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.

My Budding Storyteller

After weeks of begging me to help her write a story, I finally sat down with my 7 year old.  I pulled out her sister's discarded copy of an IEW book (Aesop's Fables) we have on a shelf.

The classical structure for education introduces concepts like writing through modeling. In today's exercise, I read her the story.  We discussed the vocabulary words.  While writing out examples, I talked out how I was outlining the story. Then I showed her how to use that outline to retell the story in her own words. 

After the first sentence, she already understood what to do.  Thoughtfully, she dictated to me what to write. Her first draft is already full of her flourishes and personality...very similarly to how she talks.

Anyone who's listed to this girl tell a story knows that she loves words.  She's my only child so far who actually wants me to read poetry aloud.  Poetry. For months, she listened to Tolkein's The Hobbit on repeat.  Every time I heard the CD player broadcast that British dude reading that book again, I marveled at her long attention span.

I suppose that patience to hear long, complex sentences from one of the true masters of the English language taught my little girl as much or more than I can ever convey through grammar exercises. Observing her keen attention to stories and now seeing the first buds of her growth as a storyteller make me so happy.

Unforgettable Childhood Memories

Just like some memories are caused by forgetfulness, other memories might never be forgotten.

Today, my 3 year old entertained himself while I read aloud to the other kids. How nice, I thought, that the boy was keeping himself busy without watching TV. Yet my confident feeling quickly disappeared when I heard screams from the kitchen. For the past 10 minutes, the boy had been washing the nail polish off of the palms of his hands. Even though I heard the water, I figured what harm could come of the water running for so long. In order to keep scrubbing his hands, he used up all of the hand soap.  When that ran out, then used all the lotion in a nearby tube. I can't figure out why he dropped the glass that ended up breaking into a dozen pieces in the sink mess because he can't articulate his random actions. As I put on my rubber gloves to clean up the mess, I assigned the 11 year old to change the baby's diaper.

According to the reports that came in, this diaper was legendary. Not only was a change of clothes required, but somehow the carpet bore the marks of the overflowing toxic waste. The two oldest and I cleaned and scrubbed the carpet until now those marks are whiter than our off-white carpet. I guess after that explosively stinky mess that he created, I shouldn't cringe at the many pumps of my Christmas gifted perfume he doused on himself.

There's a good chance that today might be forgotten in the myriad of other similar days. One only needs to only walk around our house to see his handiwork on the walls, the carpet, books, cabinets, and destroyed treasured possessions.

Occasionally, though, our family's mask is lifted long enough in public for people to experience firsthand our mayhem. For example, when we drove up to Seven Springs for our ski vacation last week, my 7 year old managed to lock herself in the restaurant bathroom. Sure, we all lock the door when we enter. But what do you do when the knob won't unlock when you want to exit? The military trained minds in our group discussed the merits of disassembling the screws on the door in order to pull it off entirely. The owner of the restaurant provided a less dramatic rescue. With a screwdriver, he removed the knob and freed the frightened and exhausted little girl.

As these unpleasant memories happen, you feel like you never want to think about them again. After you get over the worst of the experience, you are already ready to laugh about it and are already looking back on that experience with a "can you believe that just happened?" These unpleasant circumstances become the unforgettably good memories.

Forgetful Childhood Memories

It's hard to believe that at this time last week the oldest three kids and I were anticipating a long drive to frosty Pennsylvania for a much anticipated ski trip with the youth group.

Ah, but despite all the anticipation, we still failed to really ready ourselves.  What can I say? These kids are their mother's offspring.  And many of my childhood family vacation memories included the same key ingredient: something was always left behind.

Probably the most memorable item that was left during my childhood was the suitcase containing all of my sister and my clothes.  Yes folks, we went on a vacation without our suitcase.  But really, it was such an innocent mistake. You see, that year for Thanksgiving, my entire family on my father's side made the pilgrimage to Plymouth, MA.  From Virginia we drove to New Jersey where we spend the night with the family living up there.  The next morning, my sister and I repacked our suitcase, brought it down to the front door of my grandparent's house, and sat in the car for the long drive to Boston.  That night night in a faraway hotel, we had one of those familiar conversations where everyone looks at each other, pointing and saying, "I thought you packed the suitcase."

So was I really surprised last week when I found out on our way to Pennsylvania to ski  that my kids were without ski jackets? I won't lie.  For a split second, my blood boiled.  It quickly cooled though as I started laughing.  Because, guess what?  My kids and I pointed the fingers and each other and, just like my family did, and we said, "I thought you packed the ski jackets."

Typical of this warm winter, last Friday was almost hot.  The kids didn't need jackets when we left the house.  And the sunny, temperate day almost lulled me into believing that we could gloss over this mistake by layering up with hoodies and wearing every single shirt that the kids packed while on the slopes.  However a quick trip to WalMart spared the kids of any discomfort on the windy mountain top.  Well, two cheap jackets and some ski jacket that was left at our house.  I don't know who left it or when it was left, but it's been in my van all winter. Thanks to the random jacket in my van, my 7 year old wore camouflage over her pink snow pants.

Like my daughter wearing clothes not meant for her, my sister and I shared what clothes my mother had packed in her suitcase.  We make do.  It's no big deal.  It's funny.  And we'll probably never stop forgetting to pack those key articles of whatever that we need because that's who we are.

The Blind Inspiring the Blind

This past weekend, the three oldest kids and I went with the youth group to Seven Springs, PA for an incredibly fun trip.  With my brother and 2 of his boys on the trip, this also felt like a family vacation.

To distinguish between two boys with the same name on the ski trip, the kids and I deemed one the boys Blind Boy because he forgot his glasses.  Compensating for the missing lenses, the poor teen had to squint a lot or ask us to read things for him.

My oldest recounted to me how, when he played cards, he had to hold his cards close to face to read them. This left him still figuring out what was in his hand was while the rest of the players were slapping down their cards to yell, "Blitz!"

Then after one rambunctious boy flipped the card table, the cards scattered everywhere.  She and Blind Boy took the time to collect and sort both decks needed for this raucous game.  Each card he picked up needed to be examined closely before he could determine what it was.  Then he had to bend over close to the piles to see which pile that card belonged in.  Needless to say, this tedious task took longer because he couldn't see well.

(I butted into her story to ask the obvious question, "Why didn't someone who could see sort the cards for him?")

We wondered how Blind Boy could've snowboarded down the mountain when everything looked white and, you know, the same.  How could he tell the difference between a mogul and just snow?  How could he see the sharp turns where the trail merged?  How could he see the dips and drops if everything was the same white color?

As we discussed this mystery, my oldest daughter shared her insight.  Observing a blind skier lead down the slopes by a blind skier guide, her curiosity was pricked.  "What is it like to go down the hill blind?" she wondered. To find out, she skied down with her eyes closed.  I couldn't let her go on about how she heard people approaching her and how she would follow them down the trail because I was incensed!

"What??? You CLOSED your eyes while skiing?  On purpose?  Never, never, never, never do that again!!!"

What's even worse, is that she began this experiment on an easier green slope, but unknowingly merged onto a difficult black diamond trail before finishing on a moderate blue trail.

Of course, I'm darn proud of my daughter for this huge accomplishment.  But at the same time, I'd like to wring her neck for such stupidity.  I always prefer to hear about my children's dangerous stunts in the past tense since I am too frightened thinking of how they could hurt themselves as their daringness is happening in real time.

I've never been known as Miss Safety.  But that's the thing about kids: they are always improving us. Until my kids get a better grasp on safety, I guess I'll have to improve my skills as their seeing-eye-safety guide.

My 7 year old skiing through a tunnel.
Let's hope she never skies blindly like her sister.

Dinner and a Movie

It's Thursday. Our school work is done for the day.  We are sitting in the living room watching an unknown movie from the library, you know, that place where we normally borrow books.  We are using tortilla chips to scoop up chili and salsa while vegging out to this slightly cool but mostly cliche kid movie with yet another environmental message.  We are being tortured by Jimmy Buffet music. The cats are licking up drips of fallen chili. Stuffed kids are snuggling under blankets after retreating from the make-shift dinner table usually used as the coffee table. If only I could figure out how to light the pilot so that we could complete this happy scene with the hiss of a roaring gas fire, then I could certify this picturesque.

My New Year's Resolution

With the new year comes the inevitable question: What is your new year's resolution?

Growing up, this question became quite the joke for me.  Having a friend who took this ritual way to seriously only fueled my indifference and teasing nature. Each year, she'd bring out the list from the previous year to see if us girls had accomplished what was on the list. And every year, I'd turn my head to see a package of Nilla wafer cookies on her counter and resolve that this would be the year that I'd make the pudding recipe on the box.

Well, I'll probably never make that recipe and I won't bother to even fake an interest in making the pudding.  I would probably ignore the whole resolution step like I have each new year, but this year I finally came up with a habit worth forming.

This year, I want to write more consistently on my blog. I've decided that I want to write at least 3 times a week about our life so that our many memoires can easily translate to a readable format: bound and printed on paper.

Since I've long stopped keeping trinkets in a box for the kids to hold old memories in their hands, I figure this memoir can at least remind them of our many adventures here on our dwindling farm in the 'burbs.

It's January 4th, and I can finally answer what my new year's resolution is for 2012. Except that people have stopped asking that question.  I know I'm a few days late, but won't somebody ask me now that I have an answer?