Sunday, September 18, 2005
Ketchup
Ketchup: Free Verse
I am so relieved to give my tired feet a rest.
I wonder if the ketchup I'm making will be edible;
I hear echoes of my aunt telling my dad, "I couldn't wait for Ma's ketchup to run out. I hated that stuff."
I see my grandmothers garden in my mind's eye, her hoeing in the midst of it, and
I want to raise a garden just like hers, filled with red currants, delicious tomatoes, and tender carrots.
I am on my own in this; my grandmother has gone on to a different kind of harvest.
I pretend I'm self-sufficient, but I know that's a joke.
I feel inadequate; the Amish and Mennonite women in my neighborhood, like my grandmother, put up peaches, can corn, toil over tomatoes. They hang out their handmade clothes every Monday, gather to clean each other's houses, have a support system about which it exhausts me even to dream.
I touch the Victoria Strainer borrowed from a friend, plunge the tomatoes into its mouth and turn the crank, listening to the noises that come from it that sound like a scene from Willy Wonka. I think about the seasons of harvest that have passed through its sieve.
I worry about this ketchup, whether it will be edible, whether I, too, will have a child who says, "I can't wait until Mom's ketchup is gone. I hate that stuff."
I cry for the mother that I once had, over the times I, too, said, "I hate this stuff."
I am ashamed. I am a motherless daughter now.
I understand what my children do not, and they understand what I do not.
I say that it's important to treasure every moment, yet I know that I spend too much time worrying, crying and complaining.
I dream of the day when my kitchen will stay clean, when my floor will stay swept, when the toys will not trip me in the night.
I try to push the dream away, to appreciate where I am, right now.
I hope that my ketchup will be edible, that my grandmother's harvest is plentiful, that my children's toys will trip me in the night, that I will learn to be content.
I am a mother, a daughter, a granddaughter, and I am learning what that means.
*This is a poem written using a template that was posted on Hind's Feet's blog. Why don't you try it, too, and send me a note in my comments when you're done?
I am
I wonder
I hear
I see
I want
I am
I pretend
I feel
I touch
I worry
I cry
I am
I understand
I say
I dream
I try
I hope
I am
I am so relieved to give my tired feet a rest.
I wonder if the ketchup I'm making will be edible;
I hear echoes of my aunt telling my dad, "I couldn't wait for Ma's ketchup to run out. I hated that stuff."
I see my grandmothers garden in my mind's eye, her hoeing in the midst of it, and
I want to raise a garden just like hers, filled with red currants, delicious tomatoes, and tender carrots.
I am on my own in this; my grandmother has gone on to a different kind of harvest.
I pretend I'm self-sufficient, but I know that's a joke.
I feel inadequate; the Amish and Mennonite women in my neighborhood, like my grandmother, put up peaches, can corn, toil over tomatoes. They hang out their handmade clothes every Monday, gather to clean each other's houses, have a support system about which it exhausts me even to dream.
I touch the Victoria Strainer borrowed from a friend, plunge the tomatoes into its mouth and turn the crank, listening to the noises that come from it that sound like a scene from Willy Wonka. I think about the seasons of harvest that have passed through its sieve.
I worry about this ketchup, whether it will be edible, whether I, too, will have a child who says, "I can't wait until Mom's ketchup is gone. I hate that stuff."
I cry for the mother that I once had, over the times I, too, said, "I hate this stuff."
I am ashamed. I am a motherless daughter now.
I understand what my children do not, and they understand what I do not.
I say that it's important to treasure every moment, yet I know that I spend too much time worrying, crying and complaining.
I dream of the day when my kitchen will stay clean, when my floor will stay swept, when the toys will not trip me in the night.
I try to push the dream away, to appreciate where I am, right now.
I hope that my ketchup will be edible, that my grandmother's harvest is plentiful, that my children's toys will trip me in the night, that I will learn to be content.
I am a mother, a daughter, a granddaughter, and I am learning what that means.
*This is a poem written using a template that was posted on Hind's Feet's blog. Why don't you try it, too, and send me a note in my comments when you're done?
I am
I wonder
I hear
I see
I want
I am
I pretend
I feel
I touch
I worry
I cry
I am
I understand
I say
I dream
I try
I hope
I am
Friday, September 16, 2005
Monarch Butterfly Egg
When I shared my collage of our Monarch butterfly rearing experience, I lamented the fact that I didn't have a photo of an egg because of their tininess. Doug Smith sent me a link to this photo of a Monarch butterfly egg that he took with the macro feature of his digital camera. Amazing!Check out Doug's site, Simply Charlotte Mason. Thanks, Doug!
It's Worth It
A friend recently wrote this piece about the importance of letter-writing. I know that sometimes our kids despair over any kind of writing, and we soft-hearted mothers, who feel like we're torturing our darling children, despair along with them. But don't give up. It will be worth it, I promise you, and they'll someday thank you for the gift you gave them."My mom, even when I was 7, taught me to write letters when things were both worthy of praise, and when they weren't right. I earned my first paycheck at age 8 picking berries outside of Portland. $3.23 for about 2 weeks work and I was elated. I sent away for a toy from a cereal box (we were serial cereal box readers) and it came broken. My mom sat down with me and had me write in my own handwriting to the company to send it back. The company must have liked it, because they sent me the whole SET of these toys. I can't remember a thing about those toys, but it's a story I love to tell my kids, as they never met their stunningly brilliant grandmother."
~Cynthia Fisher Rose
Thursday, September 15, 2005
Daily Grammar
Do you or your child have a question about grammar that you just can't seem to remember how to answer? Check here for answers and miniature lesson plans!
Wednesday, September 14, 2005
The Whole of a Child's Existence to Be Used as his Education
"It is worth while to point out the differing characters of a system and a method, because parents let themselves be run away with often enough by some plausible 'system,' the object of which is to produce development in one direction––of the muscles, of the memory, of the reasoning faculty––were a complete all-round education. This easy satisfaction arises from the sluggishness of human nature, to which any definite scheme is more agreeable than the constant watchfulness, the unforeseen action, called for when the whole of a child's existence is to be used as the means of his education."Charlotte Mason, Home Education
My Favorite Chair
I can't begin to tell you how very inviting my favorite chair looks to me right now. It's not an expensive chair by any means. I hauled it away from an estate sale after noticing the "FREE! TAKE ME!" sign that was pinned to it.Of course, I've fantasized about other chairs, even shopped around for a few--maybe a nice leather one that's super pricey because the saleswoman can pour Coke on it and it won't eat away the finish. Or maybe a deep, fluffy oversized chair where two or three of us can sit at one time without fear of dislodging one of the arms. But my free chair is quite comfortable, reclines very nicely, and it's just the right funky color of split-pea-soup yellow that I happen to like. Plus it's all I can afford.
Today was one of those killer homeschool days where I'd rather have curled up in the fetal position in my free pea-soup chair; I hit the ground running at 6:00 AM, and even though my throbbing feet are currently standing still, my mind and my worries and my two-year-old are not.
I really enjoy learning with my children. I'm not lying when I say this. I live for those moments when they say, "Oh! I know what this is about! Remember when we watched A Man for All Seasons? Wasn't it King Henry who wanted to divorce his wife? Wasn't he the one that chopped his wives' heads off?" or "Adding nines is so easy, Mom, if you know the secret," or "MOM! I PEED IN THE POTTY! COME AND SEE! IT'S JUST LIKE ONCE A POTTY POTTY!"
But there are days--like today--when even my best-laid, color coded, color-copied in triplicate plans seem to be nothing but dust on a chalkboard.
Today presented me with:
a sick son, to the tune of, "Mom? What is this green stuff I just coughed up? And why is my right hip tingling?";
a sick husband who I actually asked, "Just tell me; are you honestly sick? I mean really and truly sick?";
about a finity of tomatoes just waiting to be made into pico de gallo;
about a finity of toys waiting to be removed from the floor, the bathtub, the porch and the ceiling;
an empty crock pot waiting for beautiful soup;
a broken crockpot that will never see beautiful soup again;
and another empty crockpot ready to receive about half as much beautiful soup as I'd planned to make.
Today, talented woman that I am, I juggled:
Two Amish Taxi jobs;
an algebra class for my daughter and the panic that ensued on the way there (hers, not mine);
a trip to the Stuff*Mart for the stuff I needed to complete the pico de gallo that was, unbeknownst to me, being eaten incomplete;
a library program before which Monet ripped his pants in a very unfortunate and quite conspicous location while climbing out of the van which is notorious for eating pants;
a trip to the Stuff*Mart to buy a new pair of pants for said embarrassed son;
a quick trip home to see the disaster area that is my kitchen and the imcomplete salsa that decorated the kitchen table;
another trip to Stuff*Mart for the milk I forgot during the first two trips;
and a play audition that ran much later than I had anticipated.
At various points during the day, I lost my temper. I cried. I felt totally and completely abandoned. Those antidepressants were looking mighty tempting, lemme tell you.
But those moments...those precious validating, uplifting, encouraging, miraculous, throw-away-the-prescription-for-antidepressants moments keep me going. Like:
When I take my children for assessments and the assessor is impressed with our organization, our curriculum and the quality of our work;
When I decide to try the copier one more time in hopes that I won't get horrible black streaks across my page, and it actually works;
When my daughter auditions for a play for which she didn't think she had a chance and the director tells her how well she read her lines and asks her what role she'd like to play;
When the kids all tell me that the beef-vegetable soup is awesome--even the baby and the picky eater;
When we sit together after dinner and read A Child's History of the World, even though it's 10:30 P.M.and we're absolutely pooped, just because there was something interesting we wanted to discuss--just because we wanted to do it;
When my son finishes reading a chapter of Heroes, a book about Roman Mythology, and wonders aloud, "How do we know Christianity's legit?" and a frank discussion about religion takes place in the kitchen;
When a friend happens to call just as the other son asks, "What killed the dinosaurs?" and the friend actually has a well thought-out response for him;
When my daughter, who insists she can't read, reads the word "jam," and I ask, "How did you know what that said?" and, before she can catch herself, she answers, "I read it," and when she realizes what she just said, she grins from ear to ear;
When my fourteen-year-old son says, "I thought I'd hate Greek and Latin, but it's actually a lot of fun;"
Or when he tells his private-schooled, homeschool-skeptical friend, "My mom asks us to tell her what we know, doesn't test us to find out what we don't know," in response to his question about mid-terms;
Or, better yet, when he tells me about how his friend who is a girl was giving her mom lip service while he was talking to her on the phone and I said, "If you were a gentleman who was truly concerned with your friend's well-being, you'd have told her to go help her mother and you'd call her back later," and he says, "That's what I did."
When a veteran public school teacher tells me that she's never seen an inadequate homeschooling family, but she's seen plenty of inadequate public school students, including an eighteen-year-old who can't read cursive and a sixteen-year-old who spells worse than a first-grader;
When the girls from the homeschool support group approach my daughter whom they've never met, address her by name and invite her to play Capture the Flag, like civilized human beings, NOT social misfits;
When my daughter puts her arms around me and says, "Thank you for taking us to science class tonight, Mom. It was a lot of fun."
Those things should always be before me. I should always focus on them. I know I won't, because I'm a fallible human being with a vitamin B deficiency, but I should.
I do recognize, however, that while that comfy chair looks really good to run to in solitude, it's so much more comfy when I'm relaxing in it while listening to my daughter play "It's a Pirate's Life for Me" on the piano, watching a son draw the corn snake we found in the front yard, hearing another son read about Perseus, having another daughter proudly show me her thumbprint art, and a baby singing her ABCs followed by every Christmas song ever written, even though it's only September or looking up at me from the breast and saying, "Thank you for nursing."
Now that's a chair. That's a chair worth sitting in. That, my homelearning friends, is the kind of comfy that simply can't be bought.
Sunday, September 11, 2005
To the Moon and Part-way Back
: "When I was a child, I memorized that the average (mean) distance to the moon was 238,857 mi. Now it's 238,856 which is probably more accurate. The moon's orbit is elliptical, and the distance varies quite a bit (it varies from 225,745 mi. to 251,967 mi.)."
After thinking about the distance around the earth, my darling husband wondered about the distance to the moon. I, being the sharp cookie that I am, knew where he was going with this one.
Alas, our Jeep has driven to the moon and part-way back!
After thinking about the distance around the earth, my darling husband wondered about the distance to the moon. I, being the sharp cookie that I am, knew where he was going with this one.
Alas, our Jeep has driven to the moon and part-way back!
What is the circumference of the earth?
What is the circumference of the earth?: "The circumference of the earth at the equator is 24,901.55 miles (40,075.16 kilometers)."
My husband had me look up this little factoid. I didn't know why he wanted to know the circumference of the earth until he said, "Wow. Then I've driven my Jeep around the world ten times."
My husband had me look up this little factoid. I didn't know why he wanted to know the circumference of the earth until he said, "Wow. Then I've driven my Jeep around the world ten times."
Saturday, September 10, 2005
Friday, September 09, 2005
Production of the Latent Good
"If a human being were a machine, education could do more for him than to set him in action in prescribed ways, and the work of the educator would be simply to adopt a good working system or set of systems.But the educator has to deal with a self-acting, self-developing being, and his business is to guide, and assist in, the production of the latent good in that being, the dissipation of the latent evil, the preparation of the child to take his place in the world at his best, with every capacity for good that is in him developed into a power. "
~Charlotte Mason, Home Education
Thursday, September 08, 2005
I hate insurance
Doesn't it seem ironic that you go to the doctor so you can find out what's wrong with you and feel better, and you walk out even more confused and feel so much worse?
I was prepared. I really was. I'd looked up the doctor's office on the insurance website (I hate insurance) and saw that my favorite doc's office was covered. I was certain of this because each doc in the practice was listed separately along with a notation of whether they were taking new patients.
So I made my call and went through all the repetitive questions they ask when you call the doc's office, including whether this would be self-pay or insurance (I hate insurance). I told them I was insured, and that was the end of that.
I cleared my day; luckily for me, that just meant arranging to have all of my five children occupied and asking my father to be home between 2:00 and 4:00 to do damage control, which is a joke because there's more damage done while he's here than if I'd have left the kids alone with a wild orangutan and a gallon of Hershey's syrup. Still, I think it's wise to have someone here to at least represent an adult, since Bard was off for the weekend with her friend at a campout.
I've only gone to see my favorite doc a few times, and it's always been for my kids. He became my favorite doc when his son and Monet were on the same baseball team. Through talking to his wife, I discovered that she'd used extended breastfeeding with her twins. He became my very favorite doc when he rushed over to check The Baby after she'd been hit by a foul ball and didn't charge us. He didn't even turn it in to our insurance company (I hate insurance).
The down side of seeing this particular doc is that I have to go to his far-away-from-me office because his close-to-me office is too full and they wouldn't possibly be able to take another paying customer there, so I drive to the next town, which cuts down my waiting time, but now that gas prices are so high, the drive costs more than my co-pay (I hate insurance).
But I made the drive, because, frankly, I'm tired of being afraid that I'm going to die in my sleep of a heart attack or that I have some watermelon-sized tumor in my head that prevents me from completing sentences and speaking plain English to my children, who currently look at me as if I'm a wild orangutan when I tell them to take out the trash or pick up their underwear.
I proudly handed the receptionist my insurance card (I hate insurance). She obviously had no idea what an amazing feat it was for me to actually know where it was and be able to present it in one piece. I don't exaggerate at all when I tell you that I have dropped very important documents only to find them later between the black lab's teeth or floating in the toilet. So I was slightly taken aback when she handed me the card without copying it and shook her head.
"We don't take this insurance."
Have you ever wanted to murder someone?
"What does that mean?" Do you see why I'm worried about that watermelon-sized brain tumor?
"We don't take this insurance," she repeated. She didn't even say it more slowly.
I must have looked a bit dumbfounded, though I can't for the life of me imagine why.
"I checked the insurance company's website. Your office is listed there. Actually, each of your doctors is listed there. I'm sure you take this insurance. Can you check again?"
"We don't take that insurance," she repeated. But at least this time she was kind enough to add, "Other people have made that mistake, too."
"No. Nonononono. This is a mistake," I assured her. "Do you have web access? I'll show you where I saw it. I can show you the exact page that lists every single doctor in this office." She shook her head reluctantly.
"Do you have a fax machine? I'll have my husband fax you the page." She looked kind of afraid. I knew I was on the right track.
"Will you step outside with me into the dark alley behind the office?" She agreed to call the insurance liason (I hate insurance).
I sat in the tiny empty waiting room on one of the ten chairs and waited. I hadn't brought a book and there were no magazines with Johnny Depp on the cover, so I just sat there. In a desperate attempt to be proactive, I did call my husband and asked him to fax that page to this insurance-forsaken office.
Turns out that the problem wasn't that my insurance company didn't cover my favorite doctor. The problem was the my insurance company didn't cover the doctor I would be seeing that day--the only doctor in the office, the "new guy." A quick call to my hubby and a determination that I needed this appointment, and I was off to the unpleasantries of getting weighed and sitting in the examining room.
My blood pressure's not low, which is what I suspected, and it's not high. It's completely normal. This is both good news and bad news. It's good news because I don't have to worry about my blood pressure at this stage of my life. It's bad news because now I have no idea what's wrong with me. The doc says it's tension, wants to put me on antidepressants. I'm not thrilled with the potential side-effects, so I haven't yet picked up my prescription. Anyway, I think he's wrong.
So now it's more tests--blood tests, EKGs, CAT scans and all that fun stuff.
But here's the miraculous thing; after waiting in the waiting room for another fifteen minutes so they could get one of the other out-of-office docs to write a prescription for bloodwork, I approached the receptionist to pay my bill. Had my heart had reason to fail, then would have been the time.
It was stamped, "NO CHARGE."
How's that for stress-relief?
So, thank you for all of the prayers and notes of concern. I'm fine, though very curious what could be causing me such discomfort. Time, and a few involuntary blood donations, will tell.
By the way, I just want to mention one little thing. I hate insurance.
I was prepared. I really was. I'd looked up the doctor's office on the insurance website (I hate insurance) and saw that my favorite doc's office was covered. I was certain of this because each doc in the practice was listed separately along with a notation of whether they were taking new patients.
So I made my call and went through all the repetitive questions they ask when you call the doc's office, including whether this would be self-pay or insurance (I hate insurance). I told them I was insured, and that was the end of that.
I cleared my day; luckily for me, that just meant arranging to have all of my five children occupied and asking my father to be home between 2:00 and 4:00 to do damage control, which is a joke because there's more damage done while he's here than if I'd have left the kids alone with a wild orangutan and a gallon of Hershey's syrup. Still, I think it's wise to have someone here to at least represent an adult, since Bard was off for the weekend with her friend at a campout.
I've only gone to see my favorite doc a few times, and it's always been for my kids. He became my favorite doc when his son and Monet were on the same baseball team. Through talking to his wife, I discovered that she'd used extended breastfeeding with her twins. He became my very favorite doc when he rushed over to check The Baby after she'd been hit by a foul ball and didn't charge us. He didn't even turn it in to our insurance company (I hate insurance).
The down side of seeing this particular doc is that I have to go to his far-away-from-me office because his close-to-me office is too full and they wouldn't possibly be able to take another paying customer there, so I drive to the next town, which cuts down my waiting time, but now that gas prices are so high, the drive costs more than my co-pay (I hate insurance).
But I made the drive, because, frankly, I'm tired of being afraid that I'm going to die in my sleep of a heart attack or that I have some watermelon-sized tumor in my head that prevents me from completing sentences and speaking plain English to my children, who currently look at me as if I'm a wild orangutan when I tell them to take out the trash or pick up their underwear.
I proudly handed the receptionist my insurance card (I hate insurance). She obviously had no idea what an amazing feat it was for me to actually know where it was and be able to present it in one piece. I don't exaggerate at all when I tell you that I have dropped very important documents only to find them later between the black lab's teeth or floating in the toilet. So I was slightly taken aback when she handed me the card without copying it and shook her head.
"We don't take this insurance."
Have you ever wanted to murder someone?
"What does that mean?" Do you see why I'm worried about that watermelon-sized brain tumor?
"We don't take this insurance," she repeated. She didn't even say it more slowly.
I must have looked a bit dumbfounded, though I can't for the life of me imagine why.
"I checked the insurance company's website. Your office is listed there. Actually, each of your doctors is listed there. I'm sure you take this insurance. Can you check again?"
"We don't take that insurance," she repeated. But at least this time she was kind enough to add, "Other people have made that mistake, too."
"No. Nonononono. This is a mistake," I assured her. "Do you have web access? I'll show you where I saw it. I can show you the exact page that lists every single doctor in this office." She shook her head reluctantly.
"Do you have a fax machine? I'll have my husband fax you the page." She looked kind of afraid. I knew I was on the right track.
"Will you step outside with me into the dark alley behind the office?" She agreed to call the insurance liason (I hate insurance).
I sat in the tiny empty waiting room on one of the ten chairs and waited. I hadn't brought a book and there were no magazines with Johnny Depp on the cover, so I just sat there. In a desperate attempt to be proactive, I did call my husband and asked him to fax that page to this insurance-forsaken office.
Turns out that the problem wasn't that my insurance company didn't cover my favorite doctor. The problem was the my insurance company didn't cover the doctor I would be seeing that day--the only doctor in the office, the "new guy." A quick call to my hubby and a determination that I needed this appointment, and I was off to the unpleasantries of getting weighed and sitting in the examining room.
My blood pressure's not low, which is what I suspected, and it's not high. It's completely normal. This is both good news and bad news. It's good news because I don't have to worry about my blood pressure at this stage of my life. It's bad news because now I have no idea what's wrong with me. The doc says it's tension, wants to put me on antidepressants. I'm not thrilled with the potential side-effects, so I haven't yet picked up my prescription. Anyway, I think he's wrong.
So now it's more tests--blood tests, EKGs, CAT scans and all that fun stuff.
But here's the miraculous thing; after waiting in the waiting room for another fifteen minutes so they could get one of the other out-of-office docs to write a prescription for bloodwork, I approached the receptionist to pay my bill. Had my heart had reason to fail, then would have been the time.
It was stamped, "NO CHARGE."
How's that for stress-relief?
So, thank you for all of the prayers and notes of concern. I'm fine, though very curious what could be causing me such discomfort. Time, and a few involuntary blood donations, will tell.
By the way, I just want to mention one little thing. I hate insurance.
Tuesday, September 06, 2005
Request for prayer
Well, I'm finally doing what I should have done a long time ago.
For about a year, I've been dealing with tightness in the chest, severe headaches, light-headedness when I stand up from a sitting position, irregular heartbeat and slight nausea. I'm sick of it. I had a headache for two days that no medicine would eliminate, so I'm going to the doctor at 2:30. It's the first time I've been to a doc in about ten years.
Prayers for me, please.
For about a year, I've been dealing with tightness in the chest, severe headaches, light-headedness when I stand up from a sitting position, irregular heartbeat and slight nausea. I'm sick of it. I had a headache for two days that no medicine would eliminate, so I'm going to the doctor at 2:30. It's the first time I've been to a doc in about ten years.
Prayers for me, please.
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