Christmas 2.0

As a child, it wasn't Christmas until we went to my grandparents' home in Haddonfield, NJ. There, my grandmother left no stone undecorated. From the mantel to the bathroom, every surface was covered with Christmas cheer.

We always left the day classes let out and arrived at her house for a late dinner. After quickly eating our meal, we kids excitedly decorated her second tree in the back room. She always left one tree bare so that we could cover it with our childish, homemade ornaments. Basking in the glow of the twinkling tree lights and the glow from the fire, we sipped hot chocolate crowded with giant marshmallows.

My grandmother died 20 years ago, and the holidays have never regained the magic that she created for us. Unable to know my grandmother, I'm glad that they can at least have a taste of her mastery.

This year we made the journey north to visit my aunt. Like my grandmother, she works hard to give the kids a magical experience. From the Christmas decorations that adorn every corner of the house to the crafts prepared to the outings planned, my kids have been spoiled by her Christmassy thoughtfulness.

The Birds and the Bees (and the Kittens)

One of these cats is not like the other.

All these kittens inevitably leads to the question of who the father is and what role the daddy has in making kittens.

While we were at the beach, my sister had the opportunity to talk to my 8 year old about what role the daddy cat plays in making kittens. Voicing what we all were wondering, my sister asked, "Do you know who the father is? Do the kittens' looks give you any clue as to which cat is the dad?"

My 8 year old was sort of surprised at this question. "No, we don't own a boy cat. We only have 2 girl cats."

My sister took the opportunity to explain to her the kitten version of the birds and the bees. Even though my daughter has heard this before in terms of chickens and humans, I think it takes a while for it to dawn on most kids that the reproductive process really isn't just how one species multiplies.

Following my sister's example, I provoked a conversation with my 5 year old. Walking on the beach that night, I asked her who she thought the daddy cat was. She gave me a similar response.

Her blank look said the same thing as the words that came out of her mouth, "Don't you know we only have 2 girl cats?"

"I know we don't own a boy, but there are boy cats in the neighborhood and our cats go outside. Did you know that the mommy cat needs a daddy cat in order to make kittens?"

"No."

"How did you think our kittens got pregnant."

Giggling. "They kissed?!"

And so I explained to her how kittens and humans are similar in this way. Intermittently, she'd run off to join her cousins and then run back and say, "Again." That was her signal to me to pick up in the explanation where I had left off. I explained it all and didn't even use euphemisms to label the body parts. She was fascinated.

But she's 5. She won't really understand all of what I said. However, I do want her and the rest of the kids to understand this: sex isn't a taboo topic with their mother. They can ask me anything knowing that I won't change the unpleasant subject or think they are bad for asking. Later on, friends will make comments about things they've never heard of before and I don't want my kids to be embarrassed to ask me about it.

All of this is well and good, but really, we need to find which cat in the neighborhood is responsible so that we can send him the kitten formula bills.

So Many Kitties!

This summer both cats gave birth to a litter of cats. As you know from a previous post, Con gave birth to kittens, but they kept dying. The only one to survive was named Lucky by my 4 year old the first time he saw him. Who knew that name would be so appropriate?

Lucky is now almost 2 months old and is in his fluffy, stop-you-in-your-tracks cute stage. His bright blue eyes are dulling into a green, and his tale looks less like a bald rat tail. His tail is as fluffy as the rest of him.

Feeding time for Lucky

Our other cat, Pip, gave birth while our family was on vacation. We knew she was pregnant from her huge bulging sides. One day she became stuck when she jumped onto the deck and tried to walk through the slats of the railings like she normally did. I found her meowing with her head and front paws through the slat. Her big, pregnant belly couldn't fit but she was afraid to jump backwards from the deck. I had to reach over the deck and carefully save the frightened cat without hurting the unborn kittens. Tricky!

So it was not really shocking that while we were on vacation, I received a call from our neighbor's 8 year old daughter. Excitedly, she recounted to me how she and her mom found the kittens, and every detail she relayed was eager absorbed by my kids. They were so anxious to see the new kittens that they almost wanted to end the beach week early.

Pip guarding her 4 kittens.

By the time we arrived home, one of the new kittens died. So in total, we have 2 momma cats, 1 Lucky, and 4 new kittens.

So...who wants a kitty cat?

Our Culture Needs Rituals for When Babies Die

***Last week was the 10th anniversary of my son's stillbirth. For me, it was a life changing experience, and I haven't yet fully recovered from the tremors of that quake which shook me to the core. On Facebook, I'd written this note last summer in response to an article I heard on NPR. As a way of keeping all of my children's written memories collected in one place, I've decided to include this piece on my blog.****

August 28, 2011

The summer after River's stillbirth, I remember listening to a reenactor describe the death rituals of the Civil War era.  Among them, she said, was to cast a mold of the dead baby's face or body.  While the other people in the group gasped in disgust at something so morbid, I understood.  These customs were instructions for the family and friends to know how to act during a sad time.  

A picture of our little River many hours after his stillbirth. When he looked too much like the corpse he was, holding him became too sad for me.

During my shock in the weeks after River died, I thought over and over how I had no idea how I was supposed to act or what to do. And many dear people around me didn't know what to say to me or how to show their concern because River was born dead which didn't allow anyone else to know him.  I was the only one who'd been with him for those 41 weeks of his life.  It was awkward.  We all needed a manual for how to act after a prenatal death as people's awkwardness hurt my feelings.  Thankfully, enough loved ones took charge and organized a funeral for his burial because I doubt anyone today could understand why Liz had cast a mold of her 9 1/2 lb. beauty.

This morning, I heard a previously aired NPR article about this father's silent grief after the miscarriage of his baby.  Until my own experiences with both a stillbirth and two miscarriages, I know that I would have continued to treat other people's loss as if it was "no big deal" because that is exactly what I thought of those losses before my own.  Now I know that in addition to the pain of the loss, the loneliness surrounding these events magnifies the grief.  While I'm clueless to offer any suggestions as to what we should do for parents to have an outlet for their pain, I know that a funeral really helped my family.  The people who attended the funeral validated River's life and my loss.  It was therapeutic.

Over the last 9 years I've seen more support groups, memorial services, and online webpages where people can memorialize their babies who were lost either in the neonatal or postnatal stage.  Hopefully, this trend of an open display of emotions will influence our culture to reach out to those parents grieving the loss of a baby that no one ever had the chance to meet.

This is the transcript that I listened to.
From NPR's All Things Considered:

August 19, 2011

Ken Harbaugh is a former Navy pilot and an NPR commentator. 

 It has been three months since the miscarriage. We weren't far along, still in the first trimester, so only our closest friends knew we were expecting.

Annmarie, my wife, is fine. At least, her body is fine. There is something broken in both of us, though.

My wife and I have every reason to be grateful. The miscarriage happened early on. Annmarie was never in danger. We have two beautiful girls already. If we want, we can still have more. But the whole experience left us wondering how one deals with a tragedy that happens quietly at home.

A few weeks before we lost the baby, my wife's grandfather died. His funeral, like any other, was solemn. But also beautiful. Everyone came — all 10 kids, from across the country. Distant relatives, co-workers, people from church stopped by to pay their respects. They mourned alongside the family. We buried Grandpa Kel that afternoon, and woke the next morning with the memory of a beautiful send-off.

There is a reason that such ceremonies exist. Who knows if it meant anything to Grandpa, lying in his coffin, but it meant a lot to everyone else. I gave him my gold Navy wings, pinned to an American flag laid on his chest. He was the only other Navy pilot in the family, and I felt the need to solemnize that connection. Others said goodbye in their own way. Some talked to him, some knelt for a while by his side. Most important, we all said farewell together.

A miscarriage is tragic enough by itself. What makes it worse is the fact that no social custom has evolved to help us through the loss. There is no ceremony, no coming together, no ritualized support. Annmarie and I suffered alone, in silence. Most of our friends had no idea we were grieving. It took me two weeks to tell my own mom.

And it's not as if life stopped, or even slowed down to allow us a moment to reflect. We had jobs to get to, kids to take care of. Real sadness seemed an indulgence we could not afford.

In the months since, I have learned something about this kind of grief. It is not a luxury, but an essential part of healing. So this weekend, after the kids are in bed, Annmarie and I will do something that may seem a little crazy. We will head into the garden with a bulb we've been saving. We will bury it, say a few words, and hold each other. We will finally have our ceremony.

I suspect that watching the first green shoot push up through the earth will hurt. Every time we see it, we will be reminded of what happened to us. But that's alright. Grief cannot be buried forever. With enough time, and a little sunlight, it might just transform itself into something that aches a little less.

Here's the link if you'd like to listen to the father read his article:
http://www.npr.org/2011/08/19/139650471/after-miscarriage-missing-the-luxury-of-grieving

Part II of Our Kittens: Some Died

Our happiness over the kittens arrival was short lived.  Two days later, my oldest discovered that one of the dark grey kittens was dead.  Dutifully, she went out to our growing pet cemetery to shovel a new grave.  By the time she came back from burying that kitten, another one had died.

Alarmed, she didn't even take time to bury this second kitten. With the dark grey little sack of stiff bones in her pocket, we rushed out to Petco to purchase kitten formula. That's right, kitten formula. Just like babies, our kittens drank formula mixed with water and dispensed through tiny little rubber nipples on baby doll sized bottled.

That night, another kitten died followed by a fourth kitten's death. After those 4 deaths, we are left with 2 kittens that we hope will continue to thrive.

Part I of Our Kittens: Newborns

Our cat, Con, gave birth to 6 kittens on Saturday, June 9. Like a true animal, she waited until we were all out of the house so that we wouldn't disturb her. If I were about to birth 6 at one time, you can be sure that everyone would know it, and I would demand that as many people as possible wait on me.

I only found out about the birth because I followed the sound of what I thought was a mouse in the basement. Instead of finding a mouse, I found an orange looking mouse with a bare tale and matted fur blindly trying to find its way back to momma. The cat chose to give birth under the guest bedroom bed, and this hours old kitten somehow was on the other side of the bedspread going in the wrong direction of Con.

I scooped up up the Tabby, lifted the bedspread, and found 5 more kittens: 3 mostly black and 2 more tabbies. Con looked at me tiredly, and I knew she wasn't faking it. She lay there listlessly while I returned the newborn to the squirming pile of kittens looking for an available teet.

Shivering by the Pool

Why are we having such cool, beautiful weather? Where was that weather on the days the kids and I worked on the lawn? Now that the pool is open, I expect the humidity to warm us. Instead, I froze tonight just sitting by the water. The little girls swam around as if in warm Roman baths. Happily, they swam on their backs, spitting water from their mouths. 

Over and over they tried to convince their shivering mother to take the plunge. And over and over I kept disappointing them. I sat by the pool in my bathing suit and kept wishing I'd dressed appropriately for the weather with a wool sweater.

Reading Is Coming Along

My 8 year old didn't like the books in her curriculum, so I bought her some new comic books and Lego books written at her level. The results have been so much better. Content really matters.

My Kids Loved this Codfish Recipe

"Hook is a codfish, Hook is a codfish!" I'm not sure why the children of Peter Pan chant this about Captain Hook. Is codfish really that bad to be compared to a horrible man?

Tonight I made the kids a tasty codfish and quinoa/veggie pilaf. They ate all of the fish and fought over the last piece, something that has never happened before. Imagine forks trying to stab the final filet while fending off the other forks as the kids yelled at each other. "You had more than me!" or "I'm still hungry!" Tears of pride filled my eyes and I wanted to take a video of the fight.

Even before dinner, my kids were hooked by the smell. "Moooom! What is that good smell?" Because of our busy lifestyle, I am often heating up prepared food and serving that with a side of fresh sliced veggies piled high. When I actually do cook from scratch like tonight, the smoke alarm usually goes off and the kids have to endure burnt food. Ah, but not tonight.

Not only did they like the cod but they actually loved the quinoa and ate seconds and thirds. I didn't have the broccoli called for the in the quinoa recipe, so I used frozen diced carrots, peas and corn. I think the beef bouillon cubes that I added to the water also gave that extra flavor.

So, I share this recipe with you. I recommend that you skip lunch, serve dinner early, and get them while they are hungry like I did. Then you'll see your tiny tots eating really nutritious food instead of snacking on the typical American fattening fillers.

This recipe comes from the Real Simple website:

The Toaster Game

Typically I wash all three little ones at once because it saves time. But really, they love being in the bath together as I'm generous with the bubbles. The lather piles high and they play for as long as the water stays warm.

Last night, they got out of our giant jacuzzi sized tub, wrapped up in towels, and huddled together. Then one of them had the idea to play Toaster.

As they were crouched down, they would all say in unison, "Tick, tick, tick, tick, DING!" When they said DING!, they all popped up and yelled "Toaster!"

I just adore how the kids come up with their sweet little games.

Enjoying My Kid's Stories

My oldest daughter is the best storyteller. The girl has timing. She entertains me even with the mundane, so she always has me smiling. While I can't mimic her timing, I can tell you the latest story that had me laughing.

The other day, one of our cats was playing with a chipmunk. Con (as she is called), was batting around a chipmunk whose neck was slashed. She would stop and watch the chipmunk, let the chipmunk run away, and then chase it. Once she caught the chipmunk, she's begin the cycle again. Over and over our cat was terrorizing the poor little rodent. Classic 'cat and mouse.'

Meanwhile in the backyard, our less aggressive cat, Pip, was frolicking in the tall grass, swinging at butterflies. The way she pointed out the contrast of these cats cracked me up.

Like the cats, my kids personalities endear them them to me so much.

Doctor Mom, Heal Thyself!

Suburban moms earned the nickname "Soccer Moms," but I have earned the name "Doctor Mom." Just like many of my fellow suburban mothers don't play soccer, I am no doctor.

However, 3 of my 5 children have regular doctor's appointments every week. In the past week, I've missed 5 appointments. It's very daunting to me. How could this happen? The easy answer is that I'm failing at balancing these appointments with the other needs in our lives.

I missed the first appointment because I didn't know that my daughter needed another prescription for her physical therapy until it was too late. The next two, were during the time that I needed an emergency meeting. I called ahead to reschedule, but it was already the day of the appointments. Not very thoughtful to the doctor. The fourth and fifth visits were the rescheduled visits and they completely floated out of my mind. I came home from physical therapy, sat down, and then received a phone call from another doctor's office reminding me that my appointment was scheduled 5 minutes ago.

Even before my week of missed appointments, things were not boding well for me.

A few months ago, I had to drive from a medical appointment to the church where my oldest daughter takes classes in order to act as study hall monitor.  I was so focused on my tight schedule that I drove halfway to the church before it occurred to me that I wasn't driving to the doctor's office. We were late but made it.

Another time, I arrived 4 hours early for the kids' appointments.

And since the physical therapy office is so close, I have been able to easily correct my forgetfulness with a quick 5 minute jaunt to their office.

I wish that I were driving my kids around to soccer practices. Instead, I am driving to doctor appointments three days a week. As a Doctor Mom, I need to heal my own mind.

A Good Report From the Orthopedist

Back in February, my oldest daughter broke her ankle. It was a painful way to end an otherwise FUN time of jumping on an indoor trampoline.  Since that break, her whole body and this family has been off kilter.

For example, in the first 7 weeks after that break, her sleep schedule was off. I swear, it brought me back to those first months after the arrival of a baby. Not able to climb the stairs to her bedroom, she slept in our recliner in the living room like I did after each birth. The pain kept her awake all night. By the morning, tiredness finally did what the painkillers couldn't: she forgot about the pain as she slept away the morning, awaking after lunch due to the pain and realizing the day was half gone.

The living room was a pile of her school books, painting supplies, clothes from upstairs, and anything else a 13 year old needs.  The recliner sat in the middle of the room so that she could view the TV from relative comfort. Her toiletries relocated to the kitchen sink. A bottle of shampoo hung out there so long that it looked normal among the kitchen supplies.

Her inability to do things for herself, her need to be waited on hand (and foot), and her inability to help us with anything around the house made me feel like I had another toddler instead of a teenager. She'd regressed back to needing me to do everything for her like she did so long ago.

While she suffered the prolonged pain of this break and the house took a downward spiral into disorganization, the doctor relayed bad news last month. He didn't see her bones coming together. Normally, he would perform surgery to insert a screw for such a case. Except, her break was at the growth plate. He didn't want to interrupt the growth she is still experiencing.

She began physical therapy in a last try to promote healing without surgery. After a month of PT, she is a different girl. She hobbles around on that broken ankle without the aid of the boot or crutches. She sleeps in her loft bed upstairs. No longer does she cry out in pain when we touch any part of the left side of her body. She zooms through her school work, helps the younger children with their school, and even began helping with chores again.

From the outside, I could see she was healing. So I wasn't surprised when the doctor today pronounced that she is also healing from the inside. Her bones are coming together without the aid of a screw; her growth plate escaped any hinderance.

I'm very grateful for her healing and hopeful that she really will regain all the range of motion she lost with this break. It's good to have her back.

Mac-and-Cheese Directions Confuse Us

I've joined the club. I am now buying gluten free bread like the rest of you. Pancake mix is now free of that devilish ingredient. Did you know that you can now buy cookies without gluten? Chicken nuggets, fish sticks, and frozen burritos all come gluten free too.

And so today, I gave my son a box of gluten free mac-and-cheese to make. Busy with other things, I told him to follow the directions. I mean, hey, I was right there in the kitchen if he needed help.

He boiled the water, cooked the noodles, and then was confused. The box told him to pour all of the powder cheese into the boiling water along with the milk. Sure he was wrong, I stopped him. When he showed me the picture on the box, I kind of scratched my head and gave him the green light.

Well, it turned out just as you would expect. All of the cheese and milk went down the drain when he strained the noodles and he was left with only plain noodles. But gluten free noodles.

After the mishap we looked at the box again. Only then did we both have clarity. No longer looking for the directions to confirm adding the powder to the pot of boiling water, we saw that the picture was really showing the powder being added to a cup of milk.

All of this reminded me of the first time I tried to make mac-and-cheese. Senior year of college, I went to a party off campus.  Since there was only beer and no food to satisfy my hunger, I asked the host for something to eat. He was busy, and threw at me a box of mac-and-cheese.

I froze. We didn't eat that back at home. I had no idea it came in a box. Butter? I had to look for butter in the fridge? Milk, too? Was I supposed to dump everything in the pot at once? I was flustered. In the end, I gave him back the box and went hungry.

It seems that the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. But at least my son will be prepared to satisfy his hunger should he find himself at a college party with no food.

The Post-Easter Purge

My 11 year old boy continues to have extremely painful aches in his body. After reviewing some tests, the doctor told us that his gut is inflamed and suffering from a yeast overgrowth as well as the inability to absorb carbohydrates. At least, I think that is what she said. Typically, I have to be told something 10 times before I understand the specifics.

In order to rid his gut of this imbalance, we are taking him off gluten and sugar. And because this might help with some other ailments in the house, the rest of us will try to phase the gluten out and replace it with appropriate foods.

We are all groaning at this verdict. Easter was on Sunday, and that day is like the springtime Halloween in terms of candy. Chocolate bunnies, chocolate eggs, jelly beans...the kids had a glorious stash.

Had.

They had a glorious stash until the temptation to partake of the forbidden pleasure was taken away. Now the candy no longer calls their names. No longer must I endure them begging for candy. They aren't beckoned to eat of the sweetness because there is nothing left. Zilch. Zip. Nada.

While walking a visitor to the door on Monday (the day after Easter), we happened upon the 3 year old in a terrific mood. He was surrounded by empty, torn candy wrappers. All of his siblings baskets lay on their sides at his feet. Around his mouth was a goatee of brown juice. With wild eyes, he looked up at us and smiled.

During the time I was busy with the visitor, this little scamp had eaten every last one of his siblings candy. The kids were in an uproar, and I couldn't stop laughing while I pretended to be mad. The little dude got rid of all that sugar in one sitting.  Sparing us of any sugar imbalance, I'm holding my breath for whatever malady will manifest in his little body from that gorge.

I Need Reading Advice

I'm hoping you seasoned teachers can help me.

My 7 year old is struggling with her reading. Using the successful A Beka reading program, I taught my other kids to read. However, this little one isn't retaining the basics. Figuring that a strong foundation is needed before moving on, we are repeating the book we just finished.

While my 7 year old complains of headaches and does anything she can to get out of her reading, her little sister is showing her up. My 5 year old loves to read, and her little mind is beginning to crack the phonetic code of our language.

All of you who help beginner readers, please help me too. What are good ways to build reading confidence?

Broken Glass

I just cleaned up a million little shards of glass. While on the phone, I heard the crash and tinkle of picture frames hitting the floor and the glass shattering. Cleaning up broken glass from a wood floor with grooves is no small task. Those grooves are like caves where the glass likes to hide.

Cleaning the glass reminded me of similar incident that happened almost 8 years ago. We were living in our townhouse. From Ikea, we had a huge 4'x3' framed Van Gogh print. Trying to get around the baby one day, I squeezed sideways by a table where the print rested and leaned against the wall. As I squeezed by, my butt bumped the table. The print fell over and exploded into a million tiny shards.

I shut my eyes and screamed and screamed and screamed imagining glass sticking out of my baby like an acupuncture procedure gone wrong.

Sharp shards showered the floor, yet the baby was miraculously spared a single piece of glass. A perfect sphere of bare floor encircled the her. Amazingly she was unscathed. But there was still that mess to clean up. What a big job!

So I don't have the best luck with glass. Unlike Helen of Troy had a face that launched a 1,000 ships, I have a butt that triggers a million shards.

My Hijacked Schoolday

For the past several weeks my homeschooling has been hijacked. Don't think of the sudden overpowering or powerful takeover. This hijacking took several weeks to build up to the final assault today.

For the past months, I've been preparing my 11 year old boy to recite from memory his 24 weeks of information in 7 subjects. Over the last few weeks, we've completed less and less of other subjects as we focused on his memory work.

All of this built up to today's hijacking. Today, we've done nothing except proof him. My other children have been orphaned. They've been left to their own survival as I shut everything out to just hear him recite his facts.

For 2 1/2 hours, I heard him tell me about everything from the Missouri Compromise to elements of the periodic table to what the associative law for addition and multiplication is to the first chapter of John in Latin. Then he said everything all over again in the afternoon to his oldest sister.

Go ahead and ask me to find all 50 states and name their capitals. Ask what the circumference of a circle is. Ask what an infinitive is. I'll tell you the major purposes of blood because when one member of your family studies to be a memory master with Classical Conversations then the momma is kinda forced to learn everything too.

Brotherly Love

My boys are separated by 8 years, yet, if things keep going as they are, I can already tell they will get along famously for the rest of their lives. That is due to how loving my oldest son is.

As an 11 year old boy, he's pretty unusual. Instead of shunning his little brother, he pleaded with me to move his 3 year old brother from the nursery so that they could be roommates.

When I ask the oldest boy to change his little brother's diaper, I often have to track down the two who are somewhere else in the house. I just follow the laughter. Since they wrestle so much, I'll find that they have rolled from room to room until they are far away from the diaper and wipes that were set aside.

And when I ask him to put the baby down for nap, he surprises me by reading books to him.  He takes the time to cuddle up with his little brother in order to read the three books that the baby must hear over and over.

With all the attention poured down on him, you can imagine that my 3 year old adores his older brother. All around the house you can hear him yelling for his big brother in his cute, little voice. He handles a controller while watching the master play Xbox. He sits beside the skilled architect as he watches buildings rise in Minecraft. He wants to do whatever he sees his big brother doing.

What a relief for me. For years I speculated on how much better life would be for my 11 year old if his stillborn brother had lived. Being two years apart, I kept imagining the lost son to be the panacea to my older son's boredom.

While I'll never know if my oldest son really lost a best friend in his dead brother, I have seen him endure as the only boy amid three girls and their stuff. After 8 years without a brother, he is making up for lost time.

Current Events Via the Ears of Xbox

Years later, my kids will remember the storms that rocked the Midwest. Their recollection will be based on what they heard from their headset. Thanks to their Xbox live subscription, my kids had a first hand account of the storms out West since they play video games with kids all over the world.

My daughter asked me if I had heard about the tornados devastating the people to the west. I was taken aback that she knew about current news. We don't have any TV signal here at the house. Her knowledge of the storms wasn't from the news, though. It was through the Xbox.

This week, my kids could hear Midwestern kids trying to finish an Xbox game while their parents yelled in the background, "Get down to the basement!"

Another kid from middle America kept asking the members of the party to speak louder so that he could hear over all of the sirens blaring in his city.

Gone are the days when we heard about meteorological events days or months after they occurred. In this newly connected world, our kids are growing up to experience history as it happens.

Magic Flying Carpet Bag?

Today I dropped off 3 kids for my mom to watch. while I went to monitor study at the not-a-school where my oldest takes her weekly classes. Combined with 5 of my brother's kids, my mom was a busy grandma.

While at my mom's house, I looked through the 2012 calendar that I made for my parents.  Compiling pictures from last year, I winded up giving them a photo journal of last year's highlights.

Those pictures from last year made me feel so happy to remember the fun memories and proud that I overcame my laziness enough to take my brood places.

My almost 4 year old niece went through the calendar with me. Each time she saw a picture with a big group of kids, she would say, "I wasn't there because I was sick,"or "I didn't go because I had a cough." Poor girl. She really had missed it all. One time she did have a cough, but she missed all the other times because my van can only illegally hold so many kids.

If only my van could hold as many kids as a tiny clown car that rivals Mary Poppins's carpet bag full of household appliances.

Pulling a lamp out of a bag or crowding 50 clowns into a car? Which is better?

My Kids' Encounter with Jim Crow

Today I read the kids this book since we covered the 14th amendment, which made all former slaves US citizens and paved the way for the Civil Rights movement (are you CC-ers singing the history song yet??).

Reading the description of Jim Crow law to the kids provoked such disgust from my 7 year old. She squished up her face saying such sweet but ignorant things like, "If I lived back then, then I would want to change my skin to black."

When my 11 year old saw this picture of Rosa Parks being fingerprinted, he remarked how ashamed the  police officer must be now.

I agree.  Not only those who were photographed must be embarrassed, but I'm guessing any man who ever asked a black woman to give him his seat must feel like a cad too.

Diversity is On the Job Training

I wrote this last month for a friend who was highlighting diversity in February.

February is known as Black History month.

I won't lie to you and say that during every February I parade the great black Americans for my children to learn about. Are you kidding?  That would mean I'm on top of things.  That would mean that I plan ahead for holidays and special events.

As I write this today, it is Chinese New Year.  In my head I had an egg carton dragon craft for the kids.  But that idea stayed in my head. I bought frozen potstickers to feed my kids like I do every week.  But they remain in the freezer as if today is like any other. The tea still remains wrapped in it's plastic packaging. The clean pot hasn't held any hot tea today.

So, I stink at special occasions.  Yet despite my lack of planning for the big events, my kids manage and get along.  Even though I never told them to call black people African Americans, they just picked that up from the culture.  Well, eventually they picked that up.

Before they knew what to call African Americans, they described them as people with brown skin.  Or grey. Or really, really dark brown almost black.  They had no idea that the level of melanin classified people into groups.  Because I didn't point anything out, they ended up noticing nothing.  They saw no difference between anyone.

That experience made wonder if in our culture's attempts to make everything equal we inadvertently highlight and perpetuate the inequality. Are we actually schooling our kids in how the world represses people in our diversity celebrations instead of truly celebrating the fascinating differences? I don't know.

Like most questions, I observe the problems more than I can offer solutions. This is why my children are very fortunate to live in such a diverse area of the country where we are in almost daily contact with people of other cultures. Since their mother forgets to deliberately guide them in the ways of accepting people from all walks of life, I can only actively be their example.

I hope my kids never confuse this guy with the other guy who
nailed the 95 These to the Wittenburg door.

Moon Landing

Who knew that the splint would be better? On Saturday, my daughter broke her ankle.  Since about Monday, she was complaining about the looseness of the splint.  How she fantasized about the new cast. Everything would be better.  The cast would be snug.  No longer would she fear people bumping her foot and hurting her.

On Wednesday, the orthopedist surprised her. Instead of a cast, he fit her with a moon boot. A heavy, cumbersome, doesn't fit through any pant leg, moon boot. Instead of a cast that her friends could sign, she was fitted with plastic and straps. None of her friends could decorate it, but they could add stickers.

Saturday Part III

Saturday was supposed to be my day to do one really fun activity with the kids for the weekend.  We were going to expend our energy, the 3 year old was supposed to take a good nap, and we were all going to attend the youth group activity, something we all enjoy doing together.

But the best laid plans are something, something. I can't remember the expression.

By the time I arrived back from the ER, it was late afternoon, my 13 year old was suffering from the pain of a broken ankle, my 3 year old was taking a late nap after falling asleep on the living room floor, and I was already tired enough for bed.

Thankfully, my parents came to my aid. They shuttled my nephews home and provided a way for my 13 year old to attend the youth group meeting that she loves so much. She grit her teeth and pushed through the pain to enjoy seeing her friends.

After she left, I decided to tidy the place a little bit.  Eight kids had done everything from sleeping to eating to playing in our disheveled home.  Kids hate putting their things away, so I figured my 7 year old was trying to get out of work when she began crying about her tummy hurting.

Being the tenderhearted mother that I am, I told her to get back to work and pointed to the trash can telling her that she could relieve herself there if something came of that "tummy ache."

During dinner, she didn't want to eat.  After dinner she couldn't be made to feel jealous at our drinking hot chocolate because she still complained about her stomach.  She was a crumpled mess on the couch while we watched TV. Then when she should've been brushing her teeth, I heard her scream for me from the bathroom upstairs.

Up there, I found she had made it to the bathroom.  She'd made it to the toilet. But her vomit didn't make it inside the toilet.  Instead, a big, wide puddle of pink, chunky vomit lay at the base of the toilet on the floor.

I could smell the stomach acids as I ascended the stairs. The overpowering smell in the bathroom immediately brought tears to my eyes as my body began gagging uncontrollably. My gagging was so intense that my throat hurt and I feared I was going to add to that puddle.

Over and over I ran out of the bathroom for air.  I was crying.  How would I clean this up if I couldn't control myself? My oldest normally cleaned puke for me but she wasn't home. Besides, she had a broken ankle.... I couldn't ask her anyway, right?

Online I looked up what common household items absorb vomit. I found a website that promised to tell me what absorbed bodily fluids.  Ewww, that grossed me out.  However, that site was very useful. I   lugged my partially used 13lb bag of Costco baking soda upstairs. I figured that the remaining 10lb would be enough for the job.

Armed with a can of Lysol and a bandanna around my face, I sprayed the bathroom as I entered. I dumped the baking soda and then left while the magic began. I wanted all of that vomit to be absorbed and deodorized.  When I came back, I again sprayed the Lysol, donned plastic gloves, and scooped up the nasty baking soda into the trash. Since I clean with the antiseptic vinegar, bubbles fizzed after I sprayed down the area.  This was the small pleasure in my disgusting task.

At the end of the night, my babies were tucked in for the night and I fell asleep effortlessly.

Just enough baking soda to absorb the pool of vomit.

Saturday Part II

After the trouble of filling out the forms at Rebounderz, the kids and I were thrilled to change into our special trampoline shoes and helmets.

As soon as we entered the trampoline that is bigger than some people's first floor of their house, my 3 year old clung to my neck screaming, "I skeeeered! I skeeered!" He had no interest in jumping high, doing flips, or bouncing off the trampoline walls.  Once I did break away to do a flip into their pit of foam blocks. But if I didn't hold the little scared boy, then he was running off to the arcade. His true love was anything that required tokens, not jumping.

One of the times that I was retrieving him from the arcade was interrupted by my 11 year old son running and screaming for me. My 13 year old was hurt.

I picked up the 3 year old and ran to find her.  As soon as I saw her crying, I knew that cry. She had broken a bone.  Because she couldn't walk on that broken ankle, I picked her up and carried her to a bench where we waited for a wheelchair.

Rebounderz was prepared for handling broken bones and that is why they wouldn't let us jump without all of our paperwork on file.  That 1/2 hour of paperwork before bouncing came back to my mind.

The boy behind the wheelchair had no idea how to be gentle. He used her foot to open a door and didn't break for any bumps. Her pain was intense.

After dropping off my other kids and nephews at home where my friend watched them, we headed over to Fair Oaks hospital's ER.  A place I visit a little too often.

As far as ER visits go, this one was quick and uneventful. Seeing her xray thrilled her as she plans to show it off in Science class on Thursday. The Disney channel played reruns of Good Luck Charlie which provided some distraction for her. The nurse cut off her jeans in order to apply the splint. And two doses of morphine wasn't enough to even get a giggle or a funny hallucination out of her. See? This ER visit was textbook.

I thought for sure that I'd finally hit my statistic and was done with anything bad happening for the rest of the day.  Silly me.

Saturday Part I

Sometimes you just have "one of those days." You know what I'm talking about. Even though you love your kids, you still feel a bit out numbered on "one of those days."

Yesterday was one of those days. Having invited 2 of my nephews to spend the night with us, I thought that the addition to 2 boys would be my tiny bump in Saturday's road. These boys are great. Coming from  an even larger family than ours, I can ask them to help us with whatever chores we are doing. Always they jump in to help without reluctance.

But, like I said, they are boys. Get a group of boys together who get to do what they love and you've got noise. And since the Xbox is in my main room, I get to hear every decible of their pleasure.

I had to tear them away from their game in order to force them to eat before what I thought would be the only adventure of our day. Our big activity for the weekend was to try out Rebouderz in Sterling with some other students from our Classical Conversations campus.

Upon arriving there, I was informed that I needed waivers for my nephews. Waivers signed by their parents. Neither being the aunt nor letting the workers talk to my brother on the phone was sufficient proof of consent.  They needed a paper on file.

It took us about 1/2 an hour to straighten this out. My brother had to deal with a difficult website, work around a virus on his computer that wouldn't allow him to scan, and then resend the fax after the worker saw where my brother didn't give his second signature on the second page of the waiver.

After all that mess, I felt like I'd gotten over my hurdle for the day. The rest of the day would be smooth sailing.  Silly me.

Valentine Mail Call

As a child, I loved Valentine's Day. Every year I would convert a shoe box into a mailbox to receive all of the little store-bought cards from my classmates. I'd place my decorated mailbox on the corner of my desk and walk around to deliver all of my cards to my friends.

Here in my own one-room schoolhouse, the effect is lost since there are only 6 of us here at the house all day. There aren't enough of us to arouse suspense. What's the point of delivering mail to a handful of people?

Even though we go to classes once a week, I still thought it would be fun to participate in a nation-wide card exchange. While the weekly class may not be setting up mailboxes to receive cards, we do have a real mailbox outside to collect real mail. With real stamps.

Responding to a tweet from a homeschooling mom in Washington state, I received a list of addresses for us to send cards to 10 families in 9 states. I divided up the names of the children and assigned 4 cards per child. Then we sent our cards in bundles to each family.

Going through the mail.

On Wednesday the cards started coming in. How thrilling to receive such pretty mail! The envelopes were covered in cute stickers, and some were lumpy with gifts inside.

Excitedly, the kids opened the envelopes. The creativity and thoughtfulness displayed really made my kids feel guilty about their own contributions.  

"Our cards were so lame!"


"Yeah, how embarrassing! The cards we sent weren't as good!"

"Wow! Look what they included!"

The balloon next to it's little home.

One reason my kids felt like under achievers was a very fun gift which came from both NY and CA. Inside a small mylar package was a hear-shaped balloon, ready to be blown up. To inflate the balloon, the kids shook the little package before slamming it down on the table. Instantly the mylar package began to grow until the inflated balloon popped out.

Since this was a school project mixed in with the fun, we didn't forget the school element. Using post it notes, the kids marked where each of their cards came from and where we sent ours. I managed to include geography, art, and handwriting all in one activity!

Forcing the Kids Outside

Even though I may grumble about the upkeep of my 2 acres, make no mistake. Seeing children run around the property truly makes me feel so glad. Large tracts of land are part of the fabric sewn into a child's quilt of memories.

In the outdoors, creative juices flow. Imaginary houses are built. Epic battles are won. My driveway becomes the waterway for Viking explorers to claim our land.

Typically the kids would be outside in the snow this time of year. During our past snow-laden winters, the kids have begged me to stay outside all day. But day after day without snow this year has my kids bored with the outdoors. No matter. Whenever it is a warm day like today (meaning above 40 F), I require my kids to play outside for at least 1/2 hour.

Yup, I said require. Usually, we begin the time with their protests about the cold or wanting to return to some game inside. Most days, however, they end up complaining that I didn't let them play outside long enough. "We just started playing! Why are you calling us in now?"

Today started out the same way. After our usual routine of morning school lessons, we ate lunch,  and I forced them outside during the remainder of our lunch break. But unlike the other days, today we had friends over.

Two rickety old playgrounds whose legs pop out of the ground whenever the kids swing too high offer the kids nothing out of the ordinary. Add a few friends, though, and viola! These playgrounds become exciting again!

By the time my friend called her kids to leave, all of the kids moved from their climbing games on the playgrounds and were playing other games behind the fence in the "back 40."  My friend and I might have barred them from the house to force them to play outside, but, in the end, that's exactly where they wanted to stay.

The Goonies

Honestly, I can't remember much of this movie, but I know I saw it as a kid. And I only saw it thanks to  my sister's best friend who lived down the street. Since her parents had cable, her dad and brother recorded every movie shown. They had bookcases full of VHS tapes.

Because of their diligence, I was able to watch The Goonies. Watching it on one of our sleepovers meant that I didn't watch the whole movie.  As usual, we started the movie late and I fell asleep.

This movie is timeless. My kids have not made one remark about how old fashioned it is. Instead, they are all in wrapped attention. They laugh, scream, and tense up at all the right times.  They love this movie.

With all of the adventures in this movie, I'm surprised they've never made an amusement ride out of it. Climbing through the tunnels under the country club? The huge water slide after the pipe organ? The huge ship after said water slide? The amusement park attractions just make themselves. My kids assure me that I'm on to something here.

While we might want to see this fun movie featured at a place like 6 Flags, the kids reaction to the movie isn't the same as mine. After this movie, my friends and I dreamed up adventures of gold that might be hidden in our neighborhood. Not so much for my kids. When asked if they would like to go on an adventure after watching this, they told me, "Naaaahhh."

Back to the Party Lines

I'm sitting here on the computer alongside my two oldest kids who are playing Xbox with a bunch of their friends. There's a lot of laughter and excitement. It's your typical rowdy kid get together. Except that none of their friends are here in the house with us.

Instead, my daughter's cell phone is pinched between her head and shoulder as she talks on a three way call. Similarly, my son has his headset on to talk to his friends and relatives that are connected through Xbox Live. He shouts commentary about the game to the people playing the game with him.

Both of my kids are frantically using their thumbs and index fingers to control their Halo-Marine-guy's hands around a bomb they must carry to their opponent's side. (I'm a bit confused. This isn't really like Capture the Flag, is it?)

From my son's headset, I can hear the squawks of the other players responding to his conversation.

Squawk, squawk.

"I just met him, but don't worry, he doesn't cuss."

Squawk, squawk, squawk.

"You were playing against a Mythic and you won? I lost against a Recruit."

Squawk, squawk, squawk.

"Ha ha ha, Leroy Jenkins!"

Sometimes my son will laugh then complain that he can't understand what anyone is saying because they are all talking at the same time. From what I can surmise, he may be connected to 5 different people, but those 5 people may not all be connected to each other if they haven't friended each other on Xbox.

His confusion on the headset reminds of the old telephone party lines. Multiple people could be on the line listening to someone else's phone call. Unlike the busy bodies of old who hid their presence on the line, these boys all make their presence known. Loudly.

This busy-body would probably hang up on the current
Xbox party line for lack of juicy gossip.

These Kids Go to 11

Contrary to promises from other families that have gone before me, my older kids do not talk for the 3 year old nor do they interpret his speech or have any clue what he tries to say.

Only in the past month or so have the kids and I repeated my baby's words over and over until we figure out what his garbles sound like.

Our wee one has conditioned us get him a glass of milk when he asks for "water hunk." To him, water is a cup (like a cup of water). Hunk is how he says milk.

In his very serious voice and face, he takes his decisions seriously. When he changes his mind, he'll say, "Ochee noh," instead of saying "actually, no."

Over the past year, he's been enthusiastic for "Deego," which of course is the obnoxious television show called Go, Diego, Go!

And like Captain von Trapp's whistle, we each respond to his peculiar call for each of us. Mine is, "Agee."

He's taking his time with his speech, which is fine with me since I'm already in high demand from my others that can talk. Besides, he's a toddler. I'm constantly either following him myself or sending one of my scouts out to retrieve my wanderer.

The longer he takes to talk, the longer the volume will remain at 8 until it is turned up past 10 to 11.

My Comically Weak Arms

A few days ago, I crumbled under the weight and strain of an extremely heavy mirror we are throwing away. My son watched me take a full 20 minutes to inch the weighted item 5 feet from the back of the garage to the back of the van.

This mirror is almost as tall as I am and a few feet wide. With nowhere to grip but the accentuated edge, I found it very difficult to pick it up without protecting my hand with the sleeve of my shirt.

Once at the car, I couldn't lift it into the back. After trying many positions to grip it, then unseccessfully squatting before I lifted it, and finally accidentally breaking bits of the glass corners, I finally got it in the van. I drove it down my long driveway and then freaked out.

How in the world would I get this out of my van to the curb? At least it didn't take me another 20 minutes, but I struggled with the blasted thing for a good long time before I laid it to rest near the mailbox.

Today as my 11 year old son and I took notes for his research paper on Patrick Henry, my son watched the trash men effortlessly pick up that mirror in less than a 60 seconds. In a matter of minutes, they tossed that heavy mirror, the trash can's contents, and other doomed items. My son couldn't stop laughing at the contrast.

I guess it's time for me to hit the weights at the gym.

I bet this guy could've lifted my mirror.

Homeschool Success is What you Make of it

When people find out that I homeschool my kids, they sometimes will automatically assume my kids must be geniuses.

What pressure!

Can you imagine how I feel?  I feel like my kids should be able to perform like circus monkeys on command. Some people have such high expectations that I wonder if they will be disappointed that my children have not memorized the entire periodic table of elements.

Unlike Doogie Howser, my kids suffer from being normal.  They are average.  I feel like scooting people along with a wave of my hand. Nothing to look at here; move along, move along.

Just like their mother, my kids struggle to learn their times tables. Like their mother, they don't always read the directions carefully and end up doing something other than what is assigned.  And like their procrastinating mother, they rarely allot enough time to do a project the best that they possibly can.

I don't mean to say that they are stupid.  Although, this is another accusation levied upon my unsuspecting students. The pendulum of assumptions swings from slightly flattering to downright offensive.

For some reason, people don't realize that how you choose to school your children might as well fall under etiquette's discretion to avoid talking about politics or religion.

One man told me that he was suspect of all homeschoolers because of his backwards neighbors who homeschool by letting their kids watch TV all day. What he didn't realize is that he was unconsciously comparing my children to these lazy, unlearned people.

Similarly to their counterparts in traditional school, my kids have their favorite subjects and others that they despise. They make me proud when they take advantage of their unique situation by utilizing their extra time to delve into a subject they love.

For example, when we bought our first flock of chickens, we checked out every single book about chickens in the county library system. The kids became experts concerning chicken anatomy, behaviors, care taking, and, yes, their reproductive system. (Let's just say that I completely understand now why they used to call the talk "The Birds and the Bees." Once you learn how chicks are made, baby making is not so scary or weird.)

Each new addition to our zoo prompted the same reaction by my oldest daughter. She's drained the library system of their books on rabbits, dogs, and cats.

Even a trip to the Smithsonian's Natural History Museum inspired her to clean out the library's shelf on gems and minerals. When I flipped through the books she chose, I realized she was attracted to the textbooks.  You know, the books in black in white with no color pictures. I couldn't relate.

My son has used his hyper time at night to complete his math work for the next day. Gaining a second wind at 9:30 pm, I give him the option to either read in bed or start on the next day's schoolwork. Loving to sleep in, he has taken this second option on occasion.

What I am trying to say is you will find the same mix of kids in school as you will find being schooled at home. Some will use their peculiar situation to pursue productive hobbies while others will waste their chance for greatness.  Homeschooling might be flexible when it comes to a school schedule, but, just like traditional school, it is up to the student to take advantage of their situation.

$1 Lesson

A dollar a week per child may seem like a scant allowance. But let me remind you that I have 5 children.

In class a few weeks ago, my 7 year old found out that children during the Industrial Revolution received $1 a week for their dangerous and long hours at work. When the children gasped at how these poor children received so little, my girl muttered under her breath, "That's all I get." The other moms looked at me and laughed.

But what do my kids really need to buy?

With their measly dollar, we go to a huge dollar store in Chantilly. You will not believe all that is offered there for just a buck. Using their dollar allowance, my kids have bought panda head earbuds, a radio, fake nails, eyeshadow, mascara, a wide array of toys, and costumes. I even saw a $1 pregnancy test by the register. That store has everything!

Plus, receiving so little gives them the opportunity to save up for more expensive prizes. Since we don't make it to the dollar store each week, they are pleasantly surprised when they realize that they've accumulated $3 or $5.

Added to gift money they might have received, the kids have bought big ticket items. For Christmas, the older two bought a nice Littlest Pet Shop tree house for their younger sisters. Usually, though, the kids buy video games.

Today the younger three and I ventured into a store called Dollar City in Fairfax. What a disappointment. The stench was enough to make me walk out as soon as I walked in. But then again, the stench kinda lured me with the promise of inexpensive merchandise. The smell was a rouse.  I couldn't even find one item that wasn't over a dollar. I would rename that store to Dollars City.

The five and three year old have no concept of money and were grabbing anything in the store in hope that I would buy it.  I had to pry a $1.19 fly swatter from the baby who was sure this was just a "doyar."

The 7 year old had better sense.  Even though she couldn't bear to walk out of a store empty handed, she helped me convince the kids to leave the stinky, useless store. As little as their allowance might be, it still is teaching them to reject junk better than I could ever teach them.

Sick Days

As a child, I knew that a sick day would only be declared if I had something to show. I needed evidence. A high fever. Vomit. Diarrhea. It's a standard that I have applied to my own children as well. Tiredness, headaches, and stomachaches are no excuses for skipping school.

Continuing with that same mentality, I forced my then 10 year old son to swim on the swim team and pushed him to do whatever we were doing when he complained of being so tired during the summer of 2010. By the end of August, tests showed he was suffering from mono.

Before he contracted the virus, I had always thought of mono to only cause sleepiness and sore throats. Little did I know that 18 months later I would still be bracing for every lingering tremor set off by that devastating original earthquake.

All last year my poor boy was stricken by every last item on the "You Might Also Experience These Symptoms" list. Ever see those lists on a medical website? They warn you that a small percentage of people might be afflicted by this uncommon list. Well, he had every one of those.

School for him was a wash last year. It's really not productive to school a boy suffering from migrane-type headaches while also suffering from body-contorting stomaches and joint aches and muscle aches and eye strain. My job, really, was to comfort him.

This year, his health is so much better, but he's not 100% well yet. At times he still hides under piles of blankets because he cannot feel warm enough. His headaches occasionally afflict him, as do the stomaches.

So far, the doctors haven't pinpointed a cure. I haven't given up on the medical front, even though his many good days in a row tend to bump him off the emergency list that I seem to be endlessly operating from.

After loosing basically a whole year of school last year, I don't want him to get farther behind. Besides, this year his mind reawakened. Because he is able to absorb knowledge, I want to encourage that.

On the days when he feels like junk, the little girls and I accompany him in front of the amazing Netflix to watch an education video from their unlimited list of options.

Today, for example, we watched a National Geographic movie about the Appalachian Trial since the kids are learning some of the more popular mountain ranges and other geographical features that make up that extensive mountain range.  After that, we watched a PBS documentary about Pompeii to learn about one of the points on their timeline of world history. (As a result, by the way, my 7 year old has decided she wants her older sister to design her a Roman house like the ones she saw in Pompeii. Adorable.)

On his relaxed schedule today, I had my son help me drill his 5 year old sister on her vowels. Knowing his stomach hurt badly, I read to him his source material so we could take notes together for his research paper. It was a hard day for him, and an even busier day for me, but we ended the day with some school work to show for our time.

Depending on one's point of view, a sick day for the homeschooler is still spent with the teacher which can either be an asset because there is less opportunity to get behind. Or it can be an even bigger disappointment because the teacher hates to see her student lay around doing nothing.

It's hard to be responsible for your kids' education and it's hard to make the call on when they are truly sick. It's hard to lose a day of school when you are teacher, parent, and principle all wrapped up in one. So unless there is evidence, they are required to do their schoolwork. But even if there is evidence...well, even with the evidence, I can't stop myself from imposing some type of school on them.

Mommy Behind Bars

At class today, I had my weekly therapy session.  During this time, we moms get together and laugh about how similar kids always are.  While the children ran around playing in the field, we moms patted each other on the back to reassure ourselves that all will be OK.

Today I shared the story of my 7 year old's personal passive agressive style. Style is a good word since she has her own flair.

I don't remember what I did, but on this particular day, I upset her.  As I typed at the computer she came to me to show me her artwork. The drawing was titled "Famlee."  Ok, we need to work on spelling, but at least she can sound out words.

Every member of the family had their name surrounded by a little personal picture. As she showed me the picture, she studied my face. I guess I didn't give her the response she wanted.

So she pointed to my name. I told her I liked it. She pointed to the bars through my name and explained that while other members of the family had their names in lights or were awarded blue ribbons, I was in jail.

I smiled. In my head, I knew what was going on, but I told her how beautiful it was. To show I wasn't sore, I asked if she wanted me to hang it on the wall. That was the last straw.

She shrugged her shoulders, told me this wasn't her best work, and threw the drawing away. To her, the overture had gone unnoticed. After she left, I fished that drawing out of the trash. Having made me laugh so hard, I want to have this memory to show her in another 15 years.

Peace During the School Hour

When the oldest were little, I banned Play-Doh. Somehow those dried-up hardened chunks managed to escape the wrath of the vacuum and the dust pan. The colorful dust on my floor didn't please me.

Instead of playing with play-doh, we did a lot of other activities. I drove the kids to playgroups. We attended story and craft times at the library. Daily I read to them for hours. We walked to the neighborhood playground or drove to explore other playgrounds.

Now that I am actively homeschooling 4 children while trying to appease 1 toddler, time is a luxury. I'm unable to participate in library programs, read for hours to each age level, or explore nearby parks.

In short, Play-doh has become the least of my worries. If my 3 year old can safely amuse himself with something that will capture his attention for an hour, what do I care if it makes a big mess? Blowing bubbles? The contents of the kitchen cabinet? Band-aids? Soap bubbles in the sink? All are fine. All have been removed from the Off Limits List. All help me maintain peace during school time.

Playing under the school table.

Teach a Child to Call not Cook

As a mother, I feel that part of my job is to teach the kids basic skills around the house. Being part of this big family means that we all need to pitch in to keep the joint running smoothly. Besides, I really can't do everything.

Knowing that I need my kids to fend for themselves on occasion, I want them to familiarize themselves with the kitchen.  Tonight, my oldest daughter had her best friend over. They asked if they could snack on bread spread with Nutella. The time was 5:30, and I knew this would interrupt any desire for a real dinner.

So, I threw them the Trader Joe's pizza dough balls and told them to read the instructions and make us all some pizza. Golly, I love capable kids. My kids are so almost capable!

These girls wanted to throw the dough in the air like a real chefs. But after hearing the splat of our dinner hit the ground, I had to intervene. Good thing too, because they were intent on creating calzones.  Ugh. That's just pizza with a mess to clean off your clothes.

So I floured the counter and showed them how to roll out the dough. The older girls shocked me by choosing all the sliced veggies for their pizza. Also, they searched the whole kitchen for the pickled jalapenos we always keep on hand. Healthy? Spicy? I was impressed.

My 7 year old surprised me by leaving off the cheese from her pepperoni pizza. I totally would never have guessed anyone wanted a pizza with just sauce and pepperoni.

The 3 year old kept grabbing the knife and cutting when I wasn't looking. He wanted to do everything himself. Spread the sauce; sprinkle the cheese; eat the pepperoni. With him at the counter, controlling him was as successful as wrangling a wet eel.

In the end, our pizzas were disgusting.  After one bite of a undercooked, bland piece, I truly understood the value of delivery pizza.  So I've changed my mind. Instead of teaching them to make their own pizzas, I'm going to enter the delivery places into their cell phones.