. Might as well say, 'bemused' instead of 'amused.'" She rolls her eyes at me.
Bard helps me make my bed, reminding me that she'll be gone on a campout with her friend Kat starting tomorrow morning. She also mentions that she'll miss The Baby's birthday and asks if we can postpone it. Given my current financial state, I tell her, I may not have a choice.
Houdin comes in to harrass Bard. They run out of my room throwing good-natured insults at each other. I can tell that these are good-natured insults because they are both laughing. When the insults are bad-natured, only one of them is laughing. Moments later, she comes in and begins to questions Houdin's legitamacy.
"Did you *mean* to have Houdin?" She asks, her eyes narrowed with skepticism.
I laugh out loud. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, the way he is, it's like you didn't really mean to have him. I mean, look at him. He's nothing like the rest of the family. Are you sure he's really yours? Were you awake when you had him? Are you sure they didn't switch him? I mean, look at that weird eye thing that he does."
"What are you talking about? What weird eye thing?" I look at Houdin, who has just walked in the room.
"That weird eye thing. That thing where he opens his eyes and mouth really wide and the eyelids actually separate from his eyeball." Houdin demonstrates.
"No, he's ours. And yes, I did want him. I didn't mean to have him, but I wanted him."
I brush my teeth. I wash my face. I braid my hair and put on makeup. I don't do this every morning but, hey, I'm being watched today. The entire time I'm getting ready for my day, Houdin and Bard are sitting in my room, exchanging clever comments. Eventually, as it always does, the conversation turns to Homestar Runner. I actually snort a couple of times while I listen to their re-enactments.
I finally have had enough. Which really means that it's time for me to blog again.
"Go make some toast," I say.
"He should have to make it. He's the Cinderella," Bard says, pointing to Houdin.
"That means you're the evil stepfamily. All of them."
"No, not, because, see, it's backwards. He's the step-person and he's evil."
I actually have to count to three to get them out of my room.
The First Hour: The Biggest Challenge
I awoke to my husband Bo standing over me, dressed for work and smiling.
"Good morning, Beautiful." I'm totally not making this up. This, God knows why, is how he wakes me up in the morning. Looking down at me, smiling, and addressing me in some flattering way. I've seen me in the morning. I don't know what the heck he's talking about. Maybe his eyesight's not so good before 10:00 AM
"Good morning," I answer. I ask him about his neck, which has been stiff since he woke up yesterday. I ask him what he's going to do for lunch, since I didn't make him one, there are hardly any groceries, and everyone ate the Toll House Cookie Bars I made last night.
"I'll get a chili and baked potato," he answers.
"Okay," I say cautiously, "but NO POP!" This is because we have cut all soft drinks out of our diets and are trying desperately to drink only water.
"No pop!" He says. "No pop! No pop! NO POP!" He repeats this over and over in a thick commie accent as he makes his way down the stairs. I hear the basement door open. I hear the garage door open. I hear the car start in the garage.
I't's 9:25 AM.
I lay in bed for a few minutes, thinking about the best way to spend my day. I think about spelling. I think about reading. I have one child whose spelling is just atrocious (did I spell "atrocious" right?). Then again, Bard, my 15-year-old had atrocious spelling until I threatened to send her to boarding school. Her spelling drastically improved when she was about thirteen.
Still, I figure I should spend some time trying to figure out how to approach spelling with Houdin, my thirteen-year-old spelling-challenged child. I figure a good place to start is reading Guilt-Free Homeschooling, so I decide that I'm going to get up and start my computer, which is about three feet from my bed.
I can hear the garage door closing, and then opening, and then closing, and then opening. Bo is battling with the dogs and cats who keep running in and out of the garage, tripping the motion sensor on the garage door. I look out to see all four dogs romping around in the snow of the front yard. I see Bo's Jeep sitting in the driveway, and I watch to see if he'll look up at me. I send him a silent, telepathic message telling him to look up. "Look up here!" I think. "LOOK UP HERE AND WAVE AT ME!" I can tell from his hand motions that he's messing with his hair. He doesn't look up. He drives away. I say a silent prayer for his safety.
Speaking of dogs, I have to see a man about a horse. I only mention this because I have to tell you that the view from my toilet in my bedroom is so very awesome. I swear that I can see across three counties from my bedroom windows. As I sat there, I thought, "I wish my blog readers could see what I see." Ahem. I don't mean I wish they could see me sitting on the toilet. Oh, gag. What I mean is that I wish they could see these rolling hills, serene, peaceful farms, winter-bare trees. I think that's when I decided to do the 24-hour blogging thing.
By the time I finished my business, the computer was up and running. I'm so egocentric, my start page is Today's Lessons. I check last night's entries. No comments. Drat.
I navigate to Guilt-Free Homeschooling and read a few entries. I like what she had to say about having the kind of house where people actually live. I have to admit that I really struggle with this. Especially living in an Amish community, I feel like my home should be neat and clean at all times. It's not. Ever. This is when I decide to take pictures to go along with my twenty-four hour blog.
I head downstairs for the camera, and I find that Dog #4, Lewis, a one-year-old black lab, has made his way through dog #2, Jack's, tiny dog door and is hopping around at the bottom of the steps saying, "Check me out. Ain't I cool? I'm the man. Hey! Pet me! Love me!" I unceremoniously open the front door and tell him to go out. I see that one of the dogs has brought me a gift. On the front porch lies a frozen rooster. "Go play with the dead chicken," I tell Lewis. He goes out.
I grab my camera and make my way back up the stairs to my room. On my way, I turn off the light in the kids bathroom. I predict that I will be doing a lot of this today. You just wait and see.
Once back in my room, I take a few shots of my computer, my unmade bed, etc. And then I feed Wilma, my one-eyed chameleon who lives 
in a ficus tree on my tub deck. She eats live mealworms, and I keep them in the top drawer of my oak wardrobe, right under the computer I'm typing on this very second. Isn't that disgusting? Yeah.
Houdin walks in. He's disheveled and bleery-eyed with sleep. I get up and hug him to say good morning, an act I've committed to doing every morning for 1,001 days.
The phone rings. It's Bo. He's calling to tell Houdin to gather up the trash. The trash man might actually come today.
"Hey, did you get my secret, telepathic message?" I ask.
"Uh, I...yeah. Yeah! I got it! But what can I do about it when I'm driving?"
"You could have done it," I answer.
"Really? I can do that? While I'm driving?"
"You didn't get it," I answer, nonplussed (what does "nonplussed" really MEAN, anyway."
"Awwww...what was it?"
"When you were leaving," I tell him, "I stood at the window and sent you a secret message to look up. 'LOOK UP!' I said. You just fixed your hair and drove off."
"Awwwww..." he says. "I'm sorry."
"That's okay," I say. I don't believe in telepathic messages anyway. Not really. I think.
I've spent a half hour writing this post. If this continues, I know what I'm going to be doing for the next twenty-four hours.
"Good morning, Beautiful." I'm totally not making this up. This, God knows why, is how he wakes me up in the morning. Looking down at me, smiling, and addressing me in some flattering way. I've seen me in the morning. I don't know what the heck he's talking about. Maybe his eyesight's not so good before 10:00 AM
"Good morning," I answer. I ask him about his neck, which has been stiff since he woke up yesterday. I ask him what he's going to do for lunch, since I didn't make him one, there are hardly any groceries, and everyone ate the Toll House Cookie Bars I made last night.
"I'll get a chili and baked potato," he answers.
"Okay," I say cautiously, "but NO POP!" This is because we have cut all soft drinks out of our diets and are trying desperately to drink only water.
"No pop!" He says. "No pop! No pop! NO POP!" He repeats this over and over in a thick commie accent as he makes his way down the stairs. I hear the basement door open. I hear the garage door open. I hear the car start in the garage.
I't's 9:25 AM.
I lay in bed for a few minutes, thinking about the best way to spend my day. I think about spelling. I think about reading. I have one child whose spelling is just atrocious (did I spell "atrocious" right?). Then again, Bard, my 15-year-old had atrocious spelling until I threatened to send her to boarding school. Her spelling drastically improved when she was about thirteen.
Still, I figure I should spend some time trying to figure out how to approach spelling with Houdin, my thirteen-year-old spelling-challenged child. I figure a good place to start is reading Guilt-Free Homeschooling, so I decide that I'm going to get up and start my computer, which is about three feet from my bed.
I can hear the garage door closing, and then opening, and then closing, and then opening. Bo is battling with the dogs and cats who keep running in and out of the garage, tripping the motion sensor on the garage door. I look out to see all four dogs romping around in the snow of the front yard. I see Bo's Jeep sitting in the driveway, and I watch to see if he'll look up at me. I send him a silent, telepathic message telling him to look up. "Look up here!" I think. "LOOK UP HERE AND WAVE AT ME!" I can tell from his hand motions that he's messing with his hair. He doesn't look up. He drives away. I say a silent prayer for his safety.
Speaking of dogs, I have to see a man about a horse. I only mention this because I have to tell you that the view from my toilet in my bedroom is so very awesome. I swear that I can see across three counties from my bedroom windows. As I sat there, I thought, "I wish my blog readers could see what I see." Ahem. I don't mean I wish they could see me sitting on the toilet. Oh, gag. What I mean is that I wish they could see these rolling hills, serene, peaceful farms, winter-bare trees. I think that's when I decided to do the 24-hour blogging thing.
By the time I finished my business, the computer was up and running. I'm so egocentric, my start page is Today's Lessons. I check last night's entries. No comments. Drat.
I navigate to Guilt-Free Homeschooling and read a few entries. I like what she had to say about having the kind of house where people actually live. I have to admit that I really struggle with this. Especially living in an Amish community, I feel like my home should be neat and clean at all times. It's not. Ever. This is when I decide to take pictures to go along with my twenty-four hour blog.
I head downstairs for the camera, and I find that Dog #4, Lewis, a one-year-old black lab, has made his way through dog #2, Jack's, tiny dog door and is hopping around at the bottom of the steps saying, "Check me out. Ain't I cool? I'm the man. Hey! Pet me! Love me!" I unceremoniously open the front door and tell him to go out. I see that one of the dogs has brought me a gift. On the front porch lies a frozen rooster. "Go play with the dead chicken," I tell Lewis. He goes out.
I grab my camera and make my way back up the stairs to my room. On my way, I turn off the light in the kids bathroom. I predict that I will be doing a lot of this today. You just wait and see.
Once back in my room, I take a few shots of my computer, my unmade bed, etc. And then I feed Wilma, my one-eyed chameleon who lives 
in a ficus tree on my tub deck. She eats live mealworms, and I keep them in the top drawer of my oak wardrobe, right under the computer I'm typing on this very second. Isn't that disgusting? Yeah.
Houdin walks in. He's disheveled and bleery-eyed with sleep. I get up and hug him to say good morning, an act I've committed to doing every morning for 1,001 days.
The phone rings. It's Bo. He's calling to tell Houdin to gather up the trash. The trash man might actually come today.
"Hey, did you get my secret, telepathic message?" I ask.
"Uh, I...yeah. Yeah! I got it! But what can I do about it when I'm driving?"
"You could have done it," I answer.
"Really? I can do that? While I'm driving?"
"You didn't get it," I answer, nonplussed (what does "nonplussed" really MEAN, anyway."
"Awwww...what was it?"
"When you were leaving," I tell him, "I stood at the window and sent you a secret message to look up. 'LOOK UP!' I said. You just fixed your hair and drove off."
"Awwwww..." he says. "I'm sorry."
"That's okay," I say. I don't believe in telepathic messages anyway. Not really. I think.
I've spent a half hour writing this post. If this continues, I know what I'm going to be doing for the next twenty-four hours.
A Day in the Life
Everyone's just pounding on my door asking me how I do it. "If I could just live with you for one day, Thicket Dweller, I would be the smartest, most creative, easy-going, wisest homelearner in the whole world! Please, please be my friend!"
Alright. So that was just a fantasy. The truth is, I just thought it would be way mobie cool to blog through the day to keep track of what I do in a twenty-four hour period. So I plan to come in once an hour for twenty-four hours and give a quick blogging of what I've done that hour.
IF I remember to do it.
The next post you read will be about what I've done for the past hour. And then, I'm setting my timer, doggone it! :-)
Alright. So that was just a fantasy. The truth is, I just thought it would be way mobie cool to blog through the day to keep track of what I do in a twenty-four hour period. So I plan to come in once an hour for twenty-four hours and give a quick blogging of what I've done that hour.
IF I remember to do it.
The next post you read will be about what I've done for the past hour. And then, I'm setting my timer, doggone it! :-)
Ice Castles
"I'd say, let those kids play as long as they want..."
These were my husband Bo's words as he was leaving for work this morning. It was a wonderfully freeing suggestion and I was all too happy to comply.
He was referring to the fact that three of our five children had awoken early, eaten breakfast, cleaned up after themselves, dressed to go outdoors, and were in the yard making snow forts before he and I even opened our eyes to the new day.
So, I did just as he suggested. I let them play, play, play. They were being productive. They were getting along with NO arguing at all. In fact, Houdin and Monet were actually--GASP--cooperating!
I stood at our second floor window overlooking their work-play, afraid to move too quickly or make a sound for fear they'd see me and it would break the magical spell under which they were operating.
I watched Houdin fill plastic box after box with snow, pack it down with his gloved hands, and stack block after block to build his fort strong and high.
I watched Monet replenish Houdin's materials supply, pushing large boulders of snow uphill to the site of the fort so that Houdin could use his shovel to slice off bits of the snowball and pack them into the plastic boxes.
I remembered yesterday's promise that I would not only look at their creation, but that I would photograph it. So I went for the camera, pulled the screen out of Houdin's bedroom window, and started snapping photos. Monet eventually heard the whirring of the camera's lens and looked up.
"Hi, Mom!" he called, waving to me from his castle-like creation.
"Hi," I returned. "You know, you could make that fort really strong if..."
"If we spray it with water. I know. Dad told us already. About a hundred times."
"Oh." Well, I guess I don't have such original ideas, then. I guess I should just stick to taking photos.
"Let me get one of you together," I called down. The boys edged closer to each other. They were proud of their work. They looked handsome, healthy. The air was chilled, but they were warm. So very warm.
Their faces smiling, the camera clicked. This is what I live for.
These were my husband Bo's words as he was leaving for work this morning. It was a wonderfully freeing suggestion and I was all too happy to comply.
He was referring to the fact that three of our five children had awoken early, eaten breakfast, cleaned up after themselves, dressed to go outdoors, and were in the yard making snow forts before he and I even opened our eyes to the new day.
So, I did just as he suggested. I let them play, play, play. They were being productive. They were getting along with NO arguing at all. In fact, Houdin and Monet were actually--GASP--cooperating!
I stood at our second floor window overlooking their work-play, afraid to move too quickly or make a sound for fear they'd see me and it would break the magical spell under which they were operating.
I watched Houdin fill plastic box after box with snow, pack it down with his gloved hands, and stack block after block to build his fort strong and high.
I watched Monet replenish Houdin's materials supply, pushing large boulders of snow uphill to the site of the fort so that Houdin could use his shovel to slice off bits of the snowball and pack them into the plastic boxes.
I remembered yesterday's promise that I would not only look at their creation, but that I would photograph it. So I went for the camera, pulled the screen out of Houdin's bedroom window, and started snapping photos. Monet eventually heard the whirring of the camera's lens and looked up.
"Hi, Mom!" he called, waving to me from his castle-like creation.
"Hi," I returned. "You know, you could make that fort really strong if..."
"If we spray it with water. I know. Dad told us already. About a hundred times."
"Oh." Well, I guess I don't have such original ideas, then. I guess I should just stick to taking photos.
"Let me get one of you together," I called down. The boys edged closer to each other. They were proud of their work. They looked handsome, healthy. The air was chilled, but they were warm. So very warm.
Their faces smiling, the camera clicked. This is what I live for.
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
My Baby Genius
This audioblog is of The Baby, who will be two on Friday. In the audioblog, you can hear her count to ten, and then she TRIES to count to thirteen, but she's a little distracted by the phone and carrots and other important things.
I'm still amazed that she's not even two and can already count to ten. Someone tell me my child's a genius.
Identity Theft: One Blogger's Story...
An excerpt from today's post over at Quiet Life: "The bookkeeper pulled out a stack of about twelve checks that had my name forged at the bottom and our routing number and our address at the top.
These were not my checks. These were fake checks with fake ink made on a computer with all of our information.
This first batch of checks totaled over $3000.00."
The quoted post comes as a warning. Donna's blog entry for today carries with it a caution to mail your bills only from a post office dropbox, not from your own mailbox. Go to her post to read more.
These were not my checks. These were fake checks with fake ink made on a computer with all of our information.
This first batch of checks totaled over $3000.00."
The quoted post comes as a warning. Donna's blog entry for today carries with it a caution to mail your bills only from a post office dropbox, not from your own mailbox. Go to her post to read more.
Today's Thank You Awards
...go to:
Bard, for straightening the kitchen without me having to ask twice, for being patient with me while I had a downer day, for laughing with me this morning, and for writing in our journal.
Monet, for doing such a wonderful job of cleaning his room, and for working very hard to control his temper.
Sweetheart, for trying to settle an argument with her friend with calm words instead of crying or yelling.
Houdin, for making a really cool fort that I promise I'll look at tomorrow, AND take pictures. REMIND ME!
Bo, for taking the baby when I needed to be alone for a while, finishing our taxes, and for making that nifty rechargable battery holder.
Bard, for straightening the kitchen without me having to ask twice, for being patient with me while I had a downer day, for laughing with me this morning, and for writing in our journal.
Monet, for doing such a wonderful job of cleaning his room, and for working very hard to control his temper.
Sweetheart, for trying to settle an argument with her friend with calm words instead of crying or yelling.
Houdin, for making a really cool fort that I promise I'll look at tomorrow, AND take pictures. REMIND ME!
Bo, for taking the baby when I needed to be alone for a while, finishing our taxes, and for making that nifty rechargable battery holder.
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
January Reading List
Currently Reading:
Current Bedtime Read:
Mandy by Julie Andrews Edwards
Me:
Eve's Daughters by Lynn Austin
Crown Duel by Sherwood Smith
Haircut and other Stories by Ring Lardner
Houdin:
The Buck Stops Here: The Presidents of the United States (Updated Edition)
by Alice Provensen
National Geographic Eyewitness to the 20th Century
by National Geographic, Scientists, and Explorers Renowned Historians
Monet:
Polar Bears Past Bedtime (Magic Tree House 12, paper) by MARY POPE OSBORNE
Quick List of what we've read together:
Man Who Didn't Wash His Dishes by Phyllis Krasilovsky
Once Upon a Potty by Alona Frankel
The Skip Rope Book by by Francelia Butler
Richard Scarry's Big and Little, a Book of Opposites
I'll have Bard add hers later.
Current Bedtime Read:
Mandy by Julie Andrews Edwards
Me:
Eve's Daughters by Lynn Austin
Crown Duel by Sherwood Smith
Haircut and other Stories by Ring Lardner
Houdin:
The Buck Stops Here: The Presidents of the United States (Updated Edition)
by Alice Provensen
National Geographic Eyewitness to the 20th Century
by National Geographic, Scientists, and Explorers Renowned Historians
Monet:
Polar Bears Past Bedtime (Magic Tree House 12, paper) by MARY POPE OSBORNE
Quick List of what we've read together:
Man Who Didn't Wash His Dishes by Phyllis Krasilovsky
Once Upon a Potty by Alona Frankel
The Skip Rope Book by by Francelia Butler
Richard Scarry's Big and Little, a Book of Opposites
I'll have Bard add hers later.
Learning in Spite of it All
Because I've been inspired by Tenn over at School @ Home, I've been spending more time reading to my children, and encouraging more reading as well. Yesterday, in spite of the bookshelf organizing project, my kids were learning.
Maybe it was *because* of the bookshelf organizing project.
Have you ever noticed that, when you clean a room, everyone suddenly wants to be there? All of the other rooms are available to use, but somehow everyone gravitates to the clean room. They're comfortable. They're relaxed. They feel at peace.
I suppose, because my bookshelve were becoming more organized, everyone wanted to be there. Houdin was reading about presidents, specifically about Franklin D. Roosevelt and his love of dogs. He's reading up on presidents so that he can write a 200 word essay about his favorite president for the local paper. If he wins, he gets his essay printed in the paper and a $50 savings bond. He also spent some time looking through our presidents flash cards and reading Sweetheart was looking at art books about Mary Cassatt, and we even pulled a few favorites in between the sorting, cuddled up on the couch, and read. I couldn't resist reading The Man Who Wouldn't Wash His Dishes and The Skip Rope Book. While I read the latter, Sweetheart grabbed the jump rope and jumped to the rhythm of my words.
I read Once Upon a Potty to The Baby--twice. Both times, I lost her at the part where Prudence sat, and sat, and sat, and sat, and sat...
About early afternoon, Sweetheart and Houdin went with Grandpa to the library. While they were gone, Monet and I sat at the quiet kitchen table and read. I'm still reading Eve's Daughters, which, so far, is an awesome book. Monet was reading Polar Bears Past Bedtime, a Magic Treehouse book. While he was reading, he asked about gazelles and igloos, so we did a little mini-research on both. My only regret is that he wanted me to come outside and see the igloo that he built, and I didn't. I'll do that today, Monet. I promise. I'll even take pictures.
Edison recieved a magic video from NetFlix, so he and the kids sat down for a while to watch that. After that, it was just too much to take. The snow is so thick, they just had to go out and play in it.
Last night, I just let them watch the DVDs they brought home from the library. Sweetheart finally got her own library card on Saturday, so she is now very excited about going to the library. It was a great amount of fun listening to them laugh over old Bugs Bunny cartoons. "Ha! It's nitroglycerin!" I hear Bard laugh.
It was good to have Bard home. She and Bo had been gone all day because, well, because Bo has to do that really awful work thing. Bard had choral practice, so she took her schoolwork with her, and she also worked on the Favorite President essay. Bard's choir will be going to China in a few months, so they've been working very hard on their pieces.
And, as a little side note, I've decided to give daily Thank You Awards. Just my way of letting people in my house know that I appreciate what they've done. It might blow up in my face, but I'm going to do it anyway. So there.
Maybe it was *because* of the bookshelf organizing project.
Have you ever noticed that, when you clean a room, everyone suddenly wants to be there? All of the other rooms are available to use, but somehow everyone gravitates to the clean room. They're comfortable. They're relaxed. They feel at peace.
I suppose, because my bookshelve were becoming more organized, everyone wanted to be there. Houdin was reading about presidents, specifically about Franklin D. Roosevelt and his love of dogs. He's reading up on presidents so that he can write a 200 word essay about his favorite president for the local paper. If he wins, he gets his essay printed in the paper and a $50 savings bond. He also spent some time looking through our presidents flash cards and reading Sweetheart was looking at art books about Mary Cassatt, and we even pulled a few favorites in between the sorting, cuddled up on the couch, and read. I couldn't resist reading The Man Who Wouldn't Wash His Dishes and The Skip Rope Book. While I read the latter, Sweetheart grabbed the jump rope and jumped to the rhythm of my words.
I read Once Upon a Potty to The Baby--twice. Both times, I lost her at the part where Prudence sat, and sat, and sat, and sat, and sat...
About early afternoon, Sweetheart and Houdin went with Grandpa to the library. While they were gone, Monet and I sat at the quiet kitchen table and read. I'm still reading Eve's Daughters, which, so far, is an awesome book. Monet was reading Polar Bears Past Bedtime, a Magic Treehouse book. While he was reading, he asked about gazelles and igloos, so we did a little mini-research on both. My only regret is that he wanted me to come outside and see the igloo that he built, and I didn't. I'll do that today, Monet. I promise. I'll even take pictures.
Edison recieved a magic video from NetFlix, so he and the kids sat down for a while to watch that. After that, it was just too much to take. The snow is so thick, they just had to go out and play in it.
Last night, I just let them watch the DVDs they brought home from the library. Sweetheart finally got her own library card on Saturday, so she is now very excited about going to the library. It was a great amount of fun listening to them laugh over old Bugs Bunny cartoons. "Ha! It's nitroglycerin!" I hear Bard laugh.
It was good to have Bard home. She and Bo had been gone all day because, well, because Bo has to do that really awful work thing. Bard had choral practice, so she took her schoolwork with her, and she also worked on the Favorite President essay. Bard's choir will be going to China in a few months, so they've been working very hard on their pieces.
And, as a little side note, I've decided to give daily Thank You Awards. Just my way of letting people in my house know that I appreciate what they've done. It might blow up in my face, but I'm going to do it anyway. So there.
Monday, January 24, 2005
Today's Thank You Awards
Today's Thank You Awards go to:
Bohemian, for taking Bard to choir practice, grocery shopping, and picking up the couch and TV bracket from Freecyclers. I know you were exhausted by the time you finally got home.
Monet, for wrapping N.L.'s birthday present.
Edison, Monet and Sweetheart for cleaning up when I asked you to without arguing or complaining.
Bard, for being dedicated to your choral group and always taking your music without being reminded.
Bohemian, for taking Bard to choir practice, grocery shopping, and picking up the couch and TV bracket from Freecyclers. I know you were exhausted by the time you finally got home.
Monet, for wrapping N.L.'s birthday present.
Edison, Monet and Sweetheart for cleaning up when I asked you to without arguing or complaining.
Bard, for being dedicated to your choral group and always taking your music without being reminded.
Feeling Rather Bookish
It started out innocently enough.
I just wanted to pull a few books off my shelf, blog some titles of books that will help me get ready for the coming spring like I mentioned in my post about getting the planting itch. I grabbed a handful of gardening guides and started typing. Then I remembered, "Hey. I think there are more gardening-type books in the basement from when we were still living in the cabin," so I trek down to the fruit cellar to get them. While I'm down there, I find a few boxes of books that made it out of our storage unit when we moved into the new house, but didn't make it onto actual bookshelves, unless you call the fruit cellar shelves bookshelves. I don't.
While I was at it, I figured, I may as well go ahead and grab the books I'd stuck in on the storage shelves in the basement laundry room. Wouldn't hurt to just round all of 'em up and put 'em where they go. Right?
Right?
I started this project this morning, organizing my book shelves. I felt good about getting started, because it's on my 101 in 1,001 list. Get the bookshelves organized. All of the math books in one place, all of the language books in one place, all of the classics in one place, all of the birth, NFP and midwifery books in one place. Sounds so good. So tidy. So organized. So, yes, I decided this morning was the time to get it done.
Early this morning.
And, go on, take a wild guess. Do you think I'm done? At 8:32 tonight, do you think I've finished? Did you answer a big, fat, "no?"
Well, you were right. I'm sitting in this room surrounded by books. It's not as easy to organize these as I'd hoped. After all, how does one categorize a book titled How to Teach Your Dog to Talk? And where, exactly, do I place our single picture book about Trucks? After all, I'm already feeling guilty about the big box of books that are going to the second-hand store just because I don't know where else to put them.
And what, exactly, do all of you homeschooling moms do with the workbooks that have, like, five pages finished and haven't been touched in twelve and a half years? Do you throw 'em out? Does your inner optimist believe you'll make one of your kids finish 'em? Does your perfectionist want the kid that started the workbook to finish it? Even though she's almost fifteen and already knows her ABC's? Does that same perfectionist feel it's unfair to give the workbook to the child who's still learning her ABC's because A through E are already completed? Does your inner pessimist cringe at the sight of a stack of fifteen workbooks, each with five pages completed, and judge you for being a bad homeschooler who doesn't follow through and whose children will not know their ABC's when they grow up? Does your inner financial advisor chastise you for spending all of that money on curricula that you know you'll never use because your kids would rather learn how to make igloos and measure rice into a balance scale? Or does your inner sentimentalist packrat want to lovingly cut out each completed page with a pair of pinking shears and file them in the child's portfolio or scrapbook?
My inner psychopath is ready to build a nice, big bonfire and burn every book she sees for the next twenty-two years.
I think I deserve a bowl of ice cream. Or at least a book about one.
I just wanted to pull a few books off my shelf, blog some titles of books that will help me get ready for the coming spring like I mentioned in my post about getting the planting itch. I grabbed a handful of gardening guides and started typing. Then I remembered, "Hey. I think there are more gardening-type books in the basement from when we were still living in the cabin," so I trek down to the fruit cellar to get them. While I'm down there, I find a few boxes of books that made it out of our storage unit when we moved into the new house, but didn't make it onto actual bookshelves, unless you call the fruit cellar shelves bookshelves. I don't.
While I was at it, I figured, I may as well go ahead and grab the books I'd stuck in on the storage shelves in the basement laundry room. Wouldn't hurt to just round all of 'em up and put 'em where they go. Right?
Right?
I started this project this morning, organizing my book shelves. I felt good about getting started, because it's on my 101 in 1,001 list. Get the bookshelves organized. All of the math books in one place, all of the language books in one place, all of the classics in one place, all of the birth, NFP and midwifery books in one place. Sounds so good. So tidy. So organized. So, yes, I decided this morning was the time to get it done.
Early this morning.
And, go on, take a wild guess. Do you think I'm done? At 8:32 tonight, do you think I've finished? Did you answer a big, fat, "no?"
Well, you were right. I'm sitting in this room surrounded by books. It's not as easy to organize these as I'd hoped. After all, how does one categorize a book titled How to Teach Your Dog to Talk? And where, exactly, do I place our single picture book about Trucks? After all, I'm already feeling guilty about the big box of books that are going to the second-hand store just because I don't know where else to put them.
And what, exactly, do all of you homeschooling moms do with the workbooks that have, like, five pages finished and haven't been touched in twelve and a half years? Do you throw 'em out? Does your inner optimist believe you'll make one of your kids finish 'em? Does your perfectionist want the kid that started the workbook to finish it? Even though she's almost fifteen and already knows her ABC's? Does that same perfectionist feel it's unfair to give the workbook to the child who's still learning her ABC's because A through E are already completed? Does your inner pessimist cringe at the sight of a stack of fifteen workbooks, each with five pages completed, and judge you for being a bad homeschooler who doesn't follow through and whose children will not know their ABC's when they grow up? Does your inner financial advisor chastise you for spending all of that money on curricula that you know you'll never use because your kids would rather learn how to make igloos and measure rice into a balance scale? Or does your inner sentimentalist packrat want to lovingly cut out each completed page with a pair of pinking shears and file them in the child's portfolio or scrapbook?
My inner psychopath is ready to build a nice, big bonfire and burn every book she sees for the next twenty-two years.
I think I deserve a bowl of ice cream. Or at least a book about one.
Bring on the Snow--I've got Jane Brody to keep me company
There's nothing like a good snowstorm to bring a family together.
We had the usual busy-ness planned for the weekend. I was supposed to fly out to Chicago for a baby shower (my gift to my lovely sister-in-law was the poem Stretch that I posted a few days ago, which was read yesterday during her Blessingway) but the flight was cancelled due to the snow. The kids had been invited to a birthday party about an hour and a half away, but there was no way we could take our big ol' van out on these country roads, so we regretfully declined to attend. As it was, Bo and I had to run out for milk, eggs and butter and our 4-wheel drive Jeep barely handled the journey to the local IGA, the library and back.
So, we were officially snowed in.
What's the best thing to do when you're snowed in? Okay, other than do laundry. Eat, of course!
On Saturday, I made biscuits and lentil vegetable soup, we read books and blogs, and I caught up (mostly) on my laundry. Houdin spent most of the day sledding with his friend, our neighbor C.J., and then shoveled sidewalks for C.J.'s grandmother's neighbors.
On Sunday, I did more laundry. And more laundry. And more laundry. Somehow, even with doing two or three loads of laundry a day, I can't seem to catch up completely.
The big thing, though, was that I decided to spend the day baking cookies. When the kids asked if C.J. and his sisters Cat and Beth could come over, I figured that it sounded like the perfect winter activity--playing with friends and eating cookies.
While the kids flung the Playmobil toys all over the Big Room, I baked Toll-House cookies, which, I'm sorry to say, are the best chocolate chip cookies that have ever existed. Please, prove me wrong. I say that I'm sorry to say that they're the best, because I avoid buying Nestle products at just about any cost because of their production and distribution of baby formula and the Nestle boycott. So I'm left with a moral dilemma. Buy Nestle chocolate chips and break my boycott, or buy Hershey's chips, which aren't made available in the big bags at my grocery, and feel guilty about using them to make a Nestle recipe. I normally opt for the Hershy option, or, if available, Ghiradelli. But I had Nestle in my pantry, so Nestle I used. Please forgive me, breastfeeding zealots. The snowstorm made me do it.
I baked lots and lots of cookies. I baked two dozen for my Amish neighbor's, Kate and Dean, who just had their fifth baby--a girl. They now have five children who are age six and under. They need all the cookies they can get.
I also baked a container-full for my dear, dear friend P. who recently had surgery for breast cancer, and, thank God, had a very successful operation and is currently undergoing daily radiation treatments and amazing me with her good spirits and unquenchable energy.
I decided, too, to try using the dough to make Toll House Cookie Bars. I spread them very thickly into my Only And Very Pampered Pampered Chef Baking Pan. Ooooh, boy. I do think that's my favorite way to have chocolate chip cookies, now. It makes it so much easier to justify eating Breyer's vanilla ice cream.
Speaking of ice cream and other yummy foods, we have recently, and very successfully, made major changes to our family's diet. As part of my 101 in 1,001 commitment, I swore off of fast food as of January 9th. Since that time, I've completely avoided fast food. And then, when we watched Super Size Me, on January 19th, Bohemian and I decided to radically change our diets. Since then, we've increased our intake of salads, eliminated all sugary drinks (though Bo is still indulging in his coffee--just not as often as he'd been) and have created a system for having cold, convenient drinking water available to everyone at all times. Amazingly, it's working. In fact, Bard, who had been considering vegetarianism, finally made the switch and has been eating much healthier and being more active since the 19th. It's only five days, but we all feel a big difference already. I allow things like ice cream and homemade cookies so that my family doesn't completely revolt. Then again, what would they do? Start cooking for themselves? Guffaw!
I even serendipitously found my copy of Jane Brody's Good Food Book (it was on a bookshelf. Can you imagine?) and have been re-reading it for tips and recipes. Brody insists that carbohydrates are GOOD for you--imagine that! People should actually eat energy foods and then be ACTIVE! GASP!
But Brody's book is more than a cookbook, but also offers background information on pastas, beans, grains and even suggestions for stocking your pantry. It's actually more of a course in nutritional cooking than a simple cookbook. Brody's recipe for My Favorite Lentil Soup is so awesome. It really is my favorite lentil soup!
My Favorite Lentil Soup
Ingredients:
2 Tbsp. olive oil
2-3 medium onions, chopped
(about 2 cups)
3 carrots, coarsely grated
3/4 tsp. marjoram
3/4 tsp.
thyme
1 28-oz. can tomatoes with their juice
7 c. vegetable broth
1-1/2 c. dried lentils, rinsed
1/2 tsp. salt
1/4 -1/2 tsp. freshly
ground black pepper
6 oz. dry white wine
1/3 c. chopped fresh parsley or
2 Tbsp. dried
4 oz. cheddar cheese, grated (optional but oh, so yummy)Preparation:
Heat the oil in a large saucepan, and sauté the onions, carrots, marjoram, and thyme, stirring the vegetables for about 5 minutes. Add the tomatoes, broth, and
lentils. Bring the soup to a boil, reduce the heat, cover the pan, and simmer
for about 1 hour, or until the lentils are tender. Add the salt, pepper, wine,
and parsley, and simmer the soup for a few minutes. Serve with cheese sprinkled
on each portion.
Source: Jane Brody's Good Food Book
So, eat and enjoy.
Ah! It's snowing again! Time to make more food--and do more laundry.
Sunday, January 23, 2005
Itching
Heavens, it's not even the end of January yet.
I can't help it. I'm itching to start planting.
Last year, we achieved a lifelong dream of building our own home.
This came after thirteen years of living in a small house, and then in a tiny two-room cabin (think Little House in the Big Woods) without an indoor toilet or electricity. We spent a good part of the past three years planning, preparing and building our farmhouse...but we didn't even begin to touch the yard and gardens.
I'm very much looking forward to focusing on that aspect of our home this coming summer.
I suppose my itching has something to do with beginning to read Mandy to the kids tonight. It also has to do with recalling the gardens of my youth. It might also have something to do with seeing strawberries for $4.00 a quart at IGA and knowing I wouldn't buy the flavorless, rotten things anyway. I'd rather wait and grow my own.
So I'm thinking about pulling out the garden inspiration. Tomorrow, I'll make a list of the reads we'll savor to get psyched for spring planting. Oooh, I can feel the mud between my toes already.
Bring on the seed catalogs. I'm ready to plan.
I can't help it. I'm itching to start planting.
Last year, we achieved a lifelong dream of building our own home.
This came after thirteen years of living in a small house, and then in a tiny two-room cabin (think Little House in the Big Woods) without an indoor toilet or electricity. We spent a good part of the past three years planning, preparing and building our farmhouse...but we didn't even begin to touch the yard and gardens.
I'm very much looking forward to focusing on that aspect of our home this coming summer.
I suppose my itching has something to do with beginning to read Mandy to the kids tonight. It also has to do with recalling the gardens of my youth. It might also have something to do with seeing strawberries for $4.00 a quart at IGA and knowing I wouldn't buy the flavorless, rotten things anyway. I'd rather wait and grow my own.
So I'm thinking about pulling out the garden inspiration. Tomorrow, I'll make a list of the reads we'll savor to get psyched for spring planting. Oooh, I can feel the mud between my toes already.
Bring on the seed catalogs. I'm ready to plan.
Living Off The Land
There was no question in my seven-year-old mind that I could do it.
I sat in the back yard, behind the dog pen, hunched inside of a makeshift tent that was constructed out of heavy poles and a big, black tarp, something my dad had brought home (read: stolen) from the rubber shop where he worked. I had in my hand a jar full of ripe red raspberries, picked only minutes ago from the row of bushes that ran along the north side of the dog pen. I was attempting to make raspberry jam, using a spoon and smashing the raspberries into a thick, gooey pulp. No sugar needed. These babies were plenty sweet. And who needed toast? It was a jam good enough to eat right out of the jar.
This was all part of a plan to prove to myself that I could live off of the land.
It seemed to me, even then, that it wasn't completely necessary to have grocery stores. After all, everything that you could buy at the store could be made or grown at home. Well, with the exception of bananas. But I could live without bananas.
My thinking was this: I really needed very little to survive. First off, I was pretty skinny. I had been a skinny kid since the very beginning, and had worried my parents because I "ate like a bird." They would take me to the doctor, who would assure them that I would eat when I was hungry, and then he would assure me that he would marry me someday, and let me choose a reward from the treasure chest (I always chose a ring, so I could say that it was from the doctor who was going to marry me someday). My great-grandfather, who we called Big Grandpa because he was very tall and was married to Little Grandma, who was very short, would shake his head at me at every family gathering. "You look like a bird! You're going to dry up and fly away!"
But I really don't think it's fair to say that I didn't eat, because I certainly did. I loved fruits, vegetables, bread and bacon. I ate a lot of stuff. And I ran around a lot. And I think it's because of the things I liked to eat that I came to my conclusion that I could live off the land.
After all, what could be better than a fresh carrot, straight from the garden? Well, a tomato, of course! A red, sun-warmed, juice-drips-down-to-your-elbow tomato is one of the best things that can ever happen to a kid. There's no store-bought tomato that could even pretend to be more than a tasteless water balloon. And corn! Well, if a kid could start a fire and boil some water, corn would just be the best thing in the world to eat! And since I was such a dairy addict, I certainly had to have a cow. And what did cows eat? Grass! How hard could that be to grow?
Given all of this staggering logic, I knew that I never really had to have a job. I could eat fruits and veggies straight from the garden, sleep in my tent, and drink milk and make butter from my cow who only needed to eat grass. It was a flawless plan. Sometimes, I still pull elements from it. This is why I needed to know how to make bread from scratch, or how to knit a scarf, a hat, or a pair of mittens. This is why we have goats and chickens, and why things just don't feel right if there isn't a garden filled with herbs, veggies, fruits and weeds in our yard. This is why I've made homemade horehound drops, why I read books by Gene Logsdon and Wendell Berry, why I get so excited about mulberry season, and why I have a get that goofy nostalgic look on my face when I see a row of red raspberries. Because when I was seven years old, I had a plan. And I was sure that I could live off the land from that moment on.
As long as it stayed summer all year 'round.
I sat in the back yard, behind the dog pen, hunched inside of a makeshift tent that was constructed out of heavy poles and a big, black tarp, something my dad had brought home (read: stolen) from the rubber shop where he worked. I had in my hand a jar full of ripe red raspberries, picked only minutes ago from the row of bushes that ran along the north side of the dog pen. I was attempting to make raspberry jam, using a spoon and smashing the raspberries into a thick, gooey pulp. No sugar needed. These babies were plenty sweet. And who needed toast? It was a jam good enough to eat right out of the jar.
This was all part of a plan to prove to myself that I could live off of the land.
It seemed to me, even then, that it wasn't completely necessary to have grocery stores. After all, everything that you could buy at the store could be made or grown at home. Well, with the exception of bananas. But I could live without bananas.
My thinking was this: I really needed very little to survive. First off, I was pretty skinny. I had been a skinny kid since the very beginning, and had worried my parents because I "ate like a bird." They would take me to the doctor, who would assure them that I would eat when I was hungry, and then he would assure me that he would marry me someday, and let me choose a reward from the treasure chest (I always chose a ring, so I could say that it was from the doctor who was going to marry me someday). My great-grandfather, who we called Big Grandpa because he was very tall and was married to Little Grandma, who was very short, would shake his head at me at every family gathering. "You look like a bird! You're going to dry up and fly away!"
But I really don't think it's fair to say that I didn't eat, because I certainly did. I loved fruits, vegetables, bread and bacon. I ate a lot of stuff. And I ran around a lot. And I think it's because of the things I liked to eat that I came to my conclusion that I could live off the land.
After all, what could be better than a fresh carrot, straight from the garden? Well, a tomato, of course! A red, sun-warmed, juice-drips-down-to-your-elbow tomato is one of the best things that can ever happen to a kid. There's no store-bought tomato that could even pretend to be more than a tasteless water balloon. And corn! Well, if a kid could start a fire and boil some water, corn would just be the best thing in the world to eat! And since I was such a dairy addict, I certainly had to have a cow. And what did cows eat? Grass! How hard could that be to grow?
Given all of this staggering logic, I knew that I never really had to have a job. I could eat fruits and veggies straight from the garden, sleep in my tent, and drink milk and make butter from my cow who only needed to eat grass. It was a flawless plan. Sometimes, I still pull elements from it. This is why I needed to know how to make bread from scratch, or how to knit a scarf, a hat, or a pair of mittens. This is why we have goats and chickens, and why things just don't feel right if there isn't a garden filled with herbs, veggies, fruits and weeds in our yard. This is why I've made homemade horehound drops, why I read books by Gene Logsdon and Wendell Berry, why I get so excited about mulberry season, and why I have a get that goofy nostalgic look on my face when I see a row of red raspberries. Because when I was seven years old, I had a plan. And I was sure that I could live off the land from that moment on.
As long as it stayed summer all year 'round.
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