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.