Okay, Kids, Time for Bedlam

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!"

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."

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.

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.

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.

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

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. :-)

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.

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 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.

Dear Mom,

I'm so sorry I lost my temper at Houdin. Please tell Houdin that I'm
so sorry.

Love,

Monet

I let Houdin read the note. "So?" he says.

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.

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:

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 today 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.

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:

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.

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.

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! :-)

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.

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.

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.

In response to Donna over at Quiet Life, I'm posting my blogging spot. This is where I blog...my bedroom. There's a computer inside that wardrobe, which I'll post a photo of when I can get my dear husband to make me a disc. .  

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

This Conversation Actually Took Place...

Sweetheart: Can I have more cake?

Loving Mother: No.

Sweetheart: Grandpa eats more bad food than I do.

Loving Mother: Not true. You would eat a lot of bad food if I didn't follow you around the house saying "No, no, no."

Sweetheart: He does too eat more bad food. That's why his teef are rotten.

Grandpa (who was not in any wars): The war did this to my teeth.

Sweetheart: You didn't have any wars.

Monet: Yes, he did, too. He was a submarine.

I kid you not.

Stretch: For My Pregnant Sisters

It was the first thing I noticed.

Pink lines marched along my skin as my body made room for each pound that I gained.

Everywhere.

My thighs,
my breasts,
my butt
and my stomach.

The pregnancy books talked about these lines, these marks that would never tan and would never go away. My body was changing,

and it would never be the same.

My tummy was bigger now, bigger every day. Yet it never seemed big enough for that life inside of me.

Sitting on the couch, I would feel the pressure--
a foot jabbing into my ribs, kicking me from the inside out,
or a shoulder rotating against my hip bone,
or an elbow poking at my side.
I could recline,
reposition,
realign.

There wasn't enough room in there. No matter how much I would stretch myself.

The pains crept in--those crampy, achy, here-it-comes pains. I could close my eyes and try to envision it--
the stretching that would bring this sweet, new life into the world,
into my arms,
the stretching that was going on all through my body.

It was only through that stretching that my little girl child would find her place, cuddled in the safety of the family bed,
a little nursling at my side.

Sweet, sweet baby, with rosebud lips and glowing cheeks.
I know you.
I know who you are, as you've grown inside of me,
built me up,
and helped me to grow.

You're the one who has changed me from a selfish girl into a hopeful mother. I want to be more for you, better for you. I want to be the very best you could ever have.

No one has ever made me feel this way, though many have tried.
Teachers,
parents,
friends,
preachers,
lovers.
No one has caused me to want to be as much as I want to be for you.

Sweet, sweet baby, I watch you sleep for a moment, and then, blinking your eyes, you look at me and lift your little balled hands high above your head, pushing your toes as far as you can push them from your fingers...

And you stretch.
You stretch.
You stretch
me.

Each day, child, you stretch me. There's more of me than I ever thought there could be.

I am more flexible,
more pliable,
more malleable than I could have forced myself to be.

I stretch out my hands to hug you after you fall.
I stretch out my mind to understand you when you're so very teenaged and I'm so very not.
I stretch my love to add another child.
And another.
And another.
And another.
I stretch out my trust in God to protect you when you're away from me.

My body will never be the same. The silvery-gray lines that will never tan--they were just the beginning.

You've stretched me, Child
--my body,
my heart,
my mind,
my spirit.

It was the first thing I noticed...

Finished!

We finished reading The Boxcar Children yesterday. It was kinda sad to see it end, but I really, really enjoyed it while it lasted.

Monet and Sweetheart have been playing Boxcar Children ever since we started reading. Today, while they were playing with the treehouse thingy they got for Christmas, they were looking for Benny. Monet, being Henry, asked Sweetheart, who was being Violet, if she'd seen Benny lately. Sweetheart, being Violet, said, "No way, Jose!" Bard and I verbally doubted if Violet would have said such a thing, but Sweetheart insisted she would have.

So, what to read next?

Trouble Posting...

I've been experiencing some server troubles, which are driving me nuts. Quick notes in case this is the only post I can make for a few days (these notes are mostly to remind me what we've been doing, so don't blame me if they bore you).

Bard had her hair cut and colored. Pics to come
Houdin did a magic show at the nursing home. Prep was a nightmare. Show went fine. They invited us back every two weeks.
Bard is going to start a poetry reading group at the nursing home. She starts in two weeks.
The Baby, who will be two next week, can count to 13 by herself! The laundry awaits, but my child is a genius.

More as I can connect.

Changed. Forever.

Okay, I know it's banal, but I, too, have watched Super Size Me.

Things are gonna be different around here from now on.

Searching for Answers in a Pile of Laundry

Again, I'm wondering about the wisdom of focusing on just one area of one's life. It seems that when one does that, one ends up losing control of every other area. Big time.

Yesterday was my "clean the bedroom/get laundry done" day. Except my "laundry day" takes about a week. I spent the majority of the day upstairs, and in spite of the jug of laundry soap and the amount of time I spent, I didn't get all of the laundry done.

It. Just. Keeps. Coming.

So, today, I'm doing laundry AND cleaning out my pantry, which contains about fifteen opened bags of chocolate chips (NOTE: It honestly was NOT me), twelve opened bags of chips, six opened sleeves of crackers, seven opened bags of nuts, and three opened bags of sugar.

I did not do this. I did not open all of these bags. But who is cleaning up all of the spilled contents? Who is trying to figure out which ones are stale and which ones are edible? It ain't the opened bag fairy, I'll tell ya that.

It's me.

And so, I'm a grump. A total, honest to goodness grump.

In addition, Monet has decided that he's going to pull out his "I can't do anything and I don't remember what you just told me to do" routine. I've told him six times to load the dishwasher, eight times to put away the groceries, fourteen times to sort the socks, and five times to put away his jacket.

These are the days that make me want to run screaming to the local public school and demand that they take my child. Now.

The worst part about my frustration is that I feel like there should be SOMETHING I could do about it.

Am I using the wrong educational approach? Did I have too many kids? Am I disciplining too much? Too little? Expecting too much? Too little? Do I try to hard? Not hard enough? Is it their diet? Is it allergies? Is it too much sugar? Too much wheat? Too much caffeine? Too much white flour? Too much TV? Not enough reality? Do they need more hobbies? More chores? Should their dad be home full-time? Should I go to work full-time? Should they be in school? Should I unschool more? Is their life too structured? Too permissive? Am I too demanding? Too relaxed? (Nope. That's not it.) Do they need more friends? More exercise? More fresh air? Do they need better vitamins? Do I need more vitamins? Do they need Ritalin? Do I need Prozac? What am I doing wrong? What? What??? WHAT???

God, can you just give me an answer? A symbol? A sign??? Anything?!?

Ah. There's the dryer buzzer. I see that God has a sense of humor.

Maybe he'll share.

The Queen of Our Village

Silly me. I opened the bottle of frozen Cherry Coke (What? Cherry Coke? Who was drinking Cherry Coke? Not me. Huh uh. Not after I resolved to replace my daily Cherry Coke intake with water).

The Cherry Coke that I wasn't opening not for me overflowed all over the counter.

Sweetheart: Mom, why did you do that?

Me: Because I'm not very smart. You should know that by now.

Sweetheart: Yes, you are. You're very smart. Because you're the mom.

Me: Is that so?

Sweetheart: Yes. You're like the queen. The queen of our village. And you teach us, so you have to be smart.

Me: Aha. I'll remember that next time I try to do something stupid.

Our First Cache

Get this:

You tell a bunch of kids that you're going on a treasure hunt. Suddenly, they're jumping up and down, they're all excited, they're ready to get out in the cold, winter air and get some exercise.

And then they stop and stare at you with that "What are you trying to pull?" look on their faces.

"What are you trying to pull?" They ask.

"Nothing," I say. "Absolutely nothing. It's a wonderful Sunday morning, and I think it would an excellent day for a treasure hunt." I look at my husband.

"Don't you, Bo?" Aforementioned husband nods.

"So we're going out in the yard to find some treasure you buried. Is this like the time you hid our christmas gifts in pirate chests and told us that Black Beard the Pirate left them behind?"

"Um, no," I say. "It's not at all like that. We're not looking in our yard. And I didn't hide the treasure. In fact, I don't even know exactly where it is."

"Is this like the time that you hid the dollar bills in the yard so that we would be motivated to pull weeds, and you told us that Black Beard the Pirate left them behind?"

"Um, no," I say. "This actually has nothing to do with Black Beard the Pirate at all."

"Okay, then what's the catch?" They ask, their eyes narrowed in disbelief.

"There's no catch. There's only a cache," I say, trying to be clever.

"A what?"

I point Houdin to the computer, where I have pulled up the FAQ for Geocaching. "Read," I say.

Before long, Houdin and Bard have read about geocaching, and we're in the van and on our way. Our whole clan went, including The Baby, Sweetheart and The Grandpa, which is unusual because The Grandpa doesn't go very many places.


We head to the first cache of the day, and Monet immediately takes to the GPS, letting us know how rapidly we're approaching the cache. It's not far from our house, so we don't take a long time to get there. It's a good thing, with all of the "Are we there yet?" and "It's my turn to hold the CPR!" "It's a GPS, Silly!" "Whatever!"

We're looking for a mini-cache, hidden in a tiny painted Altoids tin, and we've looked all over the destination. The kids are about to give up, but I'm not. I look over there. I look under that. I look up there...AHA! I walk away from the hiding place.

Bard catches the goofy grin on my face.

"You found it, didn't you?" She asks. I nod.

"Where is it?" She asks. I shrug.

We play a game of "hotter/colder" and, soon enough, everyone has found it.

Everyone, except Sweetheart.


Sweetheart wasn't very happy at all. As a matter of fact, I think she was about as unhappy as a treasure hunter can be. Even after we gave her the cache tin to open, she cried. She was, in a word, bummed.

We replaced the cache exactly where we found it (and I'm not tellin') and set the GPS for the next cache search. This time, the cache was along a walking trail, so we got a nice little hike. This time, Houdin was the first to find the cache, hidden in an ammo box. We sat at a picnic bench, read the log, and looked through the treasure. The premise of geocaching is that you can take something from the cache box, but you have to leave something behind. The kids had all brought a little something to leave, and they each took something that connected with them: Sweetheart and Houdin took fishing lures, Monet took a baseball. I can't remember what Bard took. What DID you take, Bard?

Night was falling, but we still had enough time to place our own first cache.

Today's Lessons: Mapping coordinates, hiking, visual observation, latitude and longitude, following directions, reading, writing and sharing.

Dangerously Beautiful...

This is a photo from my front porch of the ice storm of 2004 that I talk about in my Broken Branches, a Plea to All Fathers essay. It was truly one of the most beautiful things I've ever seen. Unfortunately, thousands of people went without power over the Christmas and New Year's holiday anywhere from a few hours to almost two weeks. We were without power from the day before Christmas eve through the day before New Year's Eve. Now the area is dealing with massive flooding and evacuation from their homes. Since we're up high on a hill, and we don't live in a valley area, we're not affected, other than a change in certain driving routes.

Going on a Treasure Hunt...

Last Sunday, we made our first attempt at Geocaching. We both found and hid treasures, and we all had a lot of fun. Plus, it was great exercise!

We plan to go again today, and then we're taking the boys to see, what else-- National Treasure!

I hope to post some photos from our last hunt and today's hunt later on this evening.

Pottymouth downgrade...or upgrade? Not sure...

If you look at my blogroll, you'll see that I have an asterisk beside each blog that I know to contain any four letter words (actually, four-letter-word is an archaic term. Dooce can turn out some pretty creative fourteen-letter-words). While I believe myself to be forward-thinking, I cringe when I hear a woman swear. Must be all of those years with my pottymouth mother are embedded in my brain. Plus, I think it's only polite to warn my friends and family about the language rating of the blogs I recommend.

Chris just appealed to me from her Big Yellow House . She says that she's not actually a pottymouth. She believes she's more in the bathroom vicinity and not in the actual toilet. I agree.

Therefore, I'm downgrading (or upgrading?) her pottymouth status. I suppose the only fair and right thing for me to do is to put a number of asterisks next to a blog based on how much...um...colorful language the blog contains.

For what it's worth, I think Dooce is absolutely hilarious, but I guess I'm a bit of a prude (or still have very clear visions of my chronically depressed, manic depressive, abusive mother and her derogatory vocabulary)...I can't in good conscious recommend Dooce's site because of her prolific profanity, no matter how creative.

Sorry, Dooce.

Besides, I can only imagine that my little voice won't in the least detract from your massive place in the blogosphere anyway.

You expected oatmeal, maybe?

I thought about this. I really did.

See, I read recently that it's very important to eat breakfast, and that a lot of weight problems stem from not eating breakfast. Skipping breakfast lowers your metabolism, then what you eat later just converts to fat. I can't find the article, so if you read it, too, remind me where it is.

So, I've been making a point of eating breakfast. Some protein, some grains, a big glass of water or a little glass of juice. I feel better. Honestly. And I've even been taking my vitamins every day, just like I promised.

When I awoke this morning, I started thinking about breakfast before I even got out of bed. I knew just what I would have. Mmm. Yummy. Pecans...Milk. Protein. Calcium. And best of all, no cooking necessary.

Breyer's Butter Pecan. It's not just for midnight snack anymore.

This was written for me...

Okay, maybe it wasn't. But it certainly could have been. Thank you to Lonna at Mom and More for posting this wonderful affirmation.

"They may see the good you do as self serving.
Continue to do good.
They may see your generosity as grandstanding.
Continue to be generous.
They may see your warm and caring nature as a weakness.
Continue to be warm and caring.
For you see, in the end, it is between you and God.
It never was between you and them anyway."

Author Unknown

Should I or Shouldn't I?

It's 1 A.M and Sweetheart just asked me to read a chapter of The Boxcar Children. I told her that we got to stay up late, eat subs and watch movies, to which she replied, "But you read to us EVERY night."

"We'll see..." I said.

So, what do you think I did?

A Date with Bard

What's more wonderful than spending a day with your daughter? Spending a day with your daughter, who you think is REALLY cool!

Bard and I headed out for our date on Thursday, and I have to say that she looked stunning. I couldn't believe that she was really my little girl, this tall, beautiful young woman. I know it's banal, but I'm saying it anyway. She's becoming a lovely young lady.

Our first stop was to be lunch at the newest Chic-Fil-A in our area. On our ride there, Bard gave me a book report about her new favorite classic book--To Kill a Mockingbird. She decided to read it because a group of bibliophiles were discussing whether their favorite book characters wore boxers, briefs, thongs or went commando and one of the girls said, "Atticus, boxers or briefs," and no one knew who that was. No one, out of the 20 or so avid readers, had read To Kill a Mockingbird. Bard decided, as part of her 101 in 1001, to read one classic a month. To Kill a Mockingbird was the first one on her list.

We arrived at Chic-Fil-A on their opening day and were greeted by our good friend and fellow homeschooling parent, Dr. Don Bartlette. Don was handing out samples of Chic-fil-A's delicious brownies! It was a wonderful surprise to see him, and we had a great time catching up with him. He reminded us what an adventure, what a miracle it is just to open your eyes every morning to a new day!

After Chic-fil-A, we headed to the movie theater, where we eagerly bought tickets to see Finding Neverland. It was very moving, very magical, and managed to make me cry. I hate it when the last scene in a movie is a tearjerker, and is immediately followed by a HUGE, WHITE SCREEN so that EVERYONE in the theater can see what a BIG BABY you are. Sheesh.

We ended the evening with a visit to a friend's scrapbooking party. I'm not a scrapbooker (GASP!) but I knit for a while and helped Bard with her scrapbook pages.

Bard spent the night at Kat's house, so we gave our hugs and parted ways. I then headed to Borders to drool over the knitting books, look, with no success, for a good family Bible Study guide, and to find journals for each of the kids for our co-journaling project.* I found a really awesome one for Monet, one with a marble-looking cover, irridescent page edges and a ribbon bookmark built right in. He loved it. For Houdin, I found one that looked a bit more bookish, and we immediately began to co-write a fictional story.

I miss Bard, as she's still not home from Kat's house, but I look forward to seeing her tomorrow. She's an awesome girl and a wonderful friend. It's a miracle to behold her face each day.

Thank you, God, for my daughter Bard.

*The journaling project is that I write them a letter in their journal each night and put it on their beds, and they write a return letter to me, and put it on my desk. Houdin and I are writing a story instead of simply writing letters.

The Boxcar Children

This was one of my very favorite books as a child. When I found it again as a parent about ten years ago, I had to have a hardcover copy, so I ordered one immediately (a very special treat for myself) and insisted on a copy with the original cover. Bard read the book as soon as I brought it home, and then I placed it on a shelf with my "special" books. It hasn't been touched since.

I know this is very wrong.

Two night ago, Sweetheart was having a hard time sleeping. Usually, Bohemian does all of the tucking in and reads from What a Fourth Grader Needs to Know. On this particular night, I decided to read to Sweetheart and Monet while they were waiting for Bohemian to arrive.

"How about The Story of Ping?" I offered.

"Sweetheart doesn't like that one," Monet answered. "She thinks it's too sad." Sweetheart nodded in agreement.

"Okay, then how about George Washington's Mother..." I began to regret my choice as soon as I said it, flipping through the pages and remembering that it's not exactly a short story and maybe a little over the head of a five-year-old.

"I don't like that one, either," Sweetheart announced, saving me from some exhausting reading and certain doom.

"Ah!" I saw it sitting there on the shelf--the wrong shelf, as it wasn't supposed to be in Sweetheart's room at all--but there it was, nonetheless. "How about THIS one?"

"Uhhhh..." Sweetheart moaned. "Not THAT one."

My eyebrows shot up in surprise. "Have you ever listened to this one before?"

"Nooo," she admitted, "but it LOOKS boring."

I'll show her, I thought. "Oh, but it isn't boring at all. This was one of my very favorite books when I was a child." With that, I turned to page one and began to read.

As soon as Sweetheart heard about the baker's wife who didn't like children OR doing dishes, she broke the silence. "I think I'm beginning to like this book!"

It's just magical. The milk and blueberries. The salvaged dishes. The motherly way Jesse cares for her siblings. It's just simple and inspiring.

Now the whole family is hooked. We've been reading two chapters nightly, and not one person is bored, from Bohemian down to The Baby.

This just proves it. Classic literature rocks.

Welcome to my home gym

What this house needed was some good, old-fashioned exercise. And where in the world but Wal*Mart to buy it?

I found a mini-trampoline or rebounder for $19.99 and a jump rope for $2.94 (the kind in the sports department, not the kind in the toy department). I could have splurged for the $4.96 model, with ball bearings for faster, more fluid movement, but I chose the budget route.

Add a book of jump rope rhymes from the library, and VOILA! Home gym! As in, this is my home, AND it's my gym!

The kids have been jumping and hopping and bouncing for three days. They were actually sore when they awoke this morning! Houdin is the sports-oriented guy, and the one most prone to competition, so he challenged everyone to a competition to see who could jump rope the longest. Currently, he has me beat...55 jumps to my 39.

With all this jumping, I hope my bladder holds up.

Here's a bad idea...

Eleven boys.

A sleepover.

Lots of sugar.

Just wait. I haven't come to the bad idea yet.

No, I'm not kidding.

Here's the bad idea. Maybe the very best bad idea I've ever had. Give each of the boys a disposable camera. Tell them to take pictures of anything they want. Here's what they take pictures of:

Me waking up in the morning.
Me in my pajamas.
Me without make up.
Me giving my husband a stern look.
The backs of my arms. I didn't know they were that fat.
Me, from behind, from the waist down. Just my butt and the backs of my legs. I didn't know they were that fat.
A very closeup picture of the back of my waist. I think you know how I felt about that.
Fourteen pictures of the baby chicks. From 15 feet away. I got doubles.
A picture of my very messy pantry. Seven times.
Me with my mouth hanging open. Wide. Just like the closeup of my waist.
Thirty-two extreme and very blurry closeups of each boy's ice cream sundae creation. Again, doubles.

I did get several pictures of both of the birthday boys blowing out the candles of their cakes. Several, because I got doubles.

Amazingly enough, I did not end up with a single picture of any boy's private parts. Not enough sugar, I guess.

A Natural Interest

Monet is 9. He's the first child I've had who I didn't insist on "teaching" him to spell. But somehow, he has this natural interest in spelling that amazes me. Right now, he's writing a miniature book about Christmas, and as I sat across from him, eating my lunch, he asked me to spell some of the harder words for him.

"How do you spell "straight?"

"S-T-R-A-I-G-H-T."

"I know how to spell 'said.'" He says.

"You do?"

"And I know how to spell 'by,' like 'by Monet,' and 'bye' like 'goodbye,' and 'buy,' like 'buy something.'"

"You're very smart!"

"So are you. You're the one who taught me."

Awwww. :-)

Hit the Ground Running

There are days when you wake up and you hit the ground running. Today is one of those days for me.

It's amazing how fast things can pile up. It seems that everywhere I look, there's a reminder of what I didn't do, can't do, should do, must do. For some reason, no matter how much I DO do (did I just say do do?) it's not enough. I go to bed exhausted every night, and I wake up exhausted every morning. Sometimes, I wonder if sleep is real, or if it's just an illusion and cruel joke that gives mothers hope for rest.

Yesterday, I spent the day working towards fulfilling one of my 101 in 1001 goals, to clean my room to my satisfaction once a week. I like the fact that it's to MY satisfaction, because that means I can stop whenever I'm satisfied. That means I can clean it until all of the underwear is ironed and folded, or I can stop when I've cleared a walking path to the computer. Since I worked at the local cheesehouse just about every weekday from early November on through the first of this year, and since we went for a week without electricity over the Christmas holiday, I haven't had a chance to clean my room to my satisfaction in about two months, even if that means clearing a path to the computer. So I put it on my list of things to do consistently for the next 1001 days.

I can't believe it's taking me so long. I worked on it on Monday. I worked on it most of the day on Tuesday. It's still not done. What are the main culprits? Laundry. Clothes that need to be stored. Even in this big, new house, I don't have enough storage, and the storage I do have isn't organized well enough to be perfectly useful. Don't let anyone fool you, even those slick "101 Tips for Organizing Your Life" magazines at the Wal*Mart checkout. There is no perfect storage solution. Well, there IS one. Don't own anything.

After lots of Windex, vacuuming, folding laundry and dusting, I finally got the majority of my bedroom clean. It's not to my satisfaction, yet, but I still have a few more days before the week is over. Besides, if I wait until tomorrow, my standards may have changed, and it may be just right.

In the mean time, the rest of the house is coming tumbling down.

Do you ever feel like you're just struggling to keep your head above water? Do you ever feel like you're constantly just trying to catch up?

Granted, I spent a lot of time yesterday just playing and laughing with the kids. Bard, Houdin and I spent a good hour just laying on my bed and laughing, laughing, laughing. I spent a lot of time working on my blog and updating my 101 in 1001 list. But not so much that I should have a sink full of dishes, a stack of laundry ten feet high, and a bed that STILL isn't made at 3:00 in the afternoon!

Sigh.

Wasn't it Benjamin Franklin who made a list of things he wanted to do to better himself? Wasn't he the one who found that, no matter how hard you work to perfect one area of your life, another area suffers?

My bedroom is (mostly) clean.

The rest of my life is totally and completely suffering.

Maybe I'll spend the rest of the day in my room. Or at Wal*Mart. I could always use some more stuff I can't store. Or right here in front of the computer. Maybe I should have put that on my list. "Sit in front of the computer for six hours straight every day." I bet I could have met that goal easily. But then...

How long do you think it would take before my family actually got sick of the messes and cleaned them up...[gasp]...INDEPENDENTLY?!? Without being told?

::Looks around the computer room:: I don't have enough food and water in this room to survive that long. I'm not sure I have enough food and water IN THE HOUSE to survive that long. As a matter of fact, I don't know if there's enough food and water AT WAL*MART to survive that long.

Maybe I should just go back to laughing with my kids.

Houdin's First Gig

Today, I talked to a woman at our local senior center who was very thrilled at the prospect of having my 13 year old son, Houdin, perform magic tricks for the residents. We have an appointment for him to do a 1/2 hour or more performance next Thursday afternoon.

Houdin is way excited.

Broken Branches--A Plea to All Fathers

Broken Branches 

The Wednesday before Christmas, the weatherman promised sixteen to eighteen inches of snow. I was working at the local cheesehouse in the mail order department when the first few inches started to fall. Shortly after one o'clock, I put on my coat, gave a few instructions to Ashley and Ursula, and made my way down the spiral staircase that separated my little office in the tower from the rest of the building.

I was off to a hauling job.

About two months ago, I started taking appointments to haul Amish. To the doctor, to the grocery store, to their sister's house to make cookies. Wherever. I charge per mile with a small fee if I have to wait while they shop. Usually, I just shop, too. On that particular Wednesday, the young Amish mother that I would be hauling was taking her baby girl to the doctor.

It wasn't long after I had dropped Rachel off in front of the doctor's office that the snow really started to fall heavily. I hadn't seen a snow like this in many years, and it was as exciting as it was scary. A white Christmas! I thought. As long as we could get home in one piece, I might even look forward to being snowed in with my family for a few days. When the young Amish girl finished her doctor's appointment, we both headed to the local grocery store to stock up.

Before we had even driven the few miles from the grocery store to my passenger's house, the snow had completely covered the roads so that they were barely visible. People were creeping along in their vehicles and there were already several cars on the roadsides, stuck. Even my attempt to get home was thwarted. I had to park in a nearby driveway because I just couldn't get my van up the hill of a local back road. Thank God for a co-worker, who just happened to be going my way and stopped to give me a ride in his 4-wheel drive truck. I told him not to try to make it up my steep drive. He dropped me at the end of the long lane to my house, and I walked the rest of the way, the snow turning to sleet and pelting me hard in the face.

When I awoke the next morning, there was truly a winter wonderland glistening outside my bedroom window. It was a dangerously beautiful scene, and, before long, it became apparent that not only would we be staying home for the day--maybe even the weekend--but that we would be fighting to stay warm. Sometime in the night, the power had gone out. After listening to the local radio station, we found that the continuing ice storm had left most of our county without power, and that the problems were only increasing.

I made my way to the couch, snuggled under my grandmother-in-law's thick comforter, and I looked through our windows over the gorgeous glimmering countryside. Every branch was covered with a thick layer of ice, and the heavy sleet continued falling. When all was quiet, you could hear the limbs and branches cracking, breaking, falling all around the house, all through the woods. As I sat, I watched my oldest daughter Bard's favorite tree sag under the weight of it's burden. One by one, I wagered with myself over which branch would crack and fall next. Before it was all over, dozens of once-strong limbs lay on the ground around the roots of what had been a full and sturdy tree just two months ago.

I recalled these moments today, two and a half weeks after the power had gone out, a week and a half after it had returned. What brought the scene to mind was a single comment that my father made, something he undoubtedly thought was very funny.

Being the butt of the joke, I didn't find it funny at all.

My father's kind of amusement--this brand of comment--isn't knew to me. When I was a child, I heard my father shower his icy comments onto my mother's branches for many years, many times, and I watched as her strength gave way and her limbs broke under the weight of his words. It was all a game to him.

"Are you eating again? Neice! You'd better hide the fridge!" The branch bends.
"Where'd you get that outfit--Akron Tent and Awning?" The branch cracks.
"Don't make your mother mad. She might sit on ya." The branch falls to the ground.

The comments weren't always directed at my mom, either. My father would make remarks about other women, and he just couldn't seem to keep his mouth shut or supress a smart-alek comment if an overweight woman was in view.

"Woohoo! Did you see that big lady? Wouldn't wanna make her mad!"
"Wow! Look at that one! Hea-ea-ea-vy!"
"Get a load of Big Mama!"

I grew up listening to, embarrassed by, these demeaning comments almost daily. I never saw my father give my mother affection. I never heard my father speak about women with respect. Instead, every woman was either "kinda pretty" or "really heavy." Every woman, no matter her occupation, personality or lifestyle, was very verbally judged based on her appearance. She could be the first female president, the inventor of a life-saving vaccine, or the first female astronaut in space, and his only comment would be either, "Kinda pretty," or "Big Mama!" And while his comments were never directed at me--only because I was always grossly underweight, bordering on anorexic--it was very clear to me that being overweight was a condition for which to be demeaned and ridiculed by men.

Now I'm grown, my parents have long been divorced, and my mother is no longer living.

And I am no longer grossly underweight.

I've struggled with being overweight since the birth of my first child. Looking back on my postpartum body of 15 years ago, I realize that I was perfectly healthy. But being anything over 100 pounds, to me, was unacceptable. Instead of getting involved in a healthy lifestyle, I began to fast and binge. Now, after five children and fifteen years, my body is showing the consequences of my choices. There isn't a day that goes by that I don't worry about my health, my energy, but, most of all, my appearance. I can't help but think that my unhealthy body image comes greatly from my father's careless comments. Now that he lives with me, I hear them on a daily basis. He has never directed them towards me.

Until today.

This morning, an Amish neighbor called on the phone for me to discuss the details of the ride she needed for this evening. My dad answered the phone. There was a brief exchange that went something like this:

"Hello? Oh, hi Laura! Yeah! You want Denice? Boy, is she ever! Ha ha! Don't tell her I said that! Boy, would she give me heck!" My dad handed me the phone, laughing. I knew he had ridiculed me. He often makes fun of me for my child-rearing, my decision-making, my housekeeping...whatever he can find to jab at me. I took the phone and spoke to my neighbor, but I was instead distracted by my dad's voice as he bragged to my husband, Bohemian, about his juvenile comment:

"Ha! Laura asked if Denice was 'round! Ha! I told her, 'Boy, is she ever!' Laura said, 'Don't you tell her you said that!' Ha! Ha ha!"

I was crushed. I could feel my limbs sag under the weight of his icy words.

The amazing thing about ice storms is that it really doesn't matter how strong are the roots of the tree. It doesn't matter how much nourishment and rain it received through the spring, or how much sun and warmth it received through the summer, or how much mulch and protection it received through the fall. When the weight of an ice storm comes, the tree simply can't stand the stress. One by one, the branches bend, crack and fall. I even saw several that were completely uprooted, literally torn from the ground as if by a tornado.

My husband compliments me on a daily basis. He tells me that I'm beautiful. No, I'm not, I retort. He tells me that he loves me. Why? I challenge. He tells me that he finds me desirable, sexy, attractive. Yeah, right, I scoff. He showers his nourishment, his sunshine, his protection on me. And yet, it's the ice storm that my father brings that keeps coming to my mind every time I look at myself in the mirror. It's the chill and the sleet and the burden of that ice that weighs down my branches. I can't accept compliments. I can't believe that a man would love me. I reject my husband's compliments and his unconditional love, because I'm so certain that I'm not worthy of it. Intimacy, for me, is a constant struggle.

Fathers, don't kid yourselves. Don't underestimate the role you play in your daughter's growth. Every word you speak, whether to your daughters, your wives, or even about the people around you, soak directly into your growing child's roots. You have so much power in your words! You have the power to grow a strong, sturdy oak with a firm foundation and a beautiful crown, flourishing under a canopy of love and encouragement. Or you can produce or a deeply burdened, sagging, broken form whose roots simply can't bear the weight of winter, no matter how much others nourish and protect it.

I beg you, fathers. I beg you to reject the temptation to tear down your family with mockery and hurtful jesting and to instead choose wisdom and encouragement. Your children will flourish with your love. Your actions will matter for eternity.

And your family tree will thank you.

Books Bard has Read Recently

This is actually Bard posting at Mom's request. So hi everyone.

Trickster's Queen, Tamora Pierce,
Candle in the Darkness, Lynn Austin,
Fire by Night, Lynn Austin,
Secret of the Indian, Lynne Reid Banks (re-read),
Bud, Not Buddy, Christopher Paul Curtis,
Messenger, Lois Lowry,
Steven Spielberg, biography,
Wee Free Men, Terry Pratchet,
The Middle Moffat, Eleanor Estes (re-read),
Dragons in the Water, Madeline L'Engle (re-read).

I think that's pretty much it, though I may have forgotten a few re-reads. I'm about to read The Hero and the Crown by Robin McKinley, and listening to The Cat Who Brought Down the House by Lilian Jackson Braun while I cross stitch.

As American as a Food Allergy...

This article , referred by MamaGeph at Still Odd, discusses how one school is handling a child's severe peanut allergy by segregating to one table all children who bring peanut butter sandwiches to school. Apparently, the child with the allergy is so deathly allergic that he doesn't have to actually ingest the peanut butter to be in severe danger. As a result, all of the other children in the school must be screened for peanut butter and made to sit in the "Peanut Gallery" if they are bringing PBJ in their lunch.

The parents of the child with the allergy issued the statement that ""he does not have to ingest it for his air to constrict and he loses the ability to breathe. We have the medical evidence that shows that our son has one of the worst allergies on record for this food."

First, this makes me wonder...if just sending your child to the lunchroom each day is a hazard to his health, why not keep that child out of the lunchroom? Why ostracize all of the other children because of one child's allergy?

Better yet, why not control the child's learning environment completely? I think you know what I'm getting at here. I know that many homeschooling parentsmake their decision to homeschool in part because of the potential dangers of some of the public school systems. So, if your child is highly allergic to a substance commonly found in his learning environment, a substance that could very well end his life, why not...ahem...change his learning environment? It seems like a perfectly reasonable option to me.

But the part of the article that caught my attention even more was this part:

"Food allergists say peanut allergies (search) among school-aged children have doubled to 400,000 over the last five years. They can't explain the spike but said it has caused more schools to creatively accommodate allergic students."

Doubled?? In the last five years, there are TWICE as many school-aged children allergic to peanuts? Food allergists can't explain the spike. It makes me wonder...what kind of research has been done? Has there been any extensive research on the kind of chemicals--herbicides and pesticides--that have been used to grow peanuts in the past, say, twenty years? After all, a peanut is a root and I would imagine that any chemicals they receive are systemic.

The sidebar of the article states that "C-Section babies are at risk for food allergies." Higher risk? Or just risk?

Now...get this: there is a possible cure for peanut, milk and wheat allergies. It's based on a foodborne bacteria called (pregnant women, hold onto your seats) Listeria. Listeria is one of the baddy bacteria we kill when we pasteurize milk. Huh. Imagine that. A cure for allergies in real, honest-to-goodness, raw whole milk.

The Weston A. Price foundation must be beside themselves with triumph. Not familiar with that organization? Check it out. And then find a raw-milk producer in your area and star t drinkin'!

Can YOU?

The HH's 101 in 1001: My 101 Things to Accomplish

The Happy Housewife did it! Can YOU?

Times Trials...

We're working on quick memorization of multiplication facts. Tonight, we did a time trial for our nines facts. Here's how it worked out:

Bohemian: 17 seconds
Me: 21 seconds
Bard: 52 seconds
Houdin: 1 minute, 7 seconds
Monet: 6 minutes, 32 seconds

Pop Quiz: How fast can you write your 9 times facts? Have someone write them in random order and time you!

Happy, Happy Anniversary

Today is my Crystal Anniversary. Yep, that's right. Fifteen complete and total years of marriage to my beloved Bohemian.
Since we didn't buy each other anything for Christmas, we're planning a romantic shopping trip for two. With no money.
Ah, well. At least we have each other.

Pop Quiz: If it were your Crystal Anniversary, what would you do? What would you buy for your beloved? What would you buy for yourself?

Pa is *SO* Hot!

I'm pretty amazed by the popularity of one of the Christmas gifts I gave my oldest daughter, Bard, this year. And it's not just popular with her...the whole family's nutty about it!

Earlier this year, we began reading the Little House on the Prairie books. Finishing them is on my 101 in 1,001 list. I told my kids how much I used to love the television show, starring Michael Landon. I looked up the series on NetFlix, and, sure enough, there it was. Before I could even get it on my queue, the kids had brought one of the DVDs home from the library. We watched the first show in Series One and they were hooked. I have to admit, I was hooked again, too. I had forgotten what an awesome show it was.

The problem came when my dad, who's not very particular about the movies he chooses, brought home a disc from Season 6. I laid down the law. No watching the series out of order! After all, what impact will it have when Mary goes blind? Or how can we fully appreciate what a scoundrel Nellie is when Laura pushes her down the hill in a wheelchair unless we watch all of the awful things Nellie has done to Laura over the years? No more Little House DVDs from the library, I said. You simply must wait until they come from NetFlix. My motivation was to get through the books first, so that they children could see that the television series really wasn't much like the book series at all.

What I didn't expect was how eager the kids were to get their hands on the rest of the DVDs. Bard, for one, was totally into Pa. "You didn't tell me Pa was so hot!" she said. To be honest, it never occured to me. I mean, when I was a kid, Pa was just...Pa. :-/ I wouldn't have minded having him for a dad, to be sure. But that's just because he was warm and loving and wise, which was, ahem, in stark contrast to my own father.

I did the bulk of my Christmas shopping in three places this year. I shopped at Toys R Us for a doll, stroller and play food for the little girls, a local educational toy store for Playmobil stuff, and Sam's Club, because they're so awesome. I bought the kids a cool treehouse playset there, as well as all of my wrapping paper and most of my holiday foods. When I walked into Sam's Club to do my shopping, I decided to check out the DVD aisle. Bard wanted Pirates of the Carribean, so I thought I'd see if they had it.

Nope. No Captain Jack Sparrow here. But, Aha! They do have some good ones.

• Elf, which is a new surprise favorite of mine ("I like smiling. Smiling's my favorite!")
• Miracle on 34th Street, the newer one with Richard Attenborough and that adorable Mara Wilson
• Christmas Classics, with Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, Frosty the Snowman, Frosty Returns, The Little Drummer Boy and Santa Claus is Coming to Town.
• And...oh, what's this? The Little House on the Prairie series! Awesome! I buy Series 2 (about 18 hours of shows) immediately because they don't have Series 1 in stock. I find Series 1 later and buy it, too.

I'll tell ya what...these kids, from 15 year-old-Bard all the way down to almost-two-year-old The Baby have just LOVED these shows! I can totally not remember a time when my children literally CHEERED at the TV like they did during Founder's Day or yelled at the screen like they do at the love-to-hate-her Nellie Oelson.

That was awesome programming, don't you think? I'm not a big TV fan. In fact, we don't have cable, satellite or even television reception. Maybe I'm just being overly nostalgic. Are there ANY shows being produced currently that are as awesome and inspiring as Little House?

I highly doubt it.

What Is 101 in 1001?

What Is 101 in 1001?

I finished my list of 101 goals for the next 1,001 days, as I read about here and here. I'm keeping a blog of my progress here.

Wanna join me?

Who ARE you???

Chris, over at the Big Yellow House says that today is Delurking Day. So, heavens to Betsy, stop lurking around and POST something!

Well, maybe not EVERYTHING...

Last night, while we were playing the game of Life, I was lamenting the fact that I have to cook, clean, teach, do the finances, blah, blah, blah. Bohemian was rolling his eyes.

"Look," I said, "It's totally true. I have to do EVERYTHING!"

Without looking up from the Life gameboard, Monet said, "You don't brush my teeth. Or pick my nose."

Ah, but if they could think of a way to make it possible...

Bard's Handwork

While my in-laws were visiting last week, we went shopping in one of the little touristy places in our area. Bard accidentally found a stash of really yummy yarns in one of the shops, and we both drooled over all of the possible projects we could start, but I restrained myself and told Bard that we have enough of a yarn stash to complete several, several, SEVERAL projects!

A few shops down was a cross stitch shop. While I have a bunch of cross stitch patterns in the basement, most of them are patterns that don't really interest me anymore. They're so hopelessly country, with cows and ducks and bunnies and things I see die on a regular basis that I just don't to spend hours stitching them or decorating my house with them. As we were walking out, we saw a framed work that Bard couldn't resist--a beautiful fairy adorned with metallic threads and glittery beads. I figured, since she has that bohemian blood, like her dad, it would be good for her to add to her repetoire of insomnia remedies. She reads, she knits...now, she can stitch.

She started the project today. It's on 32-count linen and has a billion colors. She says I've threatened her with her life if she doesn't finish it, but I really didn't. I didn't say anything more than, "You'd better finish this, or else..."

And this is a Sting Ray...

For Christmas, my father-in-law bought Monet a notebook-type drawing book called Draw Really Cool Stuff. It has six tabbed drawing sectionsand boasts that there are "hundreds of exciting and fun images to draw." It wasn't the first thing he attacked when he opened his grandparents' gifts (it's hard to compete with a HoverDisc and a HoverCopter) but in the past two days, both he and Houdin have been drawing like mad. They seem to be especially drawn (no pun intended) to the ocean animals and the cars.

Yesterday, Houdin went to the library with my dad and while he was there, asked if they had any drawing contests coming up. They actually did! There was a contest for drawing superheroes, so Houdin drew some kind of blue superhero and turned it in before he left.

Thanks for the book, Grandpa. ;-)

Houdin's Math

Houdin is working on his multiplication tables today. He's trying to memorize his 9s. I gave him the little trick that every product of 9x any single digit will have a sum of nine when added together. He thought that was pretty cool. Now he's working on a 9x time trial. His first effort gave him three wrong and it took him over three minutes.

Pop quiz:

Do you have all of your multiplication table memorized?
How old are you?
How fast can you recite your nines?

Triplux - 101 Things To Do in 1001 Days

Triplux - 101 Things To Do in 1001 Days I found this site through another site which had me on their blogroll. This looks very inviting, and I just may do it. What do you think?

Strong Coffee's Mondo Beyondo List

Strong Coffee

When I have time, I want to do a list like this. Have you done one? If you do, will you let me know?

Smarty Shots...(AKA Dixie Cup Learning)

I came up with a fun little reading practice game today. Here's how it works:

Get some little Dixie Cups and a permanent marker. Find a kind of little candy that makes your kid weak in the knees. I used Smarties. You could use M&Ms or Skittles or whatever you want.

Write a single letter on each cup. Label enough cups for you to be able to make words with the cups. For instance, label one cup "C," one "A" and one "T."

Make as many cups as you think your child can sound out. This can work with younger kids OR with older kids.

Arrange a series of cups in order so that they spell a word. Place a Smarty, M&M or whatever in each cup. If it's a hard word, you can put an extra piece of candy in one or two of the cups.

Have the child read the word. If she reads it, she gets to put the candies in a cup with her name on it. Alternately, you can just let her have the "candy shot" right then! It's funny to see them "drink" the candy out of the cups one right after the other. If you'd rather, they can save all of the candies until you're done with the game. If they read the word incorrectly, the candies stay in the cup. The next time that letter is used in a word and the child reads the word correctly, she gets all of the candies in the cup.

VARIATION: Write "Beginning," "Middle" and "End" on the cups. Say a word, and then say a sound. Ask if the sound is at the beginning, the middle or the end of the word. The child puts the candy in the cup she thinks is right...the beginning, middle or end. If she's right, she keeps the candy. If she's wrong, the candy stays in until she gets the answer on that cup right.

ANOTHER VARIATION: Write letters on the cups. Say a word that begins with one of the letters. Have the child put the candy in the letter whose sound begins the word. If she's right, she gets the candies. If she's wrong, it stays until she gets an answer right that begins with that letter.

I'm sure there are a bunch of variatons that can be used with Dixie cups and learning. Do you have any suggestions? Tell me about them!

Reading and Math

Last night, Sweetheart and I worked on her math facts. She has her doubles through six just about memorized.

Today we're working on reading and letter recognition.

Later today, Monet and I are going to make muffins. He's at the library with Houdin and Grandpa right now.

That About Says It

The Big Yellow House: So What Have You Been Up To?:

"In my dream the house came with a maid and the children were better behaved. "

Unaware--a Poem Ode to Winter in o-HI-o

Unaware

by Thicket Dweller

The garden hose and
leaf rakes are still
lying in the driveway
And up against the house
the bike rack leans
The cooler from
the picnic is still
Camped out of the front porch.
I'm afraid to look inside...
It might be filled with old
Baked Beans

There's a soccer ball,
deflated, resting lonely
in the front yard.
Someone left their old sunglasses
tarnished, on the still porch swing.
Beneath that sits an dry dead plant.
Seems that I forgot to water
it--had good intentions when I bought it
at the nursery this Spring.

Winter took me unaware again.
It was falling into Autumn, into blazing leave and then
One morning I woke up and the snow was in a spin.
How'd it take me unaware again?

There are boots beside the sandals
In a puddle in the hallway
and a bathing suit's still hanging
from the shower curtain rod.
Look! That calendar is showing that it's well into December!
Yet I don't remember turning it.
That thing must be a fraud.

Winter took me unaware again.
I was falling into Autumn, into blazing leaves, and then
One morning I woke up and the snow was in a spin.
How'd it take me unaware again?

Huh. The temp is 55 now.
Well, that's winter in Ohio.
If you don't like what the weather is,
just stick around and it will change.
Or just wish for snow at Christmastime
While you're gayly whistling "Greensleeves"
And setting out your manger.

Still, I can't imagine weather
warm as this in January
Well, I'd better get to work
since I've been given a reprieve.
Guess I'll go clean out that cooler,
Use that rake for what it's made for.
Glad the trash bags aren't paid for
by each pound of sopping leaves.

Sheesh! It's getting kinda chilly.
Maybe I should put my coat on.
Oh, Good Lord! Is that a snowflake?
It was just as warm as May!
Sure enough, here comes a blizzard.
I should go shovel the sidewalk.
But I didn't dump that stuff there.
Nope, it's gonna have to stay.

Winter took me unaware again.
I was just falling into Autumn, into blazing leaves and then
One afternoon I look around, and the snow is in a spin.
Winter, how'd you take me unaware
Again?

Stream of Consciousness about My Date with Sweetheart

"When are we leaving? When are we leaving?"
She gets a date because I gave her a coupon for a date with mom for Christmas.
She can't wait. Every day, every minute, she's asking if it's time for the date yet.
I have to explain many times that the coupon's not good until AFTER January 2nd!
January 3rd arrives. It's time for the date.
I'm exhausted...still working a few hours at the cheesehouse, and we officially started lessons again today.
What will we do?
She puts on my favorite dress, a princess-waist number that I bought for Bard years ago from Land's End. It has cute little gardening things on it.
I notice that the dress is missing a button. I actually USE one of those buttons they sew to the hem of the dress--you know, the ones intended to be used in case a button falls off?
Bard sews the button onto the dress. Bard's date is next.
We get in the van. Where does she want to eat? I ask.
Where do you want to eat? She asks.
No...this is YOUR date, I say. Where do YOU want to go?
Let's go to Subways, she answers.
Do you like Subway? I ask.
No, not really, she answers. But you do.
What do YOU like, I ask, but I already know the answer.
McDonald's, she says, just like I thought she would.
First to Wal*Mart. I need mayo and my dad needs carpet cleaner.
We buy Sweetheart a new pair of boots for the winter. The ones I bought her at Goodwill didn't survive the dogs.
She puts them on in the store. I put the old shoes in the box.
We buy a pair for The Baby, too. I wanted the little brown ones, but I didn't think The Baby was ready for high heels just yet.
The cashier asks to see Sweetheart's new boots. She models them proudly.
Off to McDonald's.
She sees a little girl that she's seen there before.
She shows the little girl the locket she got for Christmas. It's gold. It doesn't have pictures in it yet.
The little girl had a locket the last time Sweetheart saw her. She told me about it before Christmas. This is why I bought her the locket.
Sweetheart plays with her friend in the McD's playplace.
It's off to a movie. I'm still tired. Do I want to do this?
We're too late for the cheap movie. I take my time.
The roads are wet. It's raining a lot.
I have a hard time hearing Sweetheart. She's mumbling about a headache.
I can't hear you, I say. Talk louder.
She doesn't annunciate well. I've worried about her speech. Too much time talking with a binky in her mouth, I think.
She talks louder.
I still can't hear you, I say.
She yells this time. I HAVE A HEADACHE! She yells. AND NOW THAT YOU MADE ME YELL, I HAVE A BIGGER HEADACHE!
I'm not doing very well at this.
Do you want to go home, I ask?
NO! she yells. WHY IS EVERYONE MAD AT ME?
Everyone??? I ask. I'm not mad at you.
She begins to cry. Uh oh. Tired kid.
As she's yelling about everyone hating her, I hit a patch of high water. Scares the daylights out of me.
I hate driving in the rain, especially at night..
We get to the theater. It's either Fat Albert, Christmas with the Kranks or Polar Express. I don't want to do Polar Express, and it's not playing this late, anyway.
We conference. Why is Christmas with the Kranks PG, I ask the ticket guy.
Mild language. Mild sexual references.
And Fat Albert?
Brief Moments of Language.
I choose The Kranks.
I got Milk Duds.
She got Sour Watermelons.
The movie was pretty good. Not great. But pretty good.
Driving home...now THAT was good.
Sweetheart decides to sing Christmas carols. We sing Santa Claus is Coming to Town and Jingle Bells. She LOVES Jingle Bells. We sing it again and again.
That was so much fun! She yells.
I'm home now. Very tired. Glad I went, but wishing it would have been better.
Bard is next. She needs embroidery thread for her new cross stitch. And then Houdin. He wants to see National Treasure. Maybe I'll let Bohemian take him.
Date is over.
Goodnight.

Concerned About Making Sandwiches

We had stayed away for so long. And now, here I was, looking at Great-Grandma lying on the floor.

Both of Bohemian's grandparents are in their mid-80's. Up until about three years ago, we'd enjoyed regular visits with them. We'd go and take a meal, or we'd go out to dinner together, or we'd hang around watching Grandpa do magic tricks. Sometimes, we'd just watch some of the magic videos Grandpa had videotaped. Grandpa's magic tricks are amazing.

When Grandpa was young, he was in a car accident and, as a result, lost both of his legs. He decided right away that he wasn't going to let that destroy him, and he took up sleight of hand. On any given visit, you can hear someone asking, "How did you DO that?" Grandpa's reply is always, "Very well, I think."

Within the past few years, Grandpa's sight has become poor. He's as sharp as a tack, but his body just doesn't want to keep up with him. Grandma has gone through some very difficult health issues, too, and while it's difficult for her to see and hear, she still has a wonderful sense of humor and always appears to be glad when we visit.

It's not easy to visit elderly people when you have five children, especially when the Great-Grandparents live in a very small house which becomes exceedingly hot as your visit continues. It's also difficult to keep the children occupied in a place where there's no playground, no abundance of toys, and no kid-like activities. Not to mention that the place is so small that there's not a lot of room to move around when there are seven extra people in the house.

But we've always enjoyed our visits. Grandma insists on making sandwiches or providing pizza, or fussing over us in some way. Grandpa always leaves us wanting more magic, and now that Houdin is very interested in magic, there's a wonderful common bond.

A couple of years ago, a rumor came to us from my husband's side of the family that the Great-Grandparents didn't want any more visitors. They had refused a visit from my sister-in-law and had declined an offer to have my other sister-in-law live in to help care for them. I was really very sad that we wouldn't be visiting, especially with the legacy that Grandpa was giving Houdin with his magic tricks. I called the Great-Grandparents on a few occasions, and I wrote a few letters, but communicating by phone or in writing isn't easy for people who have a hard time seeing and hearing.

So, in recent times, I've felt very unsettled about our visits--or non-visits, I should say--and have often felt led just to call them and ask if they truly no longer want visitors.

But I haven't. I guess I was afraid of the answer.

When we had our Family Gathering in October, my mother-in-law decided to ask the Great-Grandparents if they'd like to come out for a day, to have a family photo taken and see our new home. These people. who never leave home, came with my in-laws to spend a day with us. While Grandma shopped with us, Grandpa spent the day showing Houdin some card tricks. The family photo was precious. I thought it was a very good day, and was so grateful for their visit.

On their way out, Grandpa leaned out the car window and said to me with a smile, "We live in Suchandsuchtown, you know? It's about an hour and a half from here? Visit sometime."

My oh my. Does he think I've been staying away because I WANT to? Family is so incredibly important to me! I have no grandparents of my own. I've been blessed with my husband's family, who had both sets of grandparents living until four years ago. Their lives are so very important to me.

Well, after an invitation like that, I didn't want to stay away. But I still wondered if he was just being kind...polite.

A couple of weeks later, my father-in-law called and asked Bohemian if we would be willing to go visit with the grandparents twice a month, to see if they needed to do any grocery shopping or to do any things that needed done around the house. Now, I was totally confused. Do they want visitors, or do they not? Will I be helping them, or will I be imposing on them? We decided that all we could do would be to try it. Just go and see.

So we did.

Our visits have been good, for the most part. Because their house is so hot, The Baby tends to get a bit loopy and rosy-cheeked while we're there. Grandma gets too concerned about seeing that we eat, even if we've already eaten. Even if we bring our own food. She wants to be sure to be a good hostess. I can understand that completely. But I do so wish she wouldn't worry.

Over the past couple of weeks, we've made plans to visit but weren't able because of very bad weather. Our county had a terrible ice-storm that left most of the residents without power for anywhere from a few hours to over a week. Our power was off from the day before Christmas Eve through a week later. But yesterday, we were able to make the journey to the Great-Grandparents house. We even ate before we left, a wonderful lunch of Turkey Carcass Soup (it really is very good).

As soon as we arrived, I asked Grandma if she needed to go to the grocery store. I know how she likes to get out of the house, and I know how she likes to shop. She was all dressed and ready to leave the house. Her tiny frame, a foot shorter than my own 5' 2", dressed in a white blouse and black slacks, her shoes on and ready to go. She wanted to go into the kitchen first, to see what there was to eat and to decide what to get while we were out. I went along ahead of her, Bohemian just behind me, and Great-Grandma almost at his side. As I stepped into the kitchen, the floor shook with a great noise. We had only been in the house a few minutes--less than five, I'm sure--and I turned quickly to see which of my children had tripped or dropped something or knocked something over. There, on the floor, was Great Grandma. She had fallen flat on her face.

I rushed to her, Bohemian right behind me. What had happened??? Grandma? What happened? My mind was racing. Did she have a heart attack? Did she pass out? She was obviously in pain, but I couldn't tell where the pain was. Bo and I knelt beside her.

"Grandma? Where does it hurt? Do you know what happened?"

"I think I slipped on a shoe," she answered. I looked beyond her feet, and there, in the middle of the hallway, was Sweetheart's black boot. She had probably not had it off longer than a minute, and she stood in the doorway with her mouth hanging open.

I looked back to Grandma. A small trickle of blood began to run down her face from a cut above her left eyebrow. Her glasses had slammed into her face when she hit. I took the glasses off and whispered to Bo to get me a napkin. Grandpa had made his way to Grandma's side, walking himself with his hands.

"Mom? Mom are you okay? What happened?" He asked her, not panicked but taking charge. She answered him that her arm was under her and that she wanted to sit up. I shoo-ed the kid from the room as Bo and I helped Grandma to her feet. Her shoulder was sore. Maybe even out of socket. But she didn't want to go to the hospital. They had given her too much of the wrong medication the last time she went. She just wanted to wait and see how it felt later.

She was still concerned about making sandwiches.

Sweetheart came to me, tears in her eyes. She whispered in my ear, "Mom. It was my shoe. I'm sorry." I hugged her and told her that I forgave her, but that now she could see why we insist on keeping the shoes out of the way. She nodded.

Grandma kept an ice pack on her arm, and she wouldn't stop fussing about food, so I finally went out for pizza. Even after the pizza came, she wanted to know how many pizzas we ordered, so she could be ready next time.

As we were leaving, I gave Grandpa my cell-phone number. Grandma was sure she was fine, and she wanted to wait and see her own doctor in the morning. She was sure she could get one of her girlfriends to take her to the doctor's office. She wanted to take the bandage off of her eye, but when we did, it started bleeding again. I felt so horrible.

"I'm so sorry," I said. I knew she didn't want sympathy. She'd said several times that she didn't want us looking at her all sad.

"I'm sorry, too," she said, "We're all sorry. None of us wanted this to happen, but it did, so we just go on. We can't feel bad about it."

Grandpa piped up from his chair, "Grandma's game is to pretend she's not in pain. She doesn't like to show anyone that she hurts."

My heart was so full of sadness.

On the way home, we listened to Delilah. Five for Fighting's 100 Years came on. A tear slipped down my cheek. In the back seat, Bard, my own 15 was crying, too.

Tucking Sweetheart into bed. "I'm really sorry, Mom. I didn't mean to make Grandma fall."

A lesson learned. Put your shoes away.

Showing Jen how to Blog

I'm showing Jen how to blog. She says she hasn't kept a journal since her kids were born. I'm going to get her addicted to blogging, too.

A Legacy

SCHOOL @ HOME

After reading Tenn's list, I decided to make one of my own.

Five Things I Want My Children to Know About Me:

1. That I don't do a thing without thinking about how it will affect people and how it will influence them.
2. That God is my guide.
3. That I love my family more than anything on this earth and that I do almost everything I do because of the people I love.
4. That, should anything happen to me, I want them to forgive me for anything I've done to hurt or anger them, and I want them to forgive themselves for anything they've done to hurt or anger me.
5. That I want them to spend eternity with me in Heaven.

Thirty Nine Things About 2004

1. What did you do in 2004 that you'd never done before?
Moved into a brand new home. And contrary to what anyone tells you, brand new homes do not stay cleaner than any other kind of home. Five kids are five kids, no matter where you put them.
2. Did you keep your new year's resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I didn't make any resolutions that I can remember, but I did make myself a promise sometime during the year to write letters regularly and to not use my credit cards for Christmas. I've done well on both.
3. Did anyone close to you give birth?
A few friends, but not anyone extremely close. My sister-in-laws are due soon, though!! Yeah!
4. Did anyone close to you die?
Yes. Quite a shock.
5. What countries did you visit?
Amish Country. ;-)
6. What would you like to have in 2005 that you lacked in 2004?
A life free of consumer debt. Organization and normalcy.
7. What dates from 2004 will remain etched upon your memory, and why?
July and October. Moved into our house for real and had our first Family Gathering with extended family. June, Houdin turned 13.
8. What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Moving in. Actually finishing the biggest project we've ever undertaken aside from having kids--building a home.
9. What was your biggest failure?
Being in debt. Did I mention that I don't like being in debt?
10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
Nope. Not this year.
11. What was the best thing you bought?
Well, I'd say my new house, but I think I've worn that one thin...and I didn't actually buy it yet. That's not for another 29 1/2 years. I got a lot of stuff for free from FreeCycle--a black lab puppy, an awesome dishwasher that actually works, a very comfy couch, a fridge and a piano. Oh, and a kitchen table. Stuff I bought...hmmm...a big roaster with buffet compartments, a new frying pan that's actually big enough to make a side dish that will feed my family. Oh! I bought a Corda-Roy's foam thingy and a Landing Pad. Those are really awesome. I know I bought a lot more cool stuff, but it would take too long to write it all out and you'd be bored stiff. The most recent best thing I bought was one of Bard's Christmas gifts--Seasons 1 and 2 of Little House on the Prairie on DVD. She now has a crush on Pa.
12. Whose behavior merited celebration?
Mine. I'm so cool.
13. Whose behavior made you appalled and disgusted?
Mine. Too bad I'm a loser.
14. Where did most of your money go?
Toward this house. And feeding all of these people that keep telling me they're hungry.
15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
The house getting finished. Around the first of the year, the drywallers were starting their job. It was so cool to see it come together.
16. What song will always remind you of 2004?
Santa Claus is Coming to Town. The Baby loves it.
17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
a) happier or sadder? happier.
b) thinner or fatter? fatter.
c) richer or poorer? poorer.
18. What do you wish you'd done more of?
Learning
19. What do you wish you'd done less of?
Yelling.
20. How will you be spending New Year's Eve?
Done. We had the neighborhood NYE party here. Ate food, played the M&M game with our Amish neighbors. Played Rook Board with Du and Jen and the Amish neighbors until almost 2 AM
21. Did you fall in love in 2004?
Many times. I love my man.
22. How many one-night stands?
Yeah, right.
23. What was your favorite TV program?
Don't have one. We don't have TV reception.
24. Do you hate anyone now that you didn't hate this time last year?
I don't hate anyone. There are people who annoy me, but I annoy people, too.
25. What was the best book you read?
Loser by Jerry Spinelli.
26. What was your greatest musical discovery?
My baby girl. She sings a mean Frosty the Snowman.
27. What did you want and get?
Okay, I'll say it again. A house.
28. What did you want and not get?
Out of debt. My 35 MM camera fixed. Letters from my family for Christmas. A great big electric griddle.
29. What was your favorite film of this year?
Secondhand Lions
30. What did you do on your birthday, and how old were you?
I was thirty five, and I can't remember what I did.
31.What one thing would have made your year measurably more satisfying?
Lots of money, a maid and a vacation.
32. How would you describe your personal fashion concept in 2004?
Jeans and t-shirts.
33. What kept you sane?
My husband. He's so awesome. And my friends.
34. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
Can't really think of any. Isn't this exciting?
35. What political issue stirred you the most?
All of them.
36. Who did you miss?
My friend Kathy. It's been too long. I need to get in touch with her.
37. Who was the best new person you met?
There are way too many. Heather, you're one of them, though we haven't actually met. Ursy-loo and Ashley, I had such a blast with you two this year, I have to include you. I became much closer to my friend Shawna. Love to you, friend.
38. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2004.
Trust in the Lord with all of your heart and lean not on your own understanding...
39. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.

These are days you'll remember. Never before and never since, I promise,
will the whole world be warm as this. And as you feel it, you'll know it's true
that you are blessed and lucky. It's true that you are touched by something that
will grow and bloom in you. These are days you'll remember,when May is rushing
over you with desire to be part of the miracles you see in every hour. You'll
know it's true that you are blessed and lucky. It's true that you are touched by
something that will grow and bloom in you. These are days. These are the
days you might fill with laughter until you break. These days you might feel a
shaft of light make its way across your face. And when you do you'll know how it
was meant to be. See the signs and know their meaning. It's true, you'll know
how it was meant to be. Hear the signs and know they're speaking to you.

What I've Learned About Cheese...

The following are the things I've learned about cheese while working in the Mail Order room of our local cheesehouse:

1. Baby Swiss can be kept in the refrigerator indefinitely if it hasn't been opened. No kidding. Six months. Two years. Twenty five years. It will sharpen, but it won't spoil.
2. People call from all over the country to order Baby Swiss. People from California seem to really like "our" cheese.
3. On December 13th, we shipped out 1500 packages of cheese. Keep in mind that there were only four of us working in the mail order room and only three working in the packing room. 1500 packages. That's a lot of cheese.
4. In one day, we ran $14,000 worth of cheese orders through the credit card machine. This was no mistake. I meant to type three zeros. We really sold over $14,000 worth of cheese that day.
5. Don't mess with people's cheese. They will hunt you down and kill you with a cheese shaver.
6. Baby Swiss cheese can be frozen. Take it out of it's original package and wrap it in newspaper, and then in freezer wrap. The newspaper is to keep it from forming ice crystals.
7. A person really can each cheese tidbits for lunch every day. Just ask me.
8. When a person finally gets tired of cheese tidbits for lunch, she can eat grilled butter cheese sandwiches.
9. When a person finaly gets tired of cheese tidbits and grilled butter cheese sandwiches for lunch, she can eat Patty Melts. There is no getting tired of Patty Melts.
10. Some people have no problem paying more for shipping than they do for the cheese. This especially applies to people who can't seem to remember what day Christmas will be. They like to wait until three days before Christmas and then determine that there is a Gift Cheese Emergency, calling us in an urgent voice begging us to charge them $50 for second-day air to ship their cheese to California before Christmas. I guess I don't blame them. It's kind of hard to keep track of when Christmas will come, since it keeps moving around every year. If only they would make it on the same date every year so we could have THREE HUNDRED AND SIXTY FIVE DAYS TO PREPARE!!!
11. Some people have to call the mail order department every single day to track their cheese.
12. Some people have to call to figure out how two 2-pound wheels of cheese could possibly amount to four pounds of cheese.
13. Some people don't understand why they have to return $125 worth of cheese when we accidentally shipped it twice. These same people can't understand why it wasn't okay to go ahead and give it to all of his kids and why he should have to pay for it.
14. Some people like to make mail order employees cry.
15. It's just cheese.
16. People like to send cheese to people who don't like cheese. The people who don't like cheese don't understand why they can't return it to us for cash.
17. People believe we can read their minds. When they ask us to send two wheels of cheese to each person on their Christmas list, we're supposed to know that they only meant that they wanted to send one wheel of cheese to each person on their Christmas list. These people want the money refunded, even though they have sent cheese to fifty-two people in locations around the country.
18. People don't understand why it takes more than a day for their cheese to get from Ohio to Puerto Rico.
19. Some old ladies who order cheese can't remember their own address. They don't understand why we can't send them their cheese anyway.
20. Cheese is good food.

Back from Cheeseworld...

Wow! What a wild ride this holiday season has been!

I began working at the local cheesehouse in the mail order department at the beginning of November. It started out that I'd just help for a few hours a couple of days a week. And then, since the previous mail-order department manager had gone on to cheesier pastures, there came the request for me to run the mail order department. Next thing I knew, it was a $1.00 raise, long hours, more long hours, lots and lots of cheese shipped, and my life was a whirlwind!

It really was a lot of fun, but I'm glad to be done with it.

Now, it's January first, and I'm anxious to get back to my blog, back to learning (we take Thanksgiving through the New Year off from regular lessons so that we can focus on the holidays), and back HOME for a change.

So, here I am. I haven't fallen off the face of the earth. I was just up to my ears in cheese.

Happy New Year, all.