You can read here to see the original post and find out why I'm answering these questions.
From lovedesign:
1. What's your favorite animal?
Probably a dog. Not very original, I know, but dogs are so cool. Of course, I've never met a monkey, but if I had, that would probably be my favorite. I've always wanted a monkey.
2. What's your favorite season and why?
I think it's a toss-up between Spring and Fall. I love Spring because I can start growing stuff. I love Fall because the colors are so warm and gorgeous. Then again, I love Winter because I'm a Christmas freak. And I love Summer because it's a great time to learn stuff with the kids. Wow. That was so extremely helpful, wasn't it?
3. If you had one entire day and had to spend it alone... what would you do?
Uh...HAD to spend it alone??? Don't you mean GOT to spend it alone? ;-)
I think I would hit just about every yummy yarn store I could find, and then a few pottery and antique shops, and then the bookstore. I'd probably hit T.J. Maxx, Marshalls and Steinmart, too. I would go and visit one of my favorite friends (but then I wouldn't be alone anymore...hmmm), eat at Panera Bread, see a movie, and then go home to do some whimming. "Whimming" is when you just do anything you feel like doing, whether it's eBaying, baking, blogging, messing with pictures in Elements, cooking a gourment meal, knitting, reading or soaking in the tub. :-)
******************************************************************************************
From Reverend Mommy:
1. What moment in your life would you like to live over and change?
Each child's birth. I would take more photos, journal about it, and pay closer attention.
2. How is your faith different than other people's?
I saw a sign today that said, "Thank God for what hasn't happened to you!" I guess my faith differs in that I don't really think that God punishes us, but that things happen for a reason. I think that there are consequences to our actions and that there are certain bad things that happen in our lives because of those consequences, whether the actions were our own or someone else's. I also don't feel that we have to go around converting people all day. I believe that we are to preach the gospel daily, with our lives, and do it as we go into all of the world. Finally, I think that tithing to a church is off the mark. Scripture says that we are to give to the widows and the orphans. I think that's probably the exception in most churches rather than the rule.
3. If you were part of dinner, would you be salad, main course or dessert?
I'd probably be the salad, kind of a bunch of stuff mixed together and tossed around. It's the thing that's best for you, but you probably wouldn't just choose it. It's fresh, light, and green. :-) How's that? HA!
Monday, February 07, 2005
Those were the days...
Remember the Marathon Bar?
Man, there was nothing in the world like walking into Lawson's with a whopping fifteen cents in my pocket. No question about what I'd get. It was a no-brainer.
The marathon bar had all of my favorite stuff. Gooey caramel. Lots of chocolate. And it would take days to eat it because it was, like, three feet long. A real kid's candy bar.
For fifteen cents, it was the best deal going. No, it wasn't just a deal. It was a STEAL!
Okay, so it was only eight inches long. And there's some talk that it wasn't any better of a deal than any other candy bar. They SAY that because it was all braided (which is the other thing that made it way mobie cool), it was mostly air and didn't weigh any more than any of the other candy bars. That's why they SAY they stopped making it. They SAY it's because parents all around the world refused to believe what an awesome deal The Marathon Bar was, and sales just didn't cut it, so Mars stopped making the best candy bar in the world. I think it's because they realized what a steal it was and couldn't handle losing any more money to all of the wisest shoppers.
I was twelve. That's when my childhood ended.
I never understood the appeal of Mallow Cups or Chunky Bars or Three Musketeers. And Toffee Fay. Ugh. That's another story completely. "Too good for kids." Harumph. Don't even get me started on that crock.
Oh, but to go home with a three-foot-long Marathon Bar...sigh. Those were the days.
Man, there was nothing in the world like walking into Lawson's with a whopping fifteen cents in my pocket. No question about what I'd get. It was a no-brainer.
The marathon bar had all of my favorite stuff. Gooey caramel. Lots of chocolate. And it would take days to eat it because it was, like, three feet long. A real kid's candy bar.
For fifteen cents, it was the best deal going. No, it wasn't just a deal. It was a STEAL!
Okay, so it was only eight inches long. And there's some talk that it wasn't any better of a deal than any other candy bar. They SAY that because it was all braided (which is the other thing that made it way mobie cool), it was mostly air and didn't weigh any more than any of the other candy bars. That's why they SAY they stopped making it. They SAY it's because parents all around the world refused to believe what an awesome deal The Marathon Bar was, and sales just didn't cut it, so Mars stopped making the best candy bar in the world. I think it's because they realized what a steal it was and couldn't handle losing any more money to all of the wisest shoppers.
I was twelve. That's when my childhood ended.
I never understood the appeal of Mallow Cups or Chunky Bars or Three Musketeers. And Toffee Fay. Ugh. That's another story completely. "Too good for kids." Harumph. Don't even get me started on that crock.
Oh, but to go home with a three-foot-long Marathon Bar...sigh. Those were the days.
Sunday, February 06, 2005
The Questions and The Answers
Three Questions from ImpromptuMom over at Confessions of a Happy Housewife
What vegetable do you think you look most like?
A red onion, because onions have layers.
What is the best gift someone has ever given you?
There were two, both from my husband. The first was for my birthday, when he got down on one knee and sang me Elton John's Your Song, which I have always felt was my song. While he sang, he gave me gifts that were appropriate to the verses--pottery (for "sculptor"), bath oils and soaps in cool bottles for "potions," etc. He ended it with "how wonderful life is since you're in my world." Very, very memorable.
The other was when we were living at the cabin and he took me out to the tub on the porch on Christmas Eve. Above the tub were six star candleholders, suspended from the porch roof, all lit with tealights. It was absolutely magical.
Where would you most like to visit if you were not constrained by money, time, or era?
I think I would like to go to Hollywood in the forties and attend all of the gala events. It seems like such a grand time, and I think I would get addicted to that lifestyle very quickly, whereas I'm not very interested in Hollywood parties in the current era.
**********************************************************************************
From Mamageph over at Still Odd:
1. If you had to live in another country for 4 years before returning, where would you choose? Why? (BTW, the kids and husband are coming, too.)
What vegetable do you think you look most like?
A red onion, because onions have layers.
What is the best gift someone has ever given you?
There were two, both from my husband. The first was for my birthday, when he got down on one knee and sang me Elton John's Your Song, which I have always felt was my song. While he sang, he gave me gifts that were appropriate to the verses--pottery (for "sculptor"), bath oils and soaps in cool bottles for "potions," etc. He ended it with "how wonderful life is since you're in my world." Very, very memorable.
The other was when we were living at the cabin and he took me out to the tub on the porch on Christmas Eve. Above the tub were six star candleholders, suspended from the porch roof, all lit with tealights. It was absolutely magical.
Where would you most like to visit if you were not constrained by money, time, or era?
I think I would like to go to Hollywood in the forties and attend all of the gala events. It seems like such a grand time, and I think I would get addicted to that lifestyle very quickly, whereas I'm not very interested in Hollywood parties in the current era.
**********************************************************************************
From Mamageph over at Still Odd:
1. If you had to live in another country for 4 years before returning, where would you choose? Why? (BTW, the kids and husband are coming, too.)
England. I'd love to catch that awesome accent and become tons smarter. The British are smarter, right?
2. It's the end of a stressful day. Do you pet the cat backwards, or chase down the kids and put your cold hands in their pits?
Ummm...take a hot bath with a good book?
3. You've got a big refrigerator box. Inside are ten posessions you can not live without. What are they?
My Bible. My computer. My checkbook. My recipes and cookbooks. My camera. My photos. My journal. A pencil. My library card. A magical genie to get the rest of my stuff and give me whatever I want.
The Snow Fort
A couple of weeks ago, I wrote about my boys and their snowfort. Now, for your viewing pleasure, a rare moment of my two sons actually getting along.
The builders
The builders
The building
If you read this...
From Reverend Mommy's Random Thoughts: Reverend Mommy got this from Michael at Bloggin' Idiot who passed it to Fish and Liesa and who got it from Unspace who got from Therapy Failed who got it from Dell who stole it from Stacey who lifted it from Big Orange Michael who borrowed it from All Things Jen(nifer) who picked it up at Master Foley's Blog:
First, recommend to me:
1. A movie:
2. A book:
3. A musical artist, song, or album:
Next, I want everyone who reads this to ask me three questions, no more, no less. Ask me anything you want. (I will respond in subsequent posts. I reserve the right to not answer questions that might hurt someone else or that might be grossly inappropriate for my blog.)
Then, I want you to go to your blog, copy and paste this allowing your friends to ask you anything they want!
First, recommend to me:
1. A movie:
2. A book:
3. A musical artist, song, or album:
Next, I want everyone who reads this to ask me three questions, no more, no less. Ask me anything you want. (I will respond in subsequent posts. I reserve the right to not answer questions that might hurt someone else or that might be grossly inappropriate for my blog.)
Then, I want you to go to your blog, copy and paste this allowing your friends to ask you anything they want!
Saturday, February 05, 2005
Cheese in Your Crown
Setting: Our house. Having friends over for a pizza party and games. Our family is standing back to allow guests to serve themselves first. All except Monet. He jumps in line.
Me: Whoa, young man. You have to stand back and let guests serve themselves first. You can go when they're done.
Monet: Aw, man! Then all the cheese pizza will be gone!
Me: (Pulling Monet aside and whispering in his ear) Let me tell you a little secret. The Bible says that the first shall be last and the last shall be first.
Monet: What does that mean?
Me: Well, I think it means that if you rush in and try to be first, then what you get right then is your reward.
Monet: Yeah...?
Me: But if you wait patiently, then you may not get what the others get, but your reward will be much, much greater.
Monet: Yeahhhh...?
Me: So, you'll get, like, extra jewels in your crown in heaven.
Monet: Ooo-kay. That's great, Mom. But I all I wanted was a piece of cheese pizza.
Me: Whoa, young man. You have to stand back and let guests serve themselves first. You can go when they're done.
Monet: Aw, man! Then all the cheese pizza will be gone!
Me: (Pulling Monet aside and whispering in his ear) Let me tell you a little secret. The Bible says that the first shall be last and the last shall be first.
Monet: What does that mean?
Me: Well, I think it means that if you rush in and try to be first, then what you get right then is your reward.
Monet: Yeah...?
Me: But if you wait patiently, then you may not get what the others get, but your reward will be much, much greater.
Monet: Yeahhhh...?
Me: So, you'll get, like, extra jewels in your crown in heaven.
Monet: Ooo-kay. That's great, Mom. But I all I wanted was a piece of cheese pizza.
Battling the Demons
Being a mother is THE hardest thing I've ever done or will ever do in my whole life.
When I was a child, my parental examples were rather limited. My mother was often incapacitated by health issues or caught up in her neat-freak habits or in the funky depths of depression. My father hid himself away in his work, his bedroom, or his sarcasm, not attending my birthday parties, track meets or softball games. From a young age, I determined that, should I have kids, I would do better.
Still, my mom was a tough act to follow. Even with her foul mouth and cargo-hold full of childhood baggage, she was an awesome mother. She sewed, crocheted, gardened and canned. She cooked, volunteered, told stories and wrote books. She was the Brownie leader, the room mother, the softball coach and the D.C. trip chaperone. She organized the yearly beggar's night, took me to dance classes, watched my play rehearsals and made Christmas cookies every year.
She also called me terrible names and beat me when I made her angry. Or when my dad made her angry. Or when a neighbor, friend or television show made her angry.
I have to admit this: I was a very high-spirited, strong-willed kid, coming up with ideas or ideals to which I would hold defiantly. I can remember many times, my mother standing over me, her angry face just inches from mine, my hands and arms wrapped around my head to protect myself from another blow, and I can still hear her saying, "I'm going to make you mind if it kills me! I will win this battle! I don't care if you grow up hating me! "
And I did.
I hated how she looked, how she acted, how she talked, how she smelled. Everything about my mother filled me with contempt. Even her good deeds, to me, were like filthy rags. I couldn't stand to see her walk into a room. I knew that, depending on her mood, I would be either the best kid that ever lived, or the little brat who was driving her crazy. She was, in my eyes, self-seeking, pitiful, manipulative and dishonest.
It became my goal in life to prove her wrong and to expose her for the liar and lunatic that she was. When we were in public, I hoped, even tried, to pick out things that she would say that were blatantly wrong. I would look for opportunities to correct her and often triumphantly found them, only to incur her raging wrath once we were alone.
But it was worth it to me, because it proved me right, if even in my own mind. When we were in public, she was bubbly and good-humored. She liked to put on a show for her friends. But when we were alone, she exposed herself to me for who she really was. And I, in her words, was an antagonistic brat whose room was always a pig sty, who was lying and sneaky, and who, she hoped, would have ten kids just like me.
So maybe you can see why I was very strongly motivated to become exactly the opposite of what my mother prophesied over me.
When I say "prophesied," I don't mean to imply that there was any religious guidance in my childhood home. The only mention of God was followed shortly thereafter by the words "damn it." My primary religious influence came from the Holy Rolling mother of my best friend, who lived about a mile down the road. She was the other major influence on me, and her parenting to strategies were to pray...and yell.
Because my parents were very, incredibly overprotective of me, my household and the Holy Rolling household were the only ones I really ever knew. Our house was neat as a pin, always. The Holy Roller house was ever messy. Our house was organized and orderly. The Holy Roller house was virtual chaos with Ernest Angley for background noise.
So, I guess my life just kind of morphed out of both households. I'm chased by my own neat-freak demons, but my house is always virtual chaos (no Ernest Angley, though. Usually Train, or Jars of Clay or Barry Manilow as background noise), I waffle back and forth between being organized and orderly. And I'm a yeller.
And when I was sixteen, I became a Christian because some guy with no shirt and no shoes jumped onto the stage where I, as the local beauty queen, was judge for the small-town talent show. He stood there on stage with his guitar and sang beautiful spiritual songs to me and made me feel like there was hope, that I could be a better person.
I became a better person. Not a perfect person, of course. But a better one.
And I didn't even do it to prove my mom wrong.
Now, with my faith as a guide, I battle with the temptation to draw from my childhood experiences to motivate me as a wife and mother. I fight against my mother's prophesies (or curses?) that were placed over me, against preconceived notions and prejudices of mothers, women, households with many children, homeschoolers, christians.
I try not to compare myself with my parents, but I just can't help it. I spent so many years saying, "I'll be different. I'll do it right. I won't be like them," that I can't easily let go of the desire to rebel against them, even in my parenting. I'm running from the demons of my childhood. I realize, now, that my mother was, too. She was out to prove someone wrong, just like I'm out to prove her wrong. "You are a good mother," I want her to say. But what I hear in my mind instead is, "I hope you have ten brats just like you!"
None of my kids are brats. And I don't have ten just like me.
But I do have one.
I have a child who looks to prove me wrong at every turn, who is filled with anger, rebellion, and spite. I have a child who delights in correcting me and seems to live to humiliate me. This child is stubborn, strong-willed and fearless. When I deal with this child I see, sadly, my mother coming out in me. But I also so see me--the childhood me--staring out through that child's eyes.
And it drives me absolutely wild.
I have actually heard this child say the things that I used to say to my mom, or I can see those scathing, castigating thoughts running through that mind. I have actually heard myself say, "I will win this battle! I don't care if you grow up hating me!" I know, in the deepest place in my heart, that this is just not true. Actually, the thought brings me to my knees with tears.
As I mentioned in a prior post, I have read all of the parenting books that seem worth the paper on which they're printed. I have tried to implement the different strategies there. I read the parenting message boards, people who know with certainty that their method works. Their method is the One Right and True Way. I read with a mix of bemusement and discouragement, shaking my head and thinking, "But they don't have MY kid."
With this child, I've tried the James Dobson approach, the Gentle Parenting approach, the Pearl's approach and the Parenting in Jesus' footsteps approach. I'm a little bit of an attachment parent, a little bit of a Dobson parent, and a little bit of a Talk So Your Kids Will Listen parent. I am, with nods to Donna, a parenting mutt.
With this child, this one who is just like me, I have either broken ties that cannot be mended, I'm not doing it right, or I just haven't found the answers yet.
Maybe it's a bit of each.
A few days ago, while I was struggling with feeling overwhelmed and defeated, I found some of the best parenting and family advice I've ever read. It's advice not just for the parent, but also for the child, which, as my regular readers know, is something I've been seeking (Notes are mine) :
In case you didn't catch that last line, like if you read like me and skip from paragraph to paragraph to find the good stuff, I'll say it again:
I've spent too long looking for the worst in my children, in myself, and trying to exorcise those demons. What was I thinking??? After all, the Word says:
Do you see that? In keeping with his INDIVIDUAL GIFT OR BENT! It doesn't say
or even,
If you read that same verse as written in The Message, it says,
Point them in the RIGHT direction. Tell them what they SHOULD be doing. Seek out the GOOD in them with that child's INDIVIDUAL GIFT in mind!
I've written these words in a place where I can see them, where we all can see them, and I hope to read and re-read them until they're in a place where they will be with me always...
Hidden in my heart.
When I was a child, my parental examples were rather limited. My mother was often incapacitated by health issues or caught up in her neat-freak habits or in the funky depths of depression. My father hid himself away in his work, his bedroom, or his sarcasm, not attending my birthday parties, track meets or softball games. From a young age, I determined that, should I have kids, I would do better.
Still, my mom was a tough act to follow. Even with her foul mouth and cargo-hold full of childhood baggage, she was an awesome mother. She sewed, crocheted, gardened and canned. She cooked, volunteered, told stories and wrote books. She was the Brownie leader, the room mother, the softball coach and the D.C. trip chaperone. She organized the yearly beggar's night, took me to dance classes, watched my play rehearsals and made Christmas cookies every year.
She also called me terrible names and beat me when I made her angry. Or when my dad made her angry. Or when a neighbor, friend or television show made her angry.
I have to admit this: I was a very high-spirited, strong-willed kid, coming up with ideas or ideals to which I would hold defiantly. I can remember many times, my mother standing over me, her angry face just inches from mine, my hands and arms wrapped around my head to protect myself from another blow, and I can still hear her saying, "I'm going to make you mind if it kills me! I will win this battle! I don't care if you grow up hating me! "
And I did.
I hated how she looked, how she acted, how she talked, how she smelled. Everything about my mother filled me with contempt. Even her good deeds, to me, were like filthy rags. I couldn't stand to see her walk into a room. I knew that, depending on her mood, I would be either the best kid that ever lived, or the little brat who was driving her crazy. She was, in my eyes, self-seeking, pitiful, manipulative and dishonest.
It became my goal in life to prove her wrong and to expose her for the liar and lunatic that she was. When we were in public, I hoped, even tried, to pick out things that she would say that were blatantly wrong. I would look for opportunities to correct her and often triumphantly found them, only to incur her raging wrath once we were alone.
But it was worth it to me, because it proved me right, if even in my own mind. When we were in public, she was bubbly and good-humored. She liked to put on a show for her friends. But when we were alone, she exposed herself to me for who she really was. And I, in her words, was an antagonistic brat whose room was always a pig sty, who was lying and sneaky, and who, she hoped, would have ten kids just like me.
So maybe you can see why I was very strongly motivated to become exactly the opposite of what my mother prophesied over me.
When I say "prophesied," I don't mean to imply that there was any religious guidance in my childhood home. The only mention of God was followed shortly thereafter by the words "damn it." My primary religious influence came from the Holy Rolling mother of my best friend, who lived about a mile down the road. She was the other major influence on me, and her parenting to strategies were to pray...and yell.
Because my parents were very, incredibly overprotective of me, my household and the Holy Rolling household were the only ones I really ever knew. Our house was neat as a pin, always. The Holy Roller house was ever messy. Our house was organized and orderly. The Holy Roller house was virtual chaos with Ernest Angley for background noise.
So, I guess my life just kind of morphed out of both households. I'm chased by my own neat-freak demons, but my house is always virtual chaos (no Ernest Angley, though. Usually Train, or Jars of Clay or Barry Manilow as background noise), I waffle back and forth between being organized and orderly. And I'm a yeller.
And when I was sixteen, I became a Christian because some guy with no shirt and no shoes jumped onto the stage where I, as the local beauty queen, was judge for the small-town talent show. He stood there on stage with his guitar and sang beautiful spiritual songs to me and made me feel like there was hope, that I could be a better person.
I became a better person. Not a perfect person, of course. But a better one.
And I didn't even do it to prove my mom wrong.
Now, with my faith as a guide, I battle with the temptation to draw from my childhood experiences to motivate me as a wife and mother. I fight against my mother's prophesies (or curses?) that were placed over me, against preconceived notions and prejudices of mothers, women, households with many children, homeschoolers, christians.
I try not to compare myself with my parents, but I just can't help it. I spent so many years saying, "I'll be different. I'll do it right. I won't be like them," that I can't easily let go of the desire to rebel against them, even in my parenting. I'm running from the demons of my childhood. I realize, now, that my mother was, too. She was out to prove someone wrong, just like I'm out to prove her wrong. "You are a good mother," I want her to say. But what I hear in my mind instead is, "I hope you have ten brats just like you!"
None of my kids are brats. And I don't have ten just like me.
But I do have one.
I have a child who looks to prove me wrong at every turn, who is filled with anger, rebellion, and spite. I have a child who delights in correcting me and seems to live to humiliate me. This child is stubborn, strong-willed and fearless. When I deal with this child I see, sadly, my mother coming out in me. But I also so see me--the childhood me--staring out through that child's eyes.
And it drives me absolutely wild.
I have actually heard this child say the things that I used to say to my mom, or I can see those scathing, castigating thoughts running through that mind. I have actually heard myself say, "I will win this battle! I don't care if you grow up hating me!" I know, in the deepest place in my heart, that this is just not true. Actually, the thought brings me to my knees with tears.
As I mentioned in a prior post, I have read all of the parenting books that seem worth the paper on which they're printed. I have tried to implement the different strategies there. I read the parenting message boards, people who know with certainty that their method works. Their method is the One Right and True Way. I read with a mix of bemusement and discouragement, shaking my head and thinking, "But they don't have MY kid."
With this child, I've tried the James Dobson approach, the Gentle Parenting approach, the Pearl's approach and the Parenting in Jesus' footsteps approach. I'm a little bit of an attachment parent, a little bit of a Dobson parent, and a little bit of a Talk So Your Kids Will Listen parent. I am, with nods to Donna, a parenting mutt.
With this child, this one who is just like me, I have either broken ties that cannot be mended, I'm not doing it right, or I just haven't found the answers yet.
Maybe it's a bit of each.
A few days ago, while I was struggling with feeling overwhelmed and defeated, I found some of the best parenting and family advice I've ever read. It's advice not just for the parent, but also for the child, which, as my regular readers know, is something I've been seeking (Notes are mine) :
(For all) God didn't set us up for an angry rejection, but for salvation by our
Master, Jesus Christ. He died for us, a death that triggered life. Whether we're
awake with the living or asleep with the dead, we're alive with him! So
speak encouraging words to one another. Build up hope so you'll all be together
in this, no one left out, no one left behind. I know you're already doing this;
just keep doing it.
(For the children) And now, friends, we ask you to honor those leaders who work so hard for you, who have been giving the responsibility of urging and guiding you along in your obedience. Overwhelm them with appreciation and love!
(For all) Get along among yourselves, each of you doing your part. Our counsel is
that you warn the stragglers, and reach out for the exhausted, pulling them to
their feet. Be patient with each person, attentive to their individual needs.
And be careful that when you get on each other's nerves you don't snap at
each other. Look for the best in each other, and always do your best to bring it
out.~1 Thessalonians 5:12-15
In case you didn't catch that last line, like if you read like me and skip from paragraph to paragraph to find the good stuff, I'll say it again:
Look for the best in each other, and always do your best to bring it
out.
I've spent too long looking for the worst in my children, in myself, and trying to exorcise those demons. What was I thinking??? After all, the Word says:
"Train up a child in the way he should go and in keeping with his
individual gift or bent, and when he is old he will not depart from it." (The Amplified Bible)
Do you see that? In keeping with his INDIVIDUAL GIFT OR BENT! It doesn't say
"Train all of your children to be the same, and train them to be just like every
other good child,"
or even,
"Train up your children so that you constantly tell them which way they shouldn't go."
If you read that same verse as written in The Message, it says,
"Point your kids in the right direction--when they're old, they won't be
lost."
Point them in the RIGHT direction. Tell them what they SHOULD be doing. Seek out the GOOD in them with that child's INDIVIDUAL GIFT in mind!
I've written these words in a place where I can see them, where we all can see them, and I hope to read and re-read them until they're in a place where they will be with me always...
Hidden in my heart.
Friday, February 04, 2005
I LOVE Rhapsody!
We don't go on long vacations. We don't go to the theatre very often. We don't go see sports events. But we do have a couple of things in which we indulge.
One of them is Rhapsody.
Rhapsody is a 100% legal digital jukebox that can be totally customized to your musical interests. I've totally loved it. I use it to play my favorite stuff, to find the stuff I used to listen to as a child, and to listen to our daily classical music. I have increasingly become attached to my Rhapsody account.
I love it even more today.
I found one of my VERY FAVORITE artists on Rhapsody. I searched for him just on a whim, and there he was. So cool!
If you've never heard Jake Armerding, you should really very definitely listen to him right now. He's so totally awesome.
What I'm Hearing:
"Rome" - jake armerding
"Ithaca" - jake armerding
"Company Town" - jake armerding
"Place I Know" - jake armerding *Probably my favorite, or a close tie with Rome.
"Nevermind" - jake armerding
"Color You In" - jake armerding
"Jessica" - jake armerding
"Belong to Me" - jake armerding
"(don't Be My) Anything Today" - jake armerding
"Caged Bird" - jake armerding
"Loner" - jake armerding
"Lullaby in E Minor" - jake armerding
To listen, just click this link and Rhapsody will start playing the playlist automatically. If you don't have Rhapsody, you will be directed to a website where you can download it.
To hear the playlist in its full-length glory, you will need to be a subscriber. If you aren't a subscriber, they have a free trial.
One of them is Rhapsody.
Rhapsody is a 100% legal digital jukebox that can be totally customized to your musical interests. I've totally loved it. I use it to play my favorite stuff, to find the stuff I used to listen to as a child, and to listen to our daily classical music. I have increasingly become attached to my Rhapsody account.
I love it even more today.
I found one of my VERY FAVORITE artists on Rhapsody. I searched for him just on a whim, and there he was. So cool!
If you've never heard Jake Armerding, you should really very definitely listen to him right now. He's so totally awesome.
What I'm Hearing:
"Rome" - jake armerding
"Ithaca" - jake armerding
"Company Town" - jake armerding
"Place I Know" - jake armerding *Probably my favorite, or a close tie with Rome.
"Nevermind" - jake armerding
"Color You In" - jake armerding
"Jessica" - jake armerding
"Belong to Me" - jake armerding
"(don't Be My) Anything Today" - jake armerding
"Caged Bird" - jake armerding
"Loner" - jake armerding
"Lullaby in E Minor" - jake armerding
To listen, just click this link and Rhapsody will start playing the playlist automatically. If you don't have Rhapsody, you will be directed to a website where you can download it.
To hear the playlist in its full-length glory, you will need to be a subscriber. If you aren't a subscriber, they have a free trial.
I feel very badly...
My dear daughter, Bard, was very excited about reading poetry to the residents at a local care center. You can read about her disappointment and give her some encouragement here.
I'm so sorry, Bard. I only wish I could understand why it happened that way.
I'm so sorry, Bard. I only wish I could understand why it happened that way.
What Moms and Dads Wish Their Children Knew about Parents
Parenting books? Yeah, I've read 'em.
How to Talk So Kids Will Listen and Listen So Kids Will Talk, Your Strong Willed Child, Raising a Son, Simplify Your Life with Kids, Train Up a Child, Making Children Mind without Losing Yours, You're a Better Parent Than You Think, 401 Ways to Get Your Kids to Work at Home, Home Built Discipline...and these are just the ones on one shelf. On one of the bookcases. In this room.
I've read a ton about parenting. People always say that children should come with instruction books. I disagree. I think they should come with dismanteling schematics. There are enough instruction books out there to make a person crazy, and I've read my share (which could explain a few things), but they just don't seem to get me anywhere.
My kids still pee in inconvenient locations, strategically place legos so that they embed themselves in my left foot, make disparaging comments about the all-bran muffins I lovingly baked for them (okay, so they DID taste exactly like goat feed, but, darn it, they're healthy!), and whine uncontrollably about how unfair it is that they have to learn to count to 100 and spell their names correctly by the time they're fourteen. I mean, I've read an awful lot of books about how to be a better parent, and I have tried just about every strategy known to woman, but it's just. not. working.
And then it hits me.
It's my KIDS who have the problems. MY KIDS! Not me! Sheesh! What was I thinking?
THEY'RE they ones who need to read the How-To books!
So, I'm in the market for a good "how to be a better child" book.
But I'm kinda thinkin' they don't exist.
Any suggestions?
Anyone???
Buehler? Buehler?
(run: crickets chirping)
Somehow I didn't think so.
How to Talk So Kids Will Listen and Listen So Kids Will Talk, Your Strong Willed Child, Raising a Son, Simplify Your Life with Kids, Train Up a Child, Making Children Mind without Losing Yours, You're a Better Parent Than You Think, 401 Ways to Get Your Kids to Work at Home, Home Built Discipline...and these are just the ones on one shelf. On one of the bookcases. In this room.
I've read a ton about parenting. People always say that children should come with instruction books. I disagree. I think they should come with dismanteling schematics. There are enough instruction books out there to make a person crazy, and I've read my share (which could explain a few things), but they just don't seem to get me anywhere.
My kids still pee in inconvenient locations, strategically place legos so that they embed themselves in my left foot, make disparaging comments about the all-bran muffins I lovingly baked for them (okay, so they DID taste exactly like goat feed, but, darn it, they're healthy!), and whine uncontrollably about how unfair it is that they have to learn to count to 100 and spell their names correctly by the time they're fourteen. I mean, I've read an awful lot of books about how to be a better parent, and I have tried just about every strategy known to woman, but it's just. not. working.
And then it hits me.
It's my KIDS who have the problems. MY KIDS! Not me! Sheesh! What was I thinking?
THEY'RE they ones who need to read the How-To books!
So, I'm in the market for a good "how to be a better child" book.
But I'm kinda thinkin' they don't exist.
Any suggestions?
Anyone???
Buehler? Buehler?
(run: crickets chirping)
Somehow I didn't think so.
Haiku of a Homeschooler
Haiku of a Homeschooler: "One may need patience
To homeschool, but above all -
Flexibility"
I just discovered this wonderful site. I thought you'd enjoy it, too.
To homeschool, but above all -
Flexibility"
I just discovered this wonderful site. I thought you'd enjoy it, too.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
Shh! Don't tell anyone!
I've just discovered a secret.
This is very valuable information, and I'm only entrusting my most loyal, trustworthy readers with this knowledge. You may read further, but you musn't tell ANYONE what I'm about to share with you.
If you want to get your children to co-operate--and I mean, if you need them to be very, very good and very, very helpful, here's what you must do.
Just. Put. Them. To. Bed.
A magical thing happens after children have been sent to bed. Suddenly, under these circumstances, they can develop manners, gratitude and a keen sense of awareness about household tasks that need to be accomplished.
I know. I've just witnessed the phenomenon first-hand myself.
The Secret Log:
9:02--Finished a chapter of Mandy and told the kids it was time to get pajamas on and brush teeth.
9:12--Checked to see that each child had indeed brushed teeth and put pajamas on and not just pretended to do so. Yes, sometimes they pretend. I have one child who will wear the same clothes for a week, day and night, if I don't insist that he change. Please don't ask me how I know this. It would be very embarrassing to have to answer.
9:15--Sent children to their beds and began preparations for Morning Glory Muffins.
9:23--Bard comes in, asking if she can blog before she goes to bed. I allow it.
9:41--Bard finishes her blogging and arrives in the kitchen to give me a hug. She tells me that she's sorry she was angry with me. I was not even remotely aware that she HAD been angry with me. I tell her, jokingly, that I'll forgive her if she does a load of dishes. She willingly obliges.
10:03--Houdin comes down from bed and asks if there's anything he can do to help. Bard tells him that he can finish loading the dishes. He does not even argue. He's actually amicable. He willingly obliges.
10:17--Monet comes down and plays with the baby, gives me a big hug, dances with the baby, gives me a big hug and asks if there's anything he can do to help. He offers to do the dishes and willingly takes over loading the dishwasher.
10:32--Sweetheart comes downstairs. Now, all of my children are in the kitchen. None of them are arguing. They are all being kind to each other. They are all being kind to me. A miracle has indeed occured.
10:35--Sweetheart asks Monet if she can help him with the dishes. Monet agrees. Sweetheart willingly finishes loading the dishwasher.
10:41--I get hugs from everyone. I tell them all that it's time for bed.
Now, here's the part of the secret you may not want to hear. The magical spell breaks the minute these wonderful, cooperative children are sent back to their beds. You may choose to avoid this part, but, eventually, that time must come.
10:50--Bard: "May I switch computers with Houdin now? I can't get my CD to read in my drive, and all he ever does is plays JetPack on his" Me: "No, not tonight. You won't be using your CD drive while you're sleeping anyway. You must go to bed now." Bard grunts but grudgingly obliges.
10:57--Loud thump is heard from upstairs. Me: "Whatever that was, it's not part of going to bed! Now GO TO BED!"
11:04--I hear footsteps on the stairs. Me: "Who is out of bed???" Sweetheart: "I just wanted to ask you..." Me: (losing patience) NO! There is NO MORE ASKING! It is TIME for BED!"
11:33--Several loud thumps are heard from upstairs. Now I am yelling at the ceiling, "STOP THUMPING AND GO TO BED!"
There's something I've discovered. It's not really that big of a secret. Many moms become slightly insane and rather grumpy when their children are sent to bed. It can only be cured by going to them and praying for them before they fall asleep.
Use this information at your own risk. I will not be held responsible for anything that might happen as a result of your use of this knowledge.
When angry, do not sin; do not ever let your wrath, your exasperation, your fury or indignation last until the sun goes down.
~Ephesians 4:26. Amplified Bible
This is very valuable information, and I'm only entrusting my most loyal, trustworthy readers with this knowledge. You may read further, but you musn't tell ANYONE what I'm about to share with you.
If you want to get your children to co-operate--and I mean, if you need them to be very, very good and very, very helpful, here's what you must do.
Just. Put. Them. To. Bed.
A magical thing happens after children have been sent to bed. Suddenly, under these circumstances, they can develop manners, gratitude and a keen sense of awareness about household tasks that need to be accomplished.
I know. I've just witnessed the phenomenon first-hand myself.
The Secret Log:
9:02--Finished a chapter of Mandy and told the kids it was time to get pajamas on and brush teeth.
9:12--Checked to see that each child had indeed brushed teeth and put pajamas on and not just pretended to do so. Yes, sometimes they pretend. I have one child who will wear the same clothes for a week, day and night, if I don't insist that he change. Please don't ask me how I know this. It would be very embarrassing to have to answer.
9:15--Sent children to their beds and began preparations for Morning Glory Muffins.
9:23--Bard comes in, asking if she can blog before she goes to bed. I allow it.
9:41--Bard finishes her blogging and arrives in the kitchen to give me a hug. She tells me that she's sorry she was angry with me. I was not even remotely aware that she HAD been angry with me. I tell her, jokingly, that I'll forgive her if she does a load of dishes. She willingly obliges.
10:03--Houdin comes down from bed and asks if there's anything he can do to help. Bard tells him that he can finish loading the dishes. He does not even argue. He's actually amicable. He willingly obliges.
10:17--Monet comes down and plays with the baby, gives me a big hug, dances with the baby, gives me a big hug and asks if there's anything he can do to help. He offers to do the dishes and willingly takes over loading the dishwasher.
10:32--Sweetheart comes downstairs. Now, all of my children are in the kitchen. None of them are arguing. They are all being kind to each other. They are all being kind to me. A miracle has indeed occured.
10:35--Sweetheart asks Monet if she can help him with the dishes. Monet agrees. Sweetheart willingly finishes loading the dishwasher.
10:41--I get hugs from everyone. I tell them all that it's time for bed.
Now, here's the part of the secret you may not want to hear. The magical spell breaks the minute these wonderful, cooperative children are sent back to their beds. You may choose to avoid this part, but, eventually, that time must come.
10:50--Bard: "May I switch computers with Houdin now? I can't get my CD to read in my drive, and all he ever does is plays JetPack on his" Me: "No, not tonight. You won't be using your CD drive while you're sleeping anyway. You must go to bed now." Bard grunts but grudgingly obliges.
10:57--Loud thump is heard from upstairs. Me: "Whatever that was, it's not part of going to bed! Now GO TO BED!"
11:04--I hear footsteps on the stairs. Me: "Who is out of bed???" Sweetheart: "I just wanted to ask you..." Me: (losing patience) NO! There is NO MORE ASKING! It is TIME for BED!"
11:33--Several loud thumps are heard from upstairs. Now I am yelling at the ceiling, "STOP THUMPING AND GO TO BED!"
There's something I've discovered. It's not really that big of a secret. Many moms become slightly insane and rather grumpy when their children are sent to bed. It can only be cured by going to them and praying for them before they fall asleep.
Use this information at your own risk. I will not be held responsible for anything that might happen as a result of your use of this knowledge.
When angry, do not sin; do not ever let your wrath, your exasperation, your fury or indignation last until the sun goes down.
~Ephesians 4:26. Amplified Bible
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
No Matter What
Okay, folks. Pop quiz:
After about three hours of sleep, you wake up late and tired, preparing to begin your busy day. During the course of said day:
1. You discover that you made a nasty financial mistake that was totally preventable but you failed to prevent it. It cost you $100, and infuriated your husband, who just took over the finances and who hardly ever loses his temper;
2. In spite of your frequent warnings, lectures and attempts at protection, you find one of your children writing inappropriate things on your computer while the child is supposed to be writing an essay about their favorite president;
3. You leave with just enough time to pick up an Amish neighbor to take her to an appointment she has in ten minutes and your U-joint falls out of the bottom of your Jeep in the middle of the driveway;
4. You find three library books that are so overdue that they're now considered lost.
What do you do? What DO you DO???
Did you answer with any of the following?
1. Hide in the back of your fruit cellar with the lights off and bawl uncontrollably, determined to never come out of the dark, damp, cold corner again;
2. Get angry, hurt and frustrated beyond description, feel like a failure as a mother and homeschooler, and consider going to work full-time at McDonald's in order to put all of your children in boarding school;
3. Hang your head, call your husband out from the house, who, upon seeing the defunct U-joint lying on the ground, immediately spouts an obsenity, even though he rarely swears;
4. Apologize profusely to the librarian and worry that they'll never let you take books from them again because you're such a careless loser with no concern for the library's well-being.
If you did respond like this, then you and I are so very much alike.
When days like today happen, my first tendency is to get very angry, very hurt, very defeated, and very bitter.
"Great, God! Thanks a lot! I mean, look at all I do around here, and this is what you give me? This is the thanks I get? Thanks. Thanks a whole heck of a lot."
When I do that, I have the right idea.
I just have the wrong attitude.
It's like I tell my kids, don't EVER use "Thank You" as an insult. It's not meant to be a sarcastic, derogatory thing. It's meant to be GRATITUDE. It's meant to be APPRECIATION. It's designed to be received as PRAISE. If you're angry, tell the other person you're angry. Don't use mock gratitude as a weapon.
God tells us to be cheerful no matter what; pray all the time; thank God no matter what happens. This is the way God wants you who belong to Christ Jesus to live.
Thirty-three times in the NIV Bible, we are instructed to give thanks.
I realized as my nightmare day went on that I was guilty of using mock gratitude with God. What he really deserved was my sincere, gratitude, my deepest thanks, my heartfelt praise.
No matter what.
After all, let's think about this:
1. I've been asking my husband for FIFTEEN YEARS to take over the finances. Why? Because I SUCK at money issues! I'm too emotionally driven to make good decisions and I have a tendency to, ahem, push the envelope, shall we say? Making this big financial mistake just after my husband committed to taking over the money was a big wake-up call for both of us. It scared us straight, I guess you could say. I was devastated to disappoint him. Now he sees how stressful it is to make money mistakes and why it's so important for him to take over, and I see how much he wants to get it right and find myself completely accountable to him.
2. I was there, at home, when my child decided to investigate inappropriate content on what I thought was a harmless kids' internet game (Warning to readers: if your child plays Runescape, put a stop to it NOW!). Some children have no parent available to intercede when these things happen. I was there. I'm still here. I'm able to have a conversation with my child and discuss these issues with my child...even though I'm still trying to figure out just how to do that....
3. What if I'd been on the road with my passenger and her children when my Jeep's U-joint when clanking to the ground? What if my husband had been on the expressway with all of our children in the Jeep, like he was last night, just minutes before he pulled the Jeep into our driveway it promptly lost a very imporant component that is now hanging off the vehicle?
4. I actually FOUND the library books. I returned them, had a fee of $3.00 each, and didn't have to pay for each book in full, which would have been another financial disaster of over $50. The librarian was kind to me and didn't ban me from using the library again.
And these are just the positive aspects that I KNOW about. I am instructed to give thanks NO MATTER WHAT. Even if I can't SEE the silver lining around that foreboding thundercloud.
Tonight, as our family sat around the table preparing to eat a meal together, my daughter, Sweetheart, asked if she could pray. In her biggest, most faithful five-year-old voice, she offered her words to God:
"Dear God, thank you for everything that happened today..."
No matter what...
She didn't say, "Thanks a lot, God," or, "thanks for giving me the stuff I wanted," or, "thank you for all of the good things that happened."
She said, "Thank You, God. Thank You for EVERYTHING."
I could learn a lot from that girl.
"Thank God in everything no matter what the circumstances may be, be thankful and give thanks, for this is the will of God for you who are in Christ Jesus the Revealer and Mediator of that will."
~1 Thes. 5:18, Amplified Bible
After about three hours of sleep, you wake up late and tired, preparing to begin your busy day. During the course of said day:
1. You discover that you made a nasty financial mistake that was totally preventable but you failed to prevent it. It cost you $100, and infuriated your husband, who just took over the finances and who hardly ever loses his temper;
2. In spite of your frequent warnings, lectures and attempts at protection, you find one of your children writing inappropriate things on your computer while the child is supposed to be writing an essay about their favorite president;
3. You leave with just enough time to pick up an Amish neighbor to take her to an appointment she has in ten minutes and your U-joint falls out of the bottom of your Jeep in the middle of the driveway;
4. You find three library books that are so overdue that they're now considered lost.
What do you do? What DO you DO???
Did you answer with any of the following?
1. Hide in the back of your fruit cellar with the lights off and bawl uncontrollably, determined to never come out of the dark, damp, cold corner again;
2. Get angry, hurt and frustrated beyond description, feel like a failure as a mother and homeschooler, and consider going to work full-time at McDonald's in order to put all of your children in boarding school;
3. Hang your head, call your husband out from the house, who, upon seeing the defunct U-joint lying on the ground, immediately spouts an obsenity, even though he rarely swears;
4. Apologize profusely to the librarian and worry that they'll never let you take books from them again because you're such a careless loser with no concern for the library's well-being.
If you did respond like this, then you and I are so very much alike.
When days like today happen, my first tendency is to get very angry, very hurt, very defeated, and very bitter.
"Great, God! Thanks a lot! I mean, look at all I do around here, and this is what you give me? This is the thanks I get? Thanks. Thanks a whole heck of a lot."
When I do that, I have the right idea.
I just have the wrong attitude.
It's like I tell my kids, don't EVER use "Thank You" as an insult. It's not meant to be a sarcastic, derogatory thing. It's meant to be GRATITUDE. It's meant to be APPRECIATION. It's designed to be received as PRAISE. If you're angry, tell the other person you're angry. Don't use mock gratitude as a weapon.
God tells us to be cheerful no matter what; pray all the time; thank God no matter what happens. This is the way God wants you who belong to Christ Jesus to live.
Thirty-three times in the NIV Bible, we are instructed to give thanks.
I realized as my nightmare day went on that I was guilty of using mock gratitude with God. What he really deserved was my sincere, gratitude, my deepest thanks, my heartfelt praise.
No matter what.
After all, let's think about this:
1. I've been asking my husband for FIFTEEN YEARS to take over the finances. Why? Because I SUCK at money issues! I'm too emotionally driven to make good decisions and I have a tendency to, ahem, push the envelope, shall we say? Making this big financial mistake just after my husband committed to taking over the money was a big wake-up call for both of us. It scared us straight, I guess you could say. I was devastated to disappoint him. Now he sees how stressful it is to make money mistakes and why it's so important for him to take over, and I see how much he wants to get it right and find myself completely accountable to him.
2. I was there, at home, when my child decided to investigate inappropriate content on what I thought was a harmless kids' internet game (Warning to readers: if your child plays Runescape, put a stop to it NOW!). Some children have no parent available to intercede when these things happen. I was there. I'm still here. I'm able to have a conversation with my child and discuss these issues with my child...even though I'm still trying to figure out just how to do that....
3. What if I'd been on the road with my passenger and her children when my Jeep's U-joint when clanking to the ground? What if my husband had been on the expressway with all of our children in the Jeep, like he was last night, just minutes before he pulled the Jeep into our driveway it promptly lost a very imporant component that is now hanging off the vehicle?
4. I actually FOUND the library books. I returned them, had a fee of $3.00 each, and didn't have to pay for each book in full, which would have been another financial disaster of over $50. The librarian was kind to me and didn't ban me from using the library again.
And these are just the positive aspects that I KNOW about. I am instructed to give thanks NO MATTER WHAT. Even if I can't SEE the silver lining around that foreboding thundercloud.
Tonight, as our family sat around the table preparing to eat a meal together, my daughter, Sweetheart, asked if she could pray. In her biggest, most faithful five-year-old voice, she offered her words to God:
"Dear God, thank you for everything that happened today..."
No matter what...
She didn't say, "Thanks a lot, God," or, "thanks for giving me the stuff I wanted," or, "thank you for all of the good things that happened."
She said, "Thank You, God. Thank You for EVERYTHING."
I could learn a lot from that girl.
"Thank God in everything no matter what the circumstances may be, be thankful and give thanks, for this is the will of God for you who are in Christ Jesus the Revealer and Mediator of that will."
~1 Thes. 5:18, Amplified Bible
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
Speaking of Sliding...
It's really icy here.
You should see me walking around on my driveway, in my yard, in the parking lots of the local buy-a-lot-of-junk stores. I walk with such care and trepidation, you would think there was a huge chasm under my feet.
I guess I'm just afraid to fall.
One day last week, Bard and I were walking to our van, which we've parked at the very end of our long lane for lack of a vehicle that can handle the inclemency that is our country driveway. She and I were both wearing snowboots, treading cautiously with each little step and moving along quite slowly. I always imagine that there's some vicious snow-dusted ice beneath my very next step that will take me down, and fast. I've fallen enough to know that it's just when you get your confidence up, just when you say, "This is SILLY! I'll never get there if I keep on like this!" It's just when you think, "To heck with it," and you take your next step with abandon that the aforementioned lurking ice-enemy knocks you on your can. But it can't just do you the favor of letting you fall. Instead, it has to make you look like an idiot first, jerking, lurching, trying desperately to stay upright before you plummet to the hard, cold, icy ground.
As we were inching our way along, a figure came streaking past us, a blur against the snow-covered valley.
It was my 13-year-old son, Houdin.
I'm always amazed at Houdin's deftness on ice. He seems to have no fear of falling at all. While I can take every step with the utmost care and still land on my butt, Houdin runs and jumps and does cartwheels, yet still lands on his feet.
The thing I noticed as Bard and I inched along was how Houdin approached each icy spot. He didn't stop and proceed with caution. Nay, he didn't even slow down. He kept his pace. And when a sheet of ice took his footing, he just...slid. And slid. And slid. Not like I would slide as a precursor to sudden descent, with my arms flailing desperately in the air and ridiculous words spouting from my mouth. Houdin took more of a ride than a slide, arms out steady at his sides, feet separated, knees bent, almost as if he were skiing. Almost as if her were...enjoying it! And when the riding-sliding ended, he broke into a full-run again in preparation for the next patch of ice.
I wish that I could approach the problems in my life the way my son approaches a slippery slope. When life takes my footing, when I suddenly feel myself sliding and spinning out of control, I want to think of Houdin. Maybe then, I can just spread my arms, bend my knees, and gracefully ride the whole thing out.
You should see me walking around on my driveway, in my yard, in the parking lots of the local buy-a-lot-of-junk stores. I walk with such care and trepidation, you would think there was a huge chasm under my feet.
I guess I'm just afraid to fall.
One day last week, Bard and I were walking to our van, which we've parked at the very end of our long lane for lack of a vehicle that can handle the inclemency that is our country driveway. She and I were both wearing snowboots, treading cautiously with each little step and moving along quite slowly. I always imagine that there's some vicious snow-dusted ice beneath my very next step that will take me down, and fast. I've fallen enough to know that it's just when you get your confidence up, just when you say, "This is SILLY! I'll never get there if I keep on like this!" It's just when you think, "To heck with it," and you take your next step with abandon that the aforementioned lurking ice-enemy knocks you on your can. But it can't just do you the favor of letting you fall. Instead, it has to make you look like an idiot first, jerking, lurching, trying desperately to stay upright before you plummet to the hard, cold, icy ground.
As we were inching our way along, a figure came streaking past us, a blur against the snow-covered valley.
It was my 13-year-old son, Houdin.
I'm always amazed at Houdin's deftness on ice. He seems to have no fear of falling at all. While I can take every step with the utmost care and still land on my butt, Houdin runs and jumps and does cartwheels, yet still lands on his feet.
The thing I noticed as Bard and I inched along was how Houdin approached each icy spot. He didn't stop and proceed with caution. Nay, he didn't even slow down. He kept his pace. And when a sheet of ice took his footing, he just...slid. And slid. And slid. Not like I would slide as a precursor to sudden descent, with my arms flailing desperately in the air and ridiculous words spouting from my mouth. Houdin took more of a ride than a slide, arms out steady at his sides, feet separated, knees bent, almost as if he were skiing. Almost as if her were...enjoying it! And when the riding-sliding ended, he broke into a full-run again in preparation for the next patch of ice.
I wish that I could approach the problems in my life the way my son approaches a slippery slope. When life takes my footing, when I suddenly feel myself sliding and spinning out of control, I want to think of Houdin. Maybe then, I can just spread my arms, bend my knees, and gracefully ride the whole thing out.
Sunday, January 30, 2005
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!"
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."
Hollywood couple WILL and JADA PINKETT SMITH have decided to homeschool their children, because they're unimpressed with America's educational system.
The ALI co-stars have six-year-old son JADEN, daughter WILLOW, four, TREY, 12, Will's son from his first marriage and Will's nephew KYLE, 15, in their care. And all children but Trey are currently homeschooled.
Jada tells ESSENCE magazine, "(They are homeschooled) for flexibility, so they can stay with us when we travel, and also because the school system in this country - public and private is designed for the industrial age.
"We're in a technological age. We don't want our kids to memorise. We want them to learn."
The Drama King
"I don't want to act. I'll be embarrassed."
We were on our way to the drama club/birthday party of a fellow homeschooler when Monet, my nine-year-old son told me how he felt. While this didn't surprise me, I figured he'd get over it pretty quickly.
He didn't.
While his five-year-old sister, Sweetheart was changing clothes seven or eight times in an effort to find the "fanciest" outfit she could find, Monet was trying to figure out how to get through to me that he just didn't want to go.
I understand how he feels. He hates being the center of attention and is very easily embarrassed. He's the person in the family who always thinks he's being ridiculed, even when no one's talking about him.
The reason we call him Monet, after all, is because he's an artist. He's happiest sitting in a corner with a pencil and a sketchbook, inventing and creating beings, machines and stories that very few people could even begin to imagine. I suppose we really should have dubbed him Leonardo. Most of his drawings involve elaborate labratories or spy centers with detailed environments and Rube Goldberg type contraptions. At nine, he still sucks his thumb and can often be found curled up with his dog, his thumb in his mouth, inventing some new idea or storyline.
I was braiding Sweetheart's hair when Monet came in and made his announcement.
"I don't want to act. I don't want to be in the play. Everyone will laugh at me." My first reaction was, "Oh, don't be silly," but then I realized that he was serious. "Just watch, then," I told him. I could tell from his reaction that he was torn. I could see that he wasn't even sure he wanted to go.
When we arrived at the location of the birthday party/drama club meeting, Sweetheart was lamenting the fact that her braids were undone and her hair was a mess. She was practically a basket case. Monet was dragging along behind. Houdin was all over it, a natural performer. As we stood at the door of the library, Monet hung behind.
"I really don't want to act," he said. "I don't want to be in the play at all." I could tell, then, that he didn't just have cold feet. This was really worrying him.
I'm sad to say that I hadn't had a very good day. We were already about an hour late to the party and I was feeling disorganized and frustrated. I wasn't in the patient homeschooler mode that I should have been.
Or maybe I did just the right thing.
"Let's just go in. I can't stand out here in the cold, and we're already late. Just go."
I was surprised to see how many kids were there. And I was pleased by the set-up of the activity. A stage on one end of the room, chairs set up for all of the parents to watch the performance when we would return after about two hours of their rehearsing--they were even videotaping the whole thing. The guest-of-honor's mother, Jen, greeted us warmly.
"I'm so glad you could come! I was worried that you couldn't make it!" I grunted some response, bad day, frustrated, couldn't get moving. The standard.
"I understand," she said, and motioned the kids toward the stage.
"We just finished our first warm-up game. You really didn't miss too much. Come on up on stage, kids!"
The birthday girl came running, hugged sweetheart zealously, and pulled her onto the stage, shouting over her shoulder, "Come on, Monet!"
Monet stood still.
He looked at me pleadingly, "Please, Mom. I don't want to do it. I'll be embarrassed. People will laugh at me."
"Well," I reasoned, "that's fine, but everyone else is on stage. Do you think you'd be more embarrassed being on stage with everyone else, or being the only one sitting here, not participating?" It sounded like the perfect motivation.
(I could insert here how my child gave me some lesson on nonconformity, and how proud I was to be corrected, but that's not what happened. Maybe another blog.)
"I'll just sit and watch," he said.
So I wished Jen luck, kissed Monet on the head, and said goodbye.
When I climbed back into the van, I told Bo, "Monet won't participate. He's embarrassed." While we spent our two hour lag time at Sam's Club, I wondered how Monet was doing.
Since we operate on Parent Standard Time, we returned to the performance a couple of minutes late. Monet was on the stage, next to the birthday girl.
He was acting!
And I don't mean that he was just grumbling through his lines. I mean, he was ACTING!
I whipped out the camera. I took several photos. I beamed. I wished that all of the homeschool skeptics could see my son, my precious boy, standing up there acting his heart out, reading his lines as if he'd been rehearsing for a week.
When the play was over, Monet came running to me.
"Did you see me? Did you see me acting? Did you like it? How did I do? Did you notice that part where I said, 'God has been here, like, forever?' Well, the 'like' wasn't in the script! I added that myself! Jen said we should be creative, so I just threw that in! What did you think? Did I do good? That was fun! Can we do it again? Will she have another drama group? I can't wait to be in it! Wow, that was fun!"
I stood there, smiling, amazed. When Monet had run off to have a piece of birthday cake, I asked Jen what happened.
"Well, I basically stuck a script in his hand and told him he had to do it. I didn't give him a choice. At first, he seemed to struggle a little, and I offered to trade him parts, give him something easier, you know? But he said, 'No. I like this guy. This is who I want to be.' So, he sat in a corner and read those lines over and over again until he had them down."
Wow. I was so impressed.
It reminded me of the time that my husband Bo and I were traveling to visit his parents in another state when Bo made a sudden turn off of our regular course.
"What are you doing? Where are we going?" The sun was getting low in the sky, and we had already been running late, running on parent standard time with a toddler (Bard) and a baby (Houdin).
"I want to show you something," he said. What could he possibly want to show me? Did he even know where he was going? We were going to get lost in nowhere land and we were going to be even later to his parents house. I was a bit miffed.
"Just trust me," he said. "I think we can make it on time if we hurry."
After a few wrong turns, and a few desperate pleadings from me to turn back, we stopped in the parking lot of a national park. It looked like your average national park, except for the huge mountain of sand towering in front of us. Bo jumped out of the car, grabbed Bard from her carseat and called behind him, "Hurry up! Let's go!"
"Bo, did you read that sign? The park closes at dusk! It's about that now! What if our car gets locked in?"
He didn't even stop to answer my question. He just started running up the hill of sand.
I grudgingly pulled Baby Houdin from his seat and started walking, then jogging, and then running to catch up with my husband. I was not happy. I don't think I'd run more than four steps since either of my babies were born. But there he went, bounding up this big mountain of sand, and, if I wanted to keep from getting lost, I had to bound up after him.
I was becoming increasingly angry and impatient. I literally felt like I was taking three steps forward and two steps back as my feet slid down the sandy hill with each forward step I made. I was sweating. My legs were aching.
"Where are we GOING???" I yelled.
"Just COME ON!" He yelled back. "I think we can still make it in time!"
"IN TIME FOR WHAT???"
Halfway up the hill, I was about to give up. I saw Bo crest the mountain of sand and stand there for a second, not moving. He set Toddler Bard down and came sliding down towards me, grabbed Baby Houdin from my arms and said,"Run! Come on! Hurry up!"
What in the WORLD was this NUTCASE doing? What could be SO all-fired important?
When I got to the top of hill, panting and out of breath, about to slug my husband in the gut, I could see. I could see just what he wanted me to see.
It was one of the most beautiful sights I'd ever beheld. From the top of this huge sand dune, I could see the perfect sunset, the big ball of glowing orange reflected in the cotton-candy clouds and the blueness that was Lake Michigan. I was breathless, but not from the run up the sand dune. It was simply a breathtaking scene.
I guess sometimes we just have to do the things we don't want to do in order to realize that there is more out there than what we understand, more beauty than what we can imagine.
Sometimes, when we're forced to do something we don't want to do, we get the greatest rewards.
We were on our way to the drama club/birthday party of a fellow homeschooler when Monet, my nine-year-old son told me how he felt. While this didn't surprise me, I figured he'd get over it pretty quickly.
He didn't.
While his five-year-old sister, Sweetheart was changing clothes seven or eight times in an effort to find the "fanciest" outfit she could find, Monet was trying to figure out how to get through to me that he just didn't want to go.
I understand how he feels. He hates being the center of attention and is very easily embarrassed. He's the person in the family who always thinks he's being ridiculed, even when no one's talking about him.
The reason we call him Monet, after all, is because he's an artist. He's happiest sitting in a corner with a pencil and a sketchbook, inventing and creating beings, machines and stories that very few people could even begin to imagine. I suppose we really should have dubbed him Leonardo. Most of his drawings involve elaborate labratories or spy centers with detailed environments and Rube Goldberg type contraptions. At nine, he still sucks his thumb and can often be found curled up with his dog, his thumb in his mouth, inventing some new idea or storyline.
I was braiding Sweetheart's hair when Monet came in and made his announcement.
"I don't want to act. I don't want to be in the play. Everyone will laugh at me." My first reaction was, "Oh, don't be silly," but then I realized that he was serious. "Just watch, then," I told him. I could tell from his reaction that he was torn. I could see that he wasn't even sure he wanted to go.
When we arrived at the location of the birthday party/drama club meeting, Sweetheart was lamenting the fact that her braids were undone and her hair was a mess. She was practically a basket case. Monet was dragging along behind. Houdin was all over it, a natural performer. As we stood at the door of the library, Monet hung behind.
"I really don't want to act," he said. "I don't want to be in the play at all." I could tell, then, that he didn't just have cold feet. This was really worrying him.
I'm sad to say that I hadn't had a very good day. We were already about an hour late to the party and I was feeling disorganized and frustrated. I wasn't in the patient homeschooler mode that I should have been.
Or maybe I did just the right thing.
"Let's just go in. I can't stand out here in the cold, and we're already late. Just go."
I was surprised to see how many kids were there. And I was pleased by the set-up of the activity. A stage on one end of the room, chairs set up for all of the parents to watch the performance when we would return after about two hours of their rehearsing--they were even videotaping the whole thing. The guest-of-honor's mother, Jen, greeted us warmly.
"I'm so glad you could come! I was worried that you couldn't make it!" I grunted some response, bad day, frustrated, couldn't get moving. The standard.
"I understand," she said, and motioned the kids toward the stage.
"We just finished our first warm-up game. You really didn't miss too much. Come on up on stage, kids!"
The birthday girl came running, hugged sweetheart zealously, and pulled her onto the stage, shouting over her shoulder, "Come on, Monet!"
Monet stood still.
He looked at me pleadingly, "Please, Mom. I don't want to do it. I'll be embarrassed. People will laugh at me."
"Well," I reasoned, "that's fine, but everyone else is on stage. Do you think you'd be more embarrassed being on stage with everyone else, or being the only one sitting here, not participating?" It sounded like the perfect motivation.
(I could insert here how my child gave me some lesson on nonconformity, and how proud I was to be corrected, but that's not what happened. Maybe another blog.)
"I'll just sit and watch," he said.
So I wished Jen luck, kissed Monet on the head, and said goodbye.
When I climbed back into the van, I told Bo, "Monet won't participate. He's embarrassed." While we spent our two hour lag time at Sam's Club, I wondered how Monet was doing.
Since we operate on Parent Standard Time, we returned to the performance a couple of minutes late. Monet was on the stage, next to the birthday girl.
He was acting!
And I don't mean that he was just grumbling through his lines. I mean, he was ACTING!
I whipped out the camera. I took several photos. I beamed. I wished that all of the homeschool skeptics could see my son, my precious boy, standing up there acting his heart out, reading his lines as if he'd been rehearsing for a week.
When the play was over, Monet came running to me.
"Did you see me? Did you see me acting? Did you like it? How did I do? Did you notice that part where I said, 'God has been here, like, forever?' Well, the 'like' wasn't in the script! I added that myself! Jen said we should be creative, so I just threw that in! What did you think? Did I do good? That was fun! Can we do it again? Will she have another drama group? I can't wait to be in it! Wow, that was fun!"
I stood there, smiling, amazed. When Monet had run off to have a piece of birthday cake, I asked Jen what happened.
"Well, I basically stuck a script in his hand and told him he had to do it. I didn't give him a choice. At first, he seemed to struggle a little, and I offered to trade him parts, give him something easier, you know? But he said, 'No. I like this guy. This is who I want to be.' So, he sat in a corner and read those lines over and over again until he had them down."
Wow. I was so impressed.
It reminded me of the time that my husband Bo and I were traveling to visit his parents in another state when Bo made a sudden turn off of our regular course.
"What are you doing? Where are we going?" The sun was getting low in the sky, and we had already been running late, running on parent standard time with a toddler (Bard) and a baby (Houdin).
"I want to show you something," he said. What could he possibly want to show me? Did he even know where he was going? We were going to get lost in nowhere land and we were going to be even later to his parents house. I was a bit miffed.
"Just trust me," he said. "I think we can make it on time if we hurry."
After a few wrong turns, and a few desperate pleadings from me to turn back, we stopped in the parking lot of a national park. It looked like your average national park, except for the huge mountain of sand towering in front of us. Bo jumped out of the car, grabbed Bard from her carseat and called behind him, "Hurry up! Let's go!"
"Bo, did you read that sign? The park closes at dusk! It's about that now! What if our car gets locked in?"
He didn't even stop to answer my question. He just started running up the hill of sand.
I grudgingly pulled Baby Houdin from his seat and started walking, then jogging, and then running to catch up with my husband. I was not happy. I don't think I'd run more than four steps since either of my babies were born. But there he went, bounding up this big mountain of sand, and, if I wanted to keep from getting lost, I had to bound up after him.
I was becoming increasingly angry and impatient. I literally felt like I was taking three steps forward and two steps back as my feet slid down the sandy hill with each forward step I made. I was sweating. My legs were aching.
"Where are we GOING???" I yelled.
"Just COME ON!" He yelled back. "I think we can still make it in time!"
"IN TIME FOR WHAT???"
Halfway up the hill, I was about to give up. I saw Bo crest the mountain of sand and stand there for a second, not moving. He set Toddler Bard down and came sliding down towards me, grabbed Baby Houdin from my arms and said,"Run! Come on! Hurry up!"
What in the WORLD was this NUTCASE doing? What could be SO all-fired important?
When I got to the top of hill, panting and out of breath, about to slug my husband in the gut, I could see. I could see just what he wanted me to see.
It was one of the most beautiful sights I'd ever beheld. From the top of this huge sand dune, I could see the perfect sunset, the big ball of glowing orange reflected in the cotton-candy clouds and the blueness that was Lake Michigan. I was breathless, but not from the run up the sand dune. It was simply a breathtaking scene.
I guess sometimes we just have to do the things we don't want to do in order to realize that there is more out there than what we understand, more beauty than what we can imagine.
Sometimes, when we're forced to do something we don't want to do, we get the greatest rewards.
Friday, January 28, 2005
Friday Five: Food Memories
Quiet Life: "From Donna over at Quiet Life, the Friday Five:food memories. List five foods that remind you of home or your childhood."
In no particular order, I reveal my strangeness through my childhood food preferences:
Homemade french fries. These things got me into trouble because, while my mother's back was turned, I would grab the metal spatula and chop the heck out of the deep-frying potatoes. I loved them all crushed and smooshed into tiny pieces with bubbles of fat blobbing out everwhere. My mother never understood why her fries always turned out that way.
Cream cheese. When I was a child, I would come home from school to plop myself in front of the television to indulge in an ABC After School Special or The Little Rascals. I would grab a block of cream cheese, pinch off bits of it and roll them into little balls. These, I would eat with relish. Not real relish...I just mean that I would really enjoy them.
Margarine. As a toddler, probably barely old enough to open the fridge, I would eat whole sticks of margarine. Doesn't that put hair on your tongue??? Now we only have real butter in our house. I don't eat it by the stick, but just about.
Meatloaf. My mother made THE BEST meat loaf. I have tried and tried to duplicate it, but to no avail. I even remember mixing the cold meat, green peppers, onions, eggs and bread crumbs with my own little hands and squirting the ketchup on the top of the formed loaf. How hard could it be? But, alas, meatloaf eludes me.
Fresh fruits and veggies. We always had these in the house, because my mother grew a large garden and we made frequent summer trips to the muck farms where they sold the best, ripest, drippiest plums you'd ever want to eat. I could have lived on fruits and veggies, and for a while I even did. Ah, to have those simple, albeit odd, tastes again.
Thanks for the memories, Donna.
In no particular order, I reveal my strangeness through my childhood food preferences:
Homemade french fries. These things got me into trouble because, while my mother's back was turned, I would grab the metal spatula and chop the heck out of the deep-frying potatoes. I loved them all crushed and smooshed into tiny pieces with bubbles of fat blobbing out everwhere. My mother never understood why her fries always turned out that way.
Cream cheese. When I was a child, I would come home from school to plop myself in front of the television to indulge in an ABC After School Special or The Little Rascals. I would grab a block of cream cheese, pinch off bits of it and roll them into little balls. These, I would eat with relish. Not real relish...I just mean that I would really enjoy them.
Margarine. As a toddler, probably barely old enough to open the fridge, I would eat whole sticks of margarine. Doesn't that put hair on your tongue??? Now we only have real butter in our house. I don't eat it by the stick, but just about.
Meatloaf. My mother made THE BEST meat loaf. I have tried and tried to duplicate it, but to no avail. I even remember mixing the cold meat, green peppers, onions, eggs and bread crumbs with my own little hands and squirting the ketchup on the top of the formed loaf. How hard could it be? But, alas, meatloaf eludes me.
Fresh fruits and veggies. We always had these in the house, because my mother grew a large garden and we made frequent summer trips to the muck farms where they sold the best, ripest, drippiest plums you'd ever want to eat. I could have lived on fruits and veggies, and for a while I even did. Ah, to have those simple, albeit odd, tastes again.
Thanks for the memories, Donna.
The Final Hour: Driving the Amish
Well, here it is. The final hour of my little blogging stunt.
For the last twenty-four hours, I've been attempting to blog whatever happened to come my way. It's been a lot of fun, and I'm still not finished because I have pictures to upload and a few more stories to tell.
But I'll fill you in on my morning so far.
After waking to remember The Baby's moment of birth, I very reluctantly dragged my butt out of bed. Last night (or early this morning, actually), after I signed off her, the kids played blackjack and I waited impatiently for them to finish so we could read Mandy and get to bed. I didn't realize how tired I was until I crawled into bed. Suddenly, the pillow felt so good under my head, and I really hated to set the alarm clock for so early in the morning.
Aside from waking to remember The Baby's birth moments, I also had an appointment to drive an Amish girl to her aunt's house.
The Amish don't own cars, for the most part, but they do hire people to drive them from place to place. I've took on the job of driving the Amish about two months ago in an effort to help raise money for Bard's choir trip to China, and to get to know more about my Amish neighbors.
This morning, I had to pick up Lisa, a seventeen-year-old Old Order Amish girl who was going to be a mother's helper for Mae who just had her fifth child, a baby girl. I drove through the winding roads of this beautiful farm country and made my way to Lisa's house. She was ready for me when I pulled into the driveway.
The funny thing about young Amish people, I've found, is that they'll likely not talk to you unless you talk to them, and then they have a LOT to say. This was the same with Lisa.
"Do you have plans for the weekend?" I ask her.
"Oh, yes. My weekend is full. I have a birthday party tonight with the youth from my church, and then I'll be helping Mae again in the morning. Tomorrow, I'll be babysitting twins, and then on Sunday, it's church."
"That is busy," I say.
"I like it that way," she says. "I don't like to just sit around the house and do nothing."
It's not unusual on a day like today, winter's chilly temperatures about ten degrees or less, to see an Amish woman out early with the sunrise, hanging her washing on the line. I think of my own laundry at home, two washing machines and two driers, and still a stack that I can't seem to overcome.
Lisa talks about her grandfather, who passed away a few years ago, and how he's so much like one of the little cousins she'll be caring for today. "He just wouldn't get scared. You couldn't do a thing to make him jump. But he was silly and ornery and would just say the silliest things."
Before long, we've arrived in front of Mae's new but simple home, very neat and attractive with every thing in place. It's such a bucolic scene.
"Will it suit to pick me up at 5:00? I have plans for tonight." I tell her that it will suit. The terminology of the Amish in our area is funny, quirky, and I can't help picking up some of it. "I've done that once't already." Or "That really freaks me out," in a strong Penn-Dutch accent.
I think about what Lisa will be doing today, and what Mae won't be doing. Mae has had a mother's helper since the day her little one was born over a week ago. Her neighbors and relatives have cooked meals for her. Her sisters and neices have taken turns getting the kids on the bus and cleaning her house.
I think of my own house, a mess right now. While I intended to blog everything I do in a 24-hour period, the one thing I didn't do as much as I usually do is clean. The Before picture that I took of my kitchen yesterday still has no After picture to go along with it. While I don't understand everything about Amish culture, and I'm fairly certain I'd not like to be Amish, I do envy the sense of community. I wouldn't mind at all having a sister to call to help me come clean my house or take my kids.
I suppose that's one of the reasons I have longed for a larger family, and it's one of the reasons that I get so frustrated when my children fight. I want to build a community for my children. I want them to have someone on whom they can call when they need a hand.
It's peaceful in my house. This is fairly normal for this time of day, since I'm married to a Bohemian who gave his Bohemian genes to at least one of our children. The Baby's awake and has nursed, nursed, nursed and nursed. As I type, she's playing with her grandpa, my equivalent of a mother's helper, and he's singing happy birthday to her. He will likely sing it again, and again, and again, even after her birthday is over.
I've had fun blogging for you this past twenty-four hours. When I have the time and energy to think clearly, I'll post about what I've learned and the details of Sweetheart's date, including the Wal*Mart Shopping Card Fiasco.
But for now, I'm going to go recover from my 24-hour blogging stunt. :-)
Thanks for reading. Now, back to our regularly scheduled ONCE A DAY blogging.
For the last twenty-four hours, I've been attempting to blog whatever happened to come my way. It's been a lot of fun, and I'm still not finished because I have pictures to upload and a few more stories to tell.
But I'll fill you in on my morning so far.
After waking to remember The Baby's moment of birth, I very reluctantly dragged my butt out of bed. Last night (or early this morning, actually), after I signed off her, the kids played blackjack and I waited impatiently for them to finish so we could read Mandy and get to bed. I didn't realize how tired I was until I crawled into bed. Suddenly, the pillow felt so good under my head, and I really hated to set the alarm clock for so early in the morning.
Aside from waking to remember The Baby's birth moments, I also had an appointment to drive an Amish girl to her aunt's house.
The Amish don't own cars, for the most part, but they do hire people to drive them from place to place. I've took on the job of driving the Amish about two months ago in an effort to help raise money for Bard's choir trip to China, and to get to know more about my Amish neighbors.
This morning, I had to pick up Lisa, a seventeen-year-old Old Order Amish girl who was going to be a mother's helper for Mae who just had her fifth child, a baby girl. I drove through the winding roads of this beautiful farm country and made my way to Lisa's house. She was ready for me when I pulled into the driveway.
The funny thing about young Amish people, I've found, is that they'll likely not talk to you unless you talk to them, and then they have a LOT to say. This was the same with Lisa.
"Do you have plans for the weekend?" I ask her.
"Oh, yes. My weekend is full. I have a birthday party tonight with the youth from my church, and then I'll be helping Mae again in the morning. Tomorrow, I'll be babysitting twins, and then on Sunday, it's church."
"That is busy," I say.
"I like it that way," she says. "I don't like to just sit around the house and do nothing."
It's not unusual on a day like today, winter's chilly temperatures about ten degrees or less, to see an Amish woman out early with the sunrise, hanging her washing on the line. I think of my own laundry at home, two washing machines and two driers, and still a stack that I can't seem to overcome.
Lisa talks about her grandfather, who passed away a few years ago, and how he's so much like one of the little cousins she'll be caring for today. "He just wouldn't get scared. You couldn't do a thing to make him jump. But he was silly and ornery and would just say the silliest things."
Before long, we've arrived in front of Mae's new but simple home, very neat and attractive with every thing in place. It's such a bucolic scene.
"Will it suit to pick me up at 5:00? I have plans for tonight." I tell her that it will suit. The terminology of the Amish in our area is funny, quirky, and I can't help picking up some of it. "I've done that once't already." Or "That really freaks me out," in a strong Penn-Dutch accent.
I think about what Lisa will be doing today, and what Mae won't be doing. Mae has had a mother's helper since the day her little one was born over a week ago. Her neighbors and relatives have cooked meals for her. Her sisters and neices have taken turns getting the kids on the bus and cleaning her house.
I think of my own house, a mess right now. While I intended to blog everything I do in a 24-hour period, the one thing I didn't do as much as I usually do is clean. The Before picture that I took of my kitchen yesterday still has no After picture to go along with it. While I don't understand everything about Amish culture, and I'm fairly certain I'd not like to be Amish, I do envy the sense of community. I wouldn't mind at all having a sister to call to help me come clean my house or take my kids.
I suppose that's one of the reasons I have longed for a larger family, and it's one of the reasons that I get so frustrated when my children fight. I want to build a community for my children. I want them to have someone on whom they can call when they need a hand.
It's peaceful in my house. This is fairly normal for this time of day, since I'm married to a Bohemian who gave his Bohemian genes to at least one of our children. The Baby's awake and has nursed, nursed, nursed and nursed. As I type, she's playing with her grandpa, my equivalent of a mother's helper, and he's singing happy birthday to her. He will likely sing it again, and again, and again, even after her birthday is over.
I've had fun blogging for you this past twenty-four hours. When I have the time and energy to think clearly, I'll post about what I've learned and the details of Sweetheart's date, including the Wal*Mart Shopping Card Fiasco.
But for now, I'm going to go recover from my 24-hour blogging stunt. :-)
Thanks for reading. Now, back to our regularly scheduled ONCE A DAY blogging.
Joy Cometh in the Morning
I think it was after the alarm went off for the fifth time that Bo rolled over and asked, "What's up with that thing?"
"It's not the clock's fault," I told him. "It's me." I reached out for the alarm clock, turned it off, and attempted to put it on top of the headboard. Instead, it fell behind, making a racket on the way down.
"Well, I guess it won't be going off again."
It's time for me to get out of bed.
I've already been awake several times this morning. The first was at the moment of The Baby's birth. It's a moment that's very important to me, and I want to remember it here with you.
When I found out that I was pregnant, I really hadn't wanted to have another child. This is an area with which I've struggled for a long time. I so desperately want to be open to God's plan for my life, and I believe very strongly that every child has a purpose and great worth. Many times I've wondered what children I've missed raising because I wasn't willing to conceive them. I know this is futile thinking, but it's on my mind nonetheless.
But being pregnant with The Baby was a shock to me, in spite of my value of human life. Being pregnant was, I have to admit, the last thing I wanted. Already having four children, living in a small cabin, in a huge transitionary time, and struggling with my own body image as well as questioning my parenting skills and choices, I didn't feel that I was in a position at all to be have another child. I'm ashamed to say that when I saw my pregnancy test come up "yes," I prayed to God that it wouldn't be true, or that I could even just miscarry and not have another child. I am very, very ashamed to say that. But I wanted desperately to NOT be pregnant.
Do you know that, for whatever reason, that pregnancy was the absolutely worst one I've ever had? I had kidney stones, a bladder infection, and at one point, I had the flu so badly that I thought--almost HOPED--I was going to die. The snow and ice were thick on the ground so that I could barely walk the footpath to the cabin, let alone make my way back and forth to the outhouse the five hundred times a day I needed to go.
My live-in dad was undergoing biopsies for possible prostate cancer, and because he's unmarried, his care and keeping, scheduling and finances fall square upon me anyway. After his biopsy, he developed a severe bacterial infection AND had major back pain which rendered him incapable of leaving his bed, leaving me to empty his potty, which many times involved cleaning it up off of the floor, my nine-month pregnant belly hindering my every move.
I was SO done being pregnant. Boy, was I ready to have this baby.
This baby wasn't ready to be had.
About two weeks past my original due date, I was pleading with God. I know it's ridiculous. I know God has His own timing, and that pregnant women are like apple trees. Each tree is different, and while they're all apple trees, every tree's fruit ripens at different times, and each fruit on the tree ripens when it's ready. There is no "right time" for a baby to be born. But I was so very ready, and my branches were heavy with the fruit of this impending labor.
At long last, around 10:00 on the 27th of January, I knew the time was coming. I had no idea how long this labor would be, of course. Each of my labors were so very different. 36 hours, 24 hours, 16 hours, 1.5 hours...I couldn't tell if this labor would be a long one or a short one.
I labored all through the night while everyone slept. My sister-in-law, who was also my midwife, stayed by my side and listened to me complain and fuss. Something just didn't feel right to me. I was very worried over the health of this baby. What had happened? Somewhere along the line, between becoming pregnant and beginning labor, my heart had changed. Now, I wanted to fight for the health of this child. I wanted with all of my heart to hold this baby in my arms.
I did want another child. I wanted THIS child.
Though the heart rate of the baby was fine, I worried. Though my labor was progressing just as it should have been, I worried. Through the night, into the morning, all through my labor, I worried.
I feared. I cried. I prayed.
Finally, as morning crept in and the sun began to think about rising above the hilltops, those
final bearing down pains overtook me like the rush of a strong river current. And then, at just the right time, The Baby was born, welcomed into the world by her sleepy-eyed brothers and sisters who had come down from their beds to see her take her first breath.
"I knew it was a girl! I told you it was a girl!" Sweetheart cried. And she had. She'd told us all along that this baby would be her sister. No matter how we presented other possibilities, her mind was made up. This would be, she insisted, a baby girl. And she'd been right.
I called my mother-in-law to tell her that she had another granddaughter. She read this verse to me:
Psalm 30:5 For his anger endureth but a moment; in his favour is life: weeping
may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.
Tears ran down my face. Joy cometh in the morning.
And so, the baby's middle name would be Joy.
As I look out over these sun-kissed hills, I think about life with my sweet Baby. She is a blessing, a treasure, and her worth is far above rubies. She brings me so much joy. So. Much Joy.
The Baby and Sweetheart
"It's not the clock's fault," I told him. "It's me." I reached out for the alarm clock, turned it off, and attempted to put it on top of the headboard. Instead, it fell behind, making a racket on the way down.
"Well, I guess it won't be going off again."
It's time for me to get out of bed.
I've already been awake several times this morning. The first was at the moment of The Baby's birth. It's a moment that's very important to me, and I want to remember it here with you.
When I found out that I was pregnant, I really hadn't wanted to have another child. This is an area with which I've struggled for a long time. I so desperately want to be open to God's plan for my life, and I believe very strongly that every child has a purpose and great worth. Many times I've wondered what children I've missed raising because I wasn't willing to conceive them. I know this is futile thinking, but it's on my mind nonetheless.
But being pregnant with The Baby was a shock to me, in spite of my value of human life. Being pregnant was, I have to admit, the last thing I wanted. Already having four children, living in a small cabin, in a huge transitionary time, and struggling with my own body image as well as questioning my parenting skills and choices, I didn't feel that I was in a position at all to be have another child. I'm ashamed to say that when I saw my pregnancy test come up "yes," I prayed to God that it wouldn't be true, or that I could even just miscarry and not have another child. I am very, very ashamed to say that. But I wanted desperately to NOT be pregnant.
Do you know that, for whatever reason, that pregnancy was the absolutely worst one I've ever had? I had kidney stones, a bladder infection, and at one point, I had the flu so badly that I thought--almost HOPED--I was going to die. The snow and ice were thick on the ground so that I could barely walk the footpath to the cabin, let alone make my way back and forth to the outhouse the five hundred times a day I needed to go.
My live-in dad was undergoing biopsies for possible prostate cancer, and because he's unmarried, his care and keeping, scheduling and finances fall square upon me anyway. After his biopsy, he developed a severe bacterial infection AND had major back pain which rendered him incapable of leaving his bed, leaving me to empty his potty, which many times involved cleaning it up off of the floor, my nine-month pregnant belly hindering my every move.
I was SO done being pregnant. Boy, was I ready to have this baby.
This baby wasn't ready to be had.
About two weeks past my original due date, I was pleading with God. I know it's ridiculous. I know God has His own timing, and that pregnant women are like apple trees. Each tree is different, and while they're all apple trees, every tree's fruit ripens at different times, and each fruit on the tree ripens when it's ready. There is no "right time" for a baby to be born. But I was so very ready, and my branches were heavy with the fruit of this impending labor.
At long last, around 10:00 on the 27th of January, I knew the time was coming. I had no idea how long this labor would be, of course. Each of my labors were so very different. 36 hours, 24 hours, 16 hours, 1.5 hours...I couldn't tell if this labor would be a long one or a short one.
I labored all through the night while everyone slept. My sister-in-law, who was also my midwife, stayed by my side and listened to me complain and fuss. Something just didn't feel right to me. I was very worried over the health of this baby. What had happened? Somewhere along the line, between becoming pregnant and beginning labor, my heart had changed. Now, I wanted to fight for the health of this child. I wanted with all of my heart to hold this baby in my arms.
I did want another child. I wanted THIS child.
Though the heart rate of the baby was fine, I worried. Though my labor was progressing just as it should have been, I worried. Through the night, into the morning, all through my labor, I worried.
I feared. I cried. I prayed.
Finally, as morning crept in and the sun began to think about rising above the hilltops, those
final bearing down pains overtook me like the rush of a strong river current. And then, at just the right time, The Baby was born, welcomed into the world by her sleepy-eyed brothers and sisters who had come down from their beds to see her take her first breath.
"I knew it was a girl! I told you it was a girl!" Sweetheart cried. And she had. She'd told us all along that this baby would be her sister. No matter how we presented other possibilities, her mind was made up. This would be, she insisted, a baby girl. And she'd been right.
I called my mother-in-law to tell her that she had another granddaughter. She read this verse to me:
Psalm 30:5 For his anger endureth but a moment; in his favour is life: weeping
may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.
Tears ran down my face. Joy cometh in the morning.
And so, the baby's middle name would be Joy.
As I look out over these sun-kissed hills, I think about life with my sweet Baby. She is a blessing, a treasure, and her worth is far above rubies. She brings me so much joy. So. Much Joy.
The Baby and Sweetheart
I've made the announcement
Here's the truth.
I don't usually let my kids stay up this late. It's not that it's that big of a deal, because they can sleep late in the morning, but usually they're in bed by midnight. Tonight has been a special night, so I've let them play while I sit here doing this wacky twenty-four-hour blogging thing.
But I've just made the announcement that it's totally and completely time for bed, so we're going to read a chapter of Mandy and then it's time for prayers, and then it's time for bed. The younger kids will lie quietly and listen while Bard knits one last gift for The Baby. It goes with my one last gift for Baby, which I will photograph and post tomorrow.
Here's the other truth. I'm going to go to bed and sleep for a few hours and finish blogging in the morning. I have an Amish-hauling job at 7:00, and something about driving the Amish makes me very on time. For some reason, being on time for people who are in no hurry lightens the pressure and I can actually be punctual.
So, goodnight for now. Thanks so much for taking this wild ride with me. I'll see you for the last three hours in the morning. :-)
I don't usually let my kids stay up this late. It's not that it's that big of a deal, because they can sleep late in the morning, but usually they're in bed by midnight. Tonight has been a special night, so I've let them play while I sit here doing this wacky twenty-four-hour blogging thing.
But I've just made the announcement that it's totally and completely time for bed, so we're going to read a chapter of Mandy and then it's time for prayers, and then it's time for bed. The younger kids will lie quietly and listen while Bard knits one last gift for The Baby. It goes with my one last gift for Baby, which I will photograph and post tomorrow.
Here's the other truth. I'm going to go to bed and sleep for a few hours and finish blogging in the morning. I have an Amish-hauling job at 7:00, and something about driving the Amish makes me very on time. For some reason, being on time for people who are in no hurry lightens the pressure and I can actually be punctual.
So, goodnight for now. Thanks so much for taking this wild ride with me. I'll see you for the last three hours in the morning. :-)
Did you think you lost me?
Not a chance.
I'm still here, awake, and blogging. As a matter of fact, Bard and I have spent the past hour and a half uploading images to the first few hours of the blog. So, if you want to see photos of the day, you can go back and read the blog again. Or just look at the pictures. Your choice. Though I think the words are kinda nice, too.
As I type, the boys are still playing with The Baby's toys from her birthday. One of the things she received was a Brio-type railroad set that Bo picked up for $11.00. The Baby wasn't too thrilled with it at first, but Monet and Houdin are all over it. Good for them.
To whomever it was who wondered how I was able to sleep until 9:30, now you know.
I'm still here, awake, and blogging. As a matter of fact, Bard and I have spent the past hour and a half uploading images to the first few hours of the blog. So, if you want to see photos of the day, you can go back and read the blog again. Or just look at the pictures. Your choice. Though I think the words are kinda nice, too.
As I type, the boys are still playing with The Baby's toys from her birthday. One of the things she received was a Brio-type railroad set that Bo picked up for $11.00. The Baby wasn't too thrilled with it at first, but Monet and Houdin are all over it. Good for them.
To whomever it was who wondered how I was able to sleep until 9:30, now you know.
Thursday, January 27, 2005
You Take the Cake!
Here's a Piece for YOU! Thank you so much for coming to The Baby's birthday party!
It was two years ago right about now that I was trudging down the path to our little cabin in the woods, the tell-tale signs of labor intensifying with every step down that long, icy lane. Bo was at my side, and my sister-in-law, the midwife, awaited me in the warm, cozy cabin.
She had candles lit all over the room and my bed made up with my very favorite sheets. The kids were in bed and herbs were simmering on the stove.
I had purchased a special candle holder at Target as my birthing candle, my inspiration. It was a spiral holder with five tea candles in it, to signify the five children I would have.
I think I'll go light that candle holder right now, in celebration of The Baby.
Happy Birthday to The Baby
The kids just couldn't stand it. Bard was so incredibly ready to watch The Baby open her gifts, she just about yanked her off my lap. At first, The Baby seemed really confused. What's going on? Why are you waking me up? Why can't I just nurse and go back to sleep?
Then she saw the stack of presents.
Then she saw the cake.
And she was hooked.
Bard was so sweet, helping her open each gift by showing her the right place to start ripping it open.
Here's the part that I like--now all of my kids, regardless of age, are playing with The Baby with all of her toys. They're serving her the play food and making cookies with her play mixer. I can hear Bard saying, "Here's your five course meal. Here's the meat course with the tomato and french fries..." I hear Houdin saying, "Would you like a piece of corn, Baby? Here's a whole cucumber in the salad." The Baby is the center of attention. She's the princess. She's the star of the day.
It may only be a few minutes, but it will last in my mind forever.
A Last Minute Decision
We had two dilemmas--first, what to do for Sweetheart's date and secondly, what to do about The Baby's birthday.
The ever-popular and always-socializing fifteen year old daughter, Bard, is going away for the weekend on a youth retreat with her friend, Kat. Tomorrow is The Baby's birthday. As a matter of fact, as I write this, I'm remembering the day two years ago, about half an hour from now, when I realized that I was in labor. I know that everyone says it, but I just can't believe it's been two years since my baby was born.
The second dilemma, what to do for Sweetheart's date, had alternate solutions and problems. The movie was out, because of the whole crude humor thing. We talked about going to a special science storytime at the library, but, silly me, I had the wrong date. As I was discussing the possibility of celebrating The Baby's birthday early tomorrow morning, Bo offered, "Why don't we just have it tonight?" Seemed like a good enough idea to me.
We headed to Wal*Mart, armed with some cash and a couple of Wal*Mart gift cards that the kids got for Christmas from their Other Grandpa. It wasn't hard to choose things for The Baby. It was just hard for Sweetheart to focus on WHOSE birthday it was! I saw so many things that I thought would be "perfect" for The Baby, but I had to restrain myself.
We just started on a new budgeting system, which actually is very thrilling to me. I've been asking (read: "begging") Bo to take over our finances for many, many (read: "fifteen") years. I am SO incredibly PROUD and RELIEVED that he has now decided to take charge of our budget. It did prove a little frustrating tonight, though, because Wal*Mart has no shortage of cheap plastic crap that I didn't know existed but now my baby really, really, really needs in order to be happy, smart and well-adjusted.
If I were a good mom, I kept thinking, I'd buy her this. And this. And this. If I were a good mom, I'd have a party. We'd hire a clown. There'd be balloons all over the house. If I were a good mom, I'd make the cake myself, and we'd have the whole event professionally videotaped and mailed to each relative. If I were a good mom...
I thought of Tenn's post from School @ Home, and how most of the "junk food" that comes into her house is because she feels guilty for not giving her children what "normal" children have every day.
But my child is not a normal child. She's a very special child. And today is her very special day. So I'm thinking about this, about how to provide a much better legacy of her birth than just a few cheap toys from Wal*Mart and a grocery store bakery cake. It's making me depressed. The kids are now in the other room wrapping the presents Sweetheart chose tonight, and the gifts I've been collecting in the fruit cellar for the past couple of months. While I'm tempted to say, "It's not much," the truth is that that's just what I want it to be...not much. I want things to be simpler. My children really have no need whatsoever.
While the children were in the other room excitedly wrapping the gifts, The Baby crawled into my lap and demanded to nurse. She's now sleeping peacefully on my lap.
She has everything she needs.
The ever-popular and always-socializing fifteen year old daughter, Bard, is going away for the weekend on a youth retreat with her friend, Kat. Tomorrow is The Baby's birthday. As a matter of fact, as I write this, I'm remembering the day two years ago, about half an hour from now, when I realized that I was in labor. I know that everyone says it, but I just can't believe it's been two years since my baby was born.
The second dilemma, what to do for Sweetheart's date, had alternate solutions and problems. The movie was out, because of the whole crude humor thing. We talked about going to a special science storytime at the library, but, silly me, I had the wrong date. As I was discussing the possibility of celebrating The Baby's birthday early tomorrow morning, Bo offered, "Why don't we just have it tonight?" Seemed like a good enough idea to me.
We headed to Wal*Mart, armed with some cash and a couple of Wal*Mart gift cards that the kids got for Christmas from their Other Grandpa. It wasn't hard to choose things for The Baby. It was just hard for Sweetheart to focus on WHOSE birthday it was! I saw so many things that I thought would be "perfect" for The Baby, but I had to restrain myself.
We just started on a new budgeting system, which actually is very thrilling to me. I've been asking (read: "begging") Bo to take over our finances for many, many (read: "fifteen") years. I am SO incredibly PROUD and RELIEVED that he has now decided to take charge of our budget. It did prove a little frustrating tonight, though, because Wal*Mart has no shortage of cheap plastic crap that I didn't know existed but now my baby really, really, really needs in order to be happy, smart and well-adjusted.
If I were a good mom, I kept thinking, I'd buy her this. And this. And this. If I were a good mom, I'd have a party. We'd hire a clown. There'd be balloons all over the house. If I were a good mom, I'd make the cake myself, and we'd have the whole event professionally videotaped and mailed to each relative. If I were a good mom...
I thought of Tenn's post from School @ Home, and how most of the "junk food" that comes into her house is because she feels guilty for not giving her children what "normal" children have every day.
But my child is not a normal child. She's a very special child. And today is her very special day. So I'm thinking about this, about how to provide a much better legacy of her birth than just a few cheap toys from Wal*Mart and a grocery store bakery cake. It's making me depressed. The kids are now in the other room wrapping the presents Sweetheart chose tonight, and the gifts I've been collecting in the fruit cellar for the past couple of months. While I'm tempted to say, "It's not much," the truth is that that's just what I want it to be...not much. I want things to be simpler. My children really have no need whatsoever.
While the children were in the other room excitedly wrapping the gifts, The Baby crawled into my lap and demanded to nurse. She's now sleeping peacefully on my lap.
She has everything she needs.
The Seventh Hour: A Big Idea and A Big Fight...
I knew it would be trouble the moment I heard it.
Houdin invited the younger kids out to the snow fort to have a snowball fight. I thought about stopping it, but I decided to let it go. I was busy cleaning the kitchen and entertaining The Baby, so I figured a bit of fresh air would be good about now.
While they were out, I came up with a Big Idea. I don't know how this would go over, but I thought it would be kind of cool if you had a certain day, like Thursday for example, that we could refer to as Before and After Thursday. Yeah, Friday would sound better, but is usually pretty busy. Anyway, the premise would be that you would take a "Before" photo of one room in your house before you've cleaned it, and then you would clean it (like, duh) and take an "After" photo, and then post it on your blog. Whaddya think? Huh?
While I was having this epiphany, after I'd taken a "before" photo of my kitchen and had begun to clean it, I heard Sweetheart crying. Loudly. And then I heard loud footsteps. Very loud ones. And then a slamming door.
In stomps Monet, who is the child who most easily loses his temper, and he's half-crying, half-yelling.
"Houdin is being really mean to us! He's...he's..." he sputters.
"Well, walk away," I say. I try not to get tied up in blame and judging, but just try to help them cope with the situation by removing themselves. Sometimes this works, sometimes it doesn't. Houdin is directly behind Monet, a sure sign that he wants to be there to clear up the story, ie: defend himself.
The story: Houdin is 13. The other two are 9 and 5. They both come in crying, their faces red, rubbing parts of their bodies. They've been attacked. They've been hit. Hard.
Houdin doesn't understand the problem. It was a snowball FIGHT, he says. FIGHT being the operable word here.
Monet is inconsolable. I see him angrier than I've ever seen. He pushes his brother, screams at him to get away, and then...he says he hates him. And he really meant it.
See, the thing is, I tell Houdin, that you have a reputation for instigating, and in this case, you really, really hurt your siblings. He doesn't get it. It doesn't make sense to him, he says.
Look, I tell him, you're almost fourteen. They're nine and five.
Yeah, he counters, which is fourteen. And I was outnumbered.
I remind him of the time that he was having a water balloon fight for his thirteenth birthday, how he and his friends were having a great time outside the garage, and how Dad got this great idea to throw a water balloon from the second floor window. The balloon landed square in the middle of Houdin's chest. It scared him. And it hurt. I ask him, Do you remember that?
He remembers.
It's not the same.
He just doesn't get it. Dad's much bigger. They knew they were having a snowball fight. It doesn't make sense, he says.
Ice balls, I say, can hurt very badly. Like a baseball to the chest. Would you like me to demonstrate?
No, he answers. But he's still angry. He's not remorseful. They're just wrong, he says.
Well, they might be wrong, but they both hate you now. If that's the way it works, I don't think I'd want to be right.
Monet comes down with his journal and opens it to a page he's just written.
Bo just came home. I guess we'll be going on the date together.
The next blog you get will be AudioBlogged.
Houdin invited the younger kids out to the snow fort to have a snowball fight. I thought about stopping it, but I decided to let it go. I was busy cleaning the kitchen and entertaining The Baby, so I figured a bit of fresh air would be good about now.
While they were out, I came up with a Big Idea. I don't know how this would go over, but I thought it would be kind of cool if you had a certain day, like Thursday for example, that we could refer to as Before and After Thursday. Yeah, Friday would sound better, but is usually pretty busy. Anyway, the premise would be that you would take a "Before" photo of one room in your house before you've cleaned it, and then you would clean it (like, duh) and take an "After" photo, and then post it on your blog. Whaddya think? Huh?
While I was having this epiphany, after I'd taken a "before" photo of my kitchen and had begun to clean it, I heard Sweetheart crying. Loudly. And then I heard loud footsteps. Very loud ones. And then a slamming door.
In stomps Monet, who is the child who most easily loses his temper, and he's half-crying, half-yelling.
"Houdin is being really mean to us! He's...he's..." he sputters.
"Well, walk away," I say. I try not to get tied up in blame and judging, but just try to help them cope with the situation by removing themselves. Sometimes this works, sometimes it doesn't. Houdin is directly behind Monet, a sure sign that he wants to be there to clear up the story, ie: defend himself.
The story: Houdin is 13. The other two are 9 and 5. They both come in crying, their faces red, rubbing parts of their bodies. They've been attacked. They've been hit. Hard.
Houdin doesn't understand the problem. It was a snowball FIGHT, he says. FIGHT being the operable word here.
Monet is inconsolable. I see him angrier than I've ever seen. He pushes his brother, screams at him to get away, and then...he says he hates him. And he really meant it.
See, the thing is, I tell Houdin, that you have a reputation for instigating, and in this case, you really, really hurt your siblings. He doesn't get it. It doesn't make sense to him, he says.
Look, I tell him, you're almost fourteen. They're nine and five.
Yeah, he counters, which is fourteen. And I was outnumbered.
I remind him of the time that he was having a water balloon fight for his thirteenth birthday, how he and his friends were having a great time outside the garage, and how Dad got this great idea to throw a water balloon from the second floor window. The balloon landed square in the middle of Houdin's chest. It scared him. And it hurt. I ask him, Do you remember that?
He remembers.
It's not the same.
He just doesn't get it. Dad's much bigger. They knew they were having a snowball fight. It doesn't make sense, he says.
Ice balls, I say, can hurt very badly. Like a baseball to the chest. Would you like me to demonstrate?
No, he answers. But he's still angry. He's not remorseful. They're just wrong, he says.
Well, they might be wrong, but they both hate you now. If that's the way it works, I don't think I'd want to be right.
Monet comes down with his journal and opens it to a page he's just written.
I let Houdin read the note. "So?" he says.Dear Mom,
I'm so sorry I lost my temper at Houdin. Please tell Houdin that I'm
so sorry.
Love,
Monet
Bo just came home. I guess we'll be going on the date together.
The next blog you get will be AudioBlogged.
Today's Soundtrack
Here's the music we've been listening to today, courtesy of Rhapsody.
"Tales from the Vienna Woods Waltz, Op. 325" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"The Bat" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Tales from the Vienna Woods" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Annen-Polka" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Vienna Blood" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Pizzicato-Polka" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Roses from the south" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Trisch-Trasch-Polka" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Emperor Walz" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"A musical joke" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"The Blue Danube" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Thunder and Lightning" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Voices of Spring, Op. 410" - Johann Strauss, Jr
"Die Fledermaus (Overture)" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Lagunen-Walzer, Op. 411" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Tick-Tack-Polka, Op. 365" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Wein, Weib und Gesang (Walzer), Op. 333" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Annen-Polka, Op. 117" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Rosen aus dem Suden (Walzer), Op. 388" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Auf der Jagd (Polka), Op. 373" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Kunstlerleben, Walzer, Op. 316" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Unter Donner und Blitz, Polka, Op. 324" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Neue Pizzicato-Polka" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Freut euch des Lebens, Op.340" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Vom Donaustrande, Op.356" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"G'schichten aus dem Wiener Wald, Op.325" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Persian March, Op.289" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Liebeslieder, Op.114" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Kreuzfidel, Op.301" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Schatzwalzer, Op.418" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Das Spitzentuch der Königin" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Tales from the Vienna Woods Waltz, Op. 325" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"The Bat" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Tales from the Vienna Woods" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Annen-Polka" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Vienna Blood" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Pizzicato-Polka" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Roses from the south" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Trisch-Trasch-Polka" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Emperor Walz" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"A musical joke" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"The Blue Danube" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Thunder and Lightning" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Voices of Spring, Op. 410" - Johann Strauss, Jr
"Die Fledermaus (Overture)" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Lagunen-Walzer, Op. 411" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Tick-Tack-Polka, Op. 365" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Wein, Weib und Gesang (Walzer), Op. 333" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Annen-Polka, Op. 117" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Rosen aus dem Suden (Walzer), Op. 388" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Auf der Jagd (Polka), Op. 373" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Kunstlerleben, Walzer, Op. 316" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Unter Donner und Blitz, Polka, Op. 324" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Neue Pizzicato-Polka" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Freut euch des Lebens, Op.340" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Vom Donaustrande, Op.356" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"G'schichten aus dem Wiener Wald, Op.325" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Persian March, Op.289" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Liebeslieder, Op.114" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Kreuzfidel, Op.301" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Schatzwalzer, Op.418" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
"Das Spitzentuch der Königin" - Johann Strauss, Jr.
The Sixth and Seventh Hours...
Headache = Very Yes.
I call these my Titanic Headaches. The reason is because I had my very worst headache when Bo and I went to see The Titanic on the big screen for the first time. It was winter, snowy and blustery. We'd been in and out of shops, cars, and the theater. Therefore, I think my headaches are caused by sinuses. Only Motrin for Migraines and a sinus mask will help. I've tried drinking caffeine, not drinking caffeine, taking hot baths, going into cold air, sleeping, eating...nothing works except the Motrin and a sinus mask, heated up muchly in the microwave and placed directly over my eyes.
I finally made it downstairs to the kitchen, which was partially a mess, but not bad. We've been listening to classical music during meal preparations and, sometimes, into mealtime. I took a vote...Johann Strauss won. We started out listening to one of my very favorite pieces, Tales from the Vienna Woods Waltz, Op 325, which most people know as The Carousel Song.
When we first bought our property on which now sits our house, we would drive about an hour and a half to spend weekends at the cabin which sits nestled down in the thicket here (thus the name "Thicket Dweller"). On the ride, and often walking through the sun-spotted thicket, Bard and Houdin would sing these words to the tune of The Vienna Woods Waltz:
I threw together my own fresh greens for lunch to
day with grape tomatoes, cukes, broccoli, onions and sunflower seeds. I made an equally good salad for our Saanen
goat, Snowday, out of all of the peelings and stalks I didn't want to eat. A nice handful of shredded cheddar, and a nice dallop of bleu cheese dressing, and I was happy as rabbit. Are rabbits happy?
The Baby and Sweetheart were playing, dancing, singing about The Baby's approaching birthday, and then The Baby saw me. All smiles and running like her little life depended on it, she made her way straight into my arms, and we enjoyed sharing a good salad and some cottage cheese together. She's my cottage cheese eater. I'm so proud.
Monet sat at the table looking through the presidential flashcards. He determined that Abe Lincoln is his favorite. He seems to be popular in this house.
Sweetheart has asked me no less than eighty-two times when we're going on our date. I have to eat, I say. I have to clean the kitchen, I say. PATIENCE! I say.
I'm not sure what we'll do for our date, yet. I'm still thinking.
I was thinking about Racing Stripes, about my decision not to go see it because of the "crude humor," when I heard this exchange between my children.
Monet: "Sweetheart, are you wearing underwear?"
Sweetheart: "Yes. They're pink."
Houdin: "HO-okay. That was too much information."
Me: "Well, he did ask."
Houdin: "He didn't ask what color underwear she was wearing."
Me: "Yeah, but when you start a conversation, you have to realize that it's in motion and you can't always control it."
Houdin: "Monet, are you wearing underwear?"
Monet: "No. I don't have any."
Houdin: "HO-okay...you should have just said they were butt-colored."
Maybe Racing Stripes would be an improvement over the language here.
I call these my Titanic Headaches. The reason is because I had my very worst headache when Bo and I went to see The Titanic on the big screen for the first time. It was winter, snowy and blustery. We'd been in and out of shops, cars, and the theater. Therefore, I think my headaches are caused by sinuses. Only Motrin for Migraines and a sinus mask will help. I've tried drinking caffeine, not drinking caffeine, taking hot baths, going into cold air, sleeping, eating...nothing works except the Motrin and a sinus mask, heated up muchly in the microwave and placed directly over my eyes.
I finally made it downstairs to the kitchen, which was partially a mess, but not bad. We've been listening to classical music during meal preparations and, sometimes, into mealtime. I took a vote...Johann Strauss won. We started out listening to one of my very favorite pieces, Tales from the Vienna Woods Waltz, Op 325, which most people know as The Carousel Song.
When we first bought our property on which now sits our house, we would drive about an hour and a half to spend weekends at the cabin which sits nestled down in the thicket here (thus the name "Thicket Dweller"). On the ride, and often walking through the sun-spotted thicket, Bard and Houdin would sing these words to the tune of The Vienna Woods Waltz:
Hurry then away with me
To the forest pathways, free
Oh, the green world
Oh, the green world.
With the pretty wildwood flowers
Let us take the happy hours
And we'll crown every moment a queen.
I threw together my own fresh greens for lunch to
day with grape tomatoes, cukes, broccoli, onions and sunflower seeds. I made an equally good salad for our Saanen
goat, Snowday, out of all of the peelings and stalks I didn't want to eat. A nice handful of shredded cheddar, and a nice dallop of bleu cheese dressing, and I was happy as rabbit. Are rabbits happy?
The Baby and Sweetheart were playing, dancing, singing about The Baby's approaching birthday, and then The Baby saw me. All smiles and running like her little life depended on it, she made her way straight into my arms, and we enjoyed sharing a good salad and some cottage cheese together. She's my cottage cheese eater. I'm so proud.
Monet sat at the table looking through the presidential flashcards. He determined that Abe Lincoln is his favorite. He seems to be popular in this house.
Sweetheart has asked me no less than eighty-two times when we're going on our date. I have to eat, I say. I have to clean the kitchen, I say. PATIENCE! I say.
I'm not sure what we'll do for our date, yet. I'm still thinking.
I was thinking about Racing Stripes, about my decision not to go see it because of the "crude humor," when I heard this exchange between my children.
Monet: "Sweetheart, are you wearing underwear?"
Sweetheart: "Yes. They're pink."
Houdin: "HO-okay. That was too much information."
Me: "Well, he did ask."
Houdin: "He didn't ask what color underwear she was wearing."
Me: "Yeah, but when you start a conversation, you have to realize that it's in motion and you can't always control it."
Houdin: "Monet, are you wearing underwear?"
Monet: "No. I don't have any."
Houdin: "HO-okay...you should have just said they were butt-colored."
Maybe Racing Stripes would be an improvement over the language here.
Bard's essay thing
Hello, this is me Bard on this blog (Note from Mom...the previous line is an inside joke. It's something Monet says every time we record him. Hi, this is me Monet on this recording. Just thought you'd like to know). Mom wanted me to post this essay thing that I did for the local newspaper. I was supposed to write about my favorite president in 200 words or less. No brainer, for me anyway. I've been interested in Abraham Lincoln, and probably know more about him than your average 14 (almost 15) year-old kid. So without further ado, my essay/report/writing thing.
Did you know that one of the Presidents of the United States was barely formally educated? It's true. Abraham Lincoln was almost completely self-taught, even in law. He was an avid reader, despite the fact that he only went to school "by littles," and his entire schooling "did not amount to one year." Lincoln was hardly endowed with riches; he was, in truth, probably poor, especially by today's standards. One of the reasons for his relative poverty might have been because he was a failure as a shopkeeper. He would sometimes sit and read and not notice then a customer entered his store.
Maybe he was poor because he wasn't handsome. He was thought by many to be the ugliest man they'd ever met. He was also usually the kindest. He hated to tell people no, although he often had to do so. He tried to ease the blow of refusal with a clever, funny story. People probably left his office with a smile. He pardoned deserters, calling them "leg cases." They reminded him of a joke where a man said he was brave, but had coward legs.
Abraham Lincoln rose above his troubles by becoming President despite all handicaps.
The Fifth Hour: Planning the Date
After the bath (have you ever seen that Mary Cassatt painting? It's one of my favorites), Sweetheart gets all ready for her date. She has to change clothes, like, twice. Because my children have inherited a dry skin condition, they all have to lather up with expensive lotion really well each morning, afternoon and after every bath. It helps for a little while, but not completely. Sweetheart has a lotion that smells like cocoa butter. She applies it liberally.
I call Bohemian to ask him if he'd like to come with us on our date or if I should go now, during the day.
"Uh...um..." I can hear the keyboard clicking in the background. He's busy. He's distracted.
"I was just wondering...because I can go with her now, or I can wait until later and you and I can both take her out."
"Where are you...uh...um..." more keyboard clicking.
"Hello? Um, can I talk to my husband, please?"
"Yeah, uh. Today?"
"Yes," I answer, "I'd like to talk to him today."
"No, I meant that you can go today. Go ahead and go without me."
I hang up the phone and check the laundry in the drier. Jeans. Not dry.
I decide to check the movie listings on Fandango, entertaining the idea of taking Sweetheart to see a movie. The only thing I can find that might possibly be suitable is Racing Stripes. I check ScreenIt. Are you familiar with it? Excellent source of complete, detailed movie reviews. Do check it out.
After reading about the crude humor in Racing Stripes, I decide to forgo the movie. Not sure what we'll do.
Bard dressed the baby after her bath, and now she's with Grandpa. Headache still = not gone.
Currently, Bard is painting Sweetheart's finger and toenails and informs me, "Actually, her last toenail looks like she got her toe chopped off and it's all bloody. But, whatever."
I read http://schoolathome.blogspot.composts for today. I'm going to go downstairs and tape some freezer paper under the table. You have to read it to understand.
I call Bohemian to ask him if he'd like to come with us on our date or if I should go now, during the day.
"Uh...um..." I can hear the keyboard clicking in the background. He's busy. He's distracted.
"I was just wondering...because I can go with her now, or I can wait until later and you and I can both take her out."
"Where are you...uh...um..." more keyboard clicking.
"Hello? Um, can I talk to my husband, please?"
"Yeah, uh. Today?"
"Yes," I answer, "I'd like to talk to him today."
"No, I meant that you can go today. Go ahead and go without me."
I hang up the phone and check the laundry in the drier. Jeans. Not dry.
I decide to check the movie listings on Fandango, entertaining the idea of taking Sweetheart to see a movie. The only thing I can find that might possibly be suitable is Racing Stripes. I check ScreenIt. Are you familiar with it? Excellent source of complete, detailed movie reviews. Do check it out.
After reading about the crude humor in Racing Stripes, I decide to forgo the movie. Not sure what we'll do.
Bard dressed the baby after her bath, and now she's with Grandpa. Headache still = not gone.
Currently, Bard is painting Sweetheart's finger and toenails and informs me, "Actually, her last toenail looks like she got her toe chopped off and it's all bloody. But, whatever."
I read http://schoolathome.blogspot.composts for today. I'm going to go downstairs and tape some freezer paper under the table. You have to read it to understand.
The Fourth Hour: There's Too Many Kids in this Tub
Sweetheart has decided to take a bath in the Jacuzzi in my room in order to prepare for our date.
Yes, I have a Jacuzzi in my room.
Don't hate me. For three years, I took baths in an outside tub on the porch of a two-room cabin. In sub-zero weather. I deserve this.
Besides, I have five kids.
It's 2:00. My dad, who lives with us, comes upstairs to tell me that The Baby is still asleep. She slept with him last night, something she does sometimes when she gets too restless with me. He spoils her. She likes that.
"She was up 'til 2:00," he says. I'm amazed! She didn't have a nap and nursed and played most of the day yesterday. I figured she'd be totally ready for sleep by 10:00, tops. Since he spent many years working second and third shifts, nightime is his thing, anyway.
"Well, it looks to me like she's on a twelve-hour schedule, then," I tell him. "She's not napping. She's awake for twelve hours, asleep for twelve hours. I predict she'll wake up within the next ten minutes."
I was right.
The baby comes to me by way of Grandpa's arms, and she immediately wants to nurse. I wonder how many nurslings of this generation will find themselves hungry every time they see a monitor or hear the click of a keyboard. She nurses from one side and then, within minutes, decides to nurse from the other side. I don't know why she does this. No matter how hard I try to get her to stay on one side, she insists on switching. I guess I'm a softy, because I let her.
While she's nursing, Monet decides to harrass his little sister Sweetheart while she's trapped helplessly in the tub. He deftly grabs the spray bottle that I use to humidify Wilma, my one-eyed chameleon, and begins squirting Sweetheart with the cold water. She screams. He squirts. She screams. He squirts. My headache is getting worse.
"Monet, stop," I say. "That's not a toy."
He continues squirting.
"Put it down now," I tell him. I'm surprised by his disobedience. We haven't been having this problem lately. He keeps squirting. Now he's squirting it at the ceiling.
"I'M LOSING MY PATIENCE!" I shout. Great. Now I have to blog that I yelled at my kid. I should have very calmly but very firmly approached him and removed the bottle from his hands. Get-off-your-butt-parenting. It's too late for that. The yelling worked.
The Baby squirms from my lap. "Baff?" she asks.
"You want to take a bath with Sweetheart?"
"Yes. Yes. Yes," she says, giggling and pulling at her nightgown. I draw her nightgown over her head and take off her diaper.
"Can I take a bath, too?" Monet asks.
"Yep. Get in."
So, now, they're all in the tub. The tub toys that Houdin took out this morning are back in. They're taking turns holding their heads under water, counting to see how long they can stay under. Their own heads, that is, not each other's.
Too Many Kids in this Tub
Author: Shel Silverstein
There's too many kids in this tub
There's too many elbows to scrub
I just washed a behind that I'm sure wasn't mine
There's too many kids in this tub.
I read my e-mail:
- From Shannon, arrangements to meet so she can show me how to use a sewing machine.
- From my father-in-law, a snide comment: "I'm shocked to read that you're blogging!" He's a regular reading and snide-comment leaver.
- From my sister-in-law, an update on their lives and an explanation for why she hasn't written--my brother-in-law spilled coffee on their laptop.
- From my friend Steven: What do we do if we love you but we're too busy to read your blog?
- From Nesting Robin: I've been missing you.
Headache = still exists.
Third Hour (and then some): Spelling Lessons
First, let me clarify. I may not get this done every hour. I plan to try to start writing one hour after I post the previous post. It's taking me about 30 minutes to write each entry.
Now, on to the Third Hour...
Five-year-old Sweetheart comes into my room, the kitty-cat face that her sister Bard drew on her last night with eye-pencil still slightly visible. I wrap my arms around her in her morning hug and she giggles. When she pulls back, she looks at me very seriously.
"Is one nostril nose for breathing in an' the other for breathing out?"
"No," I answer, "they can both breathe in and breathe out. Look." I cover my nostrils one at a time and demonstrate. She does the same, and then hands me a pencil and paper and asks me to write the word "would." I do.
I hear silverware clinking downstairs. I hope it's someone putting the dishes away, and not throwing them around the kitchen. I later find that Houdin, indeed, put the dishes away.
Nine-year-old Monet enters my room, hands me the same piece of paper on which I wrote "would" for Sweetheart and asks me to write "those." Hmmm. I wonder what they're planning.
I check my e-mail. There are fourteen messages. Five are from Freecycle, so I check to see if there's any good stuff on there. A Hammond organ, dried roses, disposable nipples, large bouquet of artificial flowers, and a wanted for a mattress and box springs.
I get dressed, pulling on my favorite jeans. Gap, size 16, button fly bootlegs that I got at a yard sale for two bucks. I cut off the bottoms and they're so hip-ply frayed. I also pull on a t-shirt from the local coffee bar. I like the t-shirt because it's a cool color, it feels nice, and it's an indication to locals that I'm not a tourist.
I hear jump-roping downstairs. I feel a slight headache beginning. I take my vitamins.
It's time to get some things done. While I'm going about my business, the kids follow me around showing me things and asking me questions. Houdin is working on a new magic trick. He drops a quarter in a little green box and then magically produces it in his hand, shaking the box to show that there's no longer a quarter inside. I know how he does it. I tell him it needs more work.
Sweetheart appears again, with a new piece of paper.
"How do you spell 'can?'" She follows me into the laundry room, and I sing the "C is for cookie" song, and then explain all of the things that look like a C. She writes a C. She already knows "a" and "n" because they're in her name.
I pause from doing my laundry to take a picture of of Sweetheart writing her note, on which she has already drawn a little girl in a flowered dress and written the words, "Sweetheart (not her real name) and "Mom." As I finish clicking the camera button, she says, "You should take a picture of me eating ice cream." Houdin calls from his room, "Nice try, Sweetheart."
Monet is in his room, sitting at his desk writing in our journal. It warms my heart to see him there, his room so clean, writing in the magical book in which he and I share our thoughts of the day. I'm carrying his clean pajamas, which I would normally put on his bed for him to put away, but because I have such a wellspring of lovein my heart for him right now, I walk over to his dresser and start opening the drawers. "Third drawer," he says, smiling. Some days are like this. Other days are not.
Sweetheart: "How do you spell 'we?'"
Houdin asks if he can play RuneScape. "Have you done your three things and your chores?" This is a reminder to feed the goats, guinea pigs, clean his room and do three helpful things that no one has asked him to do.
"I've done the chores, but not the three things," he answers.
"Okay. After you're done," I tell Houdin, "I want you to write a GOOD first draft of your Favorite President essay. It's due in a couple of days." He agrees. He doesn't care for writing, and he's the one who really has a hard time spelling, but he agrees without argument. He cleans the bathtub toys out of my tub, cleans off the kitchen table, and does a load of dishes. The phone rings as Houdin brings his journal into my room to write his rough draft on my bed.
The phone call is from Bard's friend Kat.
"I have one question."
"I have one answer," I tell her.
"Is Bard still coming on the camp-out with the youth group?" I tell her that, yes, she is, and ask how much I owe for the trip.
"My mom's paying for it," Kat answers.
"Oh, no she's not," I say. This is a game that Kat's mom, Shawn and I play with each other. "I'll just have to find a sneaky way to pay her back. It's fifteen dollars, right?"
"Yeah, but she won't take your money," Kat tells me. I hear Shawn's voice in the background. "Don't steal my blessings!" She says.
"Tell her she's good," I say.
"You taught me well," she responds. I hand the phone off to Bard so she can chat with her friend. Now I have two kids asking me how to spell things.
Houdin: "How do you spell 'Franklin'?"
Sweetheart: "How do you spell 'go'?"
Houdin: "How do you spell 'scottie'?"
Sweetheart: "How do you spell 'on'?"
Houdin: "How do you spell 'Fala'?"
Sweetheart: How do you spell 'date'?"
Monet comes into my room with his magical book. He has written me a wonderful note in response to my note to him.
My note:
His note:
Dear Mom,
That would be cool! with all of those picturers in my book. Oh and
Sweetheart helped with the snow fort so write her a note. And go back to the
last note I wrote you and read the thing that has the arow coming out of it.
Oh and my favorite part of the story is when she barows the tools from
Jake.
Well, that's all.
Love,
Monet (smiley face)
I go back to my laundry. I find $5.00 and some change, a $5.00 wal*mart shopping card, a few magnetix, a hershey's kiss wrapper, a tissue, a spider pin made out of pipe cleaners. I don't know what I didn't find. I won't know until it's too late.
I eat a Luna Bar for breakfast. This is not unusual.
Sweetheart hands me her note. "Can we go on a date," it reads. She's looking at me with hopeful eyes.
"Yes," I tell her. "Make sure your room is clean and you have clothes on that match." I'm trying to think about what we can do on our date, and I'm hoping this headache goes away soon.
But it's not. It's getting worse, almost nauseating, and radiating through my body. I may have to take something, or lay down with a warm sinus mask.
Visited Full Life. Left a comment and a shameless plug.
"How do you spell 'left?'"
"How do you spell 'taxpayers?'"
"How do you spell 'turn?'"
I write a note in Monet's journal as I wonder what would happen if I got a call from one of my Amish neighbors asking me to drive today. I'd be away for more than an hour. I guess I'd just audioblog. That'd be cool.
"How do you spell 'package'?" Houdin asks.
"P-A-C-K-A-G-E," I answer.
"No," he answers, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "It's B-O-X."
Now, on to the Third Hour...
Five-year-old Sweetheart comes into my room, the kitty-cat face that her sister Bard drew on her last night with eye-pencil still slightly visible. I wrap my arms around her in her morning hug and she giggles. When she pulls back, she looks at me very seriously.
"Is one nostril nose for breathing in an' the other for breathing out?"
"No," I answer, "they can both breathe in and breathe out. Look." I cover my nostrils one at a time and demonstrate. She does the same, and then hands me a pencil and paper and asks me to write the word "would." I do.
I hear silverware clinking downstairs. I hope it's someone putting the dishes away, and not throwing them around the kitchen. I later find that Houdin, indeed, put the dishes away.
Nine-year-old Monet enters my room, hands me the same piece of paper on which I wrote "would" for Sweetheart and asks me to write "those." Hmmm. I wonder what they're planning.
I check my e-mail. There are fourteen messages. Five are from Freecycle, so I check to see if there's any good stuff on there. A Hammond organ, dried roses, disposable nipples, large bouquet of artificial flowers, and a wanted for a mattress and box springs.
I get dressed, pulling on my favorite jeans. Gap, size 16, button fly bootlegs that I got at a yard sale for two bucks. I cut off the bottoms and they're so hip-ply frayed. I also pull on a t-shirt from the local coffee bar. I like the t-shirt because it's a cool color, it feels nice, and it's an indication to locals that I'm not a tourist.
I hear jump-roping downstairs. I feel a slight headache beginning. I take my vitamins.
It's time to get some things done. While I'm going about my business, the kids follow me around showing me things and asking me questions. Houdin is working on a new magic trick. He drops a quarter in a little green box and then magically produces it in his hand, shaking the box to show that there's no longer a quarter inside. I know how he does it. I tell him it needs more work.
Sweetheart appears again, with a new piece of paper.
"How do you spell 'can?'" She follows me into the laundry room, and I sing the "C is for cookie" song, and then explain all of the things that look like a C. She writes a C. She already knows "a" and "n" because they're in her name.
I pause from doing my laundry to take a picture of of Sweetheart writing her note, on which she has already drawn a little girl in a flowered dress and written the words, "Sweetheart (not her real name) and "Mom." As I finish clicking the camera button, she says, "You should take a picture of me eating ice cream." Houdin calls from his room, "Nice try, Sweetheart."
Monet is in his room, sitting at his desk writing in our journal. It warms my heart to see him there, his room so clean, writing in the magical book in which he and I share our thoughts of the day. I'm carrying his clean pajamas, which I would normally put on his bed for him to put away, but because I have such a wellspring of lovein my heart for him right now, I walk over to his dresser and start opening the drawers. "Third drawer," he says, smiling. Some days are like this. Other days are not.
Sweetheart: "How do you spell 'we?'"
Houdin asks if he can play RuneScape. "Have you done your three things and your chores?" This is a reminder to feed the goats, guinea pigs, clean his room and do three helpful things that no one has asked him to do.
"I've done the chores, but not the three things," he answers.
"Okay. After you're done," I tell Houdin, "I want you to write a GOOD first draft of your Favorite President essay. It's due in a couple of days." He agrees. He doesn't care for writing, and he's the one who really has a hard time spelling, but he agrees without argument. He cleans the bathtub toys out of my tub, cleans off the kitchen table, and does a load of dishes. The phone rings as Houdin brings his journal into my room to write his rough draft on my bed.
The phone call is from Bard's friend Kat.
"I have one question."
"I have one answer," I tell her.
"Is Bard still coming on the camp-out with the youth group?" I tell her that, yes, she is, and ask how much I owe for the trip.
"My mom's paying for it," Kat answers.
"Oh, no she's not," I say. This is a game that Kat's mom, Shawn and I play with each other. "I'll just have to find a sneaky way to pay her back. It's fifteen dollars, right?"
"Yeah, but she won't take your money," Kat tells me. I hear Shawn's voice in the background. "Don't steal my blessings!" She says.
"Tell her she's good," I say.
"You taught me well," she responds. I hand the phone off to Bard so she can chat with her friend. Now I have two kids asking me how to spell things.
Houdin: "How do you spell 'Franklin'?"
Sweetheart: "How do you spell 'go'?"
Houdin: "How do you spell 'scottie'?"
Sweetheart: "How do you spell 'on'?"
Houdin: "How do you spell 'Fala'?"
Sweetheart: How do you spell 'date'?"
Monet comes into my room with his magical book. He has written me a wonderful note in response to my note to him.
My note:
Dearest Monet,
I had such a good time watchng you and Houdin build your fort today.
It's SO cool! I took pictures. I'll try to print some out so we
can tape them into this book.
Do you like the book Mandy? What is your favorite part so
far?
I (heart) you!
Love, Mom (smiley face)
His note:
Dear Mom,
That would be cool! with all of those picturers in my book. Oh and
Sweetheart helped with the snow fort so write her a note. And go back to the
last note I wrote you and read the thing that has the arow coming out of it.
Oh and my favorite part of the story is when she barows the tools from
Jake.
Well, that's all.
Love,
Monet (smiley face)
I go back to my laundry. I find $5.00 and some change, a $5.00 wal*mart shopping card, a few magnetix, a hershey's kiss wrapper, a tissue, a spider pin made out of pipe cleaners. I don't know what I didn't find. I won't know until it's too late.
I eat a Luna Bar for breakfast. This is not unusual.
Sweetheart hands me her note. "Can we go on a date," it reads. She's looking at me with hopeful eyes.
"Yes," I tell her. "Make sure your room is clean and you have clothes on that match." I'm trying to think about what we can do on our date, and I'm hoping this headache goes away soon.
But it's not. It's getting worse, almost nauseating, and radiating through my body. I may have to take something, or lay down with a warm sinus mask.
Visited Full Life. Left a comment and a shameless plug.
"How do you spell 'left?'"
"How do you spell 'taxpayers?'"
"How do you spell 'turn?'"
I write a note in Monet's journal as I wonder what would happen if I got a call from one of my Amish neighbors asking me to drive today. I'd be away for more than an hour. I guess I'd just audioblog. That'd be cool.
"How do you spell 'package'?" Houdin asks.
"P-A-C-K-A-G-E," I answer.
"No," he answers, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. "It's B-O-X."
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