Survival

Yes, I survived a week in Maryland! Yeah! I spent yesterday rocking quietly in a corner, in my happy place, trying to make sense of the family I married into. Today, I have put all the information to rest and am ready to carry on!

Here are a few gems from the week that I must get off my chest before I can have Christmas closure this year:

1. I am lazy because I don't work full time and "contribute" to the family.
2. My children are too messy (this may actually be true).
3. While my sister-in-law's choice to terminate a pregnancy in Oct. because the baby had Down Syndrome is her choice, her body, and the best decision for her family - my choice to homeschool is wrong, wrong, wrong.
4. I am not allowed to believe that terminating a pregnancy is morally wrong - in fact, nothing is morally wrong in a family where infidelity and cruelty are "just the way men are".
5. My father-in-law was kicked out of his wife's son's basement because he has a strange, Michael Jackson-ish attachment to his oldest step-grandson. He asked if he and wife could move in with my mother-in-law, and was shocked when she said no.
6. Christmas day can actually be spent without anyone talking to anyone else.
7. Flying from DC to Boston is too much work for my mil, so we have to drive 12 hours in a van with three busy kids to see her at least twice a year, lest I be accused of keeping her from her grandchildren. But flying to LA to see Husband's brother is not.
8. I should not drive to see my family in Indiana because that is too hard on the kids.
9. I will never, ever work as hard as my mil or any Asian person, for that matter.
10. After a furtive glance at the google history on his computer, I have discovered The Husband is interested in stuff that is even beyond my scope of imagination.....yikes.

I could go on, but won't. After each Maryland visit, I am grateful for my own family. They are loud, nosy and slightly offbeat - I realized that no one to whom I am related has a normal job - we are wine experts in Napa, apple orchard owners, writers, pastors, missionaries, artists, chefs, landscape designers and nuns. But we love and protect each other. We are fun! In fact, my mother always says that we put the "fun" in dysfunctional....but that's another story.

I have been given a directive to return to Maryland in August and I am already coming up with reasons to avoid the trip. I think Anna has camp that week, or maybe the weather is supposed to be bad...I am a smart girl, and surely can come up with something!

Anyway, have a fun New Year's Eve! See you next year! (ha, ha)

Farewell, For Now

We're off to The Husband's homeland of Maryland. I will have no access to computers there, as my mother-in-law doesn't believe in computers, and am not yet in posession of a laptop to escape to a "hot"zone. Not that anyone cares too much, but I won't post again for at least a week (will I survive with no e-mail or Facebook? Yikes!).

Stay tuned for crazy in-law stories in the new year! Meanwhile, stay warm and have a Merry Christmas!

Impending Trip to Bizarro World

As you know, I detest winter and all it stands for. If I was in a Christmas special, I would be Heat Miser. However, with the foot of snow we got Friday and the 8-10 more inches plus sleet we are expecting today, my dreaded trip to see my mother-in-law has been delayed at least a day! Hallelujah!

My husband (and, obviously, in-laws) are Vietnamese. Even though they have been here since 1968, they still are entrenched in their culture (rightly so) and do not understand at all the way we choose to raise our children.

Trips to visit always turn into a week of being told I am lazy, stupid and not earning enough money. This is, of course, because I am a white American and we are all this way (my mil's words, not mine).

In my husband's family, the almighty dollar is king. The fact that I would willingly choose to give up a career for my children is anathema to them. My sister-in-law, whose son went into some god-awful daycare at the age of 6 weeks (which they, of course, call "school" to make themselves feel better), so she can work 50 hours a week and then leave her son again with my mil on Sundays to have a "me" day is held up to me as all that is good and holy in the world. Never mind that the poor child, who is now 4, was diagnosed with failure to thrive and stress before he was a year old....

I am forever receiving e-mails from my father-in-law detailing my failings as a wage earner. The most recent asked what I would do when poor, overworked Husband (who has a cushy, work-from-home management job with Hewlett-Packard) dropped dead of a heart attack since I "force" him to support us. I had to refrain from replying that I would see that as a great day, worthy of rejoicing in the streets and much merriment!

My mil will strike fear in my heart at least twice this coming week, threatening to retire and move in with us to watch the kids so I can work. Never mind that her three sons are selfish, reprehensible human beings and there is no way she's getting her hands on my kids.

The homeschooling really sends them over the edge to the point that it's comical. "Dey need da school-work" I will hear over and over. Never mind that in my former life I was a teacher and went to graduate school for reading and literacy instruction...

I try to be calm and change the subject, but it never works. I also cannot rebut that maybe my sister-in-law, who only spends one day a week with her son, is the one who has things a little backward. How does one defend oneself?

I do always like to remind my mil that my own mother is horrified that I work at all (part-time as a freelance writer), given the fact that Husband travels all the time and refuses to help with the house or the kids. I think the way things are is a happy balance. I earn enough so my kids can do the activities they enjoy, and for a margarita once in awhile. I don't feel we need a fancy house, car or every toy in the store, but maybe that's a character defect on my part.

Sorry this post sounds so angry. If any of you have tips on deflecting in-law hatred, please pass them my way. In the meantime, and I can't believe I'm saying this, let it snow!!!!!

Welcome, Jordyn-Grace

My hero, Michelle Duggar, has given birth to baby 18! Can you even imagine? That woman is a saint. My favorite quote from the news outlets is that "they hope to have more." My goodness. I must admit that I would love one more, but cannot imagine how anyone keeps a house of 18 children under control. She has the gift!

Slacking Off

Do you ever feel like you're slacking off? We got off to a great start this year, with set school hours and much accomplished. Then, I had my surgery to remove painful endometriosis, and by the time I came out of my percocet coma everything had gone to pot. In just 4 days, under the "care" of their father (who ignores them and believes strongly in TV as a babysitter) I had 3 kids who were suddenly refusing to do anything without a fight.

In my weakened state, I gave in to them and the start of schoolwork kept getting pushed farther and farther into the morning as they fought over computer games and commited much surly stomping of feet when told to turn the damn thing off.

I am decidedly not one of those parents who call themselves radical unschoolers. This group believes that asking anything of a child is coercion and to be avoided at all costs. But somehow we got to this state, mostly because I am too tired to fight with three kids and it's way easier to pretend to be all progressive and let the kids do what they want and find a way to fake educational value. I just can't make myself believe that this is the best way to raise kids in our society, where jobs and higher education do not run by those principles.

Sure, we had bursts of science experiments and read a few books, but that is not sufficient for my oldest, who is extremely bright and capable of more.

All that has happened in my house is that we have devolved into chaos, with no schedule and kids wandering about making a mess. This week, we have gone into crackdown mode. The kids actually seem relieved and I feel more in control. It is all my fault, not theirs. This entry is my atonement for lazy parenting for the last couple of months. Oh, please let me get back on track!

The Holiday Which Must Not Be Named

So I spent all yesterday trapped indoors after a horrendous ice storm incapacitated our travels. After purging and organizing 2 rooms (whew!), I decided to look at some recent news online. I got annoyed, as usual, at the prolific use of the word "holidays" when we all know that everyone is talking about.....CHRISTMAS! Yes, Christmas, the Judeo-Christian celebration of the birth of Jesus. Santa and all that. A bonafide federal holiday! Yet, no one will say it aloud.

It takes a whooooole lot to offend me, and the fact that people are so afraid of saying Merry Christmas does the trick. So do set-ups mocking Christmas and all it means to people of faith. The icing on the cake was a story about how a group is planning a nativity with two Marys and two Josephs in order to be provocative and show what things would be like had Mary and Joseph been homosexual. Well, as far as we know they weren't. And what is the point? I am an advocate of free speech, and these people are free to do what they wish, and I am free to not go look at it. I can hear the cries of homophobia now - but I am not a homophobic. I am just proud of the history of my faith system and it saddens me to see it turned into a political statement.

But I started thinking about how Christmas and Christians are allowed to be diminished and disrespected in ways that no other religion or observance is allowed to be. What if, during Eid, someone thought to set up a display with 2 Mohammads? There would be outcry and fighting in the streets.

Who, really, would be harmed by a little wave and a Merry Christmas? If someone said Happy Hannukah to me, I wouldn't mind. Happy Kwanzaa? Sure - even though no one really knows what it is, and it was kind of made up in the 60s by a guy who spent time in prison for brutally torturing and beating two women in the early 1970s and is a Marxist/secular progressive....

But I digress. I love Christmas. I love shopping for gifts and finding unique things for people I love. The music is wonderful, the decorations lovely, the story timeless. I look forward every year to the 24-hour A Christmas Story marathon. It's the simple things that bring joy this time of year, and let's face it. It's because of Christmas.

Vigilante Kids

I started out today thinking I would write about Christmas. Yes, the holiday-which-must-not-be-named in our uber-sensitive culture of political correctness. But then I read a story on the front page of our local paper outlining a proposed plan to turn Georgetown’s Penn Brook Elementary School students into vigilantes, taking on possible gunmen armed only with backpacks and a garbage can. Who do school officials think these kids are, little MacGyvers?

Apparently, time will soon be taken out of the school day to teach children how to react in case an armed maniac should run into their classroom. Never mind wondering if the money for this “training” would be better spent beefing up security so the gunman couldn’t get in in the first place…but I digress.

The plan is to teach fourth- and fifth-grade students to fend of the perp with backpacks, chairs and books because these are excellent shields against bullets, right? Or will it give the kids a false sense of security. My other thought was, what happens if the gunman knows that only the fourth and fifth graders have been trained in using everyday objects as security measures, and meanders into the third-grade classroom down the hall?

I am all for awareness of danger and knowing how to protect oneself. I have spent a good deal of time teaching my kids about what to do if they are ever approached by strangers or grabbed by one.

The main reason this article got to me so much is because it really underscores the very real threat of children having to be placed in the position of taking on a gunman. So on top of everything else expected of the kids, like sitting still for long periods, waiting for classmates to finish work, being confused by or not challenged by the work and therefore frustrated, and the stress of MCAS, they also have to always have a niggling fear in their minds that someone is going to come into school and shoot them.

I have filed all this information in the part of my brain labeled “more reasons I make financial sacrifices to homeschool”. Yes, I realize that I cannot insulate my children from danger. That they could be harmed as they go about their lives and during classes where I am not in attendance. But I can sure as heck keep them out of a place where it is no longer a really big deal for a shooting to occur.

As for my own kids, I bought the boys weapons for Christmas. Yes, I did. Marshmallow launcher guns and a real bow-and-arrow set, complete with primary-colored target. I passed on the hatchet/knives kit for this year, but expect they request it within the decade. They will be trained in real ways to keep themselves safe when they are old enough and out on their own.

For now, it is my job to be their protector and that is what I will do.

Snow, Schmow

I loathe the snow and winter in general, so it's a real mystery why I choose to live in Massachusetts when we could pick up and go to a warmer climate at any moment given the nature of The Husband's job.

Today, I woke up to flurries and overexcited children, who don't realize that all the first snowfall means is that it's a good 6 months before it will be remotely warm again. Six loooooong months of forcing hands into mittens and heads into hats; of a constant trail of slush through the entryway of the house and cries of dismay when shirtsleeves get stuck in coat armholes. Six months with nearly no sun, a constantly filthy car and lots of time indoors. Blech.

I do know some borderline insane people who enjoy this time of year. They are heartier than I. I believe that I was meant to be a southern belle, sitting on a porch in the scorching heat accepting mint juleps and sweet tea from my adoring suitors, not unlike Scarlett O'Hara, whose great line, "I'll just think about that tomorrow. After all, tomorrow is another day," rules much of my life of denial.

I am sure that the kids will force me to spend a half hour later today squeezing and coercing reluctant bodies into snow pants, boots, etc. for 15 minutes worth of play time, then leave all their stuff strewn about like the snowflakes themselves. Each year, I try to convince myself that I really do like winter - that I love sledding, skiing and ice skating. But I am just a soft, warm-weather girl at heart and it's time I owned up to it.

As a homeschool mom, though, I am supposed to love all kinds of weather and be willing to hike in it, pointing out all sorts of seasonal changes and the like to my children. Am I causing irreparable gaps in their education? I think I can risk it...I will take tidepools over a winter wonderland any day! So I will now go into my winter depression - perhaps I should buy a sunlamp? - and spend my days hoping for an early spring.

Wrapping Paper Cheer

So, my wrapping paper kit from Hearthsong (http://www.hearthsong.com/) arrived today amid much fanfare and jubilation - and that was just me! We got on our junky painting clothes and made some paper with which to lovingly wrap Christmas gifts for the cousins. It turned out great! We plan to make some more tomorrow when the first stretch of paper dries, and then add flair, like googly eyes, glitter and more! Poor Jake has pneumonia, so this was a nice and quiet activity for him today. Ryan refused to be photographed

Thanks to the Internet...

I just want to thank all of you for your educational emails over the past year.

Thanks to you, I no longer open a public bathroom door without using a paper towel.

I can't use the remote in a hotel room because I don't know what the last person was doing while flipping through the channels.

I can't sit down on the hotel bedspread because I can only imagine what has happened on it since it was last washed.

I can't enjoy lemon slices in my tea or on my seafood anymore because lemon peels have been found to contain all kinds of nasty germs including feces.

I have trouble shaking hands with someone who has been driving because the number one activity while driving alone is picking your nose.

Eating a Little Debbie sends me on a guilt trip because I can only imagine how many gallons of trans fats I have consumed over the years.

I can't touch any woman's purse for fear she has placed it on the floor of a public bathroom.

I must send my special thanks to whoever sent me the one about poop in the glue on envelopes because I now have to use a wet sponge with every envelope that needs sealing.

Also, now I have to scrub the top of every can I open for the same reason.

I no longer have any money at all, but that will change once I receive the $15,000 that Bill Gates/Microsoft and AOL are sending me for participating in their special e-mail program.

I no longer eat KFC because their chickens are actually horrible mutant freaks with no eyes or feathers.

I no longer use cancer-causing deodorants even though I smell like a water buffalo on a hot day.

Because of your concern I no longer drink Coca Cola because it can remove toilet stains.

I no longer can buy gasoline without taking someone along to watch the car so a serial killer won't crawl in my back seat when I'm pumping gas.

I no longer drink Pepsi or Dr Pepper since the people who make them are atheists who refuse to put 'Under God' on their cans.

I no longer use Saran wrap in the microwave because it causes cancer.

And thanks for letting me know I can't boil a cup of water in the microwave anymore because it will blow up in my face...disfiguring me for life.

I no longer check the coin return on pay phones because I could be pricked with a needle infected with AIDS.

I no longer go to shopping malls because someone will drug me with a perfume sample and rob me.

I no longer receive packages from UPS or FedEx since they are actually Al Qaeda in disguise.

I no longer shop at Target since they are French and don't support our American troops or the Salvation Army.

Thanks to you, I can't use anyone's toilet but mine because a big brown African spider is lurking under the seat to cause me instant death when it bites my butt.

And thanks to your great advice, I can't ever pick up $5.00 dropped in the parking lot because it probably was placed there by a sex addict waiting underneath my car to grab my leg.

Seriously, what did people worry about before you could find all these facts online? I can only imagine....

Crystal Snowflake Experiment

We had a sick boy the last couple of days, so we did what any self-respecting homeschool family would - we made Borax snowflake crystals. They came out really cool! We're going to try some later this week using food coloring, just to see. Here's how we did it, from the website www.creativekidsathome.com:

Materials - pipe cleaners, thread, wool, water, borax, disposable container (we used Cool-Whip tubs)

Create the snowflake shapes from pipe cleaners. Ours, as you can see from the pics, look kind of like fancy pretzels, but you can kind of see the sparkle. Cut one pipe cleaner in three pieces and twist them together in the center. Tie a thread or wool around each of the arms to create a circle.Take one pipe cleaner and twirl it into a spiral shape.Take two pipe cleaners and twist them together in the center. Bend the pieces to create square or rectangular sections of the snowflake.

Choose a container that is wide and deep enough to allow the snowflakes to float freely. Find a stick or ruler that can sit across the top of the container. Use the thread to tie the snowflakes to the stick.

Have an adult heat some water to boiling and pour it into the container. Add about 1/4 cup of borax for every 2 cups of boiling water. Stir until it dissolves. If all the borax dissolves, continue adding more borax until a bit is left not dissolved.

Put the stick over the container so that all the snowflakes are floating in the borax solution. Try to arrange them so that they don't touch each other.
Leave them over night to let the crystals form.

Borax is a mineral (sodium tetraborate) that is commonly sold as a laundry booster. I personally use the 20 Mule Team Borax, available at any grocery store. Do not use laundry soap with borax added.

Borax is a chemical and must be handled with care. Never leave it where young children can get to it.

Hints:
Use colored pipe cleaners to create colorful snowflakes.

Try adding food coloring to the solution to get colorful snowflakes.

Watch out, Angelina! Brad's Mine Now!

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OK, We Rallied!

While I was in the shower, the kids availed themselves of my big sweaters, made up a hula dance, and performed it for me complete with my shoes, mittens, baseball caps and purse. They were so funny and cute, I had to share! They do have an element of Oliver Twist about them as well; I kept expecting them to ask for more gruel, please. I am not sure why, but Anna insisted on holding out a wrapped bar of soap. Their performance has greatly improved my mood and I now think they're the best kiddos on the block again. (Please ignore the mess on the floor and squashed couch cushions. There can only be so much expected of me in a morning).

Today I am Too Tired To...

...make my kids do anything. Yes, there are days like this, when everyone (including mom) is grouchy and on edge. So far, we've had fights over a cardboard tube, computer time, taking a bath, changing underwear and brushing teeth - my patience is gone and we've not even had lunch, let alone accomplished any of the super fun Thanksgiving lapbook activities I had planned!

Then, I remembered why we are homeschooling. It's so we can feel free to NOT do the activities if no one is in the groove. So we can have days where underwear doesn't matter (at least for the kids). After all, a day of computer games is not going to kill them, especially the ones they like, such as Peep and the Big, Wide World or Warrior Cats.

Anna rattled off her 7, 8 and 9 times tables and practiced her violin this morning. The boys laughed at some Mr. books - you remember, Mr. Messy, Mr. Bump, etc. I think that's plenty of book-learnin' for today, and probably more than their schooled counterparts did on a half day before a holiday - one of Anna's friends said all they were doing today was switching desks!

All the worrying over if they are learning enough has been getting me down these days, and sometimes I fear that I might be becoming an unschooler (don't tell anyone). So I am going to let things go today, and spend some time re-evaluating things.

In other news, I am trying to come up with an elaborate scheme to get out in the next few days (a scheme is needed, since I am generally not allowed to leave if it's for something fun) to see the "Twilight" movie. Any suggestions would be much appreciated, as would the offer to accompany me. Is it pathetic to see a vampire love story by myself? I almost don't care....

A Short List of Things I am Ashamed to Admit

It's time to get some of my quirks out of my system as part of a soul-cleansing I feel coming on. Here are several things I do that cause me shame, and need to be purged:

1. I pre-ordered and devoured quickly all of the Harry Potter books. I also re-read them on a regular basis, and am sad that the release of the new movie was put out until July 2009.

2. At night, I google old boyfriends and sometimes consider contacting them.

3. I am addicted to Facebook and often ignore my kids to take useless quizzes and participate in cyber foodfights.

4. I am also addicted to conservative talk radio, 96.9 WTTK with Jay Severin and Michael Graham, in particular. I sometimes call in as well, and get a thrill about being on the radio.

5. I harbor an unrequited crush on a man I know casually, and blush and giggle whenever I see him. I have no doubt he believes me a complete idiot.

6. I sometimes fantasize about getting cosmetic surgery.

7. In my mind, I am thin with the ass of a 22-year-old and I look good in low-rise jeans. In reality, I have a post-partum muffin top that seems to be here to stay. The denial gets me out the door in the morning - without it, I would probably be an agorophobic.

8. I secretly wish I could have just one more baby and get choked up whenever I see newborns.

9. I am obsessed with the new "Twilight" series, and plan to ignore my kids this afternoon so I can finish the first installment.

10. I feel a strong letdown whenever a cycle of America's Next Top Model ends and wonder what I am going to do on Wednesday nights now.

I am sure there are more shameful things I do, I have just blocked them out for now. Please feel free to point them out to me, as the need arises.

Gearing up for Christmas

In a valiant effort to keep a perpetual smile on face despite the fact we are visiting my mother-in-law (who hates me and all my choices with a passion that cannot be denied) for Christmas this year, I am spending waaay too much time online making festive and foolish videos of my family. Here is my favorite one from JibJab, including a rare sighting of the erstwhile father of my children!

Sometimes it's Easy to be Proud

I took my kids to their favorite play place yesterday (Rumble Tumble in Portsmouth, NH, if anyone's in the area). For awhile we had the place to ourselves, and then some older children trickled in. One of the girls had Down's Syndrome, and I watched curiously to see what my own kids would say or do. My daughter ran right up to her and invited her to play the game, which somehow involved cats (due to Anna's obsession with the Warriors books). The girl declared she wanted to be a dog, and that was OK with Anna as long as she was a nice one.

My boys joined in, pretending with the girls to be animals in various states of distress, who had to be rescued by the others. Two kids said audibly that they "didn't want to play with that girl" (meaning the one with Down's) and went over to play in another section. Anna carried on with her new friend, asking her name, etc. They had a wonderful time, taking turns being different animals and playing rescue.

The girl's mother came over to me and asked where Anna went to school. I said I homeschooled, and that mom said she wasn't surprised and that the only children who have wholly accepted her daughter in new situations are homeschooled. We had a lovely chat until it was time to go, and my mommy pride swelled.

I waited to see if Anna would mention the girl, or ask about her appearance or voice, but no questions came - from her or the boys. She just talked with excitement about her new friend Cassidy and how much she hoped we would cross paths again. I needed a moment like that to see that what I am doing is a good thing, as we all have doubts. Watching my little girl be so blind to differences in another person was one of the greatest moments of my mommyhood, and I hope it continues.

Why I Love the Duggars

For those of you who don't know them, they are a family on TLC with 17 children and one on the way. Yes, they are a little creepy in that they all dress kind of alike and the girls don't cut their hair and all their names (except mom Michelle) start with the letter J AND they live in Arkansas. But I love watching them, especially the mom. They are a great-looking family, perpetually good natured and kind to one another. Michelle is calm and rational, and never raises her voice. She homeschools them all, teaches the kids to care for one another and makes a mean tater-tot casserole.

There is controversy in the blogosphere about their religion and their decision to not use birth control. However, they have no debt, their home is immaculate, they work hard, the kids are clean and good citizens.

I am the first to admit that I can barely manage my three children, who some days seem forever bent on driving me to commit extreme alcohol consumption (so far, I have resisted). When I think I can't go on, I hear Michelle's sweet voice in my head as she gently steers her children right. Everyone needs a role model, and right now my greatest wish would be to meet this incredible woman and listen to her secrets. She could teach me a lot.

This afternoon, as a cold New England breeze made riding bikes impossible and the kids clamored to go indoors, I channeled Michelle for a little while. We made delish chocolate chip and molasses cookies, Anna did a little violin concert for us and I diffused a fight involving a red pom-pom being weilded harshly from one brother to another without yelling. I also successfully restrained myself from sending a snarky reply to the woman who barely knows me, but felt OK sending me a link to an education program that helps teach children empathy and non-agressive play techniques. Hmmmmmm. Trying to tell me something about my very normal boys? Sorry, dont' want them to be girls! But I digress....

In this age of children and teens run amok and parents who delegate the raising of their children to daycares, nannies and schools, the Duggars are a refreshing change. Their innocence and genuine contentment are something to which we can all aspire. Michelle, if you ever read this, give me a call. I need you!

Worm Condo

The man with whom I share a legal bond and three children finally decided to replace the attic window that rotted and fell out of its casing in June. This required the tossing of wood, asbestos shingles, a rusty wheel and other treasures onto the ground. Since it had just rained, and our driveway was covered in worms, my kids decided to build a worm house using all the junk they found. I am counting this in my homeschooling as 1) art, 2) architecture, 3) natural science and 4) socialization. Here are the pictures of the lovely worm home, which is still intact in the side of our little hill. Note: the thing that looks like a joint in one of the pictures is NOT a joint or a cigarette butt. It's just a random piece of paper that translated as such onto the film. Also, the kids are wearing their helmets of their own accord - they thought it prudent to put them on as to avoid the flying debris from the attic. They do not have a medical condition requiring them....anyway, enjoy the worm condo.

A Short List of Old Boyfriends Who Would Make Worse Husbands Than the One I Married

I really dated some doozies in my formative years. The picture is not actually any of the boys I went out with, but a close approximation. Even though my husband has many flaws (like some very weird addictions and extreme cheapness), at least he's gainfully employed. Here is a list of just a few of the men I am glad I never married:

1. Ron K., who informed me he slept with his stepmother while we were visiting her in her double-wide trailer in southern Indiana. I also met him at an under-21 club when I was 17 and he was decidedly over 21. Should've been my first clue...

2. Cory P., whose main goal in life was being a manager of a record store.

3. Ed S., who failed to mention he was a Chief Warlock of a witch coven and also a Satan worshipper - I found out from a jealous fellow wiccan who told me at a party.

4. Jon H., the soulful jazz guitarist, who recently spent several years in the Barnum and Bailey Circus.

5. Scott F., who was cool because he had a pilot's license and flew me around, but was boring as dead leaves when on the ground.

6. Joe (can't remember his last initial) who was just plain sleazy.

7. Paul (also can't remember the last initial), who was always yelling at me for using napkins and other throw-away items, and for showering daily. He was green before it was trendy and not very nice about it.

I am sure there are more that I have thankfully forgotten. When things are bad, I will just think about how it could be worse. Much, much worse.

For My BFF Amy

Yes, I have a BFF. We became friends in the third grade when, after I was kissed by the captivating, bespectacled redhead Danny Noe at the top of the curly slide during recess which resulted in my life and limb being threatened by the bully Libby Mellinger, she saved me and immediately we became inseparable. Her name is Amy, and I love her like a sister.

I was thinking about all the things we have done in our lives, and how she is the only one who gets why I am funny (everyone else actually believes I want my husband to die. I don't, really, at least not until the estate gets a little bigger). She is now the lovely mother of 4 wonderful children, and also homeschools (though she is not rebellious like I am). We both lament our messy homes and lack of free time, but ultimately really like our children and want to be with them.

In youth, we were forever trying to be popular. Amy coined this phase "our never-ending quest for popularity". I am sad to report the quest just sort of faded, and neither of us reached the pinnacle of social success. Our biggest attempt included choreographing and performing an alluring dance (with 3 other friends) to "Celebration" by Kool and the Gang in the 5th grade talent show. She, the more realistic of the two of us, knew that if anything we'd become less popular. I, the one who is perpetually embroiled in unrealistic fantasy to this day, envisioned Queen Bee Christy Metzing asking us to teach her and the other popular kids the dance at recess and taking us into their fold. Since Amy is infinitely smarter in all ways, our social stock did indeed plummet.

But we always had fun. I loved going to her house, because her mom was a great devotee of Hostess snacks. I don't believe there was ever a time that the pantry wasn't well-stocked with Crumb Cakes. Once, we buried an old lipstick in her yard, and we tortured her brother, who to this day speaks only in grunts. We immensely enjoyed torturing my mother, once by brandishing matches in the woods and threatening to "blaze a trail". In our baton class, we were taught a routine to "Superfreak" by Rick James. Whatever was that teacher thinking!

We were once yelled at by the elderly couple across the street from my house while singing/playing piano for our own rendition of, "Tonight, I Celebrate My Love for You." Later on, I realized with horror that we had just performed "Kiss" by Prince on karaoke night at the Bombay Bicycle Club in front of my future step father. Music, for some reason, was always a big part of our time together.

We went to rival colleges, I to the great Indiana University, she to Purdue (also known as Undue Perversity). She was in a sorority; I just mocked them with my unsuitable, mohawk wearing boyfriend and shot the poor pledges with water guns during rush. She married the perfect man; I, well, didn't. She's tall and dark; I am squat and blond. But through it all we have never forgotten all the times we've laughed until we cried (and after all our collective kids, probably peed a little, too). Amy always listens and doesn't make fun of me when I am sad, at least not until later when I can see the humor. She is as good as a soothsayer in predicting the next girl to be eliminated from America's Next Top Model, too.

So here's my ode to Amy, the best girl there is!

Yes, this is a picture of Amy and her good-natured and tolerant husband, Jason, at a medieval festival. Can you see why I love her so?

REM

Remember that crazy group from the 90s? I have the song, "It's the End of the World as We Know It" running through my head. I am also lamenting the fact that I got so little REM-level sleep last night, after tossing and turning until nearly 3am after the Republicans were so soundly trounced. Even the people of my homeland, Indiana, went for Obama. I was also imagining other things not mentionable here in the blogosphere, but hey, a girl's mind can wander, right?

Obama promises to bring change. Well, I had food poisoning once. That was a change, but I can't say it was a good one! I did wake up this morning and the earth is still turning, my kids still think it's funny to hide in a cabinet and be very quiet while I pretend to look for them (for the 18th morning in a row), and I still have trouble filtering things I say before they come spewing forth from my loud mouth. Perhaps it will not be so bad after all.

The kids just came in to inform me that they have built a fort for Rosie, beloved pet. The pictures below represent what happens when you let children run amok in the yard. I love their blissful ignorance that their life has changed, that they are living in historic times (yes, I voted against this president-elect, but I can't deny a little excitement that I was here when the race barrier came down a bit, and we have a president who is half white, half something else like my own children).

Fat Feet

I went shoe shopping last night. For most women, this is a blissful experience, only rivaled by having one's house professionally cleaned while one sits by on the couch, enjoying Ghiradelli squares and a nice shiraz while watching the housecleaner scrub the floors. For me, it is an exercise in frustration that I only subject myself to when my former shoes are nothing but tatters and can no longer function.

I knew I was different even as a young child, when we'd go shoe shopping and my mother would announce to the salesperson, "We need double wides. This child has Fred Flintstone feet." All eyes would immediately dart to my feet, as though they were Harry Potter's lightning bolt scar. They closely resemble rectangles with stubby toes, and could indeed propel a car made of stone wheels.

A particularly bad time for me was in fifth grade, when jelly shoes were all the rage. I squeezed my feet into a pair, only to have my flesh ooze out of the little holes, not unlike play-doh through a garlic press. Determined to be in style, I lived through the pain for the morning, until my circulation was completely cut off and the shoes had to be carefully removed by cutting the plastic with small toenail scissors. "Don't you know better? Your feet will never be cute and small," said my mother as she encased my damaged feet safely in my brother's Converse.

So I bypass the adorable, strappy heels and the ballet flats and head to the industrial strength shoes with clunky heels and a "wide toe box". I have, on occasion, shopped in the men's department. The only relief I have had came during the grunge phase of the early 90s, when roomy Doc Martens were acceptable.

My current shoes were in such bad shape they had holes (colored in with a Sharpie to hide it on the black pair) and the interior looked and smelled like the inside of an apartment in the projects. I spent several days psyching myself up for a trip to Kohl's for new shoes - I have to go to places where it's self-serve, because I cannot bear the thought of springing my hideous feet on an unsuspecting shoe salesman.

After looking longingly at the shiny patent-leather, low-cut pumps in cherry red that I always covet, I moved to the sturdy shoes. After trying them all on, I settled on a pair I like in brown and black. Then, I spied some Mary Jane heels that looked like they were well-suited for the tranny population! They had them in my size! I tried them on and they fit! I quickly tossed them into my bag, envisioning a day soon when I would muster up enough courage to put on some tights and wear them with a sassy skirt (another fashion item I have trouble pulling off).

With a few new pairs of shoes in tow, I left the store in relief that I won't have to do it again for at least a year. Whew! Now back to my regular life...

New Month, New Challenges

I have signed up for NaNoWriMo. There, it's out. I have committed to writing a novel in a month. I don't know if I can do it, but it does sound like great fun. The goal of NaNoWriMo is to write a 175-page tome in the 30 days of November. It's supposed to be stream-of-consciousness style writing, with no editing or careful word usage (that can be done later). Then, you send the mess out to literary agents, and hopefully become the next JK Rowling. Since my clever pitches to agents last month have so far gone unanswered, perhaps this is the way to go. Now all I need is a topic about which to write....

I am also taking a bread-making class as part of my image makeover to a calm, lovely person who feeds her family from the fruits of her hands instead of a shrew who buys everything at Market Basket (though calm, lovely anarchist may be a bit difficult to pull off).

Updates are coming! Now I am off to recover from Halloween.

Halloween Memories

My mom wouldn't let us celebrate Halloween. In her mind, a legion of demons would whisk our precious souls away and we'd spend our days doing satanic ritual killings of chickens and other small animals and possibly become practitioners of Santeria. "It's the devil's night," she would say as my brothers and I were sent off to school to suffer the torment of bullies for being the only ones not in costume, clutching our notes instructing the teacher to send us to the library during the Halloween party.

The only upside of this is that the dreamy Doug Cline's mother was also a great believer in the evil of Halloween, so for that one hour every year he was forced to hang out with me among the smell of moldy books as we received looks of annoyance from the librarian, who most likely wished our crazy moms would have just kept us home and let her have an hour of peace. Looking back, I wonder that too. Why not make it a fun "sick" day and let us avoid the humiliation?

For someone who was already a social outcast, I came to dread Halloween with a passion. I only wanted to fit in and be like the other kids, maybe make a friend. I had visions of trick-or-treating, wearing a Marcia Brady costume or something equally fab, with the popular kids encircling me to make me one of their own, if only for one night.

But we had to shut off all the lights and go to a movie or the mall, or worse - to my grandparent's house to help them pass out candy to all the kids with normal parents. My Nana and Pop were great celebrators of Halloween and any holiday, and would sneak us candy when mom wasn't looking. It was small consolation to three kids who just wanted to be at the big Halloween party at Boone Village shopping center, the hub of activity where all the youth converged after trick-or-treating for dancing, hayrides and fun galore!

The Halloween memories are the strongest in my mind from childhood, I don't know why. But I think it's why I let my kids celebrate it! They are already different because they homeschool. Though they love it now, I am bracing myself for the day they want to go to school "to be like everyone else". So for Halloween night, they get out among the other kids (and teenage girls dressed like hookers) for all the fun. I stick close, in case a hungry demon tries to get too close to their souls. And look forward to bedtime when I can raid the stash...

Some Days I Wish...

OK, I admit it. Sometimes I wish my kids went to school. There, it's out! My dirty secret has wormed its way out of my rotten-tomato heart and into the blogosphere. Although I know, rationally, that homeschooling is best for everyone and if they actually were in school I would be "that mom" who drives teachers and administrators nuts and becomes a story to be told in the teacher's lounge.

Homeschool moms are not supposed to ever wish their kids away! We are supposed to be serene, always gently in control of our children, who look up at us with rapt attention and always get along. We are to skip happily through the neighborhood, shining beacons of a more positive life. The truth is, it's often smoke and mirrors.

On good days, it's very, very good. On bad days, it's awful. I would estimate that 90 percent of the time, we have good days, meaning we do lessons, get where we need to go, no one bleeds and we mostly get along.

Bad days. Whew. They often send me running for the bathroom, the only place with a locked door where a mom can find some peace. On bad days, they torment each other, throw things, refuse to cooperate. There is much wailing and gnashing of teeth, similar to the Bible's description of hell. And that's just me!

Take last Friday, for example. My children apparently all simultaneously became possessed of the devil's most terrible demons and proceeded to shriek, hit, declare math "too hard" and roll around on the floor in agony spewing pea soup, destroy another's artwork, throw sticks and whine in general. None of the old standbys worked. They would not give in to the lure of baking; even Jake could not be distracted by his favorite pasttime of folding clothes. I even played the TV card to no avail, and wish I'd been savvy enough to remember it's OK to use the Santa card!

Thank God it's now dark by 8! I tossed them all into bed early after a quick story (picked by me - I wasn't about to let them fight over it), took some Advil and lay down with a cool cloth on my forehead.

The word "school" danced through my head. All the hours of child-free leisure I would have! I did indulge, for a moment, in a scandalous fantasy of having a clean house, time to grocery shop alone, having a job that would garner personal satisfaction and monetary gain, and just plain peace and quiet. Then, the scene turned to loneliness, the loss of the excitement of wondering what we will all learn in a day, the loss of getting to be the one to see their faces light up when they figure out something new.

For all the bad days, I really do believe that I am the best one for the job and it truly is a privilege to be able to be their mom. Now if only I could figure out how to get spaghetti sauce off the ceiling....

Panic in the Schools

A few days ago, there was widespread panic over an alleged gunman wandering aimlessly around Newburyport (the same town banning sweets in school). One mom overreacted after misunderstanding a conversation, and reported that the person had entered the elementary school, which has no locks on the doors or security system. After a manhunt that lasted for hours, a reverse-911 call to homes, and a lockdown of the schools until 4 pm, the whole thing just kind of fizzled out with the gunman, probably a hunter, never found.

A panic ensued among the mommies, quite understandably. How is it, in post-Columbine days, that anyone can enter the unlocked doors of elementary schools? The only school in town with adequate security, it seems, is the catholic Immaculate Conception school - where per-pupil tuition is about half of what is spent per child in the government school. According to the superintendent, there is no money for upgraded security, so you'd better vote to increase your taxes! For the Children! But there is money for annual, fairly large raises for staff and administrators, for "wellness" studies and additional administration staffing........but I digress.

On that day, I was so glad to have my little ones close at hand. It could very easily be the elementary school down the street from us, which is also never locked. I know that we can never fully protect our kids, and that they are not to be raised in a bubble, but I just don't get it how parents can blindly send their children off to a place that is not secure, where daily there are reports of teachers having sexual relationships with students, where cries for "more money" yield nothing but fat paychecks for administrators and extra services on silver platters for so-called special needs kids.

So paint me as a quirky anarchist. I'll gladly accept that characterization if only to avoid the daily problems and worry the public schools inspire.

No More Bums!

Hallelujah and Glory Be! I never thought this day would come, the end of the potty line. My last child has announced that he now wants to wipe his own bum. I observed his capabilities, and have given him the green light to take care of his own personal hygeine.

No more diapers! No more bums! But that also means no more babies in the house, and for that reason I am a bit maudlin today. Even though it wouldn't be at all practical to have any more babies, I think I will always want "just one more". Just one more time to hold a newborn, to watch them learn to smile, crawl, walk and run. Once more to fall asleep with a baby on my chest, all snuggly. That ship has sailed, but the dream lives on.

It's been weird lately to go playgrounds and not know most of the moms, who are there with warm newborns nestled inside a sling with fuzzy, feathery hair poking out. My kids are now the big ones that the new walkers stumble around after, arms outstretched, trying to reach but just missing the coattails of my speed racers.

Granted, they are still little, but they don't need me like they used to. They are full of their own ideas, and some days I wish for the ease of a one-year-old who just happily wears what you put on them and goes along with the plan with a goofy grin.

I realize, now, that babies are so easy and precious. They don't seem that way when you are living through it, and I am sure that in a few more years I'll look back on the elementary years and say they were easy compared to what lies ahead in adolescence and teenagedom.

For now, I will just be glad to be wiping one less bum. And if you have a baby, may I borrow it from time to time?

Hands-On Science

Since it's a rainy day, we decided to make slimy goo in the kitchen! Isn't that what everyone does? The kids mixed large quantities of corn starch, water and red food coloring (to simulate blood, of course) in bowls. When hands are submerged in the goo, it feels like quicksand. When the goo is placed on a surface, it appears to be liquid, but when slapped with hands or objects it doesn't move! Very cool stuff that kept my kids busy for literally an hour and 20 minutes. Here are the gory pictures. And proof that I actually do "school" sometimes...

The Food Police

In the government school in affluent Newburyport, officials have decided to "ban" candy from the premisis in a misguided effort to battle unhealthy eating and obesity. There will also be severe limits on cupcakes and classroom birthday parties, and whole milk will be frowned upon. Since labels already have to be sent in so everyone is on high alert for peanut dust, lunch has become even more difficult for moms.

It's kind of funny to me that a town populated by the most beautiful, slim, organic, Pilates-addicted moms I have ever seen who are very conscious of every bite consumed by their kids feels the need to implement a "wellness plan". In fact, I cannot recall seeing an overweight child in Newburyport, or a mom over size 4, for that matter. If I were one of those moms, I would be highly offended at the idea I am too negligent or stupid to regulate my kids' diet.

Being an anarchist, upon reading about the ban in the illustrious Newburyport Daily News I immediately corralled my kids into the tent in our living room which has been serving as our classroom and temporary pretend safari headquarters to give them lollipops and peanut butter on a spoon in rebellion, with some whole milk to wash it down, and thought of some of my own solutions for the fat elementary schooler problem.

In my opinion (now, remember, I do not have an Ed.D., so I may not be qualified to make decisions for parents and families who are not mine), if the kids were allowed to have more PE and recess time instead of studying for MCAS or spending money (I'd be very interested in how much the "wellness plan" cost to put together) on studies about how to regulate a child's brown bag lunch, perhaps they wouldn't be so chubby. If there was no full-day kindergarten, think of how many more hours a day of exercise those little guys could get. Children need to run, run, run! Oh, but running at recess has also been outlawed at many schools, along with tag and dodgeball....

Think about it. When we were kids, snack was often a Twinkie with a cherry Kool-Aid chaser and some Fun Dip for dessert which our moms made up for by liberally sprinking wheat germ on our dinners. But none of us were fat! Why? Because our parents made us run around outside all the livelong day and there were only 2 television channels. We had 3 recesses in school and gym at least a couple of times a week. Our lives were not dependent on MCAS scores, so we could be kids.

Why does everyone think that we parents are too obtuse to make the right choices for our kids? Is a bite-sized Snickers bar in a lunch call for concern? So much is already taken away from parents regarding our offspring. I am hoping to see at least some parents say "enough already" and let their kids have a glimmer of hope that they might find a Twix in their bag.

Halloween Party Pics

Yes, my kids were the only ones at the party in crappy, homemade costumes (Anna in her dance costume from 2 years ago). Cheap or frugal? You decide...

Ryan hogged all the treats. I think he ate a year's supply of Chernobyl Orange food yesterday amidst protests from the organic moms over sweets and juice at a HALLOWEEN PARTY. Get a grip, ladies. Next time, bring your own fruit plate.

Reinventing Self

I think it's time to reinvent myself again, not unlike a phoenix rising from the ashes. Now that I am an anarchist, there are many possiblities. Having recently lost 28 pounds (thank you, dairy allergy leading to non-dairy lifestyle) and cut off about 10 inches of hair, I am on my way. Though I do wonder how no one has seemed to notice the loss of hair/body fat....

Over the last few days, I've had several epiphanies while under the influence of prescription narcotics, and have come up with a list of new character traits (as well as a new list of people I am allowed to "kiss" should the opportunity arise, but that's another post).

Among the things I need to change to become a kinder, gentler anarchist:

Stop interrupting. It's a bad habit.

Start standing up for myself when husband suggests I should get a real job and/or mop the floor after major abdominal surgery. Also when he implies I am hideously disfigured now that I am over 30.

Stop thinking people are interested in the minutae of my life and learning to just shut the hell up.

Realizing it's OK that I haven't bought "real" Halloween costumes for the kids and they will not be social outcasts just because they had to go to the NMC party in home-made ones (see pics above).

If anyone has any other suggestions, let me know. The internal purge must move forward!

Home from Hospital and Grooving on Percocet

The surgery was a success (meaning the glop in my pelvic region is gone and I have good drugs). The gifted Dr. Swierzewski removed an 8-cm growth of endometriosis from my muscle tissue. This fact just makes me seem more attractive, doesn't it?

I had purchased new, purple undergarments for the day, only to have to remove them. The last time I was on heavy painkillers with no undies on for the entire morning was much more fun, I must say. I kept getting paranoid that I would be the one the doctors and nurses would all joke about once I was unconscious, because there is much material about which to make mocking comments in my stomach area. Hoping they were professional!

My kids were so great today as I rested, and gave me copious hugs and hand-made cards. I take back, at least temporarily, all the times I called them heathen monsters. Even husband rallied, and did not ask me to take out the trash like he did the day I got home after my c-section with the twins. Maybe he still, like Voldemort, does have a shred of his soul left somewhere.

Now back to my regularly scheduled life...

Surgical Stress

OK, it's the eve before I go under the knife. My dearest friend Amy today suggested I ask to keep the contents of whatever is removed to use as object lessons for the kids. For example, I can have them do a biopsy of the stuff, toss it on pH paper to see if it's an acid or a base, or plant it in the yard to fertilize my garden. Any other ideas?

I am still very anxious about the whole needle in my arm thing, so if anyone happens to be up at 6:15 am tomorrow and has nothing better to do, they can meet me at Anna Jaques for moral support....

I am listed in the phone book, and will fully expect floral bouquets and treats upon my arrival home (ha, ha).

For now, I am about to consume my last meal before my insides are sliced and diced. Tomatoes, anyone????

I'll update tomorrow for those of you who care. Or not - remember, if I die, make sure they use a pic of Scarlett Johansson instead of me in the obit, and watch out for the kiddos.

The Intrepid Rosie

Everyone knows that homeschooling families must have a rodent in a cage, to teach the children responsiblity and kindness to animals. In our home, it's Rosie the much beloved guinea pig. We rescued her last year from the animal shelter, as some irresponsible gits bred over 150 of them and could no longer handle their care. My heartstrings were pulled as I read about the little babies, and how they would have to be put to sleep if they weren't adopted. So we piled into the minivan and hightailed it over to the MSPCA, where Rosie found us.

In her year with us, she has traveled across state lines, participated in the Guinea Pig Olympics, had a line of clothing designed and sewed for her by Anna and her friends, and is now the star of a play written by Anna in which she risks life and limb to save a bird stuck in a tree. She has also had the classics read to her, and received a very cool tunnel to play in for her birthday. It's quite like having another child (which I would LOVE, so I may need to keep accumulating small furry animals to squelch that), but without the diapers. Her incarnations include Spider Pig, Wonder Pig and, for reasons only understood by the children, Scaryface.

The other day, we were playing with Rosie in the yard and Anna decided to teach her to read by showing her the "go" sign we have and moving her, then restraining her by showing her the "stop" sign. It did flash through my mind that, if we taught the Pig to read, our money woes would be over. So we did a quick lesson on Pavlov, and gave Rosie treats to go and stop. Who knows if it really worked - look for us on Letterman!

No pet is more lovable with the kids and warm on your lap in winter. She's silky soft and never bites, even when forced to play in a block condo built by the kids. Our home is more fun with her! Now to figure out how to answer the questions about why we would need a boy Pig to make baby ones....that's for another day.

Children of the Corn Maze

Today, we went on a trek through the fabutastic Kimball Farm corn maze. It takes you through about 5 acres of cornfield, with shapes of five animals. Questions lead you in the right - or the wrong - direction. As I corralled the 4 children in my care (my 3 plus a spare to keep Anna from whining), I felt a certain affinity for the corn itself. In fact, it almost seemed like I had returned to my homeland of Indiana, where I grew up on a farm replete with cornstalks.

In the hour and a half we were lost in the maze, I could see where one could go crazy like Malachi and his pals in the Stephen King thriller. I truly couldn't tell one way from another, and thought about an insightful article sent to met recently from a new friend (thanks, Beth) about a woman who would hide from her kids in a cornfield. How lovely it would be if such a safe place as a cornfield existed for us all!

The smell of the corn and dirt, and the uninhibited joy and laughter only children can exhibit made me smile for the first time in awhile. We really had a lovely time - wish I could have shared it with others! The picture above is my own scary Children of the Corn Maze plus the resplendent and lovely Hanna, whose parents graciously loaned her to me for the afternoon to share in our discoveries. Can you tell which children are the anarchists and which one has been taught dignity and self-preservation by bullies in the public schools? I am trying to forget it will soon be winter lockdown, and a great weekend like we had keeps me in denial.

So, It's Saturday Night

What does a true anarchist do on a Saturday night when husband is gone and not requiring housework and hogging the remote? When you're me, you farm out the oldest kid and convince the little ones it's bedtime a half hour early. Today, we happen to have candy corn in the house, which will probably be consumed in mass quantities (it is fat free, after all) while I watch grown-up television and ignore the clutter, gleefully imagining the look of utter disdain I would receive if aforementioned husband was home.

Saturdays in our house are very exciting anyway, because I wash all the sheets and pillows on Saturday mornings in Tide with Downy (is there a better scent anywhere?) and freshen the beds. It's the high water mark of our week! I sometimes even wash husband's sheets, if he's been in town for a few days as though offering an olive branch if I am feeling magnanimous.....the kids love Clean Sheet Saturdays nearly as much as they love fingerpainting with foreign substances on the carpet. Win-win all around!

On this particular Saturday, I am a bit tired as it was an exceptionally glorious October day and we spent most of it at a great farm festival. The kids participated in a corn husking contest, made their own cider, stuffed a scarecrow, cried because I refused to spend $15 on pony rides, pet a horse and a cow, climbed on ancient tractors and ran helter-skelter through a hay maze. I also snuck in some contraband peanut butter sandwiches, which we ate in an open field listening to chickens and watching planes land at the tiny Plum Island airport. We saw many friends and no enemies, which made everything perfect, at least for a couple of hours.

I'll probably also spend a few minutes imagining a different life, of course - one with no stress and all that. Before I turn in (late, because I am going through an insomnia phase), I'll check the precious boys and take one last whiff of their cute preschoolerness before reading until my body gives out. I'll hope that maybe a friend will call, but at the same time be glad if no one does. Another great Saturday night in the life of the lawless.

Stop Screaming, Start Loving

Over the summer, I was referred to in casual conversation with an old friend as a “babe”. As I have not deserved the “babe” moniker for at least 15 years (Jessica Simpson I am not), I blushed and didn’t care if the man proffering the comment was lying or not. I just accepted it blindly and figured I had stumbled into some good lighting. Later that same day, I was told that an article I wrote made someone laugh, and the speaker of this compliment said she thought I was a gifted writer.

Those two events have kept me feeling good for awhile now. Two compliments, said with sincerity, though clearly undeserved, have made me smile and hold my head up a little bit.

So I was thinking, as I was in round 3 of a screaming battle of wills with one of my boys, that maybe if I said something kind it could shock them into having some self-esteem, and maybe put them in the mood to smile more as well. After all, it is my most important job as a mother to teach them that others are precious and important, and worthy of being treated with respect and kindness. If I don’t model that for them by treating them as such, where will they learn?

I folded this sobbing, frustrated child into my lap and said into his soft ear that I thought he was just fabulous, and how about if we go outside and ride cars and bikes in the driveway. All three kids looked at me like they expected me to start spewing pea soup for a split second, then they jumped up to find shoes and were lined up at the door in a flash. The one I had been battling moments before hugged me, and said, “I love you like a car.” Which I think is a supreme compliment, coming from a boy.

For the rest of the day, and for a few days after, I tried replacing screaming and nagging with redirection, compliments and hugs for minor infractions and irritations. The improvement in attitude was remarkable, and my daughter Anna even said she like the non-yelling mommy better, which makes me wonder how much of a shrew I had been, though I think I have a good idea.

Then I noticed that they were complimenting each other. Anna stopped screaming when the boys knocked down her block castles, and invited them to help her rebuild after laughing at the mess. “Good job, boys,” she said. “That made an interesting pile!” OK, I take what I can get.

Do I still scream too much? Yes. Do I sigh in exasperation when I find stuff like A1 sauce and blue glitter paint decorating the carpet? Sadly, I do. But I have found the beginnings of a solution.

Then it hit me. What if we all started saying nice things to people? Commenting on the small things they do that make a difference? Boosting their morale? Calling a 38-year-old mom of 3 a babe is a good start. How much better could we feel, and make our children feel? Maybe I am the only one with this problem, but when I get going I can really tear the poor little buggers down. Is it really so much harder to take a deep breath and scream “I love you” instead of “You horrible children, just stop it right now or you’ll find yourself at a hospital in Nebraska” and give a hug instead of storming off to slam a door, muttering terrible things under one’s breath?

As the days get shorter and darker, I have resolved to attempt to make my patience longer and my disposition sunnier. There is a long winter looming, and it’s the only way I can see to survive it.

Educational Anarchist Anthem (courtesy of the Sex Pistols and Charlotte McPherson)

Goodbye authority
The ones who think that they know it all
Just want you on your knees
Behind the classroom door
Where seasons waste away
They teach you how to right and wrong
But there's a price to pay
A price to pay

Revolution
In the classroom
Revolution
In the classroom

For more than just a day
They keep us from the game of life
And waste our lives awayAlways demanding
You fit into the script
Have you ever heard
Your neighbour, scream and scream..And scream

Revolution
In the classroom
Revolution
In the classroom

For more than just a day
Just take a look at the world they've made
It gives the game away
Boredom is normal
And power the order of the day
Stop your heart from beating
And waste your life away

Revolution
In the classroom
Revolution
In the classroom

Deny the game they play
Just take a look at the world they've made
It gives the game away
Boredom is normal
And power the order of the day
Stop your heart from beating
And throw your life away (away)

Revolution
In the classroom
Revolution
In the classroom
Revolution
In the classroom
Revolution
In the classroom
Revolution
In the classroom

The Sex Pistols, a great group of actual anarchists...

Momnesia

For awhile, I thought I was becoming mentally deranged. I rarely remember where we’re going as I speed down the highway, looking frantically for the birthday gift that flew off my minivan two miles back. At least I have the wherewithal to tell the kids our final destination before we leave the house as I rummage around for my purse. What was happening to my once-famous photographic memory?

Recently, reading nonsense online while pretending to “work”, I came across a name for my affliction: momnesia. A little, gray cloud lifted from my rusty steel trap mind. I am not alone. I have an actual MEDICAL CONDITION. I had to sit down with my head between my knees to take in the news that I am fine.

Before kids, I could remember phone numbers, dentist appointments, and once got an A in a course where I was required to recall entire passages from Shakespeare and then explain the relevance to the overall play. Fat lot of good that skill does me now, when a Meg Cabot novel takes all the mental agility I have to complete.

Apparently, the strain of pregnancy, childbirth and sleep deprivation make our hormones and brain synapses misfire, sending moms into a downward spiral into near catatonia in the beginning, finally leaving us in a permanent fog through which we wander the rest of our days, relying on our day planners to get us where we need to be.

According to neuropsychiatrist Louann Brizendine, author of The Female Brain, some women's plummeting estrogen levels, which lurch from “incredibly high” in late pregnancy to “virtually non-existent” after delivery, can make it hard to focus. While estrogen plays a key role in fertility, it also acts as a neurotransmitter, sending signals in the brain.

Breast-feeding can prolong the mental haze, Brizendine says, by circulating hormones that help mothers relax and promote a “mellow, mildly unfocused” feeling.

Having breastfed children for a total of about 2 ½ years certainly explains my prolonged mental haze and continued feeling of being mildly unfocused. Mellow, I am not, but that’s another story.
There are times momnesia can come in handy. Sure, I rarely know the day or the month any more, but I can forget that just 5 minutes ago I was so annoyed with my kids I briefly considered seeing if ages 4, 4, and 7 still qualify for the safe haven program at the fire department.

I forgot the horrors of a colicky newborn long enough to get pregnant again – with twins! That Duggar woman on TLC is so addled, she has 17 children and professes a desire for “just one more.” Without momnesia, the whole species would die out.

I have long held the theory that moms lose an IQ point and a vocabulary word each day after giving birth. Now, there’s proof. Is it a bad thing? Does the fact that I’ve carried on conversations with strangers at a playground about the scope and sequence of toilet training make me any less of the former me, who could quote portions of Ulysses verbatim and in context to make an obscure joke?

Lately, I am excited to report, I have noticed a plateau in the draining of my intellect. Just the other day I used the word ethereal while describing my fantasy of being able to play violin like the Celtic Woman. My husband was eating kim chee and the first thing I thought of was the word rancid. Ethereal! Rancid! What a breakthrough to remember them!

Brazindine concedes that mothers don’t become dumber, we just redirect our smarts to a different area, in this case child-rearing. In her book, she likens mothers to medical school residents who suffer from sleep deprivation and are in a similar fog as new moms, but learn everything they need to know at a rapid pace to adapt to their environment.

I made a brief list of all the new things I have learned since becoming a mom: how to fulfill three simultaneous requests while talking on the phone; how to laugh at projectile vomit and stretch marks; how to love more deeply than I ever thought possible.

I have also learned that nature is rarely wrong. Whatever happens to our minds and bodies through giving birth is for a reason. Momnesia is just a season of life which places us on the same mental plane as our young children, thus helping us endure the hard early years – which would, let’s face it, bore us all to death if we were of our full mental faculties.

I may not ever fully recover. But would I exchange my wondrous, lovely, vibrant children for my old memory? Not on your life.

Rant on Ditto-Heads

OK, those of you who know me best know that I am a political junkie. This presidential election cycle, for me, is better than just about anything including a good Merlot. The snarky sound bites, the conjecture, the negative ads - heaven!

It is infuriating, however, to get e-mails over and over again with the same information which has not been checked by anyone, just mindlessly forwarded by people who like the information they have received.

Case in point. I have gotten an e-mail at least 8 times over the last few days saying that if Congress just approved giving the bailout money earmarked for failing mortgage companies to each adult in the US, we'd all get $425,000! This is surely a better deal for us all - except a closer look at the math shows that it's actually $425, which won't even cover the minimum payments on my credit cards.

The Globe printed today a scathing piece on Sarah Palin, lambasting her for a policy in Wasilla stating that rape victims must pay for their own rape kits. Crazed, narrow-minded pro-life idiot! She wants poor rape victims to be forced to sit at home with their babies! Only, there is not proof. Not one instance of a victim having to pay for their own kit. In fact, the sheriff of the town reports that, actually, should the perp of the rape be caught he would have to pay. In other instances, the town paid. There are also only private hospitals in Wasilla - out of the reach of even Sarah Palin's hateful claws. Actually, I really love this woman, which makes me even more of a freak in most people's eyes.

How does this relate? I am starting today to teach my kids to check things out before passing them along, to be free thinkers and take the time to verify. Especially if they are planning to villify someone or make accusations against them. With all the information available, it can be trying at times to determine what is correct and what is spin. I think you can't look at the extremes. If all your information is coming from Media Matters, the Huffington Post, Fox News, One News Daily or a random blog you should probably check twice.

Meanwhile, I am just going to sit back, relax, and enjoy the political show.

How I Became an Educational Anarchist

What the kids of an anarchist look like...

I first learned I was an anarchist a few months back, when the California Teacher's Association described homeschooling parents as such and also claims parents are "amateurs" when it comes to matters of education. As "anarchist" means, basically, freedom from government, I guess I have to agree with the assessment.

In my youth, I tried to be a real anarchist, dying my blond hair all sorts of colors not occuring in nature and drawing the anarchy sign on my Doc Martens with white-out. I listened to the Dead Kennedys and smoked clove cigarettes and had an unsuitable boyfriend, but in the end I realized I am just a small-town gal from Nowhere, Indiana and gave up my quest to be edgy.

Who knew that on the verge of middle age, my dream would come true at last! Yes, I drive a minivan, my hair is its natural color and 2 of my children play soccer (so I am, quite literally, a soccer mom). Yes, I live in a quiet New England hamlet - and yet beneath it all beats the heart of a crazed anarchist, going against the wishes of the federal government and daring to think I have something to teach my young children! Avast! Who knew you needed a "teacher certification" to impart cutting, gluing, reading and writing skills? To teach a child math by showing them patterns in nature? Am I so scary to society simply by espousing the philosophy "rocks and sticks until they're six" and battling against mandated schooling before that?

Call the cops, I am a real threat. Even though I do have a (lapsed) teacher certificate. Even though I spent 7 years teaching in government schools (which was a driving force in my decision to keep my own kids out of them). Even though my kids are all at least a year or two ahead of where random government officials have arbitrarily decided they should be. Or is this what scares people the most?

So, are you with me, fellow anarchists? Let's rise up and let them know we mean business.