::: stream of consciousness whilst I wait for the day to end :::

Here's what's on this fickle mind of mine:

My son in Africa: He's dealing with an illness that required hospitalization. We can't really communicate, so I'm quite worried about him. Could be over and done with in no time, could be a long haul. Could be very mild. Could be quite serious. I can't help thinking he wouldn't be there if I hadn't planted the idea.

My faith: I'm turning so much over in my head about groupthink and jingoism and the heartlessness of some people who claim to follow Christ.

My passions: I used to think of myself as a writer. Now, the more I think of writing, the more I think I must have some audacity to believe that I fit into that scene. Or any scene, for that matter. At this point in my life, I feel that anything I write is either adding to the noise. Am I just a clanging cymbal? Do I have anything to contribute in this information age, in this sea of words?

Sexiness: It's sexy to adopt a child from an exotic foreign country. It's not so sexy to adopt a child from 50 miles away who has a learning disability. Do I want to make a difference, or do I want to be sexy?

Education: I'd always chosen to homeschool because I wanted my children to be exposed to a broad variety of subjects and I wanted them to have the freedom to learn at their own pace and according to their interests. Home education, I have always felt, is a superior education. I'd never felt that I wanted to educate for religious reasons, or for social reasons, but now that my children are growing and changing and I'm growing and changing, I see that my reasons always have been mainly social. My daughters are both starting to show interest in attending a local private school, and I'm not so sure how I feel about that. After this year of dealing with the ups and downs of our 14-year-old, Monet, attending this school, I can see how the girls would thrive academically. But socially? It's not that they aren't social girls. They are very, very social girls. But I've been around some of the kids from this school and heard the things my son and other kids have dealt with to have some serious reservations about sending my daughters to school. They're both very smart, outgoing and sweet. I'm worried that even a year in the environment where what you look like and what sports you play are more important qualities than how you treat people and what your passions are will break them into tiny little quivering pieces of self-doubt. I don't, don't, don't want to go there. And yet I fear that my economic abilities limit them from pursuing the kind of education they really desire.

Relationships: There are a couple of people who have really blown my mind this past year with their hubris and selfishness. On one hand, I feel like I am so over these people. On the other hand, it burns me to no end that they don't see how terribly self-centered and hurtful they are. And, if I had another hand, what would be on it is that I want so badly to be at peace with everyone I know that the fact that rifts remain drives me wild. Is it worth it to try to invest time in these relationships, or should I take joy in the peace that is my life with these people removed from it?

My own selfishness. That's all I'll say about that.

And that's all I'll say.

::: teach your children well :::

"Mama? You know, when I see a little girl my age who has soft, beautiful skin, I pray that she is thankful to God that she has nice skin."

The Baby is six years old. She loves High School Musical, The Beatles, The Monkees, kittens, ballet, working in the garden with mom, reading books, singing opera, wrapping Christmas presents and cuddling. She has beautiful curly golden-brown hair, a graceful, active body, a fabulous laugh, and gorgeous brown eyes.

She also has ichthyosis.

Icthyosis is an inherited skin condition that causes a build-up of dry skin all over the body. The build-up is worse on the hands, feet, elbows and knees, but the dryness is everywhere. Legs. Back. Scalp. Face. And sometimes it can be itchy. In the winter, if lotions isn't applied liberally after every hand-washing, painful, bleeding cracks appear. Because the skin doesn't slough off like it should, it can cause large scales on the legs, very thick elephant-like skin around the wrists and legs, and large flakes of dandruff. When the skin does slough off, it comes off in huge flakes or large quantities (some ichthyosis causes a rapid increase in skin growth) so that linens are always covered in a dust of flaky skin, clothes are coated, shoulders have to be constantly brushed off, and flakes get stuck in the hair, even when you use the best dandruff shampoos.

Because the hands and feet are most affected, people notice the dry skin right away. Think of how many times a day you use your hands around other people. Shaking hands, holding hands, writing, clapping, waving, touching, drawing, raising. Think of how good it feels to wear sandals on a warm day, or to go barefoot. Think of what it's like to wear shorts in the summer, or for a boy to run around shirtless. When a person has ichthyosis, none of these things are easy to do. Even when they don't draw comments and criticisms from others, children and adults alike, sometimes you just want to keep your hands in your pockets, or wear your shoes, or stay in long pants all summer.

The Baby isn't the only one in our family with ichthyosis. Out of our family of seven, six of us have some form of it. My husband Bo and four of the children, Houdin, Monet, Sweetheart and The Baby, all have noticeable ichthyosis. Bard, the oldest, has very mild symptoms, like dandruff, dry fingers in the wintertime, and Keratosis pilaris, which are tiny bumps on the backs of her arms.

But for The Baby and Sweetheart, the only girls in the family with serious presentations of ichthyosis, there are more issues than just the physical discomfort of the defect. They long for smooth, soft skin. They often tell me that they wish they could have skin like mine. The build-up of skin on their feet and hands looks rough, yes, but also dirty. The skin gives the appearance of a child whose hygiene is being neglected. Children on the playground will say, "EW! I'm not touching you!" or "You're gross!" or "What's wrong with your skin?" Many times, in front of the the children, people of all ages, including adults, will make comments about their skin, saying things like, "You need to wash your hands!" or "Your fingers are filthy!" or "Shouldn't you put some lotion on?" The assumption that the child doesn't know how to wash their hands or doesn't know how to apply lotion is demeaning and chips away even more at their self-esteem, negating all of their talents and abilities, and it certainly doesn't help me feel so good about myself as a mom. After all, one of the most important goals in my life is to be a good mother, and when comments are directed toward me about my children's care, as if I'd never thought to buy a bottle of lotion, it chips away at my self-esteem, too.

A few months ago, The Baby showed me a place on her toes where some warts had cropped up. Warts are viruses, and these viruses had probably cropped up because of a crack in her toes sometime during the winter. Shortly after, Sweetheart showed me some warts on her toes, too. As if the Ichthyosis isn't enough, these terrible things had to enter the scene, too. After one very expensive trip to the dermatologist, who said that my children's was one of the worst cases of Ichthyosis she had seen, we were laden with an array of lotions, some over-the-counter and some prescription. It would take a serious effort, but they could have somewhat "normal" skin, she said, if they faithfully followed a certain skincare routine.

For two weeks, we did follow the routine faithfully. A bath, then an application of this kind of cream to the face, and this kind to the elbows and knees, and then this kind over that, and then the discomfort of sleeping in plastic gloves covered in cotton ones.

But little by little, the warts disappeared and the children saw some major improvement in their skin. Little by little, patches of clean, soft skin showed through. And lot by lot, we ran out of the array of very expensive creams. When it was time to order more, I found that the one cream that helped the most had been discontinued. None of the creams can be purchased in any local store--they all must be ordered. And so, because of unavailability, money and inconvenience, the routine was broken, and the hope for "normal" skin slipped away again.

The discomfort of the skin itself is frustrating enough, but now, with Monet in a private school setting for the first time after years of being home educated, the social discomfort of having Ichthyosis is almost overwhelming. Even in a small Christian school, ridicule runs rampant and alienates and breaks young, fragile, insecure hearts. And this, in turn, infuriates the protective mother-bear mama who has to suppress her rage and advise wisely and gently.  She isn't always successful. Sometimes, she just wants to go scratch someone's eyes out.

We take things for granted, don't we? Not just big things, like seeing eyes and hearing ears and working limbs and beating hearts, but little things, too, like soft, beautiful skin.

Please take the time today to talk to your children about people they know who might have something about them that seems strange and different--their eyes or their hair or their clothes or their skin--and how hard it is to live with those differences every day. Teach them good manners in dealing with people with differences. Help them to understand that those people have interests and loves and hopes and talents, just like they do, and that they can be a bright light in someone's day if they notice those interests and loves and hopes and talents, take that person by the hand, and be their friend.

::: stream of consciousness whilst listening to beatles rock band :::

Nine batches of white trash down, who knows how many more to go.
Almost all of my Christmas shopping is done.
I'm broke.
We put the tree up today.
It was the first year my family cut it down without me.
I was having a pouting party.
People were being mean to each other, and then they turned on me.
They chose and cut the tree.
I cried in the car alone.
Sometimes Christmas traditions suck
and leave everyone grumpy and depressed.
Houdin called from Africa today.
I miss him.
I woke up the other night worried about him
and the gigantic poisonous snakes in the village
and the inadequate shoes he packed.
I want to send him steel hip waders.
He wouldn't wear them.
I hope he's taking his malaria pills.
He only had four minutes to talk
and we got cut off.
His girlfriend was here. She got to talk to him.
I feel badly that I didn't let everyone say a word or two.
We tried speakerphone, but it was to echoey and no one could hear anything.
He was telling me about how he's learning all about African cuisine,
and how you can make just about anything there into food.
Made this mother-heart kinda worried,
made me think of Christopher McCandless.
I hate to sound selfish, God, but would You mind keeping an eye
on that boy of mine?
And, while you're at it, God, can you work on the heart
of that other boy of mine?
You know the one. Full of hormones and anger and independence,
but still goofy and hyper,
with his mother's talent for losing track of time.
This, his first year of school after having homeschooled all of his life,
has been a rough one.
He gets picked on.
Mostly by girls.
So, naturally, when he comes home, it's time to reverse the roles.
He picks on his little sisters.
Their patience is wearing thin.
Bard is home from college for a few weeks.
She had her nose pierced.
It looks cute, yes, but I can't help remembering
her tiny, perfect, unblemished nose,
that little baby I held to my breast.
Now she walks around the world without me,
making decisions about her life, her future, her body.
I'm peripheral.
That's a little hard to take.
But there are still young ones in the house,
and they still think I'm the center of the universe.
That can be such an ego trip.
It can also be exhausting.
So I need some patience
and some kindness
and an extra helping of forgiveness,
both to hand out
and to cash in on.
The Christmas trees are up.
It's feeling quite festive around here.
I'll post pictures soon.
For now, I think my consciousness has been streamed out.
May God bless this Christmas
and may you be reminded of how very much
you are loved.

::: it's been a hard day's night :::

This week, I have all of my kids at home. It hasn't been like this for a while, with Houdin being gone at discipleship training for the past couple of months and Bard off at college. It won't be like this again for a while. On Monday, Bard will head back to college and on Tuesday, 18-year-old Houdin will leave for an eight-month outreach placement to Africa. But while they're all here, I'm reminded of the dynamics of this family, both good and not-so-good. The changes we're experiencing are positive; we're all learning things as we move through this transition towards more permanent change. I'm taking notes, my friends. I'm taking lots of notes.

With all of the Thicket Dweller kids under one roof again, plus a couple of friends along for the ride, it's impossible to avoid a jam session. Most of the family used real instruments to belt out The Beatles, Coldplay, Muse, Leonard Cohen and Kimya Dawson, but a couple who are not as musically adept and a couple who are just plain goofy joined in on the Beatles Rock Band instruments. Can you believe that these silly people played for hours? HOURS? After serving a second dinner and a third dinner and a couple of snacks and a few desserts, this roadie headed for bed. I'm told they knocked off for the night around 3:00 A.M.

This house will be so different when they're gone.

::: bare :::

The branches of the silver maple outside my window are completely bare now. Where less than a month ago there fluttered beautiful leaves the color of which I can only recall now by looking at photos, there is nothing. Three weeks ago, I couldn't see beyond the tree for the abundance of leaves. Now, I can see all that was hidden behind it.

Maybe this is why the starkness of winter is so sobering to me. It reminds me of what it feels like, what it looks like, to shed all outward beauty, all color and opacity and splendor, and just stand, naked and vulnerable and transparent, cold and singular on a hill, exposing everything you've managed to cover for so long--the forgotten kite, the abandoned nest, the broken branches--and slip away into a deep sleep, like a grandmother who has dozed off in front of the tv with her mouth open and her bifocals askew. 

But deep season-long sleep is for stately trees, not for common women with families and friends, feasts and fast-food-drive-through lunches, plans and obligations, electric bills and grocery budgets, mice in her fruit cellar and children needing taught. And so the hibernation must take a different form, the nightly kind, with some reading of King Arthur to little girls who are learning to knit and embroider, and some episodes of The Office while snuggled in bed under a big, down blanket, and some blogging with the fierce sound of little mouse-teeth scraping away at something determinedly underneath my big bathtub.

Which means that Spring must come each morning, with a handful of vitamins and a glass of Benefiber, a must-have to-do list, and the sheer will power that keeps one sleep-stiffened foot shuffling in front of the other.

Drawing by Monet

::: this is october :::

::: seeking the waterfall :::

As part of our Ambleside curriculum, the girls and I have been studying the world's wonders through our geography book, Richard Halliburton's Book of Marvels, The Occident. Richard Halliburton is our absolute favorite geography teacher, though he's been gone from this world since 1939, shortly after The Occident was written. While reading The Occident and one of our other geography books. V.M. Hillyer's  A Child's Geography of the World, I got the itch to visit Niagara Falls. After doing a little research, I discovered that The Falls are only a five-hour drive from us and asked Bo if he'd be up for sitting behind the wheel for ten hours. It wasn't until after he'd agreed and I'd made the plans that I found out he'd never seen The Falls!

So, early Saturday morning, while 19-year-old Bard was on Fall break from University, Bo and I woke everyone (except 18-year-old Houdin, who is at Discipleship training for his trip to Africa) early in the morning and prodded them into the car for a road trip. "We'll be in the car for ten hours," we told them. "Bring a change of clothes. And comfortable shoes. And a raincoat. You might get wet!"

They were confused and thrilled as we passed first a sign for Pennsylvania, and then New York, and then, when they just couldn't take it anymore, we told them where we were going. Some were less-than-thrilled. The Baby thought we were going to a movie or an amusement park.

But once they got there, and they saw the rushing Niagara River and the absolutely breathtaking Falls, they were smitten. The winds were high as we rode the crashing waves of Horseshoe Falls on the Maid of the Mist, yanking shouts of joy and amazement from our bodies.

We got wet. Very wet. I was so thankful that we had and brought our waterproof camera. And that change of clothes!

When we all climbed back into the car for the ride home, we were exhilarated, inspired, ALIVE! A stop at Steak 'N Shake for dinner and a run to the Krispy Kreme next door (we can't get Krispy Kreme near us anymore!) made the day just about as perfect as it could get.

No car breakdowns! No major arguments! No unexpected expenses! And our randomized playlist even seemed to cooperate, throwing out songs like "Running with the Buffalo" by Peter Mayer, "Counting Road Signs" by Jonathan Reuel, "Coastline" by Brothers Creeggan, "Get On Your Boots" by U2, and "Suitcase" by Over the Rhine, and, just as we were rounding the last curves before our road at 10:45 PM, "Golden Slumbers" by The Beatles filled the van full of sleeping, sleepy and half-asleep travelers.

While the characters in Whittier's poem below didn't find the waterfall they sought, we did, and we were pleased in the seeking, as well.

Seeking of the Waterfall
~John Greenleaf Whittier

They left their home of summer ease
Beneath the lowland's sheltering trees,
To seek, by ways unknown to all,
The promise of the waterfall.

Some vague, faint rumor to the vale
Had crept--perchance a hunter's tale--
Of its wild mirth of waters lost
On the dark woods through which it tossed.

Somewhere it laughed and sang; somewhere
Whirled in mad dance its misty hair;
But who had raised its veil, or seen
The rainbow skirts of that Undine?

They sought it where the mountain brook
Its swift way to the valley took;
Along the rugged slope they clomb,
Their guide a thread of sound and foam.

Height after height they slowly won;
The fiery javelins of the sun
Smote the bare ledge; the tangled shade
With rock and vine their steps delayed.

But, through leaf-openings, now and then
They saw the cheerful homes of men,
And the great mountains with their wall
Of misty purple girdling all.

The leaves through which the glad winds blew
Shared. the wild dance the waters knew;
And where the shadows deepest fell
The wood-thrush rang his silver bell.

Fringing the stream, at every turn
Swung low the waving fronds of fern;
From stony cleft and mossy sod
Pale asters sprang, and golden-rod.

And still the water sang the sweet,
Glad song that stirred its gliding feet,
And found in rock and root the keys
Of its beguiling melodies.

Beyond, above, its signals flew
Of tossing foam the birch-trees through;
Now seen, now lost, but baffling still
The weary seekers' slackening will.

Each called to each: "Lo here! Lo there!
Its white scarf flutters in the air!"
They climbed anew; the vision fled,
To beckon higher overhead.

So toiled they up the mountain-slope
With faint and ever fainter hope;
With faint and fainter voice the brook
Still bade them listen, pause, and look.

Meanwhile below the day was done;
Above the tall peaks saw the sun
Sink, beam-shorn, to its misty set
Behind the hills of violet.

"Here ends our quest!" the seekers cried,
"The brook and rumor both have lied!
The phantom of a waterfall
Has led us at its beck and call."

But one, with years grown wiser, said
"So, always baffled, not misled,
We follow where before us runs
The vision of the shining ones.

"Not where they seem their signals fly,
Their voices while we listen die;
We cannot keep, however fleet,
The quick time of their winged feet.

"From youth to age unresting stray
These kindly mockers in our way;
Yet lead they not, the baffling elves,
To something better than themselves?

"Here, though unreached the goal we sought,
Its own reward our toil has brought:
The winding water's sounding rush,
The long note of the hermit thrush,

"The turquoise lakes, the glimpse of pond
And river track, and, vast, beyond
Broad meadows belted round with pines,
The grand uplift of mountain lines!

"What matter though we seek with pain
The garden of the gods in vain,
If lured thereby we climb to greet
Some wayside blossom Eden-sweet?

"To seek is better than to gain,
The fond hope dies as we attain;
Life's fairest things are those which seem,
The best is that of which we dream.

"Then let us trust our waterfall
Still flashes down its rocky wall,
With rainbow crescent curved across
Its sunlit spray from moss to moss.

"And we, forgetful of our pain,
In thought shall seek it oft again;
Shall see this aster-blossomed sod,
This sunshine of the golden-rod,

"And haply gain, through parting boughs,
Grand glimpses of great mountain brows
Cloud-turbaned, and the sharp steel sheen
Of lakes deep set in valleys green.

"So failure wins; the consequence
Of loss becomes its recompense;
And evermore the end shall tell
The unreached ideal guided well.

"Our sweet illusions only die
Fulfilling love's sure prophecy;
And every wish for better things
An undreamed beauty nearer brings.

"For fate is servitor of love;
Desire and hope and longing prove
The secret of immortal youth,
And Nature cheats us into truth.

"O kind allurers, wisely sent,
Beguiling with benign intent,
Still move us, through divine unrest,
To seek the loveliest and the best!

"Go with us when our souls go free,
And, in the clear, white light to be,
Add unto Heaven's beatitude
The old delight of seeking good!"

::: the homework issue :::

Since Monet has made the transition from home education to private school education, there has been one major issue that has been a challenge, and that has been the issue of homework. Almost every school evening has ended in tears, both his and mine. I know this is an old story for many of you, but after home educating for almost 20 years, it's a new one for me.

If you're struggling with the homework issue, too, there is a good, clear, easy to follow article about motivating children to do homework here.   After reading it, I see a lot of areas where I can improve and help Monet achieve his goals. Up until now, I have just been hoping that the motivation for doing his homework would kick in, that he would do it because he knows he has to, and he would go from hating the homework to finding fulfillment in completing it. The article gives some excellent tips on how to help kids do the work, including setting a mandatory "study time" whether the child has homework or not. Setting aside a period of time and a quiet space of their choice for the child, plus helping them come up with an organizational method of assigning priorities to their homework assignments gives them the structure they need to get the work done. I hope to implement some of these suggestions today, and would love to hear what has worked and not worked for you, too.

::: i found my thrill on chili hill :::

Every year, around the third week in October, our friends Steve and Sara host a chili supper at their home and invite all of their friends (and a few people they don't even know!) to enjoy it with them. A big pot of wood-fire cooked chili, a couple of hayrides, some hot cider, and lots of friendly faces make for a delicious event that our whole family looks forward.

This year, I baked a batch of Brown Butter Toffee Blondies from a recipe I saw on one of my favorite food blogs, honey & jam. I happened to have a big bag of toffee bits that Bo had brought home from the chocolate factory and had been wondering what to do with them, so when I saw the blondie recipe that Hannah had posted, I knew that's what I'd take to Chili Hill.

This year, Steve and Sara's eldest daughter, Laura, is a senior. Because this might be the last Chili Hill Laura, who has been accepted to West Point, will attend for a while, I wanted to get lots of photos. And that I did. :-)

::: advice, please? :::

Well, the temptation is to ignore it, but I can't. Here's the truth: Monet isn't doing stellar in school.

For those just joining this ongoing saga, we made the family choice to put fourteen-year-old Monet into a private Christian school this year after a lifetime of home education. He was really causing some disruption at home, and we thought that maybe it was a combination of boredom and the need for more structure. Bo first brought up the idea to enroll Monet in school as a freshman, and my immediate reaction was, "No way. He's a sensitive kid, and I'm a sensitive mama, and I'm not sure either of us can handle the abrupt changes that a small private school will hold."

But upon presenting the idea to Monet, he was all for it. Excited, actually. He'd be able to play soccer, join choir, take private instrument lessons and participate in an art class. As the first day of school approached, he excitedly prepared, gathering supplies, shopping for school clothes, counting down the days, and waiting for the phone call from his soccer coach telling him when conditioning would start.

Somehow we got skipped over for the phone call regarding conditioning, so this boy showed up on the last day, not sure what to do, out of shape, and pretty shy. I think the confidence has kind of gone downhill since then.

Fast forward to now, end of first term, and his grades are less than impressive. I'd hoped that he would take the world by storm, or, at the very least, that he would thrive. Okay, I had at least hoped he would survive. And maybe he is surviving. But as I see it right now, I feel like we're both drowning.

And I guess a big part of my frustration is embarrassment. I really, really, really, really, really, really, really dread the judgment of others, and I feel that Monet's poor performance is just inviting the judgment down upon my quivering head. Why didn't I school him better? Why didn't I discipline him more? Love him more?

The other part of my frustration is that he seems to be doing just fine on the tests, and he's actually learning things, because he comes home and *tells* me what he's learning, but he's refusing to turn in homework, which is bringing down his grades tremendously. Why would a child do that? Why would a child sabotage his own grade by not turning in homework? One of the assignments is to draw a picture of Queen Mab, the faerie queen from Romeo and Juliet that Mercutio describes. Drawing. DRAWING! That's Monet's passion, his first love, his God-given talent! And, in spite of reminders and threats and pleas, he has not turned this drawing in! It's enough to stagger a mother's imagination, it is.


I don't want to be the angry, nagging mother, but I don't know how to get him to get the work done without grief. I feel like our homeschooling problems didn't disappear, they just got transferred to another location during the daytime and come back here at night. Plus, with the sports and other extra-curricular activities, there are nights he doesn't get home until after 10:00. How can a person get homework done after 10 when he has to be out the door in the morning by 6:30?

Sigh.

Sigh. Again.

I would love some advice, friends. I don't know where to go from here. 

::: a letter to my angry son :::

Dear Son,

I'm not sure whose fault it is that we keep having these stupid arguments. I'm not sure it matters who's at fault. All I know is that I don't like it, and being upset with you, or you being upset with me, completely rips my heart out.

The truth is that I'm just as confused about this whole school thing as you are. Most of what you're doing on a daily basis goes completely against my educational philosophies, my hopes and aspirations for you as a person, as a whole person.  But those are ideals, and who's to say they're worth anything? Some days I believe in them. Some days I feel like a failure.

Someone told me recently that anger is a manifestation of fear. When I remember that, I remember that I think it's true. I get angry with you because I'm afraid I'm failing you, or I'm afraid that I'm doing the wrong thing, or I'm afraid I'm making bad choices. When faced with the decision to help you with your homework or make you do it on your own, I become paralyzed. All of these thoughts go screaming through my brain; If I help him, is that doing him a disservice? How am I supposed to know what his teacher wants? What does it mean when he says he doesn't understand? Why am I teaching these concepts at home--isn't that what's he spends the whole day in school for? Does any of this really matter? I mean, really. When is he going to have to know what happened to the Donner Party? How will that apply to his life, unless he becomes a contestant on Who Wants to Be a Millionaire?

But then I think about the struggles we were having here at home, how I was putting so much energy into getting you to do your lessons that I wasn't giving enough attention to the girls and their lessons. So much of the problem stemmed from your stubbornness, your unwillingness to simply do the work set in front of you and your insistence of doing whatever you could to get out of the work instead of just doing the work. Why? Why do you do that? Wouldn't it be better, more peaceful, if you would just trust that the people who are teaching you love you and want you to succeed? Wouldn't you feel better about yourself if you were using your energy to do your best work instead of using that energy to get out of work?

I guess you come by that honestly, though. I often feel so overwhelmed that I don't want to even try to complete a task, no matter how necessary it is. So I understand. And then, after I lose my patience with you, I think about that, and I think, "Man, I could have handled that a little better." But I also think, "Man, he could have handled that better." It's a two-way street, see? And I'm not a child psychologist or an educational expert. I'm just a mom. I'm a confused, frustrated, heartbroken mom, and I'm just trying to get through this thing, too, with the minimal amount of damage to either of us.

Because I just want to save the relationship. I don't want you to remember your teens years as the years your mom hated you (because I don't) or that you hated your mom (because I hope you don't), and I don't like this stress. If I could do it and would know that it was okay, I'd pull you out of school and let you stay home and create roblox universes all day long. If God would wake me up in the middle of the night and say, "Yeah. That. Go ahead and do that. It will all work out just fine. Trust me. I have a plan for that boy." It would just be nice, God, if you would clue me in on that plan so I could help out a little bit. Right now, I feel like a loser of a mom, and you're not really helping so much, you know?

It certainly doesn't help that you're getting a nice amount of exposure to the F word from your classmates during the school day, or that a good portion of your classes are spent dealing with difficult kids who bring cell phones to school and mouth off to teachers. But did I really expect any differently, just because you're going to a Christian school? Well, yeah. Actually, I did. I expected a higher standard of behavior from the students, and I guess I expected an educational philosophy that's much more like mine.

Maybe I'm just in a bad mood. Maybe I need to back off for a little while. What I want right now is just to go hug you and do your homework for you and make everything better again. But that won't make things better.

I'm afraid, when it comes down to it, that you have a few lessons to learn about responsibility and perseverance and paying attention and taking pride in your work. You can only get to those by getting through what you're going through now. I can't hand them to you. You have to go get them yourself.

I'll be here when you've decided to move forward.

I love you,

Mom

::: we'll dress him up warmly and we'll send him to school :::

Well, here I am, going on Day 3 of having two children who've left home, Bard away at college and Houdin at training for his year-long trip to Africa. Did I really just write that? Is my son going to *live* in Africa for a year?

Wow.

I was once accused of being "provincial," and, while I don't think I am, it's still pretty amazing to me when my kids leave the country, considering that the only country I've ever gone to is Canada. So, yeah, I'm pretty excited about it, but I'm also nervous.

But even more than that, I find it so strange to be without two of my arms. This week has been especially strange since I have no children in my home during the day. I know I keep saying that, but it's like, Oh. My. Gosh. This house is SO weird without kids hopping all over the place!

And I'd like to say that it's cleaner, but it's not. I've been spending so much time running around that I haven't really had any time to clean, and that was one of my top priorities. Maybe tomorrow, huh? I guess other things are just more important.

I met with Monet's math teacher, counselor and tutor today about his difficulty with math and his general assimilation into the school environment. I felt pretty good about the meeting, and I felt good about his participation in tonight's soccer game, but after having a good talk with him on the way home from soccer, I'm more frustrated with the way other kids are behaving. I had thought, naively, perhaps, that the adjustment into this school would be easier because it's a Mennonite school, and there would be a strong focus on care and compassion. Unfortunately, some of the kids, particularly some of the Mennonite kids, are pretty disappointing to me. Monet shared with me tonight that when they're on the soccer bus, he sits alone because the other kids don't want to sit with him. One kid told him he couldn't sit in the empty seat next to him, and one kid actually asked someone else to trade places with Monet so he wouldn't have to sit with him. Monet told me that he feels like he has to apologize to the other kids when there's nowhere else to sit and he has to sit next to someone. He feels like he has to *apologize* to them for them having to sit next to him! The best advice I could come up with was to tell him to find something to do that he could do alone, like reading a book or playing with his iPod. But he didn't have his iPod tonight on the soccer bus, he said, because he let one of the other kids play with it on the way home. It made me want to hug him, but it made me want to cry. He would never think of treating someone the way these kids are treating him, and he's even going so far as to share with them one of his prized possessions. I don't really understand what they find so repulsive about him. He's smart, he's talented, and he's funny. I suppose it's because he has struggled with math and soccer, and so he's one of the weak ones, the low man on the totem. I pray that he finds a friend who will accept and appreciate him for who he is. Doesn't everyone deserve that?

I guess the comfort comes in the knowledge that people make fun of what they don't understand. I guess right now, Monet isn't even human to these kids, doesn't even have feelings, because they don't know him. Part of me wants them to know him, and part of me thinks, "Wow. You don't really deserve this boy's friendship." Today, one of the kids I had thought was going to be a friend, walked by Monet's locker and called him a failure. Monet said it was a joke, that the boy was only kidding, but why kid like that? Why? And since this is a boy on Monet's soccer team, doesn't that kind of defeat the purpose of team sports?

And I suppose that's another reason I'm feeling frustrated. Monet *chose* to play soccer. He's only one of 32 boys in the whole school who have chosen to play soccer this season. It's been a hard adjustment for him, but he has stuck with it, and he's improving. He wanted to quit, but in the end, he chose to stick with it. He goes to every practice, every game, and sits through the varsity games, too. And yet he would be less ridiculed had he chosen not to play a sport at all. It's almost like there's a kind of humiliation and punishment that comes from putting in the effort. If you're not good enough, the message seems to be, don't even try. We don't want you.

But he's continuing on, and I'm proud of him for it.

I wish human beings would just learn to behave, to be kind to one another, and to treat other people with the same respect with which they'd like to be treated. You'd think that, in a Christian school, a school of Monet's own denomination, that wouldn't be too much to ask.

Let's hope it's not.

::: wouldn't you give your hand to a friend? :::

If you know my boy, Monet, send him a note or give him a call today to encourage him. He has had a hard time transitioning from home education to private school. His class is a small one, and a close-knit one, from what I understand, and considering that he's not very outgoing or talkative, I think he's having a hard time breaking in to the circle. He's having a rough time of math class, though he's certainly making improvements, and he claims to hate English and History. Soccer is hard for him, too, but he's sticking with that, too, and making improvements.

I get frustrated with school kids sometimes. Tonight at the soccer game, I was a little disappointed by the way some of the kids were making fun of and laughing at other kids, and the hyper-focus on the boyfriend/girlfriend thing, and the borderline foul language and sexist comments (in a socially conscious Christian school). I was also frustrated by how much value was assigned to success in sports over success in other areas of life. Monet is an excellent artist, but there's no art class for the freshmen this year. None of the administration seems bothered by this, but I wonder how they would react if I told them that there was no soccer/tennis/baseball/basketball for their child's year.

I want Monet to succeed, and I want him to make friends, and I want him to be healthy, but moreover, I want him to be happy and to serve God fully and with a pure, humble heart. While I'm hoping he can gain the tools he needs to do that while attending this school, I'm a little worried that he won't, that he'll be pulled under the current of the unhealthy trends of his peers and be swept away from the gifts that God has given to him because there's no value being assigned to it by his peers and mentors.

So, if you think about it, give him a call or drop him a note today.