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?

RIP Prudence

I never noticed the baby's strike-pose in this
picture of happier times with our dog.

Yesterday, Prudence was hit by a car and died.

The plucky dog-walker from down the street, who rescued our beagle once before, discovered our dead dog and delivered the news with a lecture to me about how I should've altered the fence to prevent Prudence from digging any escape holes.  What could I say? Many of her criticisms were accurate, but they were hard to hear at that moment. When I saw Prudence, I burst into tears.  My sobs softened the angry dog-walker.  She even gave me a hug then toned down her tirade.

I fetched my oldest two to help me collect our dog and bring her home. The three of us circled around our dog, crying our eyes out.  The 13 year old and I tried but failed to lift up the still warm, limp dog.  With the blood streaming out of her ear, some teeth knocked out, and a bit of an organ poking through her abdomen, we were afraid to lift her up only to have her fall apart.  Besides, we were just too emotional to see her like that.

I called my neighbors who immediately ran down the street to our aid.  They took charge, allowing the kids and me to dumbly stand there watching them.  The wife spoke loving words to Prudence while she swaddled her in towels and scooped up our dog in her arms.  The tenderness comforted us.

Back at the house, my neighbor instructed us on how to bury our pet.  I'm so glad she did, because I have never buried anything before.  (Unless you count the half-eaten birds left over from my neighbors' cat's meal.  As kids, my sister and I unsuccessfully buried these birds that were soon dug up and scattered.)

Bundled in towels with her collar resting on top, Prudence is now buried in a plastic box with cinder blocks on the lid to prevent animals from digging her up or opening the box.

At the beginning of our long dig session.

Of all the children, my 5 year old has taken the news the hardest.  Throughout the day, she bursts into tears about missing Prudence.  She also keeps asking me to buy them another girl beagle named Prudence.  (Stay strong.  Keep saying no!) Heartbroken, my girl and I hug until her little mind wanders onto some new distraction.

Who could've imagined our dog dying?  Certainly, I didn't.  Last week, I ordered beagle stuffed animals for the youngest kids as Christmas presents.  Thinking how cute it is that 2011 was our year of the beagle, I wanted to commemorate the addition to our family.  Now those toys seem like memorials, and I'm waffling on whether to still gift the kids these reminders of their dead dog.

Perhaps kids are more resilient than what I give them credit for.  The oldest think I should still gift these toys.  Besides, they are already planning out the supposed flock of chicken we will buy come spring.  I'm not ready for more pets. In fact, I'm beginning to feel like animals come here to die.