One of the best and worst things about my childhood growing up in the country was our very long lane. I can't even begin to count how many times I had to run to the end of that lane to catch the schoolbus, the bus that I could see coming up over the hill three driveways down, giving me just enough time to get from my front door to the big yellow bus door. Sometimes I still have nightmares that I've missed the bus. In my nightmares, I'm a full-grown adult, standing at the storm door in the front room of my childhood home, and I don't have my schoolbooks together, or I don't have any clothes on, or I don't have my wild, rat's nest hair brushed. So I stand there helplessly, and I miss the bus, even though I can see it coming from three driveways down.
Most of the time, in my nightmare, I miss the bus because I didn't have my hair brushed.
As a child, having my hair brushed was a very, very big deal. An ordeal, really. When I was very young, my mom would rake my long, stubbornly curly hair into two sections and place them as pigtails on either side of the top of my head. I have pictures of this, and it was the only time that my hair looked even remotely cute. Mostly, it was an unruly mess. Yes, a "rat's nest," as my mom would call it. Eventually, when I got to second grade, she cut it so short that everyone thought I was a boy, including the cute eighth grade boys that I had crushes on. But when I was in kindergarten, curly little pigtails it was.
On one occasion, when I was in kindergarten, I tromped up that long driveway to the road and got on that big bus full of kids who were all older than I, and I made my way to my seat. As I sat in that huge bus, on that huge bus seat, with those huge kids, I felt something.
A yank.
And then a bigger yank.
And then pain. Hot, searing pain on my head.
I turned in my seat to look up at Gary. He had to have been one of the largest, cutest eighth graders on the whole bus. Maybe in the whole school district. Maybe even in the whole world. And something had prompted Gary, this absolutely gigantic eighth grade boy, to use one of my pigtails as a stress-reliever or source of entertainment or something.
I didn't say anything. I didn't even cry. I just sat there, perfectly still, facing the front of the bus and let him pull my pigtails.
Every day.
I think I was so intimidated by or in love with Gary the Giant that I didn't even tell my parents that my hair was being yanked on. Hard. Every day. If my mom had yanked on my hair every day (and she did) I would have screamed bloody murder (and I did). But no one ever heard me complain about Gary the Giant yanking on my pigtails.
But one evening as my mom was taking the pigtails out, she noticed that my head was red and swollen, which, believe it or not, was not a normal thing, even with all of the brushing and yanking she did to my rat's nest on a regular basis. I don't remember how, but she finally got it out of me that this big kid, Gary the Giant, had been pulling my hair. She knew Gary the Giant. She knew Gary the Giant's mother. I expected her to go right to the phone and call Mrs. Giant, but she didn't. She didn't say much, as I recall. She just kept brushing my hair.
I rode home on the bus, as I did every day, and Gary pulled my pigtails, as he did every day, and the busdriver, Gib (who was my busdriver from the time I was five until I graduated from high school) made a left turn onto Lovebury Road, as he did every day. It was all very predictable. Very normal. The bus even groaned to a stop in front of Gary the Giant's house and Gib even creaked open the schoolbus door in front of Gary the Giant's driveway, just like he did every single day of my kindergarten life.
But what was very NOT normal--what did NOT happen every single day--was that my mother--yes, MY MOTHER--was standing there, at the end of Gary's driveway, waiting, her arms crossed over her ample bosum. Wow, I thought, I wonder why my mom's picking me up here? There was always some wacky thing going on in our house, so I figured it was just another wacky thing. But it turned out that my mom wasn't there just to get me. She was there to get vengeance.
She got on that bus, and Gib didn't even stop her. She walked down the aisle, fists at her side, and walked straight up to Gary the Giant's seat. She pulled Gary the Giant out of his seat while every other kid on that bus sat there, mouths agape. She grabbed two fistfulls of Gary the Giant's thick black hair in each of her hands. And she yanked. Hard. And then she yanked again. And again. Until Gary the Giant was crying. Crying!
And then she stuck her finger in Gary the Giant's tear-streaked face and spat between gritted teeth, "If you every touch my daughter again, I'll take every one of your fingers off with my teeth and you'll get off this bus with two handfuls of stubs instead of fistfuls of my daughter's hair." And then she took my hand, pulled me off that bus, and walked me home. And Gib didn't even stop us.
Gary stopped pulling my pigtails after that.
Tuesday, February 22, 2005
Sunday, February 20, 2005
What's Your Opinion?
Take a gander at this cartoon and let me know what you think.
When you've savored that one, you can check this one out, too.
When you've savored that one, you can check this one out, too.
Stream of Consciousness Whilst I Await Dear Bo
My darling husband Bohemian is taking a bath, so I will take this opportunity to record my thoughts about the past few days in Stream of Consciousness fashion. Here goes...
While my aching body is feeling much better in general, my throat is sore and I believe I'm coming down with laryngitis.
Spent a good part of yesterday at the library preparing for our venture back into Five in a Row.
We will begin with They Were Strong and Good by Robert Lawson
I found a lot of wonderful go-alongs for the book.
When I get them organized, I will post them.
I purchased two large containers to use as big ol' activity containers for each unit we study.
I also took a trip to the Wal*Mart (spoken with a drawl) to buy some canvases, paints and markers so that oldest daughter Bard and I can begin work on Jane Goodall's online curriculum, Lessons for Hope. It really is an interesting project, and I'm looking forward to it. Our first lesson includes sketching a tree. The tree that Jane sketched amazes me. I didn't realize she had such firm Christian roots.
Last night, husband Bo and I went out on a date. A DATE! It's amazing, because I don't feel like I've even SEEN him for a week because we've both been so busy and ill. But we indeed had a date and we spent it in very quality time seeing the movie Hitch. Funny, but doesn't rank on my list of faves.
Daughter Bard had choral practice this morning, so we had to leave early, early, early to drive the hour plus to practice.
I absolutely immersed myself in a trip BY MYSELF to the nearby Barnes and Noble. I was in awe. I found so many cool things that I can't wait until I get rich so I can buy them all.
Among the cool things I found was a journal for Bard's friend Tal whose birthday is fast approaching. Amazing. I've watched this kid grow up, and now look at him. Almost an adult. Wow, huh? Where does the time go?
Anyway, the journal I bought for him was called All About Me for Teens and features many interesting writing prompts which could come in handy for a young blogger and aspiring writer.
I also found a series of books called Daily Sparks which give daily motivators for learning things like History, Vocabulary, Shakespeare, Spelling, Grammar, Geography, Poetry, Pre-Algebra, Journal Writing and Writing. They're in a simple one-idea-per-page format designed to spark an interest in the subject just enough to get a person jump-started to learn about the topic. I found them pretty inspiring and hope to collect all of them. Wonder what cereal box they'll put 'em in?
Barnes and Noble also put out a series of cute little hardcover classics for under $5.00. I was drooling over Treasure Island even though we probably have ten copies of it.
I have to say again that I had a great time at B&N. I've been disenchanted with Borders because they've eliminated most of their cool educational materials in favor of Barbie and Disney coloring books. They no longer carry the Dover coloring books or the meaty workbooks and fun learning stuff they used to carry. Plus, our local Borders got rid of their kids' section. While the books are still there, the tables and seating areas have been completely removed and there are only bookshelves. Not a place that feels comfortable to visit anymore.
After the bookstore, I had a very yummy lunch at Steak&Shake. Is that considered fast food? Because if it is, I screwed up my 101 Things goal of not eating fast food. Actually I think I've already passed my goal, but I wanted to keep it up. Anyway, I had a patty melt and luscious fries. Greasy. Yum. How's that for drivel?
My daughter Bard was finished with her choir practice so I picked her up in time to hear the choir manager announce the winners of a funky contest he'd given. He had each member of the touring choir write down one thing about themselves that they thought was unique. He then compiled a list of all of the things and distributed the lists to the singers. The singers were to match the person with the unique thing. The singer who got the most right answers COULD win:
A 2005 Lamborghini
A trip to Tahiti for themselves and 20 of their closestfriends
OR a gift card to their favorite store
Bard's dear friend Ash got the most right answers and Bard was right behind her, missing four more than Ash.
The facts that most amazed me were:
The female choir manager who collects Homies from gumball machines
The male choir mananger who helped deliver a neighbor's baby.
The choir director who has been held at gunpoint and
The singer who was born with twelve fingers and twelve toes. I asked her if you could tell where the fingers and toes used to be, and she showed me the scars on the sides of her hands where they removed the extra fingers. Extra? Maybe we just didn't get enough. Makes me wonder why they removed them. What's wrong with having twelve fingers and toes? Bard said that maybe they were really fingers but just appendages with no muscles or tendons. Maybe she's right. Possible. Strange, but possible.
Had a great talk with a fellow homeschooling mom and dear friend, Tal's mother. We discussed unschooling and the motivation to learn. I've been thinking about these things a lot lately, especially since I unearthed a project I'd once thought of pursuing which would be encouraging to the unschool-type families. I may pursue this more...who knows. Anyway, we discussed John Taylor Gatto and other alternative learning heroes. It was very inspiring.
When I arrived home, the whole family, except Bard, who is staying with a friend, gathered around the table to make papier mache things. This was Houdin's idea, and it was actually a lot of fun. Our stuff is drying right now, awaiting many more coats of paper.
While we worked, we listened to a bunch of celtic music which made me literally dance around the kitchen. I LOVE that stuff!
9 year old son Monet made brownies.
I spent some time preparing for our Beyond Five in a Row unit study on Neil Armstrong which I'm really looking forward to doing with everyone, but with the boys in particular.
It just so happens that we have two field trips scheduled for a NASA center and an Air Museum.
I found some great resources for stuff about the 30's (is there *supposed* to be an apostrophe there? I need to go read a book on apostrophes. Is there a special plural word for "apostrophe?") and am looking forward to doing a total immersion there.
The kids are now in bed, but when Bo finishes, we're gonna wake the boys to watch Sky Captain while we let Sweetheart and The Baby sleep.
Since it's almost 1AM, I'm beginning to doubt this plan
Friday, February 18, 2005
Walking Circumspectly: Movies, Media, and me
Kristen from Walking Circumspectly wrote a compelling column for being much more selective with our media choices. This topic has been on my mind for a while and Kristen offers many of my sentiments.
Lathem Homeschool Page
Lathem Homeschool Page
I just found this page online--a family of nine children who homeschool and use Five in a Row. She has some helpful ideas.
I just found this page online--a family of nine children who homeschool and use Five in a Row. She has some helpful ideas.
Five in a Row
I think that, today, we will get back into doing Five in a Row, mostly for the sake of Sweetheart, who will be six years old in less than two months. She really enjoys doing projects and reading together, so I think this will be good for her. I also think it will be good for Bard, who can help me choose the books and activities. If you haven't checked out Five in a Row, you should. Especially for younger children. It's a very fun literature-based curriculum that takes hardly any time to use. There's wonderful support on their message boards, too, with further ideas should you want to take the studies deeper. I've found that the Five in a Row books provide excellent jumping off points for learning all kinds of things. While the units are designed to be used for one week, we have studied certain books for up to a month or more.
The basic concept of the Five in a Row curriculum is to choose a book from the Five in a Row volume you're using (they don't have to be done in order) and read it every day for five days. Sounds tedious, right? Well, you'd be surprised! The idea is to introduce a new subject every day as it relates to the book you're reading. The first day, you read the book, and then you do an activity that focuses on, for example, the artwork in the book. The next day, as you read the book, you reinforce the ideas you discussed the day before while pointing them out in the book. After the second reading, you introduce a new subject or idea. For example, if you were reading Wee Gillis every day, you might discuss the subject of Scotland, or clothing, or Scottish foods. Every day that you read, you're giving the child a chance to reflect on the things you discussed the day before. And what better way to start the day than by cuddling up and reading a good book?
This concept is tailored to younger children. Five in a Row has volumes for ages 2-4, Before Five in a Row; Five in a Row (four separate volumes!), for ages 5-11 (I think); Beyond Five in a Row for ages 8 to 12; and Above and Beyond Five in a Row for ages 12 and up. (NOTE: We did try Above and Beyond for Bard a few years ago and weren't as pleased with it as we were with the younger grades. There are full descriptions of Above and Beyond on the FIAR Webpage, but there isn't really any support for it on the message boards and it's more a list of suggestions than an in-depth study with meat for older students).
Some of our favorite lessons have come from Five in a Row. We began with Volume One, which covered the following books:
The Story About Ping by Marjorie Flack and Kurt Wiese
Lentil by Robert McCloskey
Madeline by Ludwig Bemelmans
A Pair of Red Clogs by Masako Matsuno
The Rag Coat by Lauren Mills
Who Owns the Sun? by Stacy Chbosky
Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel by Virginia Lee Burton
The Glorious Flight by Alice and Martin Provensen
How to Make an Apple Pie and See the World by Marjorie Priceman
Grandfather's Journey by Allen Say
Cranberry Thanksgiving by Wende and Harry Devlin
Another Celebrated Dancing Bear by Gladys Scheffrin-Falk
Papa Piccolo by Carol Talley
Very Last First Time by Jan Andrews
The Clown of God by Tomie DePaola
Storm in the Night by Mary Stoltz
Katy and the Big Snow by Virginia Lee Burton
Night of the Moonjellies by Mark Shasha
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost (with illustrations by Susan Jeffers)
You can find the booklists for the other volumes here. We've found most of the books at our local public library, but have purchased many of them because they became so dear to us. The Five in a Row company also makes some of the volumes available for purchase through their website.
I think the optimum Five in a Row setup would be to have three or so large Rubbermaid-type boxes and fill each with what would be needed for the upcoming books you plan to study--activities, related workbooks or coloring books and library books that are of the same theme or topic as the book you're "rowing" (the term used for the book you are currently reading five days in a row). Then, when it's time to study that book, you could pull out the box and dig right in. With a teacher's library card, this would be easier because you could keep the materials for a month or more.
The best part, to me, about Five in a Row is that it's so inexpensive compared to other curricula. You can purchase the volumes new on the Five in a Row website for around $20 and can find it at places like Vegsource or eBay for even less. Once you have those volumes, almost everything else can be found at the library, making a curriculum that's virtually free. Of couse, they do say that you should have a separate math and phonics/reading curriculum, but if you're a parent who takes advantage of learning opportunities, most of this will come naturally anyway.
So, today I believe we will pull out our Five in a Row volumes and decide for which ones we'll begin building study boxes and then maybe hit the library.
The basic concept of the Five in a Row curriculum is to choose a book from the Five in a Row volume you're using (they don't have to be done in order) and read it every day for five days. Sounds tedious, right? Well, you'd be surprised! The idea is to introduce a new subject every day as it relates to the book you're reading. The first day, you read the book, and then you do an activity that focuses on, for example, the artwork in the book. The next day, as you read the book, you reinforce the ideas you discussed the day before while pointing them out in the book. After the second reading, you introduce a new subject or idea. For example, if you were reading Wee Gillis every day, you might discuss the subject of Scotland, or clothing, or Scottish foods. Every day that you read, you're giving the child a chance to reflect on the things you discussed the day before. And what better way to start the day than by cuddling up and reading a good book?
This concept is tailored to younger children. Five in a Row has volumes for ages 2-4, Before Five in a Row; Five in a Row (four separate volumes!), for ages 5-11 (I think); Beyond Five in a Row for ages 8 to 12; and Above and Beyond Five in a Row for ages 12 and up. (NOTE: We did try Above and Beyond for Bard a few years ago and weren't as pleased with it as we were with the younger grades. There are full descriptions of Above and Beyond on the FIAR Webpage, but there isn't really any support for it on the message boards and it's more a list of suggestions than an in-depth study with meat for older students).
Some of our favorite lessons have come from Five in a Row. We began with Volume One, which covered the following books:
The Story About Ping by Marjorie Flack and Kurt Wiese
Lentil by Robert McCloskey
Madeline by Ludwig Bemelmans
A Pair of Red Clogs by Masako Matsuno
The Rag Coat by Lauren Mills
Who Owns the Sun? by Stacy Chbosky
Mike Mulligan and His Steam Shovel by Virginia Lee Burton
The Glorious Flight by Alice and Martin Provensen
How to Make an Apple Pie and See the World by Marjorie Priceman
Grandfather's Journey by Allen Say
Cranberry Thanksgiving by Wende and Harry Devlin
Another Celebrated Dancing Bear by Gladys Scheffrin-Falk
Papa Piccolo by Carol Talley
Very Last First Time by Jan Andrews
The Clown of God by Tomie DePaola
Storm in the Night by Mary Stoltz
Katy and the Big Snow by Virginia Lee Burton
Night of the Moonjellies by Mark Shasha
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost (with illustrations by Susan Jeffers)
You can find the booklists for the other volumes here. We've found most of the books at our local public library, but have purchased many of them because they became so dear to us. The Five in a Row company also makes some of the volumes available for purchase through their website.
I think the optimum Five in a Row setup would be to have three or so large Rubbermaid-type boxes and fill each with what would be needed for the upcoming books you plan to study--activities, related workbooks or coloring books and library books that are of the same theme or topic as the book you're "rowing" (the term used for the book you are currently reading five days in a row). Then, when it's time to study that book, you could pull out the box and dig right in. With a teacher's library card, this would be easier because you could keep the materials for a month or more.
The best part, to me, about Five in a Row is that it's so inexpensive compared to other curricula. You can purchase the volumes new on the Five in a Row website for around $20 and can find it at places like Vegsource or eBay for even less. Once you have those volumes, almost everything else can be found at the library, making a curriculum that's virtually free. Of couse, they do say that you should have a separate math and phonics/reading curriculum, but if you're a parent who takes advantage of learning opportunities, most of this will come naturally anyway.
So, today I believe we will pull out our Five in a Row volumes and decide for which ones we'll begin building study boxes and then maybe hit the library.
Reading all day
Yesterday, no joke, we spent almost the entire day reading.When I got up in the morning, I knew that I wouldn't have the energy to get anything done, so I invited all of my kids into my bed and told them to bring a book. I went back and forth between blogging, reading blogs, reading Inkheart by Cornelia Funke and listening to each kid tell me something about their book or project. Houdin read Left Behind, and Bard read...something. Bard, what did you read? Monet spent most of the day working on his typing skills by playing JumpStart Typing. Sweetheart and The Baby spent the day playing dollies and making beds for the kitty, which the kitty obviously loved very much. We closed the day by reading Mandy aloud. When I announced that it was time to read, The Baby (who just turned two) yelled out, "Mandy!" I read until I was hoarse and I coughed all night long. Blech
I'm thinking about reading Inkheart aloud next. I have so many books that I want to read aloud. Perhaps we should just read all day every day?
Pray for my husband, Bo. He hurt his neck loading bottled water for a customer yesterday and was in a great amount of pain all night. He hopes to see the chiropractor today.
Thursday, February 17, 2005
The Mommy Blogs...
I'm saddened.
Yes, I've been living under a rock. I've only recently read about the upheaval against Mommy Blogs, Momoirs and Mommy-Lit. I've even read other bloggers' takes on the whole concept of moms blogging, and the criticism has been less than kind.
It seems that if we write about our children or the flu or our latest family fight, we are spouting mindless drivel.
I'm saddened.
One blogger whose writing I frequently enjoy said, "What troubles me about mommy blogging? That so much of it is poorly written drivel. That if, in fact, weblogs are a historical record of the everyday (as the NYT suggests), [then] angst-soaked entries about the flu or potty training or whatever will be prevailing message of our time --- not, for example, the pursuit of a rich interior life via reading, thinking, learning; that child- and spouse-bashing, however cleverly written, will represent the common experience of the ordinary mother, not celebration, wonder, merriment. And did I mention that so much of it is poorly written drivel?"
This blog goes on to show photo after photo of several views of what I'm assuming is her impressive home library and beautiful photos of what I assume are her lovely daughters making Mardi Gras beads, drinking hot cocoa, displaying painted toenails.
Why am I saddened by this? It seems that it is only acceptable to write about your own family and your own interests if you demean the family writings and interests of others, if you are literate, well-spoken and grammatically correct. A blog is only worth writing if you're pointing to what you have read, what you know, where you shop...not what you feel and experience. So much for the everyday. So much for the everywoman.
Weblogs most likely are the historical record of the everyday. My every day is about the flu, about potty training, about sadness and sorrow, about happiness and triumph. If this is drivel, then bring it on. I'll continue to live the drivel-filled life.
And I'll continue to write about it.
Yes, I've been living under a rock. I've only recently read about the upheaval against Mommy Blogs, Momoirs and Mommy-Lit. I've even read other bloggers' takes on the whole concept of moms blogging, and the criticism has been less than kind.
It seems that if we write about our children or the flu or our latest family fight, we are spouting mindless drivel.
I'm saddened.
One blogger whose writing I frequently enjoy said, "What troubles me about mommy blogging? That so much of it is poorly written drivel. That if, in fact, weblogs are a historical record of the everyday (as the NYT suggests), [then] angst-soaked entries about the flu or potty training or whatever will be prevailing message of our time --- not, for example, the pursuit of a rich interior life via reading, thinking, learning; that child- and spouse-bashing, however cleverly written, will represent the common experience of the ordinary mother, not celebration, wonder, merriment. And did I mention that so much of it is poorly written drivel?"
This blog goes on to show photo after photo of several views of what I'm assuming is her impressive home library and beautiful photos of what I assume are her lovely daughters making Mardi Gras beads, drinking hot cocoa, displaying painted toenails.
Why am I saddened by this? It seems that it is only acceptable to write about your own family and your own interests if you demean the family writings and interests of others, if you are literate, well-spoken and grammatically correct. A blog is only worth writing if you're pointing to what you have read, what you know, where you shop...not what you feel and experience. So much for the everyday. So much for the everywoman.
Weblogs most likely are the historical record of the everyday. My every day is about the flu, about potty training, about sadness and sorrow, about happiness and triumph. If this is drivel, then bring it on. I'll continue to live the drivel-filled life.
And I'll continue to write about it.
"Cloudy, Snowd some. the old house Sheep [brot] two Ew lambs. I went to the barn to take Care of them. mr Ballard, Cyrus and Sally went to meeting."
Martha Ballard, from her diary on February 17th, 1799, an "unparalleled document in early American history."
Do What You Love
News-Leader.com | Springfield, Mo. | Field Trips! gets students out of home: "You live your life, and your kids learn through everything they do. Whatever they are interested in, I'll surround them with that.' -- Pamela Cooper"
Here's a wonderful example of someone who does what she loves, an unschooling mother who offers a homeschooling field trip service.
Here's a wonderful example of someone who does what she loves, an unschooling mother who offers a homeschooling field trip service.
Board picks Long to lead district - February 16, 2005
Board picks Long to lead district - February 16, 2005: "Board member Tricia Prendergast said she understood people's concerns about a homeschooling district administrator. She was slightly taken aback when she first learned of his choice, but quickly found it was not a concern for people who knew him and his dedication to education."
I find this very interesting...a homeschooling father will be an Oregon school district's next superintendent.
I find this very interesting...a homeschooling father will be an Oregon school district's next superintendent.
Wisdom at Thirteen
Houdin says:
"I just finished reading Left Behind. But I don't think people would disappear when the rapture came. I mean, our bodies don't go to heaven, just our souls, right? So, it would be like, you're walking along, dum de dum, and all of the sudden you just...like, flop over. All of these people would just flop over, like someone poisoned the water or something. That's what I think."
"I just finished reading Left Behind. But I don't think people would disappear when the rapture came. I mean, our bodies don't go to heaven, just our souls, right? So, it would be like, you're walking along, dum de dum, and all of the sudden you just...like, flop over. All of these people would just flop over, like someone poisoned the water or something. That's what I think."
Eleven times or more
"The cat licked me eleven times!" Sweetheart called excitedly.
"Eleven times?" Bard asked.
"Actually, MORE than eleven times! 510, probably!"
It's an exciting day in the life of a little girl.
"Eleven times?" Bard asked.
"Actually, MORE than eleven times! 510, probably!"
It's an exciting day in the life of a little girl.
How to Blog: Ain't that the eternal question?
I'm dragging myself from my bed to keep my once-a-day blogging commitment. You have no idea how much energy it took to crawl from the bed the entire three feet to my computer . My body is aching. My head is foggy. My throat is sore. But here I am. Blogging. Isn't that valiant?
Or perhaps stupid?
I thought this would be a good illustration for my answer to the first of Pensive Wanderer's three questions. I figured I'd answer them one by one, because they require such meaty answers. So, here is the first installment of Pensive Wanderer's three-part interview:
"How do you have time to create and maintain a blog?"
Have you seen my house? Have you seen the piles of laundry in my laundry rooms? Have you seen my yard and my sinks and my litter box? Have you seen how much I make my kids work?
Okay, here's the truth: if I didn't write, I would explode. It is, no joke, the honest-to-God truth. I have stacks of journals beginning from when I was just a young pup.
Writing, for me, is not an option. It's a requirement. Without it, my sanity would be even more questionable than it already is.
A few people have written to me recently asking me how to blog. I'm not sure, honestly, if I can answer that. For me, I actually have to narrow down the number of blog entries I make in a day. If I didn't exercise some self-control, I would literally read and write all day long. My children would become strangers and my husband would sit at my feet begging for my attention. I would write non-stop. You would tire of it quickly. It's just a shame that one can't make a living out of such a thing. ;-)
I read a lot of essays. I love essays. I've loved essays since discovering them in my American Humor class in college. Essays are like sitcoms with meaning. Everything is tidy within just a few hundred words or so. One of my current favorite essayists is Real Live Preacher. In one of his essays (though I can't find which it was) he says that it's important to stick to the topic and not wander too far off course when writing an essay. Not a lot of background info. Not a lot of exposition. Just the facts, man.
So, that's what I've been thinking about when I write an essay. That's how I blog. Take a little topic and expound on it, being careful not to veer too far off course. If there's something in there worth veering for, it goes into a different blog entry. Believe me, I don't have nearly enough time to blog all of the thoughts in my head. Isn't that a scary thought.
As far as having enough time to create a blog, well...that's easy. That only takes a few minutes. It does, however, take some time to tweak it, to make it look homey, to step into your skin. While I like mine alright, I do wish I had something with more pizazz and uniqueness, like this one or this one or, WOW, look at THIS one. . There are plenty of online tutorials to give you some guidelines on simple html. The key is to save your html code in something like wordpad or notepad or something along those lines when you get it the way you want it. And always preview your changes first. Check my source code to see how I make notes to know what I've just changed and how to change it back if I want.
I guess the beauty of blogging is that you can write, write, write. Just sit down and let it flow, baby! You can save it as a draft and come back to it later, or you can publish it and edit at will.
And, most importantly, don't put it off! When you get an idea, sit down and WRITE IT DOWN. If it's crap, flush it. If it's a keeper, well...keep it! I often find that what I've begun doesn't end nearly how I thought it would.
If you find yourself at a loss for words, use stream of consciousness or, as I saw in another blog, bullet points. Right out your day in bullet points or outline form. If the blog is for you and you alone, write out the most important things you want to remember and to heck with what others would think.
And, remember, you needn't keep just one blog. You can keep one for your knitting projects, one for your daily goals, one for your favorite recipes, one for your schooling progress, one for your music discoveries, one for politics (if you absolutely MUST add another political blog!), one about Aunt Edna's health.
There's no limit.
So, I must now crawl back into my cozy bed and hold my foggy head, visions of blog essays dancing around inside my throbbing brain.
Go blog.
Or perhaps stupid?
I thought this would be a good illustration for my answer to the first of Pensive Wanderer's three questions. I figured I'd answer them one by one, because they require such meaty answers. So, here is the first installment of Pensive Wanderer's three-part interview:
"How do you have time to create and maintain a blog?"
Have you seen my house? Have you seen the piles of laundry in my laundry rooms? Have you seen my yard and my sinks and my litter box? Have you seen how much I make my kids work?
Okay, here's the truth: if I didn't write, I would explode. It is, no joke, the honest-to-God truth. I have stacks of journals beginning from when I was just a young pup.
Dear Diary,
Today is my tenth birthday. I got a photo album and a diary...
Writing, for me, is not an option. It's a requirement. Without it, my sanity would be even more questionable than it already is.
A few people have written to me recently asking me how to blog. I'm not sure, honestly, if I can answer that. For me, I actually have to narrow down the number of blog entries I make in a day. If I didn't exercise some self-control, I would literally read and write all day long. My children would become strangers and my husband would sit at my feet begging for my attention. I would write non-stop. You would tire of it quickly. It's just a shame that one can't make a living out of such a thing. ;-)
I read a lot of essays. I love essays. I've loved essays since discovering them in my American Humor class in college. Essays are like sitcoms with meaning. Everything is tidy within just a few hundred words or so. One of my current favorite essayists is Real Live Preacher. In one of his essays (though I can't find which it was) he says that it's important to stick to the topic and not wander too far off course when writing an essay. Not a lot of background info. Not a lot of exposition. Just the facts, man.
So, that's what I've been thinking about when I write an essay. That's how I blog. Take a little topic and expound on it, being careful not to veer too far off course. If there's something in there worth veering for, it goes into a different blog entry. Believe me, I don't have nearly enough time to blog all of the thoughts in my head. Isn't that a scary thought.
As far as having enough time to create a blog, well...that's easy. That only takes a few minutes. It does, however, take some time to tweak it, to make it look homey, to step into your skin. While I like mine alright, I do wish I had something with more pizazz and uniqueness, like this one or this one or, WOW, look at THIS one. . There are plenty of online tutorials to give you some guidelines on simple html. The key is to save your html code in something like wordpad or notepad or something along those lines when you get it the way you want it. And always preview your changes first. Check my source code to see how I make notes to know what I've just changed and how to change it back if I want.
I guess the beauty of blogging is that you can write, write, write. Just sit down and let it flow, baby! You can save it as a draft and come back to it later, or you can publish it and edit at will.
And, most importantly, don't put it off! When you get an idea, sit down and WRITE IT DOWN. If it's crap, flush it. If it's a keeper, well...keep it! I often find that what I've begun doesn't end nearly how I thought it would.
If you find yourself at a loss for words, use stream of consciousness or, as I saw in another blog, bullet points. Right out your day in bullet points or outline form. If the blog is for you and you alone, write out the most important things you want to remember and to heck with what others would think.
And, remember, you needn't keep just one blog. You can keep one for your knitting projects, one for your daily goals, one for your favorite recipes, one for your schooling progress, one for your music discoveries, one for politics (if you absolutely MUST add another political blog!), one about Aunt Edna's health.
There's no limit.
So, I must now crawl back into my cozy bed and hold my foggy head, visions of blog essays dancing around inside my throbbing brain.
Go blog.
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
It's My Turn...
If you want me today, you will find me curled up in my bed with my favorite blankie and my feather pillow, alternating between reading Inkheart by Cornelia Funke, shivering and whining loudly. So, basically, I hope no one wants me.
Yes, I have been attacked. The Flu Bug has bitten the Thicket Dweller.
So, this will take me away from my blogging and just about everything else. Yeah, bummer.
I hope you don't all forget me while I'm gone. Feel free to stop by and clean my house.
Yes, I have been attacked. The Flu Bug has bitten the Thicket Dweller.
So, this will take me away from my blogging and just about everything else. Yeah, bummer.
I hope you don't all forget me while I'm gone. Feel free to stop by and clean my house.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Today's Lessons
Between the puking and the cleaning up, here are the things we did today:
- I finally contacted a local woman about piano lessons for the children. She sounds very wonderful, is local and her price is reasonable.
- I got to talk to impromptu-mom on the phone today and break the news to her that I won't be able to meet with her tomorrow because of the sickness that currently prevails in our household. I'm totally bummed, but we WILL overcome this and someday get together.
- Monet drew and colored stained-glass windows for his painting and began outlining the roots below the tree, but his headache was so bad that he had to stop. I gave him some Alpha CF and he went to rest.
- Sweetheart really got into watching a Christmas video by Mary Englebreit. She insisted that I sit down with her and watch the DVD and draw pictures with her. She insists now that she wants to be an artist.
- Monet did his schoolwork, in spite of the fact that he was puking all morning. Puke, type, puke, type.
- We've been working on Switched on Schoolhouse by Alpha Omega Publishers. Monet really enjoys it. I've had it for a while, but we were unable to get it to work on our computer system. It seems to be working really well now.
- Monet and Bard are also working on their typing using typing software. Monet spent most of the evening playing the game.
- Bard received a gift via UPS from her grandparents: two Train CDs and the Napolean Dynamite video. Way mobie cool. Thanks, grandparents!
- I had a driving job today. I drive for some of my Amish neighbors, so I took a bit of time out of my day today to do that. It makes a bit of extra income to go towards Bard's upcoming China trip.
- Bard and Houdin sold some cookie dough and candles as a choir fundraiser. Nice exercise on this gorgeous day.
- We all watched an episode of Little House on the Prairie.
- Bard began reading Terry Pratchett's book The Thief of Time.
- Houdin told me about Terry Pratchett's book The Last Hero.
- I did a little reading about house concerts. Hosting a house concert is one of the goals on my 101 in 1001 list.
- Houdin and his friend C.J. looked through a few of our books about treehouses and made plans to work on one.
- Bard talked to her aunt and her grandparents.
Kids are ready for bed, and I plan to read a chapter or two of Mandy if my voice will hold out.
Of Puke and Parenting
This morning just after two o'clock. I was praising God for wood floors.
It started out something like this:
"Mom?"
I had just fallen asleep. Deep sleep. We got home very late from choir and The Baby had been kicking me in the face and any other soft flesh she could reach repeatedly. All night long.
"Mom!" This time, the knock was forceful enough that I knew I couldn't keep pretending it was mice. Besides, we don't have mice.
"What's the matter, Monet?"
"I...I threw up..."
I heard Bo groan that "oh-no-not-again" groan he reserves especially for puking incidents. I don't know why he does this. I doubt that he has ever cleaned up puke in his whole parenting career.
"Did you make it to the bathroom?" Bo asked groggily from his side of the bed.
"Yeah..." Bo returned to snoring. But the answer sounded unsure to me.
I climbed out of bed leaving the snoring husband and sleeping child, and successfully resisting the urge to slam things around loudly in the general vicinity of both of their eardrums.
Monet made it to the bathroom, indeed. I could tell by the increasingly strong buteric acid smell and the increasingly larger puddles of puke leading to the powder room floor.
"Sorry, Mom." The poor sick child stood beside me waiting for my wrath. "I just opened my mouth, and out it came."
He offered to help clean up, but I pointed him to the couch accompanied by a Wal*Mart bag-lined mixing bowl, telling him that, no, I wasn't angry with him. I actually meant it.
It took two rolls of paper towels to clean up all that puke. I'm sure you wanted to hear that, but here's the thing: you think a lot while you're going through two rolls of paper towels worth of puke. Mostly, you think about anything that keeps you from puking, too.
So, I was thinking about anything that would keep me from puking, which, by the way, does NOT include puke, lunch, vomit, breakfast, cleaning up puke, dinner, chunks of upchuck or puking (wow. that should really bring the interesting google searches). The best thing I could come up with was to praise God that I had hardwood floors, that this wonderful mess was not sinking into a deep, plush brand new carpeting.
And I was thinking about parenting, about how many things we do during the day that we don't want to do, and about what that does to our character. I thought about what I tell my kids, to do all things without grumbling or complaining, and that includes, yes, even cleaning up puke at 2:00 in the morning.
Suddenly it occured to me what day this was.
Fifteen years ago this morning, just after two a.m. I was praising God for keeping His promises:
Just after two a.m fifteen years ago., I was holding the first child who would puke on my carpet, speak her first word: "alligator," fight with me about learning to read and then devour every book she would touch, learn sign language to Rich Mullins' Step by Step and sing it while I washed the dishes, invent words like "andicated*" and "come-offable**", make me cry with her beautiful singing voice, make me laugh with her incredible sense of humor, and make me feel so much better about being a mom by hugging me tightly and declaring that I really haven't "lost touch."
Just after two a.m. fifteen years ago today, my dear daughter Bard made her grand entrance into this world, kicking and screaming, and my life has never been the same.
I've never stuck with anything for fifteen years. Not a single thing. Well, unless you count
eating chocolate, procrastinating or whining. But for fifteen whole, complete and total years, I have been a parent. And a half-decent one at that.
Thank you, Bard, for making me a mom, for making me a better person and for being my friend.
Here's to fifteen years of cleaning up puke.
And here's looking foward to many more.
It started out something like this:
"Mom?"
I had just fallen asleep. Deep sleep. We got home very late from choir and The Baby had been kicking me in the face and any other soft flesh she could reach repeatedly. All night long.
"Mom!" This time, the knock was forceful enough that I knew I couldn't keep pretending it was mice. Besides, we don't have mice.
"What's the matter, Monet?"
"I...I threw up..."
I heard Bo groan that "oh-no-not-again" groan he reserves especially for puking incidents. I don't know why he does this. I doubt that he has ever cleaned up puke in his whole parenting career.
"Did you make it to the bathroom?" Bo asked groggily from his side of the bed.
"Yeah..." Bo returned to snoring. But the answer sounded unsure to me.
I climbed out of bed leaving the snoring husband and sleeping child, and successfully resisting the urge to slam things around loudly in the general vicinity of both of their eardrums.
Monet made it to the bathroom, indeed. I could tell by the increasingly strong buteric acid smell and the increasingly larger puddles of puke leading to the powder room floor.
"Sorry, Mom." The poor sick child stood beside me waiting for my wrath. "I just opened my mouth, and out it came."
He offered to help clean up, but I pointed him to the couch accompanied by a Wal*Mart bag-lined mixing bowl, telling him that, no, I wasn't angry with him. I actually meant it.
It took two rolls of paper towels to clean up all that puke. I'm sure you wanted to hear that, but here's the thing: you think a lot while you're going through two rolls of paper towels worth of puke. Mostly, you think about anything that keeps you from puking, too.
So, I was thinking about anything that would keep me from puking, which, by the way, does NOT include puke, lunch, vomit, breakfast, cleaning up puke, dinner, chunks of upchuck or puking (wow. that should really bring the interesting google searches). The best thing I could come up with was to praise God that I had hardwood floors, that this wonderful mess was not sinking into a deep, plush brand new carpeting.
And I was thinking about parenting, about how many things we do during the day that we don't want to do, and about what that does to our character. I thought about what I tell my kids, to do all things without grumbling or complaining, and that includes, yes, even cleaning up puke at 2:00 in the morning.
Suddenly it occured to me what day this was.
Fifteen years ago this morning, just after two a.m. I was praising God for keeping His promises:
A woman giving birth to a child has pain because her time has come; but when
her baby is born she forgets the anguish because of her joy that a child is
born into the world. ~John 16:21
Just after two a.m fifteen years ago., I was holding the first child who would puke on my carpet, speak her first word: "alligator," fight with me about learning to read and then devour every book she would touch, learn sign language to Rich Mullins' Step by Step and sing it while I washed the dishes, invent words like "andicated*" and "come-offable**", make me cry with her beautiful singing voice, make me laugh with her incredible sense of humor, and make me feel so much better about being a mom by hugging me tightly and declaring that I really haven't "lost touch."
Just after two a.m. fifteen years ago today, my dear daughter Bard made her grand entrance into this world, kicking and screaming, and my life has never been the same.
I've never stuck with anything for fifteen years. Not a single thing. Well, unless you count
eating chocolate, procrastinating or whining. But for fifteen whole, complete and total years, I have been a parent. And a half-decent one at that.Thank you, Bard, for making me a mom, for making me a better person and for being my friend.
Here's to fifteen years of cleaning up puke.
And here's looking foward to many more.
Monday, February 14, 2005
Valentine's Day, 1981
I knew she was up to something.
My mom had been spending an awful lot of time in The Pink Room, which, while it still hosted a twin bed, was used mostly for sewing. I didn't spend a whole lot of time in there, except for to raid the closet looking for hidden presents. After all, I couldn't sew. This has always been a sore spot for me. I took sewing classes through 4-H, which I came out of with a duffel bag and a skirt. But somehow, it was very clear to me that sewing was not my thing. It may have been because every time I touched my mother's old Sears sewing machine, the hunk of metal would know it was me and sacrifice itself by breaking a needle, bunching the thread, or simply eating my project whole. Eventually, I was forbidden from touching the sewing machine.
But my mom--she could sew. She could do a lot of stuff, really. Knit, crochet, macrame, garden, can, decorate. She even went through a correspondence course to become an interior decorator. She was forever re-papering, re-painting or re-arranging something.
Once, when I left for summer camp for one whole week when I was about ten, I came home to an entirely new bedroom. She had cleaned my closets, rearranged my furniture, and wallpapered my walls with Scooby Doo wallpaper. She was famous for powerhouse projects.
Her favorite powerhouse projects were holidays. My mom would single-handedly create the most awesome Christmas a child could ever have, complete with a silver christmas tree, a little village on the mantle of our fake fireplace, and cookies and milk for Santa. The season was always good for a trip to the mall to see Archie the Snowman, a twenty-foot-tall talking snowman who was just recently retired from his post after 35 years.
So, when Valentine's Day was just around the corner, and my mom was trying to inconspicuously sneak in and out of the Pink Room with yards of red and white striped material, bright red yarn and bags of PolyFill, I knew she was up to something.
And she knew that I knew it.
She tried to throw me off by carrying very interesting things past my room, like coat hangers and embroidery hoops. It worked, too. I had absolutely no idea what mysterious, magical thing she was creating behind that door, behind that sewing machine. But day, and often long into the night, I could hear it from my bed in the next room, the whirring of that machine, the rhythm of its stitches. I knew she was creating something for me, and the excitement was almost too much.
The presentation was actually rather unceremonious. I came home from school, or from somewhere, on Valentine's day, and they were sitting there waiting for me on my bed.
Raggedy Anne and Andy.
And there were the striped legs, and the headful of stringy, red yarn hair, and, well, I couldn't see the PolyFill, but I knew it was there. Their faces each bore a red triangle nose, perfectly round black eyes and eyebrows, a wide black smile with a small red rectangle right in the center. Ann and Andy were even wearing matching outfits, blue and yellow jumpers, Ann's a dress and Andy's a shorts set.
But the very best part, to me, was the gift that was hidden under each of their outfits, the gift that was usually known only to me, my mom, Ann and Andy. On the left side of each doll's chest was hand-stitched a little red yarn-heart, and within each little red yarn-heart was hand-stitched this message.
"I LOVE YOU"
My mom had been spending an awful lot of time in The Pink Room, which, while it still hosted a twin bed, was used mostly for sewing. I didn't spend a whole lot of time in there, except for to raid the closet looking for hidden presents. After all, I couldn't sew. This has always been a sore spot for me. I took sewing classes through 4-H, which I came out of with a duffel bag and a skirt. But somehow, it was very clear to me that sewing was not my thing. It may have been because every time I touched my mother's old Sears sewing machine, the hunk of metal would know it was me and sacrifice itself by breaking a needle, bunching the thread, or simply eating my project whole. Eventually, I was forbidden from touching the sewing machine.
But my mom--she could sew. She could do a lot of stuff, really. Knit, crochet, macrame, garden, can, decorate. She even went through a correspondence course to become an interior decorator. She was forever re-papering, re-painting or re-arranging something.
Once, when I left for summer camp for one whole week when I was about ten, I came home to an entirely new bedroom. She had cleaned my closets, rearranged my furniture, and wallpapered my walls with Scooby Doo wallpaper. She was famous for powerhouse projects.
Her favorite powerhouse projects were holidays. My mom would single-handedly create the most awesome Christmas a child could ever have, complete with a silver christmas tree, a little village on the mantle of our fake fireplace, and cookies and milk for Santa. The season was always good for a trip to the mall to see Archie the Snowman, a twenty-foot-tall talking snowman who was just recently retired from his post after 35 years.
So, when Valentine's Day was just around the corner, and my mom was trying to inconspicuously sneak in and out of the Pink Room with yards of red and white striped material, bright red yarn and bags of PolyFill, I knew she was up to something.
And she knew that I knew it.
She tried to throw me off by carrying very interesting things past my room, like coat hangers and embroidery hoops. It worked, too. I had absolutely no idea what mysterious, magical thing she was creating behind that door, behind that sewing machine. But day, and often long into the night, I could hear it from my bed in the next room, the whirring of that machine, the rhythm of its stitches. I knew she was creating something for me, and the excitement was almost too much.
The presentation was actually rather unceremonious. I came home from school, or from somewhere, on Valentine's day, and they were sitting there waiting for me on my bed.
Raggedy Anne and Andy.
And there were the striped legs, and the headful of stringy, red yarn hair, and, well, I couldn't see the PolyFill, but I knew it was there. Their faces each bore a red triangle nose, perfectly round black eyes and eyebrows, a wide black smile with a small red rectangle right in the center. Ann and Andy were even wearing matching outfits, blue and yellow jumpers, Ann's a dress and Andy's a shorts set.
But the very best part, to me, was the gift that was hidden under each of their outfits, the gift that was usually known only to me, my mom, Ann and Andy. On the left side of each doll's chest was hand-stitched a little red yarn-heart, and within each little red yarn-heart was hand-stitched this message.
"I LOVE YOU"
Sunday, February 13, 2005
What Children Bring to the Table
After posting about my shopping experience with Bard, my almost-fifteen-year-old-daughter, I read this post by Real Live Preacher, one of my favorite essayists.
Warning. Do not read this essay if you are premenstrual, having a bad day or otherwise emotional. You may not recover.
Warning. Do not read this essay if you are premenstrual, having a bad day or otherwise emotional. You may not recover.
MEN: READ THIS. It's urgent.
And if that didn't work...
WOMEN: READ THIS. Out loud. To your husband. Repeatedly.
Cattiva over at "Does This Mean I'm a Grown Up" has published a list of Valentine's Day Gifts That Won't Get You Killed.
Excuse me while I start my printer and dig up the rubber cement.
WOMEN: READ THIS. Out loud. To your husband. Repeatedly.
Cattiva over at "Does This Mean I'm a Grown Up" has published a list of Valentine's Day Gifts That Won't Get You Killed.
Excuse me while I start my printer and dig up the rubber cement.
Losing Touch
Here's what I love: Watching my daughter grow up.
Here's what I hate: becoming totally and completely uncool.
I know it sounds superficial, but I'll admit it. One of the best things about having a baby girl was buying clothes, shoes and accessories for her. There. I said it. I was, and still am, a superficial mama.
I've always been somewhat of a clothes junky, but not in the traditional teenage girl sense. For me, the goal was to find THE coolest clothes off of THE cheapest clearance racks, at yard sales or at the local Goodwill. My favorite dress was a long, olive green rayon sleeveless jumper that I bought at a going-out-of-business sale for $3.00 which made me feel like Madonna in her early years. For my junior prom, I bought a wedding dress at the Salvation Army ($7.00), dyed it light pink with RIT (about .70), cut off the train (free) and had my neighbor hem it and sew on new beads, lace and sequins (free). Add a pair of vintage earrings and a vintage necklace from the local flea market ($3.00) and I was a victorian beauty. I even re-used that ensemble to compete for Miss Old Fashioned at our local small-town beauty contest.
And won.
So, while I never won "best dressed" at my school, I think it was because my fashion sense was too good for the hicks in my back-country high school. Actually, I think that I was just too good for them. :-P
When I became the young mother of a baby girl, I slipped right from culling the clearance racks at The Parisian and The Gap to riffling through the reduced-price ruffles at T.J. Maxx and Gap Kids. After all, shopping for me wasn't quite as fun as it had once been--I was no longer a size 1 (yes, I said "Size O-N-E." I know. I was the kind of girl I envy, too). Now, I found it much more rewarding to dress my drop-dead gorgeous baby than I did my ever-widening postpartum body.
Plus, I got the attention with her that I could never get (or ignored) for myself, even with a size 1 body. I could put tiny, adorable clothes on Baby Bard and everyone would "ooh" and "ahh!" and beg to hold her.
So, I began to pride myself in having a dapper doll-baby. I loved the styles in Victoria magazine, though I could never afford them, so I thrift-shopped and flea-marketed for the equivalent. I had a wonderful flea-market merchant friend, a black woman named Thelma, who would save vintage baby dresses for me at her booth every week. She would widen her eyes as we approached, saying, "Oooh, my my! Look at that baby! Girl, have I got something good for you!" And she always did.
The gals at Gap Kids knew me by name, and I knew them. I knew the day they restocked their clearance racks, the day they marked down that same clearance stuff, and that I could bring my receipt back within 30 days of purchase to get a refund for the difference between what I'd paid for a clearance item and what it was currently marked. And I'd use that refunded money to buy--what else--more clearance items.
The Gap always worked for me because I have a thing for earth tones. If you were to look in my closet at my shirts, my pants, my dresses, my jammies--even my underwear drawer--you would find that it's filled with olive, brown, grey and black, interspersed with a few whites and a couple of burgandies. I also have a jones for red plaid, which I've always filled by shopping at Land's End or Amerian Eagle. So these are the things I chose for my kids. And I have to say, I thought that they looked way-mobie cool.
Because Bard was born two hours after Valentine's Day, I naturally incorporated shopping into her birthday and made an early declaration. Her birthday ensemble must be red. This was fine, because she looked great in red, with her dark hair, bright eyes and rosie cheeks. It just seemed to fit her. Before long, I would see red and just associate it with my dear daughter. In a good way, of course.
Since Bard's second birthday, I have taken her out every year to go clothes shopping. We have traditionally gone on Valentine's Day and never seem to run into a shortage of red. I can still remember the cute little red-print empire-waist dress that she wore for her fifth birthday, with a darling straw hat. I remember the white shirt long-sleeved Gap Kids shirt with the big red heart in the center that she wore when she was eight, which she loved so much that we later tie-dyed it so that she could wear it even after it had been stained and spotted. I remember the velvety pants outfit that she chose when she was ten that had solid red bottoms and a top with stripes in shades of red. They were some of her favorite clothes. They were some of my favorite clothes. As a matter of fact, they still are, lovingly folded away for my grandbabies to wear.
As Bard became a teen, I included her friends in our annual shopping trip. Since we homeschool and don't go "back to school" shopping, this is the time when she gets the bulk of her new clothes for the year. For the past couple of years, I've given her a gift card to Target for Christmas to use on her birthday shopping excursion. There, I have let her and her friends choose her clothes--just about anything she wants within her budget, though I guide her a bit on price and style. After all, could you go very wrong at Target? I think not.
The one requirement: she must buy at least ONE red item. Not everything. Just ONE thing. This has always been fun. It can be a red sweater, a red dress, a shirt with big red hearts on it--whatever. But--It. Must. Be. RED.
This year, I rethought my Target strategy. I thought, hey, what if I give her a coupon for a certain dollar amount, and then we do what I used to do? What if we hit the malls and shop the clearance racks, go to Goodwill and Salvation Army, get the Maxx for the Minimum, if you know what I mean? I'll show her how you can stretch your ever-decreasingly almighty dollar, and be way mobie cool in the process.
Here's what I found out: I'm not able to show anyone how to be way mobie cool.
About two weeks before our shopping trip, Bard started wondering aloud, "What IS my STYLE? I need to find a STYLE." I don't know exactly where this idea weaseled its way into her head, but it's there. She is on a quest now to find a STYLE for herself. She wants a wardrobe that can be named. Preppy. Goth. Punk. Eclectic. Whatever. But she must have a STYLE.
On the ride to the mall yesterday for our annual birthday shopping trip, she was still wondering aloud about her STYLE, this time with her friends Kat and Ash consulting.
"What should my STYLE be?" she asked. I, of course, had to pipe up.
"I think you should go for linen shirts and khakis. So classy. Very cool." I'm thinking: The Great Gatsby.
She's thinking, Uh...no.
"Mom. I would look like oatmeal. I would be, like, Granola Girl." Being a granola girl myself, I was a bit taken aback.
"And what's wrong with that? You're a vegetarian, after all. And a country girl. Being a little bit granola wouldn't be that bad."
"Mom. No."
Once at the mall, I was amazed to find that my once coveted opinion was now all but worthless.
It started in GapKids. On the clearance rack, there was this adorable Aran knit cap which was supposed to be a size three but was obviously mis-sized. It fit me. It fit my daughter. It matched the very cool green sweater I bought her at the local thrift shop that, I might add, she was wearing for her shopping trip to the mall with her best friends on her most special shopping day of the year. The hat was $3.00. It was perfect on her. She looked like a model for the store, I'm so not kidding, with her cool green sweater and her red-streaked pigtails peaking out of the bottom of the hat.
"Mom. No. I will never wear it. I don't wear hats."
"What do you mean you don't wear hats? You always wear hats! You've worn hats since birth! You have that Rebecca Saint James 'Worship God' beanie that you wear all the time! Of course you wear hats!" She looked at me pitifully.
"I don't wear hats. I won't wear it." I grudgingly put the hat back on the rack, resisting the urge to buy it anyway and pull my motherly rank to make her wear it. Instead, I loaded up my arms with clearance-priced baby clothes for my neices and nephews to be. Therapy shopping, I guess you'd call it.
The girls headed to the "trendier" stores.
"Check this out!" I called, showing her a red hoodie with a big trendy monkey on the front. She loves monkies.
"Mom. No. I have too much red. I'm not buying anything red."
My...heart. What's happening to my heart?
"You have to buy red!" I declared. "You HAVE to! It's a tradition! You've worn red on your birthday since you were a baby! You even had little red ballet slipper clip-on earrings on your first birthday! Remember last year? When we went to the ballet on your birthday and you didn't have time to go shopping first? Remember how I bought you a red sweater ahead of time and gave it to you at the theater?? " She rolled her eyes. She was kind enough to not remind me that she didn't wear the red sweater to the ballet.
"I have too much red."
"But maybe red is your STYLE!" I turned desperately to her friends and tried to explain the intensity of the circumstances.
"Look. She was born two hours after Valentine's Day. I was in labor with her for FORTY EIGHT HOURS. I was in EXTREME, DEATH-DEFYING PAIN when I should have been giddily reading conversation hearts to my lovey-dovey over a ROMANTIC CANDLELIT DINNER! She shouldn't even be GETTING gifts for her birthday. I should be getting all of the gifts!"
The teenage girls all stood there in Aerpostale looking at me as if I were dressed in the most drab, earth-toned colors in the world, wore my hair in a bun and had a booger hanging out of my nose.
We didn't buy the monkey hoodie.
Or the red t-shirt with the cute little birdie on it. Or the red-toned striped sweater. Or the slightly almost red button-down shirt. And when we went into The Gap and I saw a whole clearance rack full of earth-tones in her size, she literally shuddered. "Too dark," she declared, wrinkling her nose. "There's nothing in here that's my style."
And she headed for the exit.
I know this sounds ridiculous, but as she walked away, I found myself feeling something akin to mourning. What happened here? Where was my dress-up doll-baby? My shopping partner? My kindred spirit? What happened to the little girl in the red empire-waist dress and the adorable straw hat, who was thrilled to open package after package of red-themed, valentine-y gifts? Where did my baby go?
I had a hard time disguising my bitterness and disappointment. I had always felt that I knew what my daughter loved, could choose the perfect gift for her as if I were choosing for myself, that I could practially read her thoughts. And now--well, I just didn't know. All of the things I saw that made me think of her had me second-guessing myself.
In a last-ditch effort to prove myself wrong, I pulled a very cool olive-green shirt from the rack of a very trendy store. It was the same color as a shirt she always wears, in a style she always likes, for a price that wasn't half-bad. She wrinkled her nose.
"I don't like that color. That's just not my color."
"I have totally lost touch," I said wearily as I let the shirt drop back into the rack. "I have no idea what you like anymore."
Everything I showed her was wrong. The earrings were wrong, the accessories were wrong, the shoes were wrong.
I have totally lost touch.
I don't know why this surprises me. When I was in high school, my sweatsuit-wearing parents literally ridiculed my taste in fashion. "You spent all morning trying to look LIKE THAT?" I guess I just always thought that I would be the best mom, the cool mom, the fashion-saavy mom. I would NOT lose touch. I mean, who in their right mind DOESN'T like earth-tones? Who DOESN'T want to buy their clothes from The Gap?
My eldest daughter. That's who.
So I guess it's time for me to let it go, to let her find and have her own style and to respect that. It's time for me to release her to be her own person, choose her own fashion, display her own preferences.
It's time for me to focus on my two younger daughters.
Gap Kids, here I come.
Here's what I hate: becoming totally and completely uncool.
I know it sounds superficial, but I'll admit it. One of the best things about having a baby girl was buying clothes, shoes and accessories for her. There. I said it. I was, and still am, a superficial mama.
I've always been somewhat of a clothes junky, but not in the traditional teenage girl sense. For me, the goal was to find THE coolest clothes off of THE cheapest clearance racks, at yard sales or at the local Goodwill. My favorite dress was a long, olive green rayon sleeveless jumper that I bought at a going-out-of-business sale for $3.00 which made me feel like Madonna in her early years. For my junior prom, I bought a wedding dress at the Salvation Army ($7.00), dyed it light pink with RIT (about .70), cut off the train (free) and had my neighbor hem it and sew on new beads, lace and sequins (free). Add a pair of vintage earrings and a vintage necklace from the local flea market ($3.00) and I was a victorian beauty. I even re-used that ensemble to compete for Miss Old Fashioned at our local small-town beauty contest.
And won.
So, while I never won "best dressed" at my school, I think it was because my fashion sense was too good for the hicks in my back-country high school. Actually, I think that I was just too good for them. :-P
When I became the young mother of a baby girl, I slipped right from culling the clearance racks at The Parisian and The Gap to riffling through the reduced-price ruffles at T.J. Maxx and Gap Kids. After all, shopping for me wasn't quite as fun as it had once been--I was no longer a size 1 (yes, I said "Size O-N-E." I know. I was the kind of girl I envy, too). Now, I found it much more rewarding to dress my drop-dead gorgeous baby than I did my ever-widening postpartum body.
Plus, I got the attention with her that I could never get (or ignored) for myself, even with a size 1 body. I could put tiny, adorable clothes on Baby Bard and everyone would "ooh" and "ahh!" and beg to hold her.
So, I began to pride myself in having a dapper doll-baby. I loved the styles in Victoria magazine, though I could never afford them, so I thrift-shopped and flea-marketed for the equivalent. I had a wonderful flea-market merchant friend, a black woman named Thelma, who would save vintage baby dresses for me at her booth every week. She would widen her eyes as we approached, saying, "Oooh, my my! Look at that baby! Girl, have I got something good for you!" And she always did.
The gals at Gap Kids knew me by name, and I knew them. I knew the day they restocked their clearance racks, the day they marked down that same clearance stuff, and that I could bring my receipt back within 30 days of purchase to get a refund for the difference between what I'd paid for a clearance item and what it was currently marked. And I'd use that refunded money to buy--what else--more clearance items.
The Gap always worked for me because I have a thing for earth tones. If you were to look in my closet at my shirts, my pants, my dresses, my jammies--even my underwear drawer--you would find that it's filled with olive, brown, grey and black, interspersed with a few whites and a couple of burgandies. I also have a jones for red plaid, which I've always filled by shopping at Land's End or Amerian Eagle. So these are the things I chose for my kids. And I have to say, I thought that they looked way-mobie cool.
Because Bard was born two hours after Valentine's Day, I naturally incorporated shopping into her birthday and made an early declaration. Her birthday ensemble must be red. This was fine, because she looked great in red, with her dark hair, bright eyes and rosie cheeks. It just seemed to fit her. Before long, I would see red and just associate it with my dear daughter. In a good way, of course.
Since Bard's second birthday, I have taken her out every year to go clothes shopping. We have traditionally gone on Valentine's Day and never seem to run into a shortage of red. I can still remember the cute little red-print empire-waist dress that she wore for her fifth birthday, with a darling straw hat. I remember the white shirt long-sleeved Gap Kids shirt with the big red heart in the center that she wore when she was eight, which she loved so much that we later tie-dyed it so that she could wear it even after it had been stained and spotted. I remember the velvety pants outfit that she chose when she was ten that had solid red bottoms and a top with stripes in shades of red. They were some of her favorite clothes. They were some of my favorite clothes. As a matter of fact, they still are, lovingly folded away for my grandbabies to wear.
As Bard became a teen, I included her friends in our annual shopping trip. Since we homeschool and don't go "back to school" shopping, this is the time when she gets the bulk of her new clothes for the year. For the past couple of years, I've given her a gift card to Target for Christmas to use on her birthday shopping excursion. There, I have let her and her friends choose her clothes--just about anything she wants within her budget, though I guide her a bit on price and style. After all, could you go very wrong at Target? I think not.
The one requirement: she must buy at least ONE red item. Not everything. Just ONE thing. This has always been fun. It can be a red sweater, a red dress, a shirt with big red hearts on it--whatever. But--It. Must. Be. RED.
This year, I rethought my Target strategy. I thought, hey, what if I give her a coupon for a certain dollar amount, and then we do what I used to do? What if we hit the malls and shop the clearance racks, go to Goodwill and Salvation Army, get the Maxx for the Minimum, if you know what I mean? I'll show her how you can stretch your ever-decreasingly almighty dollar, and be way mobie cool in the process.
Here's what I found out: I'm not able to show anyone how to be way mobie cool.
About two weeks before our shopping trip, Bard started wondering aloud, "What IS my STYLE? I need to find a STYLE." I don't know exactly where this idea weaseled its way into her head, but it's there. She is on a quest now to find a STYLE for herself. She wants a wardrobe that can be named. Preppy. Goth. Punk. Eclectic. Whatever. But she must have a STYLE.
On the ride to the mall yesterday for our annual birthday shopping trip, she was still wondering aloud about her STYLE, this time with her friends Kat and Ash consulting.
"What should my STYLE be?" she asked. I, of course, had to pipe up.
"I think you should go for linen shirts and khakis. So classy. Very cool." I'm thinking: The Great Gatsby.
She's thinking, Uh...no.
"Mom. I would look like oatmeal. I would be, like, Granola Girl." Being a granola girl myself, I was a bit taken aback.
"And what's wrong with that? You're a vegetarian, after all. And a country girl. Being a little bit granola wouldn't be that bad."
"Mom. No."
Once at the mall, I was amazed to find that my once coveted opinion was now all but worthless.
It started in GapKids. On the clearance rack, there was this adorable Aran knit cap which was supposed to be a size three but was obviously mis-sized. It fit me. It fit my daughter. It matched the very cool green sweater I bought her at the local thrift shop that, I might add, she was wearing for her shopping trip to the mall with her best friends on her most special shopping day of the year. The hat was $3.00. It was perfect on her. She looked like a model for the store, I'm so not kidding, with her cool green sweater and her red-streaked pigtails peaking out of the bottom of the hat.
"Mom. No. I will never wear it. I don't wear hats."
"What do you mean you don't wear hats? You always wear hats! You've worn hats since birth! You have that Rebecca Saint James 'Worship God' beanie that you wear all the time! Of course you wear hats!" She looked at me pitifully.
"I don't wear hats. I won't wear it." I grudgingly put the hat back on the rack, resisting the urge to buy it anyway and pull my motherly rank to make her wear it. Instead, I loaded up my arms with clearance-priced baby clothes for my neices and nephews to be. Therapy shopping, I guess you'd call it.
The girls headed to the "trendier" stores.
"Check this out!" I called, showing her a red hoodie with a big trendy monkey on the front. She loves monkies.
"Mom. No. I have too much red. I'm not buying anything red."
My...heart. What's happening to my heart?
"You have to buy red!" I declared. "You HAVE to! It's a tradition! You've worn red on your birthday since you were a baby! You even had little red ballet slipper clip-on earrings on your first birthday! Remember last year? When we went to the ballet on your birthday and you didn't have time to go shopping first? Remember how I bought you a red sweater ahead of time and gave it to you at the theater?? " She rolled her eyes. She was kind enough to not remind me that she didn't wear the red sweater to the ballet.
"I have too much red."
"But maybe red is your STYLE!" I turned desperately to her friends and tried to explain the intensity of the circumstances.
"Look. She was born two hours after Valentine's Day. I was in labor with her for FORTY EIGHT HOURS. I was in EXTREME, DEATH-DEFYING PAIN when I should have been giddily reading conversation hearts to my lovey-dovey over a ROMANTIC CANDLELIT DINNER! She shouldn't even be GETTING gifts for her birthday. I should be getting all of the gifts!"
The teenage girls all stood there in Aerpostale looking at me as if I were dressed in the most drab, earth-toned colors in the world, wore my hair in a bun and had a booger hanging out of my nose.
We didn't buy the monkey hoodie.
Or the red t-shirt with the cute little birdie on it. Or the red-toned striped sweater. Or the slightly almost red button-down shirt. And when we went into The Gap and I saw a whole clearance rack full of earth-tones in her size, she literally shuddered. "Too dark," she declared, wrinkling her nose. "There's nothing in here that's my style."
And she headed for the exit.
I know this sounds ridiculous, but as she walked away, I found myself feeling something akin to mourning. What happened here? Where was my dress-up doll-baby? My shopping partner? My kindred spirit? What happened to the little girl in the red empire-waist dress and the adorable straw hat, who was thrilled to open package after package of red-themed, valentine-y gifts? Where did my baby go?
I had a hard time disguising my bitterness and disappointment. I had always felt that I knew what my daughter loved, could choose the perfect gift for her as if I were choosing for myself, that I could practially read her thoughts. And now--well, I just didn't know. All of the things I saw that made me think of her had me second-guessing myself.
In a last-ditch effort to prove myself wrong, I pulled a very cool olive-green shirt from the rack of a very trendy store. It was the same color as a shirt she always wears, in a style she always likes, for a price that wasn't half-bad. She wrinkled her nose.
"I don't like that color. That's just not my color."
"I have totally lost touch," I said wearily as I let the shirt drop back into the rack. "I have no idea what you like anymore."
Everything I showed her was wrong. The earrings were wrong, the accessories were wrong, the shoes were wrong.
I have totally lost touch.
I don't know why this surprises me. When I was in high school, my sweatsuit-wearing parents literally ridiculed my taste in fashion. "You spent all morning trying to look LIKE THAT?" I guess I just always thought that I would be the best mom, the cool mom, the fashion-saavy mom. I would NOT lose touch. I mean, who in their right mind DOESN'T like earth-tones? Who DOESN'T want to buy their clothes from The Gap?
My eldest daughter. That's who.
So I guess it's time for me to let it go, to let her find and have her own style and to respect that. It's time for me to release her to be her own person, choose her own fashion, display her own preferences.
It's time for me to focus on my two younger daughters.
Gap Kids, here I come.
Friday, February 11, 2005
Indoor Cat
Feral, like all of the rest.Hissing, angry, frightened, tiny.
"No way. No cats in the house."
"But look at her! She's special!"
Children beg.
Husband shakes his head.
He's allergic, you know.
"It will make a nice barn cat."
"But it's special! Look at her face!"
Painted, lovely, like God himself drew a line right down the center,
Over her forehead,
Between her eyes,
Dividing her nose and lips.
"Call her Janus!"
I lift her to my face. She spits and hisses.
This is no house cat.
And besides...
I count the costs.
Sneezing husband.
Stinky litterbox.
Hair-covered furniture.
"Put her outside," I say.
Then, one by one, her littermates
Become dog treats
Who seem to like kitty heads--very tasty.
One night, I hear them, barking
Howling
Growling
And I go out to find her, the little two-faced kitty
Trying to hide out in the open, surrounded by dogs
Soaking wet
Frightened.
I shoo the dogs away and reach
For the frightened kitten who hisses and then collapses
Into my hands, somehow knowing
Very relieved,
Embraced by little hands who loved her into tameness.
Now, an indoor cat who loves life,
Loves being carried around by her tail, her feet, her head
By these children who begged for her
Who sleep with her
Who feed her.
It's so good to be saved.
Thursday, February 10, 2005
Do You Know What a Meme Is?
I didn't. I looked it up and I found a bunch of definitions on Wikipedia. I'm amazed that there is a whole philosophy surrounding this one word whose meaning I didn't even know.
Boy, I just feel dumber every day.
For what it's worth, I still don't get the concept of a blogging meme. I feel so left out. Can someone explain?
Pretty please?
Boy, I just feel dumber every day.
For what it's worth, I still don't get the concept of a blogging meme. I feel so left out. Can someone explain?
Pretty please?
Getting Better without even knowing it
About a month ago, my 14-year old daughter Bard decided to stop eating meat. I've been proud of her because she has been making healthy meal choices, like big salads, bran muffins and bean burritos.
A few days ago, she told me that she thought she would give up because she wasn't feeling any better. She didn't think it was doing any good. I told her that I thought she was probably feeling better, but she just didn't realize it.
"Remember last week, when we had pizza, pop, chips and cake for the birthday party?" I asked her. There was a time when that kind of diet was pretty normal. We've drastically changed our ways of eating, so moments of order-in pizza and pop and especially chips are noteworthy now.
"Yeah," she answered. I think she knew where I was going.
"I felt rotten after I ate that stuff," I told her. And I really had. Swollen, bloated and thirsty, not to mention that my stomach was about to show its remorse by rejecting the contents of my tummy.
"Yeah," she said quietly. "I did, too."
That's what's funny about changing one's lifestyle for the better. It feels like nothing's happening. It feels like it's really not doing any good.
I don't always realize the benefits of the change until I go back to the "old" way of doing things. And then I feel the effects of my backsliding manyfold.
I think that's very telling.
A few days ago, she told me that she thought she would give up because she wasn't feeling any better. She didn't think it was doing any good. I told her that I thought she was probably feeling better, but she just didn't realize it.
"Remember last week, when we had pizza, pop, chips and cake for the birthday party?" I asked her. There was a time when that kind of diet was pretty normal. We've drastically changed our ways of eating, so moments of order-in pizza and pop and especially chips are noteworthy now.
"Yeah," she answered. I think she knew where I was going.
"I felt rotten after I ate that stuff," I told her. And I really had. Swollen, bloated and thirsty, not to mention that my stomach was about to show its remorse by rejecting the contents of my tummy.
"Yeah," she said quietly. "I did, too."
That's what's funny about changing one's lifestyle for the better. It feels like nothing's happening. It feels like it's really not doing any good.
I don't always realize the benefits of the change until I go back to the "old" way of doing things. And then I feel the effects of my backsliding manyfold.
I think that's very telling.
Grok
I just learned a new word, thanks to Billie-Jean over at My Bountiful Life.
Billie-Jean posted "grok" on one of her comments and I kept wondering what it was, so I looked it up. Here's what I found:
**********************************************************************
grok ( P ) Pronunciation Key (grk)
tr.v. Slang grok·ked, grok·king, groks
To understand profoundly through intuition or empathy.
[Coined by Robert A. Heinlein in his Stranger in a Strange Land.]
grok was Word of the Day on July 15, 1999.
Source: Dictionary.com Word of the Day
grok
/grok/, /grohk/ (From the novel "Stranger in a Strange Land",
by Robert A. Heinlein, where it is a Martian word meaning
literally "to drink" and metaphorically "to be one with")
1. To understand, usually in a global sense. Connotes
intimate and exhaustive knowledge.
Contrast zen, which is similar supernal understanding
experienced as a single brief flash. See also glark.
2. Used of programs, may connote merely sufficient
understanding. "Almost all C compilers grok the "void" type
these days."
Source: The Free On-line Dictionary of Computing, © 1993-2004 Denis Howe
grok
/grok/, var. /grohk/ vt. [from the novel "Stranger in a
Strange Land", by Robert A. Heinlein, where it is a Martian word
meaning literally `to drink' and metaphorically `to be one with']
The emphatic form is `grok in fullness'. 1. To understand, usually
in a global sense. Connotes intimate and exhaustive knowledge.
Contrast zen, which is similar supernal understanding experienced
as a single brief flash. See also glark. 2. Used of programs,
may connote merely sufficient understanding. "Almost all C
compilers grok the `void' type these days."
Copyright © 2005, Lexico Publishing Group, LLC. All rights reserved.
**********************************************************************
So, thanks, Billie Jean, for expanding my vocabulary today!
Now, here's the question. If I use this word, do I just say "grok?" Or do I say, "I grok" or "I grok you?" Hmmm...
Billie-Jean posted "grok" on one of her comments and I kept wondering what it was, so I looked it up. Here's what I found:
**********************************************************************
grok ( P ) Pronunciation Key (grk)
tr.v. Slang grok·ked, grok·king, groks
To understand profoundly through intuition or empathy.
[Coined by Robert A. Heinlein in his Stranger in a Strange Land.]
grok was Word of the Day on July 15, 1999.
Source: Dictionary.com Word of the Day
grok
/grok/, /grohk/ (From the novel "Stranger in a Strange Land",
by Robert A. Heinlein, where it is a Martian word meaning
literally "to drink" and metaphorically "to be one with")
1. To understand, usually in a global sense. Connotes
intimate and exhaustive knowledge.
Contrast zen, which is similar supernal understanding
experienced as a single brief flash. See also glark.
2. Used of programs, may connote merely sufficient
understanding. "Almost all C compilers grok the "void" type
these days."
Source: The Free On-line Dictionary of Computing, © 1993-2004 Denis Howe
grok
/grok/, var. /grohk/ vt. [from the novel "Stranger in a
Strange Land", by Robert A. Heinlein, where it is a Martian word
meaning literally `to drink' and metaphorically `to be one with']
The emphatic form is `grok in fullness'. 1. To understand, usually
in a global sense. Connotes intimate and exhaustive knowledge.
Contrast zen, which is similar supernal understanding experienced
as a single brief flash. See also glark. 2. Used of programs,
may connote merely sufficient understanding. "Almost all C
compilers grok the `void' type these days."
Copyright © 2005, Lexico Publishing Group, LLC. All rights reserved.
**********************************************************************
So, thanks, Billie Jean, for expanding my vocabulary today!
Now, here's the question. If I use this word, do I just say "grok?" Or do I say, "I grok" or "I grok you?" Hmmm...
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Books, books, books
The most important thing we've learned,
So far as children are concerned,
Is never, NEVER, NEVER let
Them near your television set!
Or better still, just don't install
The idiotic thing at all.
In almost every house we've been,
We've watched them gaping at the screen.
They loll and slop and lounge about,
And stare until their eyes pop out.
(Last week in someone's place we saw
A dozen eyeballs on the floor.)
They sit and stare and stare and sit
Until they're hypnotised by it,
Until they're absolutely drunk
With all the shocking ghastly junk.
Oh yes, we know it keeps them still,
They don't climb out the window sill,
They never fight or kick or punch,
They leave you free to cook the lunch
And wash the dishes in the sink!
But did you ever stop to think,
To wonder just exactly what
This does to your beloved tot?
IT ROTS THE SENSES IN THE HEAD!
IT KILLS IMAGINATION DEAD!
IT CLOGS AND CLUTTERS UP THE MIND!
IT MAKES A CHILD SO DULL AND BLIND
HE CAN NO LONGER UNDERSTAND
A FANTASY, A FAIRYLAND!
HIS BRAIN BECOMES AS SOFT AS CHEESE!
HIS POWERS OF THINKING RUST AND FREEZE!
HE CANNOT THINK! HE ONLY SEES!
'All right!' you'll cry. 'All right!' you'll say,
'But if we take the set away,
What shall we do to entertain
Our darling children? Please explain!'
We'll answer this by asking you,
'What used the darling ones to do?
'How used they keep themselves contented
Before this monster was invented?'
Have you forgotten? Don't you know?
We'll say it very loud and slow:
THEY...USED...TO...READ! They'd READ and READ,
AND READ and READ, and then proceed
To READ some more. Great Scott! Gadzooks!
One half their lives was reading books!
The nursery shelves held books galore!
Books cluttered up the nursery floor!
And in the bedroom, by the bed,
More books were waiting to be read!
Such wondrous, fine, fantastic takes
Of dragons, gypsies, queens, and whales
And treasure isles, and distant shores
Where smugglers rowed with muffled oars,
And pirates wearing purple pants,
And sailing ships and elephants,
And cannibals crouching 'round the pot,
Stirring away at something hot.
(It smells so good, what can it be?
Good gracious, it's Penelope.)
The younger ones had Beatrix Potter
With Mr. Tod, the dirty rotter,
And Squirrel Nutkin, Pigling Bland,
And Mrs. TiggyWinkle and
Just How The Camel Got His Hump,
And How The Monkey Lost His Rump,
And Mr. Toad, and bless my soul,
There's Mr. Rat and Mr. Mole
Oh, books, what books they used to know,
Those children living long ago!
So please, oh please, we beg, we pray,
Go throw your TV set away,
And in its place you can install
A lovely bookshelf on the wall.
Then fill the shelves with lots of books,
Ignoring all the dirty looks,
The screams and yells, the bites and kicks,
And children hitting you with sticks
Fear not, because we promise you
That, in about a week or two
Of having nothing else to do,
They'll now begin to feel the need
Of having something good to read.
And once they start oh boy, oh boy!
You watch the slowly growing joy
That fills their ears. They'll grow so keen
They'll wonder what they'd ever seen
In that ridiculous machine,
That nauseating, foul, unclean,
Repulsive television screen!
And later, each and every kid
Will love you more for what you did.
P.S. Regarding Mike Teavee,
We very much regret that we
Shall simply have to wait and see
If we can get him back his height.
But if we can't, it serves him right."
~From Charlie and the Chocolate Factory by Roald Dahl
Thanks to Tenn for the inspiration to photograph just SOME of the books that are lying around our house.
Creating a Masterpiece
Yesterday was fun.
My two eldest children, Bard (who is FOURTEEN and will not be FIFTEEN until next Tuesday--there, Bard. Are you happy now?), and Houdin (Who is not Houdini, by the way. Houdin was BEFORE Houdini. Houdini actually stole Houdin's name) went with our friend, neighbor, dreamer on a field trip to the main post office in a nearby city. (Note to children: Reports today about post office trip. I mean it. That's it for parenthetical statements). While they were gone, the three youngest children and I stayed home and got creative, making valentines and creating a family masterpiece.
I have commissioned my youngest son to create a painting for me. I was inspired by Amy over at Amy Loves Books who had a painting made for her by her favorite artist, Cooper Sanchez. My nine-year-old son Monet, which is not his real name but his blog name, given to him because he really is an artist, draws very imaginative, creative pictures. I love his style and the subjects he chooses. So, we went to Jo Anne Etc. to buy a whole heck of a lot of art supplies, and I asked him to recreate for me a charming picture that he drew, a picture of sweet little church.
The picture that he created originally was also very inspiring to me. The cross above the church eminated energy. Beside the church stood a tall tree whose underground roots were clearly visible, running and tangling and twisting within the soil. From one of the windows of the church spilled out a curving musical scale filled with notes. It's my favorite picture. I love the imagery and the symbolism.
So, I decided to make yesterday an art day. While Monet was sketching his ideas and color codes on paper, Sweetheart and I started making valentines. Since my children were little, I've loved making simple paper valentines using the shape of the child's hand and a heart in the center, kind of neo-victorian. Is that possible? Anyway, I think its such a sweet image, and I try to do it every year, but I don't always get to it.
After Monet sketched his ideas, he decided to make a few valentines, too. Then we took a break and read Saint Valentine by Robert Sabuda. We might spin off into a little bit about Rome. Anyone have suggestions on kid-friendly Rome study materials? Preferably from the library.
We also read a couple of books about the heart and circulatory system. I picked up a few more from the library last night and hope to read a couple today. If I ever get off this blog.
I tried to help Monet not be intimidated by the blank canvas. Almost immediately, he made a mistake, sketching too low to leave room for the roots. I showed him how we could just use the white paint to cover it up and explained that we won't see the pencil marks at all when we're done, anyway.
Monet and I both worked on the painting. He was having a bit of trouble applying the paint, which is understandable since this is the first time he's painted on a big canvas. I helped him create the sky and told him that it was okay to paint over the lines, because they were just guides. "Like a secret code," he said. Yep, like a secret code.
Last night, as he was putting the finishing strokes on the first layer of paint for the church, he said, "I don't think I like my imagination." He was very serious, and at first I replied with the standard, "Oh, you have a GREAT imagination!" but then I realized that he wasn't looking for compliments. He was stating a concern. "Sometimes, my imagination comes up with scary things. I don't like that."
To be honest, I don't like it sometimes, either. Sometimes I think there's a battle going on for his soul and he just doesn't realize it. Sometimes he'll draw scary monsters and intense battles. Sometimes he'll draw singing angels and bucolic churches.
I've been thinking about Monet and his gift for a long time. And, recently, I've been thinking about the words I posted the other day...
"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)
I think God is really working in Monet's life.
A couple of years ago, I read an article about a local Christian man who is a homeschooling father and absolutely amazing artist. When I read the article, I just KNEW that he should be a mentor to Monet. At the time, we were living in the cabin (read: "tiny") and working towards building the house. I wanted so badly to have this man come to our home, to give art lessons, but the price was so unrealistic for my budget and the cabin was so, so small. I screwed up the courage and called him anyway. We had a great talk, and have been pining for his instruction ever since.
The Painting So far
Well, I just got a copy of our homeschool support group's newsletter. The artist and his family will be the guest speakers for the next support group meeting, which is this coming Friday. Since I read the newsletter, I've been thinking even more about the impact that an artist like Del Guidice could have as a teacher and mentor in Monet's life. Now, we have plenty of room, plenty of interest...just not plenty of money. I pray that somehow I can work out an arrangment with Mr. Del Guidice and bring him into my home to teach.
I think this week will tell a few interesting tales.
For now, I'm off to work on a masterpiece.
He may need a bit of help with his painting.
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Must Be the Dew
I can't sleep. It's 3:30 in the morning, and I'm wide awake.
So, I guess I'll write in a stream of consciousness about my day.
Nursed baby
Awoke on time
Showered
Nursed baby
Woke up family
Bo heated up spaghetti
Made garlic bread
Yes, this was breakfast
Got out muffin batter
Made bran muffins
Bathed Sweetheart
Curled Sweetheart's hair
Fixed Bard's hair. Says she doesn't know how to use curling iron or straightener. Child will NOT be driving a car anytime in the next ten years.
Listened to Sweetheart ask if her hair was still curled
Nursed baby
Filled water bottles
Gathered all my shtuff
Got in van
Called MIL. Nice chat.
We all went to town
Dropped Bo off at work
Went to magic shop
Watched cool magic tricks
Bought cool magic tricks
Told Houdin he has to make some of his own tricks
Went to chocolate factory
Got some goodies
Picked up FreeCycle stuff--shoes.
Put brown shoes on
Went to Chick Fil A
Kids played
Went to PetSmart
Looked at fish
Bought guinea pig hut
Bought guinea pig chewies
Houdin found cool palm tree for fish tank
Told Houdin to save money for cool palm tree for fish tank
Visited with adoptable pets.
Told kids, "No, we can't have another dog/cat/whatever."
Went to Jo Ann ETC
Wandered helplessly through aisles
Bought paper to make valentines
Paper is expensive
Asked Monet if he would paint me a picture
Bought huge canvas and paints for Monet to paint me a picture
Let Monet pick out paintbrushes (on sale)
Went to Sam's Club
Kids all got along well
Shopped WITH a list
Lady at checkout asked if kids were "all mine."
Lady's jaw dropped.
Lady at checkout asked Bard where she goes to school.
Bard told lady she was homeschooled.
Discussion about expense of public school
Picked up Bo from work
Took kids to choir
Bo and I drive to shopping district
Went to Dollar Tree. Bought some gifts
Went to Sam's Club again. More gifts.
Bo is hungry. Off to Baja Fresh
Awesome guacamole
Drank Mountain Dew, against my better judgement
Picked up kids
Drove home. Had discussion about Houdin's magic. Kid at choir grabbed one of his tricks and tore it. Doggone kids.
Discussed Las Angeles vs Las Vegas.
Discussed largest city, according to population
Discussed world's tallest buildings
Discussed largest man-made thing
Monet says, "The world is the largest man-made thing."
Everyone disagrees.
Monet asks about God. "Is God a man?"
Discussed language of Bible.
Monet asks if God is everything.
Bard says, "God isn't everything, but God made everything and is in everything."
Bard talks about God. "He's like those labels that say, 'Contains 100% juice.' Doesn't mean it *is* 100% juice. Just that it *contains* 100% juice. Everything contains God."
Got home
Cleaned out van
Put away groceries
Peed
Nursed Baby
Blogged
Read blogs
Argued with Bard about monetary system. Made her mad.
Nursed Baby
Got hug from Bard
Listened to Bard complain about lost library card
Blogged
Read blogs
Went to talk to Bard about lost library card.
Blogged
Read blogs
Busted my dad for eating valentine's gift.
Played way too much Zork or something or other thanks to Grouchy Old Yorkie Lady.
Still up. Should be sleeping.
Check clock. 3:52.
This is nuts.
Going to bed.
Against my better judgement, publishing this post.
So, I guess I'll write in a stream of consciousness about my day.
Nursed baby
Awoke on time
Showered
Nursed baby
Woke up family
Bo heated up spaghetti
Made garlic bread
Yes, this was breakfast
Got out muffin batter
Made bran muffins
Bathed Sweetheart
Curled Sweetheart's hair
Fixed Bard's hair. Says she doesn't know how to use curling iron or straightener. Child will NOT be driving a car anytime in the next ten years.
Listened to Sweetheart ask if her hair was still curled
Nursed baby
Filled water bottles
Gathered all my shtuff
Got in van
Called MIL. Nice chat.
We all went to town
Dropped Bo off at work
Went to magic shop
Watched cool magic tricks
Bought cool magic tricks
Told Houdin he has to make some of his own tricks
Went to chocolate factory
Got some goodies
Picked up FreeCycle stuff--shoes.
Put brown shoes on
Went to Chick Fil A
Kids played
Went to PetSmart
Looked at fish
Bought guinea pig hut
Bought guinea pig chewies
Houdin found cool palm tree for fish tank
Told Houdin to save money for cool palm tree for fish tank
Visited with adoptable pets.
Told kids, "No, we can't have another dog/cat/whatever."
Went to Jo Ann ETC
Wandered helplessly through aisles
Bought paper to make valentines
Paper is expensive
Asked Monet if he would paint me a picture
Bought huge canvas and paints for Monet to paint me a picture
Let Monet pick out paintbrushes (on sale)
Went to Sam's Club
Kids all got along well
Shopped WITH a list
Lady at checkout asked if kids were "all mine."
Lady's jaw dropped.
Lady at checkout asked Bard where she goes to school.
Bard told lady she was homeschooled.
Discussion about expense of public school
Picked up Bo from work
Took kids to choir
Bo and I drive to shopping district
Went to Dollar Tree. Bought some gifts
Went to Sam's Club again. More gifts.
Bo is hungry. Off to Baja Fresh
Awesome guacamole
Drank Mountain Dew, against my better judgement
Picked up kids
Drove home. Had discussion about Houdin's magic. Kid at choir grabbed one of his tricks and tore it. Doggone kids.
Discussed Las Angeles vs Las Vegas.
Discussed largest city, according to population
Discussed world's tallest buildings
Discussed largest man-made thing
Monet says, "The world is the largest man-made thing."
Everyone disagrees.
Monet asks about God. "Is God a man?"
Discussed language of Bible.
Monet asks if God is everything.
Bard says, "God isn't everything, but God made everything and is in everything."
Bard talks about God. "He's like those labels that say, 'Contains 100% juice.' Doesn't mean it *is* 100% juice. Just that it *contains* 100% juice. Everything contains God."
Got home
Cleaned out van
Put away groceries
Peed
Nursed Baby
Blogged
Read blogs
Argued with Bard about monetary system. Made her mad.
Nursed Baby
Got hug from Bard
Listened to Bard complain about lost library card
Blogged
Read blogs
Went to talk to Bard about lost library card.
Blogged
Read blogs
Busted my dad for eating valentine's gift.
Played way too much Zork or something or other thanks to Grouchy Old Yorkie Lady.
Still up. Should be sleeping.
Check clock. 3:52.
This is nuts.
Going to bed.
Against my better judgement, publishing this post.
My Big Fat Teased Hair
According to Cattiva over at Does This Mean I'm a Grown-Up, big hair is, well...big.
Or at least it's heading in that direction.
I'm marching my little hair right back over to No-Internal-Organs-Girl to demand a set and great big fat tease.
Time to bust out the Aqua Net Industrial Strength Hold. Unscented, please.
Or at least it's heading in that direction.
I'm marching my little hair right back over to No-Internal-Organs-Girl to demand a set and great big fat tease.
Time to bust out the Aqua Net Industrial Strength Hold. Unscented, please.
Monday, February 07, 2005
More Questions, More Answers...
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!
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!
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.
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