Promtastic

Originally published in the Miami News-Record on April 17, 2016.

Since we homeschool we don’t get many chances to dress up. Now, don’t think we’re the stereotypical kind who stay in their pajamas all day (that’s only the entire month of December) because we’re not. Most days we are all awake, dressed, make-up-ed, sufficiently caffeinated, and bordering on productive by 9 am. Because of Vo-tech Sam actually has to leave the house on a daily basis. Of course, as soon as he walks in the door at 12:15 he’s usually in pajama pants within minutes, so there’s that.

Our co-op hosts a semi-formal banquet in the spring and the kids have the chance to get a little gussied up, have dinner with other homeschoolers, and enjoy a special evening. My kids took to calling it the Not-Prom their first year and the name kind of stuck. They’ve done murder mystery dinners (actually, they’re doing that again this year), excursions to Springfield for dinner and a baseball game, and one year they attended a very Pinterest-perfect dinner in a family’s field complete with outdoor chandelier, real china, and fancy soup and stuff. This is Kady’s first year to go and she has learned maximum frugality from her big sister. We managed to get her dress at Susie’s for $6.00. I was pleased. We splurged on the shoes, but hey, it’s her first Not-Prom and that deserves insanely high-heeled sparkly red shoes, right?

I felt kind of bad when it was Abby’s Jr/Sr year and she wasn’t getting ready for the Prom like all of her public schooled friends were. I asked her if she felt like she was missing out. Her reply was as practical as the girl herself: “Mom, the only thing I’m missing out on is the chance to spend a ton of money and wear horribly uncomfortable shoes. I’m fine. Don’t worry.” So I didn’t.  

A few months ago my niece Addison casually mentioned to Sam that she thought it might be fun to take him to Prom if he thought he might be interested. They both are dancing fools, they are seriously geeky with their comic books and different fandoms, and are more like brother and sister than cousins. His reply was as boisterous as the boy himself: “HECK YES I’M INTERESTED!” Then not much more was said about it. Until one morning before church she presented him with donuts and a Mountain Dew for a prom-posal: “’Dew’ you want to go to Prom with me? Please ‘donut’ say no!” I secretly wished prom-posals had been a thing back in the 90’s.

Getting him ready for his first and (probably) only Prom was almost as fun as getting a girl ready. A visit to B. Oliver’s for his tux and boutonnière (the cousins refused to give each other flowers because “Ew, Mom. Weird.”) was the highlight of that week. We pored over the book, discussed looks and colors. Barry was helpful and made it a blast. Paul was less than pleased over what it cost to rent a tux, but I reminded him of a picture of a certain mullet-ed 17 year old in a white tux with a powder blue ruffled shirt and mused at how much that probably cost the boy’s mom back in 1979. He harrumphed me.

The big night finally came and unlike a girl, his getting ready routine began about 40 minutes before we had to leave for pictures and merely involved a shower and a shave. I realized I had never actually pinned a boutonnière on a lapel so the pictures show me with a frustrated look on my face and my phone up to my ear because I had to call Mom. His looked like everyone else’s in the pictures so I guess I did okay. He was excited and looked so handsome. One of my new favoritest pictures in the whole wide world is the one of my over-six-foot-tall boy grinning widely with his arm around his smiling, just-over-five-foot-tall momma. It was a night to remember for us both. 

Spelunkin' (A continuation)

Originally published in the Miami News-Record on October 18, 2015

Back at camp, Lana praised me for passing my free cardiac stress test, but kept a close eye on me. I know she loves me and all, but really didn’t want to do CPR on her friend. I drank a bottle or seven of water, rested my shaking legs, and was excited to hear Tour-guide Lumberjack Barbie say that the cave entrance was “only a minute” from our camp. I was fairly certain I could handle a minute of walking. As we started for the cave I tried to ignore the nagging voice in the back of my head that kept saying, “This path is preeeeeetty steep which means coming back up later is going to finish you off where the other hike didn’t. You better call your mom and tell her you love her.”

At the entrance, the guide warned us about low hanging ceilings, fluttering bats, and slippery surfaces. He cautioned us to not touch anything with our hands and to stay on the path because some of the critters living in there were so small we could knock out an entire community with the toe of our shoe.  “Horton Hears a Who” flashed in my head. He said if there were hand rails we could touch those, but to be very careful to not bump other surfaces with any body parts. I vowed to lovingly make those hand rails my new best friends.

And thus we began our descent. Our friends’ youngest son had been very nervous and scared to go in the cave and they had been praying God would help him overcome that fear in the weeks prior to the trip. I know in my heart of hearts that God conveniently placed some salamanders in the stairwell as we entered. Ezra was fascinated with those scurrying boogers and we were 20-some feet underground before the little guy knew it. I, on the other hand, didn’t do so well on the trip down. I am terrified of heights and the stairs were steep. In order to keep from breaking my hip, I had to look down at the steps. Looking down made me light-headed and I lost my balance and bumped the wall….and felt something wiggle. I called down the stairs. “Uhm…..Nathan? I’m pretty sure I just killed a salamander with my butt.” Paul whacked me on the shoulder and shushed me. He said didn’t want me banished before we even got in.

We went 170 feet below the ground that afternoon. We saw all the usual cave offerings: stalactites, stalagmites, bats, lizards, frogs, unknown drippy things and wiggly things. I saw this cool looking stuff on the handrail and hollered to the guide to see what it was. “Oh that? It’s a fungus growing in some guano.”  It was then that I shone my flashlight further onto the handrail and realized that the rail that I had been clinging to was pretty much covered in bat poo. So. Much. Bat. Poo.

Sam entertained us all with random Batman quotes and declarations to save Gotham from the Joker. Everyone over 5’ tall whacked their heads. For once Kady and I felt pretty fortunate that we’re short. We saw a pile of guano that had to have been 12-feet tall. I heard the folks at the head of the line say, “We’re almost there!” and I assumed that “there” meant “exit”. No, “there” meant “as far as we can go and now we have to turn around and walk all the way back out.” It was a half mile in and the same half mile out, but it took a quarter of the time to get out than it did to get in.

It was a really cool experience and I’m glad we did it. I’d even do it again someday. But I’m hoping that between now and the next time, that special cave snail pays for a golf cart and paved pathway to and from the cave. Nature schmature. 

The Great Outdoors

Originally published in the Miami News-Record on October 11, 2015.

Awhile back, Mike and Lana, the friends that came over to sort-of camp in our yard and go four-wheeling back in the summer, asked us if we would be interested in visiting an underground laboratory in a cave in the Ozarks. How does one say no to such a proposition? Kady and Sam are studying earth and space science this year, so I thought caves would go right along with such a trip and you know us homeschoolers and the constant educating of our children and stuff. We were SO in.

We were only going for an overnight stay and would really only spend about 24 hours on the property, but goodness gracious it looked like we were packing to stay a year. We had lawn chairs, flashlights, coolers, bags, sleeping bags, enough bug spray to kill half of Missouri’s insect population, plus hot dogs, sandwiches, and I made enough blueberry muffins for an army. We arrived, grabbed a bite for lunch and finished up just as our tour guide showed up. He looked like a lumberjack. He had a beard and wore a flannel shirt and very serious-looking hiking boots. His name was Nathan, but in my head I referred to him as Tour-guide Lumberjack Barbie. He was adorable.

He took us on a hike through the beautiful wilds of a tiny dot on the map called Protem, Missouri. He explained about the cave and its impact on the environment. He told us about how the owners were working very hard to protect the endangered species that lived in their cave. He said, “The elaborate septic system that keeps the groundwater free of waste was paid for by the snail.” And rather than wonder why or how a snail paid for a septic system, all I could think was, “Where is this snail and will he pay for stuff for me, too?” Turns out, there is a species of cave snail that is only found in this particular cave in the whole wide world. It’s a VIM (Very Important Mollusk). And apparently when you have a VIM on your property you are a VIP and people pay for your toilets.

Not far into our hike we came across a pygmy rattlesnake. But being homeschoolers, we didn’t run screaming; we all gathered around to inspect it. Tour-guide Lumberjack Barbie nearly had a stroke. “Folks, that’s a poisonous snake. Folks? Rattlesnakes are poisonous. PEOPLE! RATTLESNAKES ARE POISONOUS SNAKES.” Poor fella. Apparently he had never led a tour for homeschoolers before. We are a curious lot.

Little did we realize that our hike was taking us downhill. (Or at least, I didn’t – maybe everyone else did.) When I heard, “Okay, let’s head back to camp for a quick rest then we’ll walk down to the cave,” I was thinking, “Oh, it’s been such a lovely trek so far. I can’t wait to see the rest of the trail.” Then about 10 minutes later after a nearly vertical incline that would make a mountain goat faint, I was sucking so much wind I was seriously considering trying Kady’s inhaler even though I’m allergic to albuterol and it causes my throat to swell shut. I was pretty much just thinking it would bring about death quicker than the heart attack I was certain I was going to have. Lana is an RN and Mike is a firefighter. They both looked ready to spring into action if I keeled over – something I think we all felt was fairly imminent. However, I made it. I survived all 4,270 miles of that hike.

I also exaggerated a few times in the previous paragraph.

You’ll have to come back next Sunday to hear the rest of the story. I know, I know… I’m not one for suspense either, but such a tale requires more than my 650-ish word limit. And believe me, you will all want to read about how I’m pretty sure I killed a salamander with my butt.

A Whole Lot of Nothin'

[Originally published in the Miami News-Record on August 2, 2015.]

I try not to miss writing this column too often, but sometimes it can’t be helped. Last week 4/5 of us came down with a horrifically vile stomach bug that had me changing trash cans, spraying Lysol, applying cool cloths to hot faces, bleaching anything that looked remotely germy, and washing every sheet, pillowcase, and blanket in the house every time someone recuperated only to begin the whole process over again when the next one bit the dust. I just opted to just take the week off. I don’t think I could’ve written anything intelligent anyway. Paul and I slept on the couches or an air mattress for a solid week while the kids convalesced in our room close to a bathroom and nightly my slumber was punctuated multiple times by barfing teenagers or husband. Needless to say, I was kind of doofy by my Friday noon deadline anyway. But hurrah for “mom-munity” because once again everyone in the house got sick except me. Although … a few days in bed sounded kind of nice by week’s end.

In my “free” time I have been working on lesson plans. My dining room table hasn’t seen the light of day since July 4^th . I am in the home stretch, though, and by the end of the weekend should have both kids’ lessons written out through Christmas break. I have been having strange dreams about Moby Dick, the Jamestown colony, Hiawatha’s wedding, sentence diagrams, sonnets in iambic pentameter, and business ledgers for the better part of the month. Something tells me I need a vacation. Well, either that or some medication.

Not long after we moved a year and a half ago my washing machine stopped agitating. The repair guy said it was the transmission and it was on borrowed time. Well, we borrowed three days then she gave up the ghost. We took our monthly date night to Lowe’s to purchase a new Whirlpool. The new machine was fancy and weird, but we adjusted. Over time I grew accustomed to the strange clanking noises the owner’s manual said were normal as the load leveler and automatic doohickeymabobber did their jobs. But alas, a mere week after the one-year warranty went out, she began her death cry – a horrible racheting sound that makes the coyotes howl and the cats run for cover. It also makes my husband grumble and the kids moan. It just makes me see dollar signs. A call to my favorite repair guy went like this:

“Did you buy any kind of extended warranty on that washer?”

“……No…..”

“Well, you should have.”

*sigh*

Last June I began the construction of my very first rag rug. I got this crazy Pinterest-fueled idea to make all of my sister’s and my kids a handmade (with love!) rug. The idea was to present them as graduation presents. Since Abby had already graduated and my nephew Trust was about to be born I decided to tackle Trust’s first as a birthin’ gift then would finish Abby’s immediately after then be on track to finish my niece’s long before her graduation this coming May. I put the last stitch in my squishy baby nephew’s rug last Monday, a week before his 1^st birthday. So his birthin’ gift has turned into his birthday gift and I learned that homemade rag rugs aren’t to be rushed. I also hope he doesn’t mind that toward the end I jammed the needle into my finger so hard I kind of bled on his rug. But it’s on the underside, so as long as no one inspects it too closely, we’re good. It turned out really pretty and I’m proud of how it looks (blood and all). I know how to make things go smoother for the next one. And the good news is my niece should expect her rug in May.

Of 2025.

Sort-of Camping

Originally posted in the Miami News-Record, May 31, 2015

This past year a new family joined our homeschool co-op and while I had their oldest son in my class, we hadn’t really gotten to know each other that well. Eventually I asked the husband to speak to my inventions class and they asked my son to play on their basketball team. Slowly, slowly (because turns out, we’re all just a bunch of dadgum introverts), we started testing the waters of becoming “family friends” and thankfully, it worked. Our son and their oldest are good friends (and involve the middle brother in moments of brotherly kindness), their little guy is still enchanted by my youngest, and all of us adults get along insanely well. For a bunch of introverts, that is.

Toward the end of winter we decided to have a camp-out here at our house. We had to start planning it fairly early because she’s a nurse, he’s a firefighter, and their schedules call for creativity and very little spur-of-the-moment stuff. The plan was for the boys to camp out at our pond and we girls to stay in the house in the air conditioning. I’m not opposed to tent camping; I would just rather, given the option, hang out in a house if one is nearby. (I am far more diva than redneck, no doubt.) The plan was to fish, shoot guns, watch fireworks, and my husband even got us permission to ride four-wheelers on the trails over at D-Day, the paintball place just behind our property.

After months of anticipation, the camp-out day finally arrived. They pulled in our driveway in their minivan full of a giant tent, food, fireworks, and boys. We had to re-configure the camping a bit because back in March we had no way of knowing that Oklahoma would have a monsoon season and our pond would exceed its banks, thus running every snake for higher ground. That made camping down there a seriously bad idea no matter how much emergency training anyone had. We ate lunch, visited, did some front porch sittin’, drank some sweet tea, shot a few guns, and just generally enjoyed relaxing. Finally we could put the kids off no longer and loaded up on the four-wheelers and my brother-in-law’s UTV for a very muddy, hot, and sweaty adventure. I forget how rough four-wheeler riding is on a hind-end until I ride for an hour – and then walk like my Granny Glenn for awhile after I dismount.

After our ride, about 2/3 of us stunk to high heaven thanks to some stinky, stagnant puddles and the males’ attraction to splashing their cohorts with said disgustingness. We made the boys hose off so we could stand to be around them, then sent them off to set up the fireworks display. Abby’s dog had been bitten by a snake while we were gone, so we women tried our best to get some Benadryl down her. Then we needed hosing down because we were covered in dog slobber and pond water funk. That dog hasn’t quite figured out that snakes are not fun toys.

After more gun shootin’, tea drinkin’, and porch sittin’, we roasted hot dogs on the fire pit, shot off fireworks, ate watermelon, and then when all threat of bad weather was past, the boys set up the tent close to the house, away from snakes (we hoped). Eventually, the boys settled down in their tent and we grownups kicked back in the recliners, turned on a movie (that we didn’t really watch) and visited some more. The next morning after breakfast, the men went out to build gates for our new front porch, the boys shot more guns, we moms talked curriculum, birth stories, parenting woes, and other mom-ish things. When the rain moved in, all nine of us piled onto our couches and watched “Jurassic Park”.

So….how many rednecks does it take to get dirty, drink a lot of sweet tea, and make some memories?

Apparently, for us, nine is the perfect number. 

How Soon We Forget

Originally published in the Miami News-Record, March 29, 2015

I have written about embracing chaos before – in fact, just a few weeks ago if I remember correctly. I love our chaotic evenings around the dining room table playing games or just acting weird while we sit around talking about whatever rabbits we decide to chase.

But I fear my poor husband has no memory of the chaos we used to experience. He’s adapted to (and for the most part enjoys) teen chaos, but has seemingly forgotten the kid brand of chaos.

Case in point, this past week a dear friend from homeschool co-op came over with her six kids. They range from 3 years to 12 years and they are all so stinking adorable I can hardly contain myself when I’m around them. She has five precious little girls and one awesome little dude. They arrived that morning armed with kites, sidewalk chalk, and bubbles and even though it was a bit chilly, we sat outside and visited while they ran around the field chasing kite strings and each other. Immediately my friend’s boy convinced Sam that a piggyback ride was in order. Kady had the two littlest girls – one on her hip, the other by the hand – and they were trying to fill her in on everything that had ever happened in their lives. Or maybe it was a story about a dog or a flower or sunshine, I’m not sure. Whatever the story was, it was very exciting to them and Kady was nodding her head exuberantly.

My friend and I discussed husbands and jobs, college and Obamacare, being debt-free, homeschooling struggles and triumphs, pets, tattoos, and various other topics. We drank coffee and sweet tea with wild abandon. Being a stay-at-home mom means you embrace that grownup time with all the strength in your weary body and you talk until your jaws ache, laugh until your cheeks hurt, and store away the precious experience of another human being speaking to you without picking their nose or asking you to wipe their butt.

As the day wore on, the kites either ripped or got caught up in our hilltop wind gusts and became frustrating to the little ones, the chalk got boring, and the outside lost its exciting allure, so we suddenly found ourselves sitting across from each other on my couches with eight kids in our conversations. Being mommas, we just kept on talking, while the three-year-old army crawled across the back of the sofa from end of the room, around the corner and back again, and never batted an eye. We just cuddled up with whoever wanted a cuddle, tickled whoever wanted to be tickled, and kept on embracing the last snippets of adult conversation before time would once again force us to go back to “real life”. At one point cupcakes were brought out and the icing was promptly licked off by roughly 2/3 of those present. I was gifted a pipe cleaner crown from her oldest girl. Someone farted. Everyone giggled.

My husband walked in the door at 4:00 to see eight kids and two mommas, and promptly went into panic mode. He smiled, said hello, then walked straight to the bedroom. I could smell the fear. He hid in the garage until they left. When he finally peeked back in the house he grinned and said, “I walked in and there were so. many. little. people…..I panicked. Sorry.” I chuckled and gave a brief overview of the day while he sat wide-eyed. “But how do you two just…handle….all of that noise and farting and giggling and crumbs and sticky fingers???”

I patted his hand and said, “Oh honey, ours used to have sticky fingers and could spontaneously generate crumbs when they hadn’t eaten a thing. They were always running and jumping on the furniture. And well, they still fart.” He shook his head, “You moms are something.”

Yes. Yes, we are. 

Bargaining for Cobbler

Originally published in the Miami News-Record on January 11, 2015

This past week was our first week back to school after Christmas break. To say we “eased” back into it would be an understatement. On Monday I had a medical procedure done that took longer than it would have for any normal person. Then I needed to pick up some groceries. The kids worked on school while I was gone, but by the time I got home I was exhausted and the math I had assigned kind of got … postponed. On Tuesday a homeschooling friend of mine and her kids came over for a visit. Coffee drinking and chatting was way more important (and fun) than math. On Wednesday, the youngest had an orthodontist appointment, but I declared that when I got home we WOULD do that math. Wednesday was really cold, remember? So yeah, when I got home I was chilled and grumpy, but absolutely determined to do math with both kids.

Then my son, who may have a future as a lawyer, began pleading his case about how our Christmas break was significantly shorter than many of his homeschooling compadres and how if we jumped into a full schedule so quickly there might be a fair amount of emotional trauma inflicted on their delicate psyches. His little sister was nodding her head in agreement, like a little bobble-head dog you put in the back window of your car. I wasn’t swayed even when they began batting eyelashes. But then, his next appeal hit just too close to my heart to ignore. “How about I bake that peach cobbler for you? I’ll trade you math for Home Ec!” And that’s where my walls came down. The last time he baked a cake, he was so stressed at the end he swore he’d never bake again and if that meant never eating cake ever again for the rest of his life, he was okay with that. I want all three of my kids to leave this house knowing their way around a kitchen and possessing some basic culinary skills. His offer was a breakthrough in my mind. We shook on it and I walked out of the kitchen.

He stood there with his jaw on the ground. “Uhhh…aren’t you going to like, help me?” he queried. “No. You made this deal. Happy ….uh, cobbler-ing, my little Keebler elf.” And then I went off to put my feet up and munch on some bon-bons. Actually, (after explaining what a Keebler elf was) I ran to my desk to put the final touches on my lesson for co-op class this week and thought very strongly about putting in some earbuds. Not for music, but to discourage questions and let him bake the cobbler on his own without my help. But then I remembered my first cake-baking experience at age 14 when Mom asked me to bake a cake for her to take to a church party. I had assured her I had it under control because I had like, a whole nine weeks of Home Ec I under my belt. She got home to find me bawling with a very gnarly looking cake sitting pitifully next to me. I didn’t want my 16 year old son to someday have to tell his therapist about the peach cobbler that scarred him for life.

He did ask a lot of questions, but he baked the cobbler on his own. I heard him doing a Guy Fieri impression at more than one point talking about how he pretty sure this cobbler was “gonna be off the chain” (even though he doesn’t even like cobbler). I also heard him give the baking powder a good old fashioned Emeril Lagasse “BAM!” into the bowl. He seemed to enjoy the experience this time and now I can rest easy knowing that his future therapy sessions won’t cover the topic of culinary abandonment maybe as much as the fact I likened him to a small fictional woodland creature that bakes goodies in a hollow tree.

Yes, Yes, Yes

Originally posted in the Miami News-Record on November 16, 2014

Sometimes I overextend myself. I don’t do it intentionally and most of the time I don’t even realize I’m doing it until it’s too late and I find myself sitting in the middle of the classroom floor surrounded by piles of tulle, cotton batting, and glitter, tears streaming down my exhausted face, swearing to anyone within earshot that I will never volunteer for anything again. Oh wait - there is no one to listen to my wails and declarations because they all went to bed hours before. They’re all nestled snug in their beds with visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads whilst I accidentally hot glue my fingers to the same piece of cardboard over and over again.

It’s not that I can’t say no – that’s not it at all. I can say it and say it often - it’s that once I start saying yes, I can’t stop. It’s a slippery slope, my friends.

For nearly a year now I have said no quite a bit actually. We resigned from our youth ministry positions shortly after the first of the year and then moved to a whole new part of the county soon after that. The lack of 25 extra youth to keep track of greatly reduced the amount of stress in our lives right off the bat. Then add in that we moved roughly 45 minutes from everyone and everything we were used to being close to - that also reduced our activities. We needed some rest. Youth ministry ain’t for sissies (and it’s usually done by folks a lot than us). We soon settled into our new, quiet lifestyle and it was good.

Our weekends have been spent mostly at home since January. Our evenings have been spent mostly at home as well. Before we moved, the kids were begging to stay home on the weekends – as of late they have been asking to please go somewhere, anywhere besides our house or yard. When my husband and his oldest brother built a fire pit at the brother’s place this fall and suddenly we found ourselves ‘round a campfire a few nights a week the kids thought they’d won the social lottery.

Then our son asked to play basketball. And we said yes. We went from binge-watching half a season of Hell on Wheels or LOST at a go, to (gasp) leaving the house for hours at a time, several days a week. Then, in a moment of social weakness, I agreed to participate in our homeschool co-op’s Christmas Craft Fair. That youngest kid of mine is so dang cute sometimes she should be considered dangerous. She can talk people into stuff they have no intention of ever doing. The second I said yes to the fair, she whipped out her iPad, opened up Pinterest and started talking a mile a minute about decorated clothespins, snowman tea lights, Christmas trees made from sticks and ribbon (like I have any intention of going out and picking up sticks) and other hand-crafted items of extreme cuteness and adorableness that some women find enjoyable. I only see the work involved, laid out in the Excel-like spreadsheet of my overly analytical mind.

We are a week away from the craft fair. We’ve narrowed it down to two crafts. I’m voting for the one that uses the half bag of cotton balls in the bathroom cabinet and that partially dried-up watercolor set in the craft bin.

And as I write this it’s now 11pm. Not only am I just now writing my column, but I also just remembered I volunteered to create new classroom signs for the homeschool co-op. Chapel begins in 10 ½ hours.

Oh well. In all honesty, it has been a few weeks since I hot-glued my fingers to some cardboard. 

I Got Problems

I always have been and always will be a words kinda gal. I love the sound of words, the beauty of them on paper and how they sound when spoken. I love the power behind them, the things they can accomplish, the feelings they can evoke. Numbers just can’t do that. Numbers are solid, logical, tangible… and insanely frustrating. Words can’t always be captured by the voice and have many different meanings to many different people. The number five is always going to equal the number five. But say any word – any word you can think of – to five different people and it will likely be interpreted five different ways. 

Numbers are just not the primary language spoken by my brain. It took from 3^rd grade to 6^th grade before I could finally do multiplication without breaking out into a cold sweat. I took Algebra I my Freshman year and passed it by the skin of my teeth. I started my Sophomore year in Algebra II and after one week of that nonsense I marched into Mr. Lippe’s office with arms crossed, determined look on my face, demanding that he remove me at once from that vile class and put me into something else, anything else. He moved me over to Business Math, a class I passed with an A. I went on to end my high school math career with Accounting I and II, passing both with A’s. It’s not that I can’t do math, it’s that I just prefer not to. The add/subtract/multiply/divide kind of math is do-able. Please do not put letters in there. That’s where it gets all jumbly – like a really sick and twisted can of algebra soup.

Last year our son made it through Algebra I with a resounding A at the end of the year. The program we use is computer-based, thorough, and very easy to understand, but starting out this year in Algebra II has been challenging to say the least. He suffers from the same phenomenon I do: Mathematical Amnesia. If I learn a math concept I can do it all day long. But if I sleep? You can forget about me remembering a dadgum thing the next day.

I’ve been learning Algebra II right along with him this year, a task that has gotten easier in my old age – a fact I find very strange considering I have maternal oatmeal brain and am on medication for nerve pain that messes with my memory. This past week they introduced “distance” word problems. One might think I, a word person, could do word problems. One would be wrong. Oh. So. Wrong.  I loathe word problems. They never, ever make sense to me.  “If Bob is on a subway car traveling at 15mph and Douglas is on a rocket ship to Mars traveling at 27mph, how long will it take the two of them to create a macramé sculpture of the Mona Lisa using only their toes?” That’s how I interpret every single word problem I ever encounter.

It took my son and me nearly 30 minutes to figure out a particularly difficult problem one day and when we eventually got it right, you should’ve seen the high-fiving and hollering that was executed right there at the dining room table. Then we got into my secret stash of chocolate. And soon after that he decided that college didn’t seem like a real fun option for him after all and “homeless street person” sounded safely math-free. I patted his leg, handed him another Reese’s Cup and said, “Or you could always just homeschool your own kids, son. And learn it at 41 like I am.”

I’m really not looking forward to telling my husband that our soon-to-be-homeless son won’t be blessing us with grandchildren. 

Bliss

Any of you who have more than one child knows what sibling rivalry is and how it sucks your will to live most of the time. On the other hand, though, as a parent of more than one child you also probably know that when they get along, that time is fricking golden. GOLDEN, I'm telling you.

When my kids were little, they'd fuss over who was breathing whose air, whose bum was getting more of the backseat, who got more spaghetti at dinner. Those things were just a part of my daily - nay, hourly - life as a mother of toddlers, preschoolers, elementary-aged kids. While I was silently suffering on the inside, breaking up fights without even realizing I was doing it, and even becoming so adept I could change the youngest's diaper with my hands while keeping the other two from ripping out jugular veins with one leg extended behind me, my husband had far less patience with the harping, nagging, fussing, squealing, arguing, and sometimes downright caterwauling. He'd go from completely detached from the universe to threatening bodily harm in 2.1 seconds. I could endure for days. And I did. Maybe it was because I was young. Maybe it was because motherhood had been my lifelong dream. Maybe it was because I knew if I stopped being a stay-at-home mommy I'd have to get a job that involved wearing a bra on a daily basis.

So now I am the mother of teenagers. Two are full-fledged teenagers, one is mere months away from being there officially, although her attitude argues otherwise. (Girl is rockin' those teenage hormones and eyerolls these days. Ugh.) The fleeting moments of shining parental happiness when your children get along is no different when they become teenagers. In fact, I think it's even more precious. Now that they are older, the arguments are more in the range of who is louder, who is more obnoxious, who is my favorite, who gets all of our money when their dad and I finally kick the bucket, and those kinds of things. And with taller bodies, apparently comes longer vocal cords and increased lung capacity with which to throw insults and slams at much higher volumes than when they were little, compact, and cute. Days where the insults fly from sun-up to sun-down are exhausting for me. Since we homeschool, there is very little opportunity for me to ever get a break. I love them all dearly and am so happy that God has given us the chance, blessings, freedom, and grace to educate them at home, but I am being completely honest when I say this: there are days I have considered tying them all three together with duct tape and kicking them out of the car in front of the school, driving on with a smile on my face and going straight home to just sit on my couch in the complete silence. Not taking a nap or a hot bath. Just sitting. Where it's quiet. Never mind that our oldest child has graduated high school and would have no need to step foot on a high school campus - but that's the least of what I'm thinking of when I'm daydreaming.

But oh. There are days that I see their sibling relationships developing right before my very eyes, the dynamics of sister/sister, sister/brother, and all three together. I see how big brother looks out for little sister. I see how little brother asks big sister for advice. I see how big sister steps down from her lofty heights of being nearly 18 to help little sister with an outfit or hair. I try to focus on those precious, stolen moments when little sister is invading her older siblings' personal space or when brother is tormenting the dickens out of his sisters with stinky socks or his retainer. I see them taking selfies with each other, making stupid faces or being serious either one. I see how little sister looks up (literally) to big sister with little stars shooting out of her eyes. I see how little brother looks down (literally) on either sister with a grin of mischief and dare I say it - love. I hope and pray with all that is in me that their relationships only strengthen as they get older. They are going to need each other when they get out there in the real world. They are going to experience heartache that they won't want to come to me or their daddy about, but a phone call to big sister is going to make it better, perhaps put things in perspective. They are going to call each other as Paul and I age to share stories about how we're losing it or something senile we said or did. And they are going to become aunts and uncle to my amazing future grandchildren, telling the new offspring about their growing up and stories to embarrass and laugh over.

So I am taking these little moments of bliss and filing them away in my mind and in my heart. I pull them out and remember them on those days when a math lesson has left littlest sister crying and oldest sister rolling her eyes in disdain at such a display. I pull them out on other days as well. The days when I feel like I am the worst mother in the world. On the days I forget to make French toast even though she asked me four times, but I got busy. On the days I snap at someone for not understanding something the way I teach it the first time. On the days the new Pinterest recipe is a great big fat fail. On the days I feel like I am fat, ugly, unloved, un-special, unwanted, unimportant and so much more "un"everything.

Because on those days, the days I have a hard time loving myself, I just look at those three crazy, prayed-for kids and see the perfect combination of their father and myself, the ultimate expressions of our insane love and roller coaster marriage, the fulfillment of so many hopes and dreams, the proof that God loves me enough to entrust these three humans to me to mold, shape, teach, lead, and love on until He's ready to call us home.

And then on other days? I lock myself in the bathroom and go back to that daydream about duct tape and a drive-off.

Our First Graduate

For the past year I have been writing a weekly column for the local newspaper. As long as no one objects (and really, this is my blog so if you object, just don't read it lol) I plan to start sharing each week's column here. I'll probably share some of the older ones as well, seeing as how I'm working on lesson plans for the class I'm teaching this fall at our homeschool co-op, plus my own kids' lesson plans, plus keeping house, keeping my children from killing each other and various other glamorous things. As you might surmise, writing time is limited for me these days. 

Anyway, this is what was published a few weeks ago, the weekend of Abby's graduation. Just thought I'd share - and add a few pictures. 

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Our oldest daughter graduated this weekend. Since we homeschool there was no cap, gown, Pomp and Circumstance, or walking across a stage. We didn't sit in a hot gymnasium or on bleachers at a football field – we just got together with our friends and family, ate some hot dogs and hamburgers, and celebrated a pretty amazing young woman. She got a diploma, of course. I debated long and hard about who to say the certificate was issued by. See, our school’s “unofficial” name is The Hoover Academy of Higher Learning and General Shenanigans, but I was afraid the line wasn't long enough to hold all of that. One example I read online was, “Her parents, Bob and Suzy Homeschooler”, but I was afraid that would just really drive home the awkward homeschooler persona. Eventually, I just decided on “Hoover Academy." It looks nice. And not at all like she completed a lot of her school work in her pajamas on the couch.

It’s been 17 and a half years since her birth and I remember it like it was yesterday. After a very uneventful and quick delivery, she was laid into my arms, a quiet — slightly blue — wide-eyed gorgeous papoose with black hair and eyes so dark her pupils couldn't be seen. She didn't cry, just looked around at us like we had seriously offended her by forcing her entry into the world. We were in awe. We fell instantly in love. She was a miraculous blessing, a thing of wonder, a promise, a fulfillment, a tiny piece of joy in a crazy, stupid, busy world. She rarely cried, memorized If You Give a Mouse a Cookie when she was 18 months old, carried her toy tools in her Elmo purse and drove her Barbies around in her Tonka dump truck. She was a good starter kid. She eased us into the crazy world of Parenting.

She is a Pre-K dropout, but completed her final two years of high school in one year. She is quiet and sometimes shy, yet she’s a force to be reckoned with. She is passionate. Few people possess her determination. She never feels the need to small talk, chit chat or just fill the air with unnecessary words, but will talk to you about important, meaningful things as long as you want. She is amazingly artistic and if she wasn’t scared to death we’d beat her until candy comes out, she’d be decorating the world with graffiti any chance she got. I marvel at the things that kid can create. She started her own hair bow business a couple of years ago and is responsible for many a little girl’s accessorizing. She has little tolerance for blatant stupidity, people who aren’t nice to animals and children, boys who don’t respect girls, and any green vegetable. My sister taught her the art of sarcasm, which she has mastered. She is kind, gentle, witty, wise, and has amazing hair.

So look out, world. We have unleashed upon you amongst this year’s graduates, a tiny little tornado named Abby. She has promise. She has talent. She has overcome bullies and haters and is more compassionate for it. She can make a mean grilled cheese. She can count back change. She loves Jesus. She doesn’t like to camp. She thinks ice cream and cheesecake are two of the best things on this earth. She is allergic to pretty much everything in the air around her. She wants to be a foster parent. She is simply wonderful and she’ll rock your socks if you’ll let her. She already rocks ours.

Congratulations, Abby and the rest of the Class of 2014. Here’s my advice: Be kind. Make a difference. Make good choices. (And when you make bad ones don’t beat yourself up too much. Just learn from it.) Go through this life looking for experiences that will make for amazing stories later. Look out for the little guy. Laugh – a lot. Make us proud.

Growing Up

We just finished our first year of homeschooling and it still boggles my mind to think we now have two high-schoolers and our baby is in middle school. I’m pretty sure it was just last week when our oldest dressed her little brother up in a pink tutu and told him “superheroes wear these” to get him to pose for pictures and our youngest was on a kick where she refused to wear clothes. Now we have one sporting a promise ring and driving (*gasp* DRIVING!), one who will soon learn to shave and one who is discovering eyeliner.

Those adorable Hoover munchkins in 2002

Abby has had her driver’s license about six weeks now and I’m finally getting to where I’m not so anxious every time she drives down the driveway and out into the world. I especially find the anxiety absent when I need her to pick something up from the store for me. She’s a good driver and takes the responsibility very seriously. She’s cautious and drives defensively, keeps the radio volume low and her cell phone in her purse. She doesn't speed at all. In fact, we tell people that if they ever get behind a long line of cars going about 45 to look and see if there’s a navy blue S-10 at the head of the line because chances are, it’s Abby. We are totally okay with under the speed limit.

Oh my goodness, it was windy that day! 

She babysat one of her friend’s little girls last night and we enjoyed having a toddler in the house once again. Sophie was a doll and absolutely wore Abby (and us) out with her exploring of our not-so-baby-proofed house. The babbling and snuggles were adorable and made me for about a split-second early in the evening think that maybe we decided to stop having kids too soon. Then I fished a bread wrapper from Sophie’s mouth, snatched her up mere milliseconds before she and the dog kissed through the screen door and stepped on a piece of banana in the living room floor. Sure, she’s precious and all, but I have to say: the teenage years have been my favorite stage so far.

Infants are intense, but oh-so-snuggly and they smell so dang good. Toddlers are delightful and inquisitive and mimic everything. Preschoolers are independent and temperamental. At each stage in our kids’ lives, we've reveled in their discoveries and progresses. Especially with Abby – our first and therefore our “practice” kid – we found everything to be wondrous and phenomenal and full of excitement and promise. The other two were different in their own ways, but even more so by the time we got to Kid #3, we felt like we had this whole parenting thing pretty well licked. Paul and I both enjoyed each stage and welcomed the next. At the end of each stage, we’d both agree: “This one was our favorite.”

This was probably 2004. Kady was about three.

And royally whizzed she wasn't going to school that day. 

Everyone warned us about the teen years. Veteran parents would get wide-eyed when they spoke of how their darling children turned into the spawn of something wicked when they hit puberty. They would condescendingly smile as they said, “Oh, just you wait. They’re cute now, but you’ll see.” It’s hard to happily anticipate something so largely warned-about.

We were told about the attitudes, the refusal to cooperate with anything and everything, the extreme mood swings and all sorts of other wonderful personality quirks. We've had our fair share of communication break-downs, emotional meltdowns and days we truly understood why some animals in the wild eat their young. Strangely enough, though, we've been the parents of at least one teenager for three and a half years now and I have to say: This stage is our favorite.

Abby's 12th birthday

It was a rare sight to see her eyes at that time. 

Usually they were covered by much bangs and eyeliner.

They've always been growing up. They've been doing it since they were born. When they were infants, toddlers, and preschoolers their developments were adorable, breathtaking, exhausting, mind-blowing and emotional. First there was sitting up, then crawling, then walking, then running. (And, because they are my children, usually there was tripping and bleeding.) Paul worked hours with each of the kids, teaching them to tie their shoes. I fussed over sight words and phonics. He removed the training wheels from bikes and let ‘em fly. I took pictures and saved drawings and would get teary-eyed over a sleepy, lisped “I luth yooo” breathed into my neck as I carried Bug down the hall to her bed.

This was after a "park marathon" where we visited every park in town.

Now their growing-up moments are slightly more subtle and sometimes overlooked until one day they full-on smack you in the face. The realization that our son has a junior mustache was a recent one for me. His new workout regimen and goals for a six-pack by summer's end are something we've never dealt with before, seeing as how he’s our only son. Abby getting her driver’s license was a drawn-out process, something I am grateful for. I never understood why the state of Oklahoma requires such a lengthy time between permit, intermediate license and license, but I now wholeheartedly believe it is so parents’ hearts don’t break all at once.  And then there’s that baby girl who is the last one to cross the threshold into adolescence and is having the hardest time acclimating to her new-found hormones. Her older sister has always been mature for her age and we figure that year she was emo was when she did a lot of growing up, under cover of her bangs and about four inches of black eyeliner. The boy outgrew his short momma in a period of about two months and the deep voice is still a shocker when he answers the phone.

 

Last day of school pics with my two high-schoolers *tear* 

But that Kady…..she’s just waffling back and forth between confident little girl with glitter in her veins and an awkward teenager in her first high heels and a week away from braces on her teeth. She spends hours scanning the pages of Bop and Tiger Beat for stories and pictures of One Direction, but will also spend hours playing with her dolls. She puts a hair bow in her hair….then takes it out…..then settles for a ribbon in a ponytail instead. Just today I convinced her that she no longer needed her Easy Bake Oven since she can use the real oven any time she wants and does so with natural ability. She wants to be svelte and confident like her big sister, but sometimes the urge to run barefoot in the yard chasing the dogs is just too powerful to resist. I cannot wait to see her grow up, but I also want her to slow down. Just a little. Right now she’s caught in the stop and go.

 

Kady has *always* loved the sparkle! 

Our last day of school was last Friday. We celebrated with lunch with another homeschooling family. We went shopping and got ice cream. It was a long, exhausting day. 

Kady and her friend Alex 

That night I was sitting on the couch, waiting for everyone to finish brushing teeth so I could tuck them in (something they insist I do and I am not about to stop until they protest). Little Kady was so very tired and with shoulders slumped, walked into the living room and stopped in front of me. I looked up at her and said, “Well, Bug….it was your last day of elementary school. You’re just…..growing up.”  Before I knew what happened, she had busted into wails and tears, flung herself onto my lap and sobbed her little heart out.

I just patted her back, smoothed her hair and let her cry.

Soon the tears stopped, she sniffed, took a deep breath and said she was ready for bed. I tucked all of them in and we did our usual four-way routine of “Good-night, Nurse” followed by good-night to whatever other medical professional we can think of. Kady asked for an extra hug that night.

I smoothed her hair back, kissed her forehead, told her good-night once more… and made it to the my bedroom at the other end of the house before I busted into tears myself.

 My sweet Kady and me

Last day of school 2013

Well, Hello There...

I swear to you, I do not know where all my time goes these days! I turn around twice and it's been three weeks since I've posted here (or three months, but ya know...who's counting) and I'd swear to you I just posted a day or two ago. The blog is on my mind a lot and my brain is so completely full of blog posts, I'm surprised my head hasn't exploded. Of course, also floating and bumping around there in my noggin are recipes I want to try, the fact that we are out of paper towels and I keep forgetting to write it on my list when I walk by the fridge, the ever-present quest to teach my children the correct use of quotation marks (seriously, I can't figure out why this is escaping them the way it does!) and the fact that I really need to sweep my bedroom before the dust bunnies start to resemble something from The Walking Dead. So I suppose it's no wonder the blog posts get jumbled around and never written down.

In super exciting news, I recently had a piece on homeschooling published in the local newspaper. My first love as far as local news will always be WelchOK.com. They will always, always be my favorite Welchkins and the folks who gave me my first chance to write for the masses outside my own blog and have never once given me a deadline (although, a deadline might prompt me to actually you know....write there), but the opportunity to write for the Miami News-Record kind of fell in my lap one morning and I took it. It was pretty exciting, I gotta say, seeing my words in print and knowing there were all kinds of strangers out there reading it while they drank their Sunday morning coffee. I also realize there may be folks out there who lined their hamster cages with it, too, but I focus more on the idyllic coffee drinker being inspired and amused by my writing. If you want to check it out, feel free. And if you want to print it out and line your hamster cage with it, well, that just seems superfluous and rude, but I hope your hamster is inspired to homeschool in the process.

This past Tuesday was our 100th day of school. Public schools all over had their 100th day celebrations a few weeks back and while we started two weeks earlier than public school, we've also taken off a week extra at Christmas and have had a little more flexibility with our schedule. We'll finish on time, I have no doubt, especially since we don't have parent/teacher conferences (when I talk to myself, people laugh) and federal holidays and professional days. It will all balance.

The plan for several weeks had been to go to the state Capitol with Delinda and her boys for Homeschool Day (on our 100th day, no less) and while both of my girls were less than enthused, Sam and her oldest had already made plans to be the other's wingman and had developed a pretty decent arsenal of teenage boy pick-up lines. A few days prior to the scheduled trip, the weather started showing snow in the forecast. Then it fizzled. Then it flared. And fizzled. Monday, Delinda and I had both checked the forecast for the City and it was just looking too iffy and tumultuous to attempt. The forecast for during the day here at home was fine, but we had both already planned the day out of actual schoolwork and the kids were prepared for a day of fun together. Eventually we settled on heading north, away from the snow/ice/sleet/wind combo our own great state was throwing at us, and went to Springfield, MO, to Incredible Pizza.

Field trips on a week day are wonderful! We essentially had the place to ourselves, and Chip, the typically less-than-friendly manager, gave Delinda and I each a free turn in the 6D theater with the kids. We each had a pass to ride it once, but our buddy Chip threw in an extra. We later discovered that while you are inside the theater, enjoying the show, squealing and being tossed about in your smokin' sexy giant black 3D glasses, everyone outside the theater gets to watch YOU on a public TV screen. We're preeeeeeety sure that we got the extra show because Chip and his buddies were laughing at us on the outside. *blush*

As we were driving out of Springfield, it began sprinkling and by the time we got to their house, just over the state line, it was raining. We were already too late to make it to a Bible study we had going on at church, so we stopped at the RedBox in Fairland and as I checked out, big, giant, fluffy, wet snowflakes began to fall. It was just about the most perfect 100th day of school I've ever had.

Rambling Thoughts from a Homeschool Momma Before 7am

We've been doing this homeschooling thing since August and I finally feel like I have a partial handle on things. It's definitely a process that is continually being refined, rethought and revamped.

We went into this very eager, but very naive and blind. Sure, we have friends who homeschool (more now that we're involved in a homeschool group) and they were fabulous at giving pointers, but it's still largely your show. Part of my special ops team is Delinda, a constant source of encouragement and support and "Girl, I have SO been there!" and "It's okay, next week will be better". We try to get her crew and my crew together every six weeks or so and it's like a party when we do. The kids immediately begin doing very rowdy, loud things (Well, except Abby who is so above loud and rowdy) and Delinda and I just sit back and watch while we visit. I'd be lost without her.

We're involved in a homeschool group, too, and these ladies are amazing. Support, resources, and just being there -- they're pros at all of that. Back before Christmas we had a kids bowling day and we moms literally pulled our chairs into a semi-circle and just vented. It was hilarious and cathartic. Bug (Yes, my youngest is blogging!) (And yes, we call our child Bug. There is a plethora of Katie/Kady/Kaity's at church and Kadybug got shortened to Bug and stuck.) (Oh and please know that we are diligently working on grammar and spelling, although her blog wouldn't show that) looks forward to homeschool group every Friday because she has made a friend. (I know, homeschoolers have friends?!? Who knew?) And she went out and made that friend on her own. Socialization WIN! She and her new friend, Alex, have figured out each other's daily schedule, and lunch break usually involves at least a phone call and about 700 text messages in the 45 minutes we're taking a break. Abby and Sam usually dread homeschool group day, but last week, although I heard all the way to town, "Can't I just sit in the car?" and "Do I HAVE to go?" by the time we got into a few icebreaker games with the other teens and tweens, they were fine. I just know that Momma needs to see other human adults occasionally, so we go. Whether they're kicking and screaming, pouting or busting through the door to see their BFF, we go. Because if no one else needs it, Momma needs socialization.

We abandoned Abby's English/Grammar before the first semester ended because as she put it, "If I didn't already know what an adjective was, I sure wouldn't now -- this book would have me so confused." I admit, it was very....wordy. (in an English book?! The horror!) And confusing. The child has a grasp on grammar and sentence formation and can even get commas in the right place, so taking a cue from what she'd be doing in public school, we dropped Grammar and are focusing on writing and literature. My very favorite writing exercise for the two bigger kids to do is a 100 to 6 word essay. They write an essay containing 100 words, no more, no less.  Then they have to cut it down to 50 words without losing the concept of the original essay. Then they have to cut it to 25. Then to six. Abby's last one was about how badly she wanted Sonic that day. Her six word essay was "SOMEONE PLEASE TAKE ME TO SONIC!" Which was essentially what she had said in 100 words originally. Speaking of Sonic....now I'm hungry. It's 7am and I need a steak Toaster and tots. ANyway....

Bug and Sam are doing Grammar using curriculum written by the Amish. They loathe it with the white, hot passion of a thousand fiery suns. I think it's phenomenal curriculum and plan to continue it at least through Sam's 9th grade year next year. It's very old school, lots of sentence diagramming and repetition and review. What cracks us up, though, are the names. Instead of seeing folks like Suzie, Jimmy and Bobby going to the fair or the zoo in sample sentences, we see  Brother Ezekiel, Sister Martha and Pastor Hezekiah saving lost souls and going to the pie supper -- sometimes all in one fell swoop. It's a total crack up for our twisted minds. Kady's Reading book is also Amish. The last story she read was about a judge who killed a whole bunch of Anabaptists by burning them at the stake. She was horrified. I gotta say, it did seem a little intense for a 5th grade book. Of course, by 5th grade, most Amish girls are on their way to the alter to be married off to Brother Jedediah, so I guess they consider a good cautionary tale of stake-burning to be part of growing up.

Science has gotten better now that they're on the Biology part of the book. Gotta admit, we skipped the chapters on fossils. None of us were quite feeling it. So if they both bomb the fossil section of the ACT, I take complete responsibility. Today our science experiment is a classic: putting a chicken bone in a jar of vinegar and seeing what happens over the next seven days. Last week we watched yeast decompose a slice of banana. After five days Paul made us throw it out -- he said it had gone far past educational to possible biohazard or flesh-eating zombie banana. Spoil sport. Kady's on the second chapter of Ungulates in her Zoology book. Last chapter dealt with horses, rhinos, mules and the like. This one is starting out with cows. She is less than thrilled. Soon we'll move onto dinosaurs. Hopefully. I gotta say, cows are less than stimulating for me as well. Her sister, who has two years of Ag under her belt, has been helping her along with it.

Bug is nearly done with her math book. She has positively whizzed through it. We'll finish it up probably next week or halfway into the week after that. Abby and Sam are slowly plodding through Saxon Algebra I. Since Abby took it in public school last year, she wanted to do it this year as a review. For Sam it's been more of Pre-Algebra. We didn't get too far into the book before I discovered they were seriously lacking some basic math skills, so we have done a lot of review, going back to Algebra, then breaking for some review again. Next year Abby is doing Accounting and Bookkeeping and Sam will do Algebra fo' realz using a totally different curriculum which practically guarantees success. Each lesson has a video to watch and again uses repetition and review to really teach to learn. Our experience with the curriculum for Bug this year has been phenomenal.

The history book I got for Abby and Sam was utterly HORRIBLE and college-level dry. We made it to chapter 15 before we just stopped. They hated it, I hated teaching it, no one was getting a thing from it and it was torture. We're now doing more Social Studies/Current Events type lessons. Since I had never really found a curriculum I liked (and could afford) for Bug, she's been doing that type Social Studies all year. We've done unit studies on Harriet Tubman, the 13 original colonies, a big unit on the election and electoral college, the Bill of Rights, etc and just kind of whatever interests her at the time. It's a subject we are kind of relaxed on. For instance, last week the big kids had to make Facebook "profiles" for two famous/historical figures. Sam chose Napoleon Bonaparte and Christopher Columbus. Abby researched Marilyn Monroe and Michael Jackson (Note to self: Remind 16 year old that culture and pop culture aren't exactly the same). They really got into it and the pages turned out neat. I struggle with interest in history/government and the kids do as well, so I try to keep it as interesting and exciting as I can. For all of us.

And now the public school bus has just rumbled by and the sun is fully up. I'm pretty sure there is a pot of coffee just begging to be consumed by me, and the hamsters (We now have FOUR! EEK!) are all scritching around in their cages which means it's time for their hamster parents to get their rears up and pay attention to them. Time for another day of homeschooler awesomeness which generally includes pajamas, PE for Hamsters 101, a nutritious lunch which more often than not includes macaroni and cheese and oh yeah....learning.

Classroom Chaos

Being involved in youth ministry, we use the term "controlled chaos" a lot. We rarely ask the kids to be quiet and noise isn't an issue during most gatherings in the youth room. We want to the kids to holler, laugh and have fun. The only time I ask for quiet is when I am teaching them the Word. And I always keep it short because I know that there is only a small window I have their attention.

That being said, for me to embrace the concept of controlled chaos is HUGE. As I've mentioned before, I have diagnosed OCD. Not self-diagnosed, but actual diagnosed-by-a-doctor Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. (It drives me a little bit bonkers when someone says, "Oh yeah, when my sock drawer is a mess I just OCD over that." Uhm....OCD is a noun, not an adjective. But that's a rant for another time. :)) I enjoy order. I enjoy normalcy. I enjoy schedule.

So why on earth am I submerging myself into the bowels of chaos right now?? And it's not even controlled chaos! It's absolute, mind-bending, topsy turvy, make your brain melt CHAOS.

I'm doing it because WE'RE GETTING A CLASSROOM!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(Yes, overuse of exclamation, but they are so totally appropriate here. Trust me.)

Awhile back I got this brilliant idea to divide our bedroom in half and make a classroom. Paul liked the idea - liked it especially more than my first idea to turn the playhouse turned storage shed into a classroom. The only problem was money and time and help. So the idea sat on a shelf and I would occasionally sigh dramatically and speak wistfully of the classroom I longed for and how much easier it would be to teach Algebra and sentence diagramming on a white board rather than paper. I would occasionally threaten to put up the 5-foot wide posters of the human anatomy or paint a living room wall with chalkboard paint or pin up the "East Meets West at Promontory Summit" poster from Union Pacific Railroad (Big thanks to Jenn T. for the heads up on that! Union Pacific sent out a free info packet on the railroad in honor of their 150th birthday.) right by Paul's recliner, but still the classroom idea sat.

Then one Saturday morning we had a rare opportunity to sleep in. This never happens anymore, so we all took advantage of it, sleeping in all the way until 8 (which seems strangely early compared to my younger days when sleeping in always involved waking up in the PM, not the AM). I had just finished my first cup of coffee when my phone rang and my mom asked, "What are you doing?" then immediately launched into a frantic plea to "hurry up and get around and get to Grove because there is laminate flooring in the auction and the auction didn't make it into the paper and there's hardly anyone here and oh my gosh, hurry".

We recently re-floored both girls' room with vinyl flooring because it is way cheaper than laminate and Paul didn't need any special tools to do it. He did both rooms in two days each and they look great. Ab's room has a dark wood texture and Bug's is very light, golden Oak. We did each room for about $120. Ab's allergies have gotten so bad we had to get the carpet out of her room and just planned to do a room at a time when we could afford it until the whole house was carpet-free.

But Mom's urging to get to the auction had us making scrambling. We started yelling for kids to get out of bed. That was fun. Then we called our pastor because he's a pro at laying laminate flooring and has all the tools. He advised what would be a good price and what would be an insane price and wished us the best.

We got to Grove as fast as we could. Fortunately the auctioneer hadn't made it even close to the flooring yet, which left us ample opportunity to bid on such necessities as a box of golf balls, a box of owl knick knacks, a box of spray paint and the bargain of the day: a golf set for Sam for the whopping price of $2. Unadvertised auctions rawk. And it also gave me the opportunity to freak out a little old Native American woman who wouldn't go near the box of owls and literally moved across the yard away from me when I started bidding on them. I know it's real to a lot of older Native Americans. I, however, have managed to live quite successfully even though my kitchen is full of the feathered harbingers of death.

Finally it came time for the flooring. I had in my mind what I would pay per box to get us the "insane" price Brother Jerry quoted us and was determined to not go above it. $12 a box was my price in my head. The auctioneer disclosed that he would be bidding to a point for an absent bidder, but when the price went above his bid, his bidder was out. He started the bidding as $12 a box and bid for his bidder. AGH! So by cracky, when he hollered out $13 I TOOK IT. And his bidder was out.

I got 41 full boxes and a partial box of laminate flooring for $533! Roughly, that works out to .50 a square foot. That is actually cheaper than the vinyl we put in the girls' rooms!

So that set everything into motion to get the classroom done. Fall Break is next week and even though we hadn't planned to take those days off like public school does, the pastor is a teacher and said he was free to do the work. Paul got two vacation days on the calendar at work and BOOM, Project Classroom is now underway.

Our bedroom is a converted garage, so it's extra long with high ceilings. The previous owners turned the garage into a den, put up a half wall in the back half of the room and that's where her elderly momma slept. When we moved here, we made the partitioned part of the room my office and the other half a toy room. Enter surprise Kady and we suddenly were the proud owners of a gigantic bedroom to make room for baby. Over the years our bedroom has become the black hole of the house - it's the largest room and therefore, everything that needs a home goes there. It's awful. I have never liked our bedroom for that reason. It's always cluttered. Always. It makes my brain hurt.

So now, we are removing the partial wall completely and constructing a full wall to divide the room in half.  We'll have to build a closet in the bedroom part since the classroom will retain the closet. We'll finally  have storage for all the out of season clothes, the classroom will have a large closet with doors and our bedroom will have a door. A real door. With a knob. And a lock. Right now, the door to our bedroom is a louvered folding door. It's a wonder we haven't scarred a wandering child for life, if you know what I mean. Hubba hubba.

So the countdown has begun to remove all the crap, clutter and mess from the bedroom/office and temporarily displace it to other parts of the house for the next week. I am overwhelmed beyond belief. So much so that I find myself blogging. Yeah. I am seriously avoiding the mess. It hurts me to look at it right now. But I have had a glass of sweet tea while I've typed this and find the anxiety ebbing away, so in a few minutes it will be back to the grind.

Unless I decide to look for classroom organization ideas on Pinterest.

The School that Never Ends

Well, school has been going on for a month now. We started before public school did in our area simply because it was hotter than blue blazes here and we weren't doing anything anyway. I figured we might as well get some learnin' in while our bodies languished in the horrific heat that has been this Oklahoma summer.

Abby is in 10th grade this year. I like saying 10th grade better than I like saying Sophomore. I remember being a Sophomore and how grown up I felt. I refuse to think of her that way. Okay, I actually don't refuse to think that way - I think it often. Especially when I look at her and think Oh holy night, she is dadgum near an adult! and then I cry a little. Abby has struggled in school since 4th grade. Actually I can remember about halfway through her 3rd grade year her teacher asking if anything was going on at home because she had just decided to stop trying. That was where Status: Emo began. By 6th grade she was full-on committed to the emo persona and cost me a ton in black eyeliner alone. Thankfully by 7th grade the eyeliner grew passe' and while her hair still stayed over her eyes until halfway through the year, she began to speak again and somewhat interact with other humans. I doubt she will ever be an outgoing person. She is too much like her daddy. But the fact that she is very shy and quiet did her no favors whatsoever in school. She would not ask for help because then someone might look at her. Of course, I always queried, "Uh...don't you WANT them to look at you? You know, to like, HELP YOU?" and she would shrink back in abject horror like I had just asked her to pick her teeth with toenail clippings. In Abbyland, being unnoticed is totally okay. In Publicschoolville, though, not so much. Add in a teacher who declared one of her classes to be "unteachable" and told them he was giving up on them all. Abby came home that night, dropped her book in the floor and said, "If I'm unteachable, why try anymore?" Awesome.

Sam is an 8th grader this year and while Sam is far more outgoing than his sister, he isn't the most socially flamboyant either. Sam has always fared better around adults than kids. The adults at church think he is amazing and he feels the same. Put him in a room of adults and he is completely at ease. Make him  help with the Preschool VBS class, though, and he will come into your office about mid-week and beg you to release him from his bound duty to spend 2 1/2 hours a night doing the equivalent of herding orphan pigs. He is part of the Brotherhood at church (sounds sinister, but isn't) because he is so eager to be a part of what the men in the church are doing. Sam has also developed a stutter this past year and lemme tell ya, people are cruel. You'd think it would just be the kids, but folks, I have literally witnessed adults make fun of his speech. In front of his momma. So put him in a crowd of people where he knows they are going to either make fun of or get frustrated with him and what happens? His stutter gets worse. By the end of the school year last year, between the bullying and fighting, being made fun of and the kid who literally stalked my son (the school counselor's words, not mine), almost every evening's post-bus time involved tears, anger and much pleading to remove him from public school. I could see him shying away from people and his grades were suffering as well. If you're scared to talk in class and ask questions, you get left behind.

Kady, who we now affectionately call Bug (We have called her Kadybug since birth, but at church there is a Kaity, Kady and a Katie, so we shortened her to Bug) is a 5th grader this year and ..... Oh my gosh, she is me. Plain and simple, the child is exactly like I was at her age. She lives to socialize, talks to the point you think her lips will fall off and gets the giggles for no apparent reason whatsoever. When we finally made the decision to homeschool, we gave her the option of finishing elementary school in the public forum or just starting when her siblings did. She originally said she wanted to stay through 5th grade and we were totally okay with that because the elementary school she went to is phenomenal. I have no complaints and never have with the elementary in general. Then Kady started thinking that her brother and sister might go on a field trip and she would miss out and started waffling back and forth. I let her waffle awhile and she finally said homeschool. I started buying books. She changed her mind. I said sorry. She pouted. She still pouts. She'll get over it. In 3rd grade she scored advanced in math on her standardized testing, a fact I still marvel at since she still doesn't know all of her multiplication tables. She ended up in the GT (Gifted and Talented) program. She got all A's on every report card, except in math, where she consistently got B's and C's. Go figure. We just received last year's standardized test scores -- advanced in every subject. Still can't multiply worth a whit and you ought to see her sentence structure, but by cracky, a bunch of colored-in circles on a state test form declared her (trumpet fanfare) Gifted. Whatevs.

All three of my kids are gifted and talented. You ought to see Abby draw. Her graffitti is amazing. We'll be so proud of her work on train cars someday. Her talent with hair and makeup puts some professional stylists to shame. Sam has a real knack for writing. I am amazed at his stories. He reminds me of a certain blogger. Bug is phenomenal at story-writing as well. We're working on the sentence structure, but you know, she's 10, so I figure we have time. If I had wanted to push it with the school, I could've lobbied for GT for all three, but why? To give them a label? To boost their self esteem? So they could be in a club and go on field trips? Nah.

School is going wonderfully. Being the newbies we are, we have already learned a few things. For instance, I know which publishers and curriculum we will NOT be using next year. I also know that the Amish have it going ON when it comes to Grammar and Reading curriculum. I learned the first week of school that it is not necessary to do EVERY SUBJECT, EVERY DAY either. My poor kids were so exhausted that first week of school! It took the wise words of a fellow homeschooling mom to remind me that my kids are going so much further in their daily work than they would in public school that it isn't necessary to do every subject every day. For instance, we are on lesson 4 in Algebra (and they understand it) and Abby's public school class last year ended on lesson 7. I think we're progressing fine. I also got hung up on the state's mandate of 175 days of school a year and literally got out a calendar to mark off what days we planned to take off between August and May and obsessed over getting 175 days on that calendar. Then I realized, there are many Sundays the kids do school work in the afternoons to get a jump on the week. I think we'll go over our 175 days without worry. I've also learned that my Queen sized bed makes a fine desk, as well as my office floor and the couch. And that, although my mother does not agree, it's okay to do school work in pajamas every once in awhile. Making granola and homemade bread is a perfectly acceptable Home Ec lesson and hamster observation is totally trippy, especially since Bug's science this year is Zoology.

There are downsides: I am exhausted most of the time. I am working harder than I have in years. I feel slightly more overwhelmed than I did when the kids were newborns. I pull a lot of late nights going over papers and getting ahead on lesson plans. I go through a lot of printer ink, but thankfully I bought a Kodak printer last year and it doesn't cost as much as my old Lexmark did. I sometimes get jealous over the fact that Paul and kids are watching the Turtle Man and laughing hysterically while yelling YEEYEEYEEYEEYEE LIVE ACTION! and I'm at my desk compiling spelling lists (and really, I don't like Turtle Man, I just sometimes feel left out of the whole family thing) or cleaning the kitchen. Our grocery consumption has skyrocketed and I am now an avid Pinterest user (something I avoided as long as I could) because I can make Ranch dressing and homemade crescent rolls for next to nothing and Eggo waffles are no longer affordable, so I now own a waffle iron. We never eat out anymore. We only go to town once a week. 

But at the same time, I get to spend every day with three of the most amazing kids on the planet. They are educating me as much as I am them. Their insights and opinions on the world around them fascinate me. They make me laugh. They make me proud. All three kids have lost weight (I keep hoping it happens for me as well, but my aversion to the scales keeps me from knowing) and no one has missed a day of school due to being sick. (Yes, they've all three been sick, but school carried on and they didn't even die.) We didn't have to buy school clothes. Abby can color her hair blue and not get ISS and holes in the legs of her jeans doesn't land her there either. We don't eat out anymore. We only go to town once a week.

It's wonderful.