Happy Father's Day

One of my very favorite memories of my father involves a bottle of ketchup.

First of all, some background: my sister and I were big-time bickerers back in the day. It wasn’t until we were 15 and 18 that we each decided that the other wasn’t so bad. We would pick and poke at each other to the point that our mother was entirely convinced she had done something wrong while she was pregnant that caused us to be born loathing our only sibling. The backseat of the car was never big enough. The air one of us breathed always offended the other. She would ask to borrow my clothes, I’d say no, she’d borrow them anyway. She blinked loudly. I tapped on things just to make her crazy. When Mom went to work when I was in 7^th grade, we would come home after school to a house devoid of parental supervision and for that 2 ½ hours before they got home, we would beat the ever-lovin’ snot out of each other.

This particular story took place on a day when for some reason Mom was gone and Sis and I were eating a meal with Dad. We were sitting at the bar that divided the kitchen and dining room – Dad at the end, me to his right, Sis to mine. I got up to get a drink. Sis said, “Hey, could you grab the ketchup while you’re up?” I ignored her and came back to the bar. A moment later I got up to get something else. Again, Sis asked, “Could you grab the ketchup while you’re up?” I once again ignored her. Not long, I again got up. Now, you’ve probably realized that at this point I probably didn’t really need to get up as much as I did. I was merely taunting her. I literally went to the fridge, got something out and ignored her request for ketchup. Apparently that was the breaking point for her. She exclaimed, "REALLY? You couldn’t just get the ketchup? WHILE YOU WERE AT THE FRIDGE??” And I can remember smugly grinning and plopping back down onto my barstool.

The fight was on.

And in the midst of our fussing and name-calling, our father, who had been perfectly silent the entire time, simply got up, went to the fridge, plucked the ketchup from its appointed spot on the shelf, walked calmly to the bar and slammed the ketchup down so hard that America’s favorite condiment burst forth from the lid, shooting upward in a tomato-y geyser that splattered the ceiling and ceiling fan with a spray of red not unlike that seen at crime scenes.

He then sat back down and resumed eating his meal while ketchup dripped from the ceiling and Sis and I sat staring at the broken bottle with eyes as wide as saucers. In unison, we looked up, looked at him, looked at each other and then at our plates. Nary a word was spoken through the entire debacle.

Maybe five minutes later Mom came home. There we were, the three of us, sitting at the kitchen bar, eating dinner like it was our job, not speaking, not looking around. Mom stopped, immediately sensing that there had been a shift in the Force somewhere. Then she caught a glimpse of the ceiling. She inquired as to why the ceiling fan was covered in ketchup. No one answered. Eventually the mess was gone, I assume Mom cleaned it up. It was awhile before we spoke of it. Of course, we found humor in it after the fact.

To this day, that story cannot be told without Sis and I laughing until we cry. It usually elicits a grin from Dad. He remembers it, although I'm not sure "fondly" would be the best descriptor. 

Dad, thank you for the advice that those who hurt me in high school weren't worth the tears, the butter rum lifesavers at Speech competitions, the ability to make me so mad I could drive a standard through my tears, for giving me the desire to learn giant scientific words and their meanings, and for the gray hair. I really appreciate that one the most. 

Happy Father's Day. I love you.  

Dad with mine and Sis' kids on Father's Day 2009

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

Think Pink. And Flat.

In June 2011 I experienced my first mammogram. I say "experienced" because saying, "I had a mammogram today," equates it with maybe a hot ham and cheese for lunch or maybe a really good stromboli, perhaps a lovely dream. You don't consume it and you don't take anything away from it other than information. So you simply experience it.

My first mammogram was at Claremore Indian Hospital, administered by a woman who was very stoic, business-like and professional. It was a good first experience and I certainly give the woman kudos for handling my breasts in such a way as to make me go back and do it again, not run screaming for the hills, vowing to never again squish the girls.

But at my well-woman exam at the Indian Clinic back in November, the nurse practitioner who did my exam happily announced that immediately after the first of the year, they would have their very own Mammography Suite in their brand new clinic. She also seriously made issue of my impending 40th birthday and said that mammograms were essential at "this stage" in my life. She all but had me picturing gifts of walkers with tennis balls on the feet for my birthday and the rest of my days watching Wheel of Fortune every evening and enjoying my new-found favorite snack food: prunes. I chuckled and said that I was only turning 40 and that yes, I intended to get a mammogram every year from now until my boobs are all but shriveled up and gone and that I knew the importance of early detection and treatment and please don't send me to the home just yet. She patted my knee and said I was funny. Duh.

It was more like February when I finally got my letter announcing it was time for my now-yearly squishing, along with instructions on how to get my films from the other hospital and all the other pertinent information needed to flatten one's breasts. I immediately called to make my appointment and my call was fielded by a man. He chatted amicably as he got into the computer to start entering my information and as soon as I said my name he said, "Oh hey, you're Verna's daughter. This is Scott." Scott is the son of one of my mom's friends. We chatted, made my appointment for April (apparently mammograms are hot items to schedule) and then you know I had to ask: "Uhm...Scott....you're not going to do the mammogram yourself......are you? " He just laughed and stuttered out, "Ohhh nooooooo....no, we have a girl for that." Whew. That would've been awkward at future social functions.

And so I waited. It seemed like April was forever away, but then I turned around twice and boom, it was there on the calender all staring at me and my boobs like that creepy guy at the bar who doesn't realize you have a face or anything from the chest up every time I walked through the kitchen.

This morning in the shower I shaved every stray stubbly hair from my pit region, plus probably a layer or two of skin because it's embarrassing enough to stand there topless, but to stand there topless with hairy pits? Ohh that's way worse. Then after my shower I forewent the deodorant. That is just weird. I have a system, a routine, an order or things that I do after my shower. Moisturize my face, put on deodorant...etc. I moisturized, then stared longingly at the blue Secret I so badly wanted to apply, (Why yes, I do have OCD, why do you ask?) but managed to carry on without it. My pits felt weird. Just plain weird.

I got to the clinic about 10 minutes early and checked in then was sent to wait. I got to listen to a woman's VERY LOUD cell phone conversation during which she gave away her mother's indian commodities (*gasp* Who would give away their commodities??? Man, those are precious and we don't go givin' that away in our house!) and then talk about how she didn't have to, like, pick her kid up from daycare until 5:30 because hey, even though she's not technically employed anywhere right now, she, like, might be someday and she has to pay for a full day no matter what and yeah, like, she likes hanging out with her kid, but ya know, $25 is $25 and if she's paying it, she's, like, getting every penny out of it. I wanted to hand her a Mother of the Year award right there, but decided I wanted to keep all my teeth. She looked pretty tough. So I just sat there and text my sister about how excited I was about my impending squish.

It wasn't long before I heard my name called and the little gal who greeted me in the hallway wasn't any bigger than a minute. She was happy and cheerful and although I wasn't nervous, she still made me feel very at ease. She led me into the darkened suite and directed me to the little dressing room to set down my purse. She asked me the usual questions: any family history of breast cancer? (No) Ovarian cancer? (No) How old was I when I got my first period? (14. Late bloomer.) Did I have kids? (Yes, would you like one? I'm having a spring fever special.) Did I breastfeed? (Yes. I was never good at it, but I gave it the old college try.) Did I have any concerns with my breasts? (Yes, could you maybe give them a talkin' to about how they aren't as perky as they used to be? They're always so .... down...these days...) (No, I didn't really say that.) (Yes, I wish I had.)

Then she told me to step into the dressing room (or un-dressing room at this juncture) and if I had on any deodorant, to use one of the provided wipes to remove it. I told her that I was sans deo because I'm a rule follower like that. She seemed impressed at my nerdy-ness. While I was in the tiny room, she started chatting happily about Prom and hemming her daughter's dress and how bittersweet it is to see them off and then, I, upon donning the paper gown, I stepped out into the suite once more. We chatted a few more minutes about Prom attire, she affixed two pink bandaids upon my nipples and then I stepped up to the plate. Er...plates.

It's like the hokey pokey...you put your right boob in, you push your right boob up, you put your right boob in and then you watch them squish it flat. I dunno. But now I bet you're humming the tune.

Anyway....she never even stopped talking happily as she slipped my arm out of my paper gown, gently grabbed my right breast and laid it on the plate, like a dadgum porkchop at the dinner table. She pulled my shoulder forward, started screwing down the upper plate, adjusted my arm fat (yeah, I said it) and then battened down the hatches. As she said, "Well, you know, silver shoes go with everything!" she also happily added, "You alright? Everything comfy?" and scampered off to her little shielded hut in the corner. I thought Well, my right breast is sandwiched almost flat in between two plastic plates, but yeah, I'm comfy as anything! but instead just said with a smile, "Yep! All good!"

And then she did a diagonal picture. Kind of like a selfie in your bathroom while making the duck face. But far more intimate.

It was when she started the whole process over with the left breast that I decided to be brave and look.

Yes. I looked.

At my breast.

While it was flattened.

Ever seen a bug smack into your windshield when you're cruisin' down the interstate at 75mph? How it's all flat and junk and totally out of proportion and weird looking?

Imagine that. With a nipple.

I quickly averted my eyes. Ain't nobody got time for that.

It was a look like lasted about .5 seconds, but will forever be embedded in my brain.

 The last diagonal picture was the most uncomfortable it got. She had me lean way in and then tilt my head and I swear to you I pulled a muscle. Leave it to me to be injured by a mammogram.

When it was over, she said everything looked good, nothing stood out as alarming to her, she'd send the films off to be read by day's end and I should have a letter by the end of the week. She also reminded me to remove my pretty pink stickers and said if I left them on too long it might take off some skin. Uhm....those puppies were immediately ripped off. I really shouldn't have ripped them off. At the same time. Like a nipple bandaid bandito. Yeah. Ow.

While I re-dressed, we chatted some more about homeschooling, bullying and the fact she tries to contain the pink to her little darkened room so as not to freak out all the other guys in the radiology department. She is good people. We bonded. I mean, as only those who hold your breasts in their hands will.

Anyway, another year, another mammogram. All in all, a not horrible experience. The tech at the clinic was fabulous and sweet and has a wonderful fashion sense. We decided that if the world was left to us, we could solve every problem.

It's not something I want to do every day, but I can totally handle once a year. There's nothing to be afraid of or anxious about, so just go do it.

Just don't look. Trust me on this.

The Helpful Place

I absolutely love going to Ace Hardware because they greet you at the door, ask you what you are looking for and immediately direct you to the aisle you need. Then as you walk away, they get all Secret Service-ish and speak softly into their mic, "I have a customer heading to Aisle 4 in need of a sink drain," like suddenly your plumbing needs are vital to national security.

Today I had several things I needed and was going to visit more than one aisle. I wasn't sure where to begin. We're getting ready to clean out the cellar in anticipation of 'Nader Season here in Oklahoma and there are brown recluse, black widows and wasps in there. With that many critters taking up residence in my 'Fraidy Hole, I'd rather take my chances with the twister. The kids and I had planned on de-bugging and cleaning it this weekend and I needed serious varmit destruction.

When the friendly greeter at the door said hello and asked what I needed today, smiling I said, "Oh.....I have a lot of things to pick up. I think I'll just go it alone." She smiled and said, "Great! Thank you for choosing Ace!" and as I walked away I heard her softly speak into her mic, "I have a female customer..... walking down the main aisle.....she's wearing a black sweater and says she has a LOT of things to buy. Someone find her and HELP HER!"

I was laughing so hard by the time I got to the spider traps because I had about four guys in red vests trailing me as I leisurely browsed each and every aisle between the front door and the pest aisle. A super nice guy with gorgeous silver hair "won" me when I finally stopped at the spider traps and after we visited about those horrible demonic vermin and squared that nasty bit of business away, I inquired about wasp traps.

He stepped in closer and his voice got low as he looked around. I felt like we were in an alley and he was going to offer to sell me a watch out of his vest. He literally looked over his shoulder twice before he finally  said, "Well, I can sell you one of these here, but just last night on Facebook I saw the directions on how to make your own...."

When I got back to the car, the kids nearly in chorus asked, "THEY DIDN'T HAVE WASP TRAPS!?!?" (We might have some anxiety about wasps at our house...) I then told them about the silver-haired Facebooker and his homemade traps and how we, too, were going to make our own. They were completely unconvinced and one of them offered to pay for store-bought guarantees themselves.

Abby just shook her head and said, "Uh, Mom. You should've just totally friended him right there. That's what we teenagers do! Then you'd have the directions right there on your wall!"

Pest Control the Gen Y Zuckerberg way.

Buy Sell and Trade for a New 'Tude, Please

Okay, I have HAD IT with the Buy Sell Trade sites on Facebook. I don't buy, sell or trade on them, but my kids do and I'm fed up. That being said...

Dear Buy Sell Trade-ers of the Universe,

If you are a habitually early person you cannot - simply CANNOT - start your waiting countdown *before* the appointed time to meet. If you are to meet at 6 and you show up at 5:45 and then your meet person shows up at 6:02 and you are LONG GONE, you cannot post a nasty comment that you "waited 15 minutes". It's rude. Politeness would say that by 6:15 you can say you have waited that 15. And then when someone comes on to defend themselves, don't be ugly about it. Calling them an out-and-out liar isn't nice nor is using poor grammar and punctuation to start a written word war in the comment section. What did Bambi's mom say about saying nice things or shutting your mouth? Oh and hey, listen to this one please? When u uze splng lik dis to komyunikate w ppl i jus wana throw a lamp @ ur head. I will only overlook that so long before I will take a red grading pen to your every post and laugh manically while I do it.

If your TV/Playstation/Cell Phone/Analog Corded Wall Telephone from 1986/ Automatic Ear Wax Remover truly doesn't work, DON'T POST IN YOUR AD THAT IT DOES AND THAT YOU "JUST CHECKED IT, I PROMISE". One of these days, some teenager who scrimped and saved and worked her tail end off to earn $60 for a PS3 to whom you sold a "working" electronic gaming system, will not have a mother with a personality like mine nor is involved in youth ministry and is married to a deacon, and that mother is going to pour the whoop-up on you. Jesus saved you on that one, big fella. Because it is only the ministry and God in Heaven that has kept me from cussing you six ways to Tuesday and fashioning a voodoo doll in your image. We turned it into a life lesson, but man, that one stung. We now carrying various cords and chargers with us in the van whenever we go to pick  up items and we WILL check your "working" device to make sure you aren't a lying lie face. Yes, I know, I should refer back to the Bambi's mom statement in the previous paragraph.

Post pictures of your items. We don't all have amazingly vivid imaginations that will allow us to decide if your formula-stained baby clothes are truly worth our time and money. If you can't post pictures, don't sell them. Take them to the Goodwill or a resale shop where they can visually see those formula stains up front. You wonder why you can't sell your items? POST PICTURES.

No, I won't pick up or drop off items at your house. Don't ask again. It's creepy and every time someone suggests it, I write down your name and theirs so that if they go missing in the next week or so I can call the police department and inform them that you have likely just made a lampshade and curtains out of their skin as well as their old baby clothes.

Most of us don't sit at the ready to serve your needs. If you want to buy my used copy of Madagascar 3, you kind of have to be a tad flexible with meeting times. Most of us actually want to sell our things to you, we just don't like being made to feel like your dancing monkey who is only there to do your bidding. Snarky comments and tagging admins is way not cool. You work during the day, we school during the day. Yeah, the principal at our school is probably slightly more flexible than your boss, but we can still make this work as long as you don't fly off the handle and go all yell-y and typing IN ALL CAPS and tagging admins right and left.

And speaking of admins, if you are an admin drunk on the power of your position and you decide to kick a 14 year old off of your site (who was actually a member of the site before you imposed age limits), please also kick off the 4,287 other "underage" children selling, buying and trading as well. If you'd like, as a complimentary service to you, I will gladly compile a list for you of all the 8, 11 and 13 year olds you seem to "overlook". Don't make an example out of my teenager because someone stood him up and then threw a hissy fit and got all nasty and stuff. Okay, so he might've stayed under the radar if I hadn't mentioned my son's age when I took it upon myself to comment back to the "non-truther" (see, I didn't call her a liar) who had already sold a jank TV to my son six months ago then was a no-show on a video game sale, then tagged you because we weren't "being fair" to you and accommodating your heavy work schedule. Yeah, there's that. But still, that $20 TV we bought from her and then had to haul off ourselves after we discovered it didn't work is still kind of sitting there in my mind, nudging me with a pencil every now and then. Essentially, she got us to pay her to be her haul-off service. You're quite the entrepreneur, aren't you now, cupcake? *slow claps*

People, I loathe garage sales and these sites are allowing my children to sell their crap without me having to get up at 4am to set up tables and drink inordinate amounts of coffee while die-hard garage sale-ers haggle with me over my .25 mis-matched Tupperware containers, half colored-in color books, VHS tapes of the Lonesome Dove mini-series and Barbies with matted hair. But somehow, the lying and the hateful attitudes and snarky comments and outright tattling is starting to make me wanna brew a pot of coffee or seven and get out the price tags and tables.

Play nice. Be nice. Buy my kids' junk and don't call my kids liars. I have access to Google maps. I can find your house. I know how to fork yards and can throw a roll of TP pretty far.

Thank you and have a lovely day,

The Redneck Diva

What, Me Worry?

I woke up worrying this morning. My heart and mind were heavy from the second I opened my eyes. Before I ever even got out of bed, I prayed. Even though God knows my concerns, needs and yes, worries, I went ahead and just, you know, reminded Him. These are legitimate needs, not wants.

As I shuffled into the living room to turn on the pellet stove, I again went to God and said, "You know, God, if You could just....help me out here....that'd be great." And on I continued with my worrying and figuring and mental evaluation of the situation. I even went to God again and said, "Hey, here....look at this....I have a solution for You!" but still I felt an unease in my heart, my soul. That was not the solution, apparently.

I got busy packing Paul's lunch, made some coffee, and I think I sighed about 20 times as I made his sandwiches. My feet felt like they were concrete blocks as I walked to the classroom to turn on the computer so I could get started on the kids' school sheets. I was still heavy-hearted and worried because all of my human solutions and suggestions felt stupid and inadequate and simply not solutions. As I flipped on the classroom light, then turned away from the light switch, my eyes, after adjusting to the light, went straight to the white board where my youngest child had written this:

It's been on the board for a few days now and I have noticed it and thought, "Aww, how sweet, Bug wrote a scripture," and wondered why.

Now I know why. It was for me. Today.

Those needs are still there, but I know that God is going to take care of it the way He sees fit. Not the way I see fit. He will supply all all my needs. He doesn't need my planning, suggestions and input because He already has this situation under control.

And I am trusting in that.

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.

Have a seat. I'll make you some bread while I crochet you some new underpants out of recycled bread wrappers

I hate to admit it and I resisted as long as I could, but folks, I fell prey to The Pinterest.

(By the way, I am following the Code of the Midwest and probably for the South, too, that some nouns must always be preceded by "The" in order to sufficiently convey their importance. For example, The Walmart, The YouTube, The Sonic, The Diarrhea. You must always capitalize both words, in writing and in speech. It's a real rule. Look it up.)

Anyway, I heard the hullaballoo over The Pinterest and I thought, "No way it's as awesome as everyone says it is and therefore I shall resist." And I'd hear people talking about their homemade laundry detergent and see these amazing party decorations and wreaths of every shape, size and make-up for every imaginable holiday or occasion and think, "Nope, still not jumping on that crafty bandwagon of crazy," and then carry on with my life. I mean, some days it's all I can do to keep the children alive and not burn the house down myself, much less create homemade salsa and gluten-free tortillas. In the words of Sweet Brown, "Ain't nobody got time fo' dat!"

Abby got to where virtually every sentence the child spoke began with, "OH MY GOSH, the other day on Pinterest I saw..." or "MOM! I totally saw this thing on Pinterest where you..." and would go into an excitedly animated speech about the scarf made out of old t-shirts or the headband made from "upcycled" six pack rings and expired medication (I totally made that second one up.) (Or did I...) and I would smile and nod and think, "My child is a crafty lemming zombie," and then carry on with my life. Then my cousin, Courtney, whom I was babysitting for at the time, came in one morning wearing an adorable scarf made from t-shirts and was going on about the wonderful-ness of The Pinterest and she thought she could get me an invitation (yeah, we're talking about back in the beginning where it was an exclusive club for the crafty-est of crafters) and I said, "No, thank you, but I do love your scarf!" And I did love her scarf. I just didn't have time for crafting what with all the other really important stuff I was doing at the time which included watching her son, but for the life of me I can't think of much else I was doing back then....but still, I didn't have time for crafting. Or homemade laundry soap. Or The Ultimate Valentine's Day Party Decorations made entirely of those little slivers of soap no one will use. Or a necklace holder made out of an old yard rake.

And then one day I looked.

Just a look. I typed in the dreaded URL www.pinterest.com and I looked. First off, it didn't look threatening in any way, my soul still felt intact, but all I saw were just rows and rows of picture after picture. Most of those pictures weren't even of crafts. There were a ton of Channing Tatum and some of those snarky eCards and photos of seascapes and mountainscapes and tablescapes. I saw one t-shirt scarf and no garden rakes. I was confused as all get out.

Something seemed amiss, so I quickly closed the browser and decided to cleanse my brain with some Facebook stalking browsing. Soon The Pinterest once again became something I heard people talk about and still held no interest in joining. Besides, Abby was out of invitations.

Then I heard through the grapevine that The Pinterest Powers That Be had opted out of crafting exclusion and had just opened it all up for any Suzy, Jane or Martha Stewart-wanna be to join. Still, I didn't want to be so .... cliche' by joining. I mean, I kind of pride myself on going against the crowd whenever I can. I mean, I liked black nail polish before everyone liked black  nail polish. That right there makes me cool. So I still resisted The Pinterest even though ALL my friends were doing it. Well, I have like three friends and actually none of them were on it, but ALL of other people's friends were doing it and I wasn't having any of that.

So here I sat with no t-shirt scarves, no faux-paneled walls, no belly detox slim-down drinks ("Straight from Dr. Oz!"), no pins, no boards, no copycat Sonic Cherry Limeades, no baby shower centerpieces shaped like a tractor and made entirely of diapers, no flourless chocolate cake, no refinished kitchen countertops and definitely, definitely, definitely NONE of THE PINTEREST.

Then you know how sometimes you're just sitting around avoiding some major task like housework or fixing dinner and the internet is having like a super unexciting day where Twitter is boring and Facebook is annoying and even though you've refreshed it a hundred times, no one is sending you any emails? And you have played Spider Solitaire, read about the actor who played Buckwheat on the 1990's movie Little Rascals, organized all of your church camp photos, cleared your brower's cache, changed your desktop background and still don't want to go make dinner? And you decide to re-type your Christmas card list and create a spreadsheet for this year's taxes even though tax season is like, eight months away? And then you accomplish all those things and you still just don't want to fix dinner?

That was when The Pinterest got me. I was avoiding work and boom, I was suddenly a Pinterest user.

I downloaded the app first and found it engaging. Then I checked out the actual website.

Did you know you can find approximately 458,792,444,201 pinned recipes for Cracker Barrel's Hashbrown Casserole on The Pinterest? They're all the real thing. Just ask each person who pinned it. You can also find the "only" way to poach an egg, make a single-serving microwave brownie in a coffee mug and yes, make scarves out of t-shirts. Also, skirts, headbands, bulletin board border, socks, stuffed animals, tutus, quilts, wall hangings, baby slings, purses, toddler rompers, wreaths, bracelets, necklaces, vests, bibs, pillows, baskets, and rugs from t-shirts. Seriously, when the zombie apocalypse finally happens it won't be Twinkies or bottled water we're all killing each other for - it will be t-shirts.

I've had to cut myself back from the rapid onset addiction that ensued after that first fateful day, simply because our internet bandwidth is capped each month and we've discovered that because The Pinterest is so image-heavy, it was sucking our bandwidth down like crazy. That is actually a very good thing. It keeps me from spending all day, err' day in front of the computer in my upcycled t-shirt pajama pants and t-shirt scarf and headband set, pinning recipes for homemade Mod Podge, marshmallows and mayonnaise. I check it once a day, pin what catches my eye since the last time I checked it and then go about my business.

It's a controlled addiction.

I've discovered Black Magic Cake (so to die for it's not even funny), the most amazing beef tips and gravy recipe, cinnamon roll cake (yes, seriously), TONS of homeschool resources and am systematically ridding my home of chemical-laden cleaners. I am not even joking when I say I am saving money, learning a lot and making the most of what I have in my house without having to buy unnecessary things.

I also now have a heartfelt, deep and meaningful relationship with baking soda. And vinegar is my new BFF. Now, when we have a cleaning day (or "Home Ec" day to us homeschoolers), the house smells like tea tree oil (a natural germ-killer!) and the showers have never been so white (thanks to baking soda!). Abby's allergies are better and she isn't continually broken out in hives. Our grocery bill has dropped. We spend more time together. We aren't eating as much junk and the "junk" I do make is preservative free and made with love. Everybody needs more of that. Love, not preservatives.

Sam, my outspoken 14 year old, calls me a hippie. He says it's not fair we have to do without store-bought Oreos now that I've pinned a recipe for homemade ones and one of these days will get around to trying it out. He hated the fact that when I attempted to make homemade body wash, the house smelled like Irish Spring for a week until I finally gave up on the non-sudsing jellied mass lurking in my stock pot and dumped it all out. He doesn't care much for the fact that his sister and I are constantly concocting, creating and collaborating, but I think he's starting to warm to the merits of it because the dude is a junior prepper (Doomsday Prepper for those not as neurotic and paranoid in the know as we are) and I've been sharing some tips and how-to's on how to survive when the zombies attack and the government is thrown into anarchy and we all have to learn the value of a good head shot and the boy is reluctantly intrigued.

It won't be long and he'll be right there with the rest of us, crocheting himself a machete holder out of his old t-shirts and discussing the proper way to create fire-starters from dryer lint and candle wax.

We'll bring him over to the Pinterest side before long. In the meantime, I'll just keep pinning those "authentic" Cracker Barrel Hashbrown Casserole recipes and saving used dryer sheets and soap slivers while I wait for him to wake up and smell the tea tree oil.

Hammin' It Up

I grew up in the country in a neat little red brick house on a corner with fields all around. The fact that our house was brick and on a cement foundation still didn't keep the mice out come winter time. My mother is TERRIFIED of mice. I don't mean moderately scared or even a little creeped out. I mean, the woman would die if one ever touched her. I'm not joking.

[So please, any mice reading this, stay away from my momma. I like her a whole lot of a bunch and would like to keep her around. No touching the momma. Squeak squeak mcsqueaker squeaken. Got that?]

My momma is so terrified of all things rodentia that the first winter in the brand new house, when my sister was a mere four or five months old, she nearly flipped her lid when she saw the first critter run across the kitchen floor. She came un. glued. But my father who worked nights and didn't want his wife dragging his two children to his work and sitting at the end of the tire assembly line for his entire shift just because she might be afraid to stay in the house alone, fixed the situation by telling her that mice can't run on carpet. He said their little toenails got snagged in the carpet and they just stayed on linoleum. She had nothing to fear if she stayed on the carpeted areas of the house while he was at work.

Now, my mother is a very intelligent woman, but bless her heart, she bought this one hook, line and sinker. I'm going to blame post-partum depression.

And all went along smoothly for awhile. My father went to work every night and after dinner, Mom never left the living room. She even laid my little sister on a blanket in the living room floor to play and nap because, hey those mice can't run on carpet, right? Well, until while watching Hee Haw or Lawrence Welk one night, a mouse came scurrying his little tail off right through the dining room and when he hit carpet, never slowed down. My sleeping baby sister didn't slow him down either -- he just jumped over her and kept on bookin' it. He very well may have been competing in some Mouse Olympic event.

I saw it all happen. Mom saw it all happen. We looked at each other and without a word drew our feet up onto the couch. Then the shrieking began. Who was going to go get the baby? "Hey, lady, I'm like, not even four, not gonna be me." "Oh no, not me either. I have to remain alive to take care of your sister because obviously you are going to perish when you go retrieve her FROM THE FLOOR WHERE MICE ARE." Although, that conversation didn't happen out loud, I'm sure it went on in our heads. It was possibly our first mother-daughter telepathy moment.

She's 60 now and still just as terrified of mice. I'm not a fan either. We haven't had one in our country house in a few years. We're surrounded by either field or forest no matter which side you look at, so mice are kind of just gonna happen. This is why we have lots of cats. The last time we had one in the house, I wore shoes pretty much 24/7, tucked my pants into my socks and upon entering any room I would stomp and declare loudly, "HELLO MOUSE. I AM ENTERING THIS ROOM. YOU ARE NOT WELCOME WHILE I AM IN HERE. PLEASE DO NOT SHOW YOURSELF UNTIL I AM GONE. OH, AND PLEASE DIE. THANK YOU." If you think I'm lying, ask my kids. I totally did that. Every time.

Over the years the kids have asked repeatedly for hamsters. And every time I say no. NO NO NO NO NONONONONONONOOOOOOOO. But in August I was obviously ate up with the stupid with all the getting ready to homeschool my children and when my oldest asked for a hamster I dismissed her with, "Ask your dad."

We now own three hamsters. Three. Rodents. Live here. With me. Inna my house.

Abby had one named Elephant (after Little Bill's pet hamster. Remember Little Bill? He was so dadgum cute!), but Elephant got bitey, so she gave him away. She then bought a Robo Dwarf (Robo is short for Roborovsky, not robot, which would've been so stinkin' epic) and named her Hanna. Hanna is the Speedy Gonzales of the hamster world. I swear I hear her squeak "Andelay! Andelay! Ariba! Ariba!" every now and then. She is adorable and loves to perform for you, but holding her is out of the question. She no likey. She jumpy.

So Abby bought a Winter White and named her Pearl. The same night, Sam bought a Winter White and named her Marley. Pearl is cuddly and lovey and possibly has an eating disorder (She stuffed 33 sunflower seeds in her cheek pouches the other night before she had to go unload. We need to take that girl to a buffet) and Marley is moody and chirps like a cicada if you mess with her on a grumpy day. The kids hold them and let them crawl all over them. They poop in their hands. Pearl pees on Abby a lot because she smells Hanna. It's like a scaled-down version of Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom around here.

While I was getting the office cleaned out so it could be turned into a classroom, I was sitting in the floor cleaning out the craft cabinet. Abby decided to bring Pearl out to visit. And then Abby thought it would be HEEEELARIOUS to put the little critter in my t-shirt pocket. That was.....weird. Then she put her on the floor and Pearl, being a burrowing critter, went where it's.....warm. Yes, the hamster ran for my crotch.

There I was sitting in the floor, surrounded by Play-Doh, markers, pipe cleaners, glitter and used-up coloring books and a hamster scampering around my junk. I froze. Abby froze. Bug froze. Then without moving I squeaked, "There's. a. hamster......in.....my......CROTCH. GET. HER. OUT. ...... NOW." Abby immediately fell over in the floor, completely unable to rescue my crotch -- or the hamster -- and I wasn't about to grab the squirming little thing. I pet the dang things with one extended, shaking finger, I no grab. I also didn't dare move for fear of crushing her tiny, furry body under my gigantic booty and other stuff.

So imagine me sitting, legs splayed, arms frozen in mid-air, file folder full of Shrinky Dinks sheets in one hand, face frozen in a mask of rodent-induced horror.....and my daughters lying on their sides, clutching their bellies, laughing so hard no sound is coming out.

Yeah.

Eventually Abby regained enough composure to fish her hamster from my no-no region, a bonding experience like no other, and order was restored.

Marlin Perkins, handler of tigers and gorillas, probably would've handled a hamster in his crotch with slightly more composure. But I bet he never homeschooled his kids.