What It Takes to Be Great

Tomorrow evening, Lauren will play Six Roumanian Folk Dances by Bartok at her studio's fall piano recital. This week, I was thinking back to when the girls were little. I had hoped that they would come to love reading, music and horses. I got my wishes on all accounts. The ironic part of this wish is that at the moment, reading, music and horses are what drive me to the brink.

My girls read almost to the exclusion of anything else. Thick tomes go with them everywhere, as I have reminded them often to never go anywhere without a book and you'll never be bored. Some days, however, it is exasperating to move the 800 page Harry Potter for the zillionth time off of the kitchen table or to get the girls to put down their books and do something.

Both girls are amazing horseback riders, though often my time (and my checkbook) revolve around horses. I spend a great deal of time hooking up the trailer and hauling horses. Yet, their passion for horses is a healthy outlet and we've always thought it worthwhile.

As for music, Anna is considered a leader in the Church teen band, for though she quit playing piano, the music became a part of her and she can read it. And Lauren, well, you would have to hear her play to understand. She and her teacher, however, enjoy pieces that are very emotional and furious. Listening to hours of practice a day has me drooling over Bose white noise headphones.

Occasionally I am asked how a parent can guide a child to become great at something. Certainly, homeschooling has played a large part in this for us, as having great chunks of time and flexibility are factors.

But in today's world, a more important factor is focus. We are surrounded and bombarded with choices in not only entertainment and activities to name a few. As a homeschooler, I am often overwhelmed with all the activities, field trips and possibilities there are available. Earlier in our journey, I often wondered who took the "home" out of homeschooling. It took some time, maturing and perhaps, the birth of my son Wm later in life, to realize that I did.

With the feeling of not wanting my children to "fall behind", perhaps some guilt over socialization, wanting to find the fun in homeschooling, we were driving around like crazy people. At one point, each girl was involved in five different activities. Almost cosmically, they all seemed to mesh together so that I was able to accomplish them all, yet we seemed always in a hurry, always stressed, a house turned upside down, blaming the chaos on homeschooling.

When Will was born, I began to cut back. We could not spend all day driving to all the activities, and as the girls delved deeper into their chosen passions, we began making critical choices. And with those choices, came the time and the ability to dive deep into their chosen passions. Both began riding more. Lauren has more time to play the piano. Anna spends more time writing her novel. We cut out activities like soccer and 4H, for example, which were terrific programs, but hampered our flexibility.

So I am asked sometimes by a parent how they can help their child want to play like Lauren plays. I would say it takes faith. Faith that you are not hurting your child by saying no, you can not do one more activity. It takes the lack of distraction. And not to take away from Lauren, it takes finding and following that child's interest without watering it down with other activities.

I'm sure this post isn't as coherent as I'd hoped when I first started it, as Wm is ready for his nightly bedtime reading and is distracting me. So, I sign off.

Cowboys

You know the song that starts, "Mama, don't let you sons grow up to be cowboys." I've got a new version for you: "Mama, don't let you daughters grow up to be hookers." Mamas, what are you thinking letting your daughters out of the house wearing these clothes? Look at this poor girl. She obviously put on her slip and walked out the door, forgetting her dress. Does she know it's winter? WHO would let their daughter go out like this?

Don't give me the she's got her own money and her own mind and she wants to fit in with the crowd crap. If she lives in your home, you still have some say, or should have, in what she looks like when she leaves your front door. Is this, my young women of the world, the message of strong, capable, yet beautiful women we want to project? No, these clothes say, Look, I wore my nightie to the dance so that'll save us time later.

Several times while dress shopping with my daughters, I had to ask, "Is this a dress??" Seeing their nods, I looked again at what looked like a silky version of the baby doll pajamas I wore as a kid. All they needed were bloomers.

And don't tell me she buys it when you're not there. For one thing, they take returns, people. And another, I saw you, Mom, there with her. Say NO. That's not appropriate. Of course, you mom, that I saw there at the store, send your precious teen to an all girls' private school so that she can roll her skirt up to her @$$ and wear shorts underneath peeking out. Very attractive with the oversized mens' sweatshirt.

Want respect? Don't go around looking like Britany Spears (see her horrible fashion statement in this week's Newsweek.). People do pay attention to her, but they don't respect her. I'm no prude, truly. I understand wanting to feel pretty and sexy, (though those days are starting to slip away; not the wanting part, but the ability to be part), but you don't have to look like you're soliciting. Believe me. Leave a little to the imagination.

An Embarassment to my Children

Have you ever taken a four, almost five, year old boy shopping in the formal dress department? Have you ever tried to keep said boy entertained while his teen sister tried on every dress in the store? At first, he enjoys himself hiding in the skirts of long formals, doing his best to scaring the grey hairs onto you with visions of the store calling a Code Adam. Then, he begins hanging on the racks of the shorter dresses, tipping them precariously. On to the fitting room. Such times call for desperate measures.

Wm. and I had already used one unoccupied hallway of the large fitting room (which was empty except for us, I might add) to learn to skip and to let Wm. practice his somersaults. My next suggestion to roll back and forth a small toy race car was met with the suggestion that instead, we should see who could throw it the farthest. And as boys do, he was talking loudly.

"Mommmmm, tell him to be quiet," whined both sisters.

So, we investigated the large three way mirror. We counted how many Williams we could see. We noted that Mommy could wave to herself. Okay. That lasted, what, two minutes? Wm. began to search for ways to misbehave so that we could go home. I showed him how you could lay on the floor and look upside down and make faces in the mirror.

"Mommmmm, get up, you're embarassing me," Anna intoned with rolled eyes.
Again, I note, NO ONE WAS IN THE ROOM!
"What's she doin'?" Lauren asked.
"She's being a MOM," Anna replied, as if that explained everything in a nutshell.

I laughed. It seems that at this age, my main occupation is the embarassment of my teenage daughters. I consider it my job. I tell them that if I'm not embarassing them, we're not having enough fun.

Given that I speak and act frankly, this isn't do difficult. Lauren has requested that I not check horses' privates when anyone is around, even though we are in a barn and teaching others what taking care of an animal entails and with other horsey people that know all about it anyway. Yet, it doesn't embarass her ONE BIT to bring to me her old, poop encrusted favorite chicken who seems to be under the weather. Could I maybe wash this chicken butt for her? Huh, maybe it's a little too embarassing. Could there be a more humbling task? (Note: chicken is just fine this morning)

My children, you must learn to laugh at yourself! Sometimes, it's the only way to get through a day! So, I am teaching them to laugh at themselves. Not too long ago, we were amused by finding what we call the Chin songs. If you want some examples, go on YouTube and search by "chin". Or, you can see my first, unfinished attempt here:



As you can see, I haven't yet added hair and a hat, but we had fun. So the girls used the time they should be studying biology, to make the following video of their own:



Most likely, they'll never remember that the stacks of thylakoids in the chloroplast are called grana, and that the second stage of photosynthesis is called the Calvin Cycle. But they will remember the night we made chin videos and laughed.

P.S. I challenge you to make your own chin videos!

The "Magic" Gopher

Magic Gopher follow-up.

How does he do it?

If you make a chart of all possible answers, the only answers possible are multiples of 9:
9, 18, 27, 36, 45, 54, 63, 72, 81.

If you look at the chart of symbols, all of the multiples of nine have the same symbol. However, each time you do it, the symbols change, yet the multiples of nine all have the exact same symbol. So, no matter what number you choose, your answer will be a multiple of nine and will have the same symbol of any number you could start with.

Eyes Wide Open

There are four Hispanic men that clean stalls at the establo where my daughters ride. Each time we see them, the greet us cheerfully, whether in the cold, in the rain, or a sunny day. Always, they say "I am fine, how are you?" in a sing-song. Yesterday, one of them (I'm ashamed to say I don't yet know his name) said, "Not so good," when I asked how he was doing.

When I inquired as to why, he put down the shafts of the full wheelbarrow and pointed to his eye. "A horse hit me in the eye with his head. "

I comiserated, having been "head-butted" before, it hurts like the dickens. I asked if it was better. No, it wasn't and he couldn't see so well in that eye.

"Have you seen a doctor?" I asked.
When he said no, I displayed the total lack of awareness of middle class, white Americans by asking why not.
"Oh," says he. "I'm too busy."
Too busy. Still clueless, I cheerfully rejoined, "You'd better get to the doctor. You only get two eyes, you know. It's important."

Later, I reflected. He doesn't have the money to go to the doctor. He's likely an illegal immigrant with no insurance. He might lose the sight in his eye forever.

It may be that talking about illegal immigration in principle is easy. Nameless and faceless, it's easy to say of course, they should apply to come legally. Of course, we should not pay for their medical expenses. Confronted with reality, a young man sees us pull up with two horses we recently bought, knows we live down the road in a nice house, sees horses getting "vetted" (seeing the vet) weekly, and he may be blind in one eye for lack of an office visit.

My own faith teaches that we should care for people, illegal or not, leaving the legalities for others. That's one of the things I love about being Catholic. Today, I'll phone Catholic Charities. Perhaps they have an eye doctor.

Protegées

It has been drawn to my attention that I've also led the following down the path of blogging:

PITA Woman (My friend in all things Great Dane)
Moments In Time (My Dad, who is gifting me with his memories and observations)

Please visit and encourage their writing!

Life Lessons

Go to Magic Gopher and watch him guess your number. Can you figure out how it is done? I'll tell you tomorrow.

At first, we were taken in. My girls said, "Don't talk." Well, we didn't have a mike connected.
I thought, "We'll not move the cursor." That wasn't it. Were we drawn in or what?

Anna started to write things down.
"What'd'ya doin'?" I asked.

"Looking for a pattern." Smart girl. There's your clue.

We learned that:

• This website isn't magic and can't detect you
• Gophers in silly hats can't read your mind
• Look for patterns
• While paying attention to what you are told to pay attention to, you actually miss what is happening
• And most importantly, for many events, there is an explanation, even if you can't understand it at the moment.

Enjoy!

My Contribution

When I die, they will most likely say, "She didn't accomplish all that much but she did get some people blogging!"

Please visit and encourage two friends of mine new to blogging:

In the Good Shepherd's Care, Christine who always makes me laugh
Loving and Learning , Mary, who shares her life in California with her husband and an autistic child

She Gets it All

During a playdate with his best friend, William found a photo of his grandparents. Aidan had lost a grandparent earlier in the year, and somehow, it figures into conversations often as they try to understand and make sense of his death.

"This is my grandpa," William said, pointing to the male figure. "I have other grandpas, and if they died, like yours, I'd still have this one." He paused. "But what if this one died, too?"

Aidan looked down at the photograph and pointed to the grandma. "Then she," he said knowingly, "would get the house and everything in it."

William nodded and they moved on to play with their toys, the complexities of the world figured out for now.

Democrat or Republican?

Today, I have a guest writer! Please welcome my dear friend and neighbor, Christine McCloy, to the blogosphere!

The mood at our home on Tuesday night, Nov. 7, 2006 was one apprehension and uneasiness as my husband watched one after another Congressional seat fall into the Democrats' favor. My husband was glued to the T.V. flipping from one news report to another to get the latest poll counts. During commercials, he would pace over to the Internet and check on line for any additional information.

In the meantime, our 5-year old, Aidan, (the youngest of four children) acutely devised a plan to remain up past bedtime alone with Mom and Dad. He plopped his haggarded little body between my husband and I, he and began watching the election returns. Being the "astute" parents that we are, we recognized his plot immediately. So, Aidan realized he had to change his strategy in a hurry. Our little soccer playing, bug catcher transformed into a political activist before our eyes. "Daddy, why do all the "red boxes" (Democrats) have checks? Are they winning a lot?" he observes.

"Yes, Aidan." Rod laments, "they are winning a lot."

"Daddy, we are Republicans, right?" Aidan remarks.

Now, at no point did Rod and I announce our political preferences to Aidan, but I am assuming the grim look on Rod's face and tension in the air led Aidan to guess the "wrong-side" was winning. For the first time that evening, Rod turns to face the bugging politician and responds, "Yes, son, we are."

After time to contemplate the ramifications of this, Aidan presses, "I am five and I am a Republican. Can a four year old be a Republican?"

By this time, I am also distracted from the T.V. by this new found interest Aidan has in the election returns. Wondering where this is leading, I take a stab at answering, "Yes, Aidan, a four year old can be a Republican."

Aidan pauses and carefully words his next question. We could tell by the look on his face that it was a very important question to him. He took a breath and inquired, "Well, then is William (his best buddy in the whole world--who also happens to be four years old) a ......Democrat?"

Realizing the answer seemed to have consequences for their friendship, I slowly responded, "Well, I think William might also be a Republican. We can ask him tomorrow." Seeming satisfied with that reply, Aidan adds with a perverse pleasure, "But three year olds, (ie. his cousin Jake with whom he recently had to share his toys for 5 days straight), are Democrats, right?"

With that, we sent him off to bed.

Keirsey Indicator

There was a link in a previous post about the Keirsey Indicator, similar to a Myers-Briggs test. These indicators are meant, rather than analyzing people, to help people understand each other and their God given talents and challenges. I find it fascinating. I found a link to an easier and more descriptive online test at http://www.humanmetrics.com/cgi-win/JTypes2.asp

I am an INFP, sometimes an ENFP, for I am energized by being with people, but eventually, need time alone, indicating I'm more of an introvert. To read more about my personality type, go to http://keirsey.com/personality/nfip.html.

Lost in Translation

I heard gales of loud laughter coming from the computer room. Lauren and Anna were doubled over, laughing. They had been discussing for a long time a new name for Anna's horse, which came with the name "Nikki". Wanting a sporty name that would mean something for Mounted Games, they were looking up translations in other languages for the word "speed".

To discover what tickled their funny bone, go to FreeTranslations.com and translate the word "speed" from English to Norwegian.

My entry in the "Name that Horse" contest is Nike, as in the sports equipment/shoes, because:

• In Greek mythology, Nike was the goddess of victory
• She can easily get tshirts with her horse's name on them
• And, it's not too different from Nikki, making a great transition for the horse, though we're told she's not been Nikki long. Wonder what she was before?

To Do

It would be nice if my absence from my blog indicated that I was sitting beside a pool in the Caribbean sipping a piña colada. In reality, it indicates the number of scheduled activities and the length of my “to do” list.

I sat down this morning to make a list (something I *rarely do) of all the things that I would like to accomplish in no particular order. I’m up to 43 lines so far, 44 if you count writing for my blog. 45. Color my hair.

The day also started off with a deficit. Wm. cried in his sleep last night for no apparent reason. Now, given that he hadn’t had much quality sleep, one would have thought that nothing short of an explosion would wake him this morning. Au contraire, he was like a rooster crowing at the crack of sunlight. And he wanted me to play. 46. Fix Wm’s computer.

I hadn’t yet found the coffee pot, nor let the dogs out to do their business when he already had the PlayStation going and begging me to join him. He sat yelling for me, wearing only his underwear and his new black cowboy boots. In addition to his apparent neediness today, Lauren is preparing for a recital and is playing (loudly) all morning. 47. Buy Lauren’s recital dress.

Thus far this morning, I’ve managed to review Biology and make up the test for the girls. I’ve fed the dogs, and made lunch. That’s it. I feel like I work and work, and accomplish little. 48. Give Paris (dog) bath ‘cause she seems to have that fungus thing again.

So, now we are off to a special piano class in preparation for the recital and my list waits. 49. VOTE


*I am an ENFP, and as a P, I have lots of grand ideas but don’t always accomplish those ideas. What are you?

Lazarus

The stranger had tears in her eyes as she stood at my door last night, asking if we had an orange cat. Well, yes we do. She apologized repeatedly that she couldn't avoid it, but had hit an orange cat with her car. It had just darted out in front of her. Something in me didn't react right away, not believing it was our Jack (named for Jack the Ripper, as he also was a prolific killer in his youth). Somehow, I just thought I'd know if it was him.

She looked past me at William, I am sure thinking she'd hit our child's beloved pet.
"There are a lot of red tabbies around here," I said, "it may not be ours. Is it very big?" Jack is very big, weighing in at 15 pounds.

She wasn't sure, and clearly still shaken. The woman, wearing a Hoosier Horse Park hoodie, turned to go. "Please don't blame yourself," I said.

"That's going to be hard to do, " she said, getting in her small, dark blue car.

She drove off as I grabbed a flashlight and garbage bag. "Oh, Jack," I shook my head. Still, I didn't feel it. Jack, to our knowledge, has never crossed the road. With five acres to roam, he seems instinctively to know that the road is his boundary.

My flashlight picked up red eyes on the road, and I steeled myself for an unpleasant sight. As I neared the cat, I saw it's size. "IT'S NOT JACK!" I called to my daughters.

"I know!" she yelled. "He's asleep on your bed!"

As I neared the cat, I saw it was sitting up and it turned and looked at me. It wasn't dead! In fact, I tried to touch it and it got up and ran off. I gave chase and when I reached it, it again ran off. It appeared to have no injuries that I could see, and I could no longer find it. I hoped that it had a home and could go there to get warm, but it was nowhere to be seen.

I went back home, upstairs to gratefully pet Jack, and worry for a woman that was having a bad night, feeling guilty for unavoidably hitting a cat. I've put a sign in front of our yard, "ORANGE CAT OK! but not ours" hoping that she'll drive by, and be happy that the cat, like Lazarus, rose from the dead.

Trick or Treat

Batman was a big hit this evening, but I like to think it's because they know that he's as handsome under the costume as he is cute with it. Even the kids passing mentioned "There's Batman, Mom!"

At the first two houses, Batman was tentative. "Will you go up with me?"

By the third house the refrain was, "You wait here, Mom, I can do it." or "Stand here, don't come with me." and "Did we do this house yet?"

Starting off strong, the girls, dh and I stood and watched as his little pumpkin full of candy started tiring him. We recounted stories of Halloweens past, like the time I got a really cute costume for him at a consignment shop. What was it? Oh, yeah, a honey pot! And I made him try it on and he bawled. I have a photo of him screaming his fool head off in that costume. Ended up wearing his cowboy pajamas that year.

Dh recounted how his brothers grew up around the time Zorro was popular, and they'd tie a bath towel around their necks and run through the farm, dragging their capes through the cow manure. We laughed as we watched Batman starting to drag.

The girls didn't dress up this year, the first year. Instead, they would ask to see Batman's stash and steal a piece right in front of him. I have only a few years left to see the excitement, the fun of being someone else for a night before he, too, will grow up on me. Trick or treat?

Continuing to Excel?

My county is reputed to be one of the best in the state. (Admittedly, given the state, that's not saying much.) Recent reports, however, have me questioning if it is valid to say even that. In a recent publication by the county, an article headlines "Students Continue to Excel in Academics".

Based on results, it does indeed look like progress is being made, tests scores are improving. They claim to be meeting "No Child Left Behind Act" guidelines. Now, I am no statistician, but the results for high school as I see them say that with the exception of "practical living vocational studies", the percentage of students that were proficient or above was no higher than 65%. I found that astounding. In one of the richest counties in the state, 35% of the high school students are not reaching "proficiency" (not excellence, mind you, just "good enough") in any subject. On Demand Writing was a dismal 17%.

In addition, it is reported that:

Overall, 53 percent of first-year students entering
Kentucky's public colleges and universities in 2004
were not prepared, compared with 54 percent of those
entering in 2002.

Tell me, what business could survive with such results? If the money did not come from taxes, but came directly out of the pockets of parents, would they expect more? Are we expecting too much?

Kindness

Today, Lauren went to interview for a pet sitting job in a new subdivision near our home. In a beautiful, large home, the woman and her husband live with their four pampered cats and a rescued golden retriever. The house was spotless and magnificently decorated. Her two boys, now grown, had moved on.

Eagerly, she showed us about the house and introduced the pets. What struck me, however, was that a number of times, she mentioned how lonely she was. New to the area, her husband went off to work each day, and somehow, she'd not yet fit into the community or connected with friends. How sad, I thought, that our world, so connected was so isolationist, that is is so easy to live so close to other people and be lonely. We've lost our social connectiveness somehow.

And yet, maybe it's not so hard to be the one that helps to fix that. Maybe, it's a free pancake breakfast for one person that begins the changes that can cure what ails this world. Maybe its just the reaching out to care. Perhaps I'll get Anna to make her a pumpkin pie.

The Time of Their Lives

The ponies raced around the field with their riders, the champions of the Master's B Division of the Bluegrass Finale. One raced with my daughter along side of her friends on a sunny autumn day. My eyes misted, thinking that this was the time of their lives. Good friends, agile bodies, beautiful weather, and without the weight of responsibility that comes with adulthood.

Another daughter watched from her pony, member of the second place team. Having ridden with the team for the first time, and the first time on the Masters level, she was very happy with the results. She sat on Stealth, her mount for the past two years. It was her last competition with him, as she's outgrown him, both in size and ability. Her sadness was cushioned by the prospect of another horse which we ended up buying. Though needing more training, the mare appears to have the temperment, size, and speed needed.

It's the time of their lives, these girls. Riding at one of the most beautiful places in the world, the Kentucky Horse Park, sharing the experience with wonderful people of all ages, seeing the generosity and good sportsmanship of the competition, it doesn't get any better than this.

And dh is what makes it possible. Driving a beige mini-van to work and explaining his recent purchase for new work shoes, he didn't blink when I said that I again wanted to buy a horse. (He did ask when I was going to be sending Morty on to his new home. Answer: less than a month.) Riding horses is expensive, though this particular discipline of riding is less than other disciplines, dh and I could be taking cruises or at least driving a car with under 100,000 miles. But, as he often says, it is an investment in their character and childhood, and who can put a price on that?

Weekend Consumed

From this moment until Sunday evening, we'll be consumed with the Bluegrass Fall Finale, the final official event of the Mounted Games circuit in the United States. I didn't want to leave my blog readers without reading material, however, so I am posting the following links.

Firstly, a story that I heard on NPR one day while driving to get hay for the horses. It's about a Toad Sucking Dog. Now, why would a dog do that, you might wonder? Read it here.

The following links are to International blogs that I've found meandering around the blogosphere. Often, I think about how circumstances and choices bring us to the life we lead, but there are so many other lives and views out there which we'll not experience, except maybe through the eyes of someone else. So, I check in now and again on the lives of these people, not celebrities, not newsmakers, but real people living real lives. I'll eventually put those that I check regularly in a links section on my blog.

France: Poppy Fields
Italy: italian trivia
China: One Child Policy
Korea: Here in Korea
Mauritania: Planet Nomad

And speaking of celebrities, the Madonna adoption controversy is getting a lot of press. I cannot help but wonder if it has occurred to her to help the father with this little boy, so that the boy can be raised knowing his biological father, who seems to have not enough sophistication to handle this situation. Certainly, she has enough money to do so. Lifting parents from poverty lifts the children, and keeps the family intact.

Batman

Batman went to the zoo last night. It was a nasty night, cold and raining, but I'd promised. The girls were invited to dinner at a beautiful home of a well-to-do couple in honor of the English riding team. But, I'd promised, and it was the only day we could go.

It was well worth it. His cape dragging on the wet pavement, the drizzle abated long enough for us to enjoy walking through the park. He looked around for a disembodied voice (recording) in the vegetation.

"Hey, you! You in the costume!" it called. "You're scaring me!" another voice wavered. William looked all around, smiling tentatively. Where were they?

As we traveled station to station, he would look in his pumkin bucket. "Look at all the candy I'm getting!" he'd say as I mentally took note of what I could steal later without his notice.

We all later rode the little rip-off train (designed to get my last dollar as we exit the zoo), and it, too surprised me. While the headless horseman just waved at the train, not daring to race it in the slippery mud, the erie lights in the tunnels flickered. "Was that cool or what?" Batman exclaimed as we got off. It was. But only through the eyes of a child.

The Phone, The Phone is Ringing!!!

"The phone, the phone is ringing!" If you know the melody that goes with this line, you too have a preschooler that likes the TV show Wonder Pets. Wm has a fit when I sing along, though. My voice isn't that bad, is it? Don't answer.

The phone is ringing though, off the wall. I think dh and I are registered with different parties, not that it matters for neither of us are extremely devoted to either party and change with the candidates we like. But, since both parties want to reach one of us or the other, the phone rings continually at dinner time. This is the time of day most people are home, I suppose. UNKNOWN makes frequent calls, according to Caller ID.

Do they really think that interupting my dinner will make me more inclined to vote for their candidate? I'd love to complain but usually it's a recording, which I discover if I make the mistake of answering.

One call I made the mistake of answering was for the Fraternal Order of Police. Afraid I'd be put on an APB for a ticket if I didn't support their donut fund, I gave them a donation. Unknowingly, dh also gave to the State Police Retirement Fund or some such thing. Now, we are on "the list". I have had at least five calls this month from ambulance drivers, police, and fire departments. Evidently, word's gotten out we're an easy target.

I think I'll have to take the phone off the hook as elections draw nearer.

Fun Website

Okay, I know that my puns and limericks bring out moans from my family, but I can't help it. They write themselves. Evidently, I'm not the only one out there! I found this website, http://www.oedilf.com, that gives you the definition of a word, along with a limmerick to tickle your funny bone. We were looking up the pronunciation of "adenosine" when I found it. They take submissions, so add your own!

Only she thinks the limericks are funny,
Only she laughs when something is punny,
But it brightens the day,
When words become play,
Making gray skies a little more sunny.

Blogger...

...is acting up again!!!! It won't publish a paragraph in the last entry so, here it is, out of order. I just may have to move my blog if the service doesn't improve.

So, I wasn't at all surprised upon hearing that a taping of Dr. Phil on homeschooling didn't go as an invited guest thought it would. Rumor has it that the episod may/may not be aired on October 27th.

Dr. Phil on Homeschooling

Last summer, we were invited out to a farm of acquaintances that were participating in the reality show (an oxymoron if ever I heard one) "Wife Swap". It was a real eye opener as to how TV shows are filmed and how little the viewers actually see of what goes on behind the scenes. It is all staged to provoke emotions, nothing more. Truth and reality have nothing to do with it.

So, I wasn't at all surprised upon hearing that a taping of

Snow

Yesterday, it was bitterly cold. Anna agreed to Lauren that it was and that she wouldn't be surprised if it snowed. Shortly thereafter and to their surprise, we saw the first flakes of the new season drift to the ground. I couldn't believe it! It's still October! It's going to be a LONNNNNNNNNNNNG winter.

Getting Older

There have been times that I've found myself dreaming about getting older. Like last Friday, as I cut the last rubber mat for the last horse stall. I thought to myself that someday, I'd be too old to do this kind of work and wouldn't that be nice? No, I couldn't possibly go out in the cold and couldn't possibly load and unload 40 bales of hay (like I did today). Someone else, someone younger, will have to do it. Me, I'll retire with my book and a cup of tea to the sunroom. Call me when they're finished!

But now, still young enough but not young enough, I try fantastic feats of home and yard repair. Yes, I can climb up into the attic and fix that wiring. No problem to help move that couch. It all seems so reasonable at the time. My back and shoulders scream the next day "na-na-na-na-boo-boo, you're getting older!"

Yesterday, Anna and I volunteered some time doing yard work for a disabled woman. Normally, I don't do fallen leaves. And, I tried to stay away from them as I pulled ivy from her brick house, but somehow, the leaves got me anyway, and today, my head is pounding. I don't know what it is in leaves, but my head doesn't like them. Thank goodness for aspririn.

I Believe...

As I wrote this past month, the local public radio station is ending it's local commentaries and replacing them with a program they are doing with LEO magazine and NPR called "This I Believe". The idea is like gravel in my transmission, to be told what to write, to be told the format. And, beliefs are... more serious, more heady, more, well, not funny.

Or are they? Recently, some beliefs have been gathering in my mind:

I believe I am the only person in my house who knows where the light switches are and that they turn OFF lights. The fact that electricity powers those lights and costs money does not seem to enter anyone else's mind.

I believe that I am the only one that believes in shutting and locking the doors when leaving the house to go somewhere. When it is time to leave, everyone heads down the stairs, lights blazing, doors inviting robbers in.

Speaking of doors open, I believe that kitchen cabinets and doors ought to have automatic door closers so they aren't all open all the time. Wait a minute, that's my job.

I believe no one knows how to change out a garbage bag. Instead, it is a time saver to just smush the garbage down further in the can until the bag breaks. At this point, it becomes "not my problem".

I've not seen anyone yet replace toilet paper on the holder. Forget "over" or "under". In fact, forget even putting it on the holder. Let's just get some out of the supply closet when we're out in the bathroom. I believe in toilet paper.

I believe my dh doesn't have a clue of a mom's daily frustrations. Today, a weekend, he came up puffing because he couldn't find Wm's shoes, coat, etc. and it was taking him a long time to get out the door to his weekend errands. Talk to the hand, man.

I believe my teens would sleep into the next day if I'd let them. I believe they'd rather build a bridge over the dirty (and clean) clothes on their floor than pick them up.

I believe a clean kitchen inspires appetites and causes teens to start cooking, assembling foods, dripping jelly on the floor.

I believe that putting a horse in a clean stall acts as a laxative.

If you are five minutes late already and trying to get everyone out the door, I believe that is when your four year old will tell you that he needs to go to the bathroom, and "I need a magazine".

Speaking of four year olds, ever try to tell one that it is cold outside and you need a coat and shoes? I believe that after giving in, letting him go coatless and shoeless up to the barn, that I'll be walking back down to the house ten minutes later because he's cold. I believe I'll bring the coat and shoes under my arm everywhere I go.

Well, shooo, I'm outa breath! I guess I do have a lot of beliefs to write about!

Cheating

Recently, Lauren's piano instructor thought over whether to give us the answer booklet to Lauren's theory book. I'd offered to correct her work myself. (Though I can't understand any of it by now, I can check it against the answer key.)

"Do you have some place you can keep it under lock and key?" he asked.

Lauren and I looked at each other and smiled.

"Well, if I cheat," she answered, "how will I pass the test?"

See, she's studying this music theory for the next leg of her RACE level. The book helps her to learn the theory that will be tested in a proctored room at the University. If she cheats on the study workbook, she will have no chance whatsoever of passing the final test and she understands that.

This pointed out something so very different between the approach we are taking to education and maybe the more traditional view of it (with which I was raised). We are not comparing ourselves to other people in our abilities to learn new material. The grade is not the ultimate measure of self-worth, not worth attaining at any cost or by cheating. In the end, the only thing that matters is whether you learned and have the knowledge that you have the knowledge.

Instructions

It's a big joke around here that I never read the instructions. I'm more of an intuitive, let's just put it together type of person, jump right in and figure it out. Who needs instructions? This often gets me in deep doo-doo, but sometimes lets me do things faster and easier than stodgy, old instruction-reading people (you know who you are!)

I suppose, as Meredith found, this could get you locked up if you are in the wrong place at the wrong time. But she escaped at the last minute.

Yesterday, I received a compound microscope I'd ordered for the girls' biology class. I was as excited as Christmas to see the UPS truck, but disappointed when he found the box containing slides, but the package with my microscope was missing! What good are slides without a microscope??

Late in the evening, I found an email in my spam folder telling me that the package was on the back porch. It was raining! Luckily, he'd covered it with plastic, but why, tell, did he not put it on the covered front porch?

Digressing.....

I opened the box to find the microscope must be assembled. A thin booklet poorly described how to use the microscope, but no instructions were given to put it together. In fact, it says on page 1 "Do not take down or assemble yourself." Well, pretty hard to use it then, isn't it? Good thing I have my "no instructions" gene, so I was able to get the microscope together anyway.

The kids were off watching TV as dh and I happily looked at slides.
"Look at this one! Mouth parts of a mosquito!"
I think we were more taken with our new toy than the kids, but Anna did come in and look at slides for awhile. Today's lab is "Mystery Slides" in which I choose slides for them and they have to decide if they are plant or animal cells.

A Dust Explosion

No, I'm not going to talk about my terrible housekeeping skills. Did you know that horse barns are considered an explosion risk because of dust? Neither did I, or didn't until our electrician recently failed to get our electrical inspection passed. The items listed all required that every box, switches, and outlets be dust proof.

Now, I will say that the barn, being open and free of knicknacks, kids shoes and toys on the floor (no, I take that back, Wm already has a few of his tractors and cars in the aisleway), and floorboards, is in general cleaner than most houses. And yes, we'll be using shavings to bed the stalls, but not sawdust as in a lumber mill. I will not be storing vast quantities of grain as in a granary. The electrical inspector insists, however, that someday, some dusty horse owner may own the barn if I sell it.

So it is with some great frustration that I see all the outlets and switches covered with plastic boxes that will crack off like a dry twig the first time my girls go to turn on the lights. This will keep my new barn from burning down? I have to laugh because many barns that I visit have not only no dust covers, but exposed coated wire or open boxes. In fact, my old barn was wired from my house, and every time I turned on the microwave and the electric skillet at the same time, the breaker would trip. We found out that was because the barn fans, lights and heaters were also running on the same circuit. At least we've made some improvement!

George, the 90 year old father of the electrician, stood in my barn with the caulk gun, dribbling caulk all over like an old man eating cereal with milk running down his chin. The white special caulk was supposed to be used to dust proof the boxes that were in the barn. It looks like some giant bird has pooped all over our barn. I was devastated. Dh said it was like having a new pair of white tennis shoes that someone stopped all over and got dirty the first day. But, they insisted that they had to use this butyl rubber caulk.

Just now, I spoke with the inspector who told me that clear silicone caulk was okay, so I guess I'll be scraping and recaulking the worst of it. If you want to reach me, I'll be in the barn.

In the Early Morning Light....

...one of the three chicks, now nearly full grown but not quite, couldn't contain himself and crowed, revealing his true identity. Actually, we suspect two of the three are males, but I can't prove it until I SEE him (them) crow. But there it is, we have another rooster. We need eggs, not roosters.

The Weekend Report

The stalls are mostly done. We worked hard all weekend cutting thick rubber mats with a box-cutter to custom fit them to horse stalls. I feel like a ninety year old. I'll probably feel worse tomorrow. We have one more stall to do, due to a (uh-hem) measuring error by yours truly.

Last night, we worked until dusk and tired, went to the local Mexican restaurant. While driving there, I laughed aloud to my family that a politcal sign proclaimed a guy with the last name "Kidney" was running for local office. Perhaps his opponent can run an ad, "Kidney, he hasn't the stomach for the job". Dh laughed and comment that another person named "Bowel" could run with the slogan, "Bowel, he gets shit done."

Ah, such is the camraderie of family life, laughing all the way.

Saturday Morning

I heard it snowed in upstate New York, and here, we are getting frost already. I'm seriously NOT ready for cold weather. I'd like to ease into temperature drops. Here in Kentucky though, it went from the 60's and 70's to the 30's in one day. My body can't adjust that fast.

Today, however, it is going to get into the upper 50's, perfect weather for the day ahead. We are going to be working on the horse stalls, preparing them for the rubber mats that we'll have to lay and cut to size. The mats are heavy, but should make cleaning stalls a breeze compared to having dirt floors.

It's Boring

Thinking that much of my time is spent driving to or arranging activities and lessons for the older girls, I purchased two tickets to yesterday's performance of Alice in Wonderland by Stage One. We would have a mother/son date. We would mingle with other children his age at a cultural event. Are you following my destructive thinking pattern?

Myself, I've never quite enjoyed Alice in Wonderland, thinking it was more like a drug-induced hallucination of some adult. Evidently, the producers also picked up on this as the stage props were largely psychadelic, reminiscent of the 70's. In fact, I enjoyed the music they used, including the Beatles and the Monkeys, a little nostalgia for the old folks in the audience. Perhaps it went over the tikes' heads, but more than one dad in the audience chuckled at the caterpillar-man that was blowing bubbles on a bong.

Checking William's facial expressions periodically for signs of enjoyment, my son dashed my dreams of his appreciation of my efforts with "Can we leave now? I'm hungry." To his defense, he hadn't eaten breakfast, as he rarely does, waiting until about 11 a.m. before his stomach awakens. That was just about the time that he expressed the desire to leave.

"It's almost over," I pleaded. "We'll leave soon."
He turned his head into his seat, mad at me for not leaving right away.
As we left, he stated loudly, in front of other attendees that he had found it boring. I asked why.

"Well, the kids don't get to do ANYTHING! You just have to sit and sit and do nothing. And it was boring." He then went on to declare the costumes unbelievable, particularly the man with a rabbit mask.

I would have bought this argument had we not passed our local movie theater on the way home.

"I wish we could go to a movie," he said wistfully.
A movie. Well, don't you just sit and do NOTHING at a movie? I don't suppose I'll ever understand the mind of a 4 year old. Anyone need tickets to an upcoming play?

Changes at the Radio Station

WFPL's Director of News and Programming emailed today that they'll be discontinuing the local commentaries on our local public radio. Instead, they are joining NPR to produce a series resurrected from the 1950's by Ed Murrow called "This I Believe". Transcripts of those selected will be published in LEO (http://www.leovia.com/?q=issue/section/view/25) (sorry, hyperlinks still not enabled. You can read how to submit an essay at http://www.leovia.com/?q=node/2828.

I am a bit sad about the change. I've enjoyed catching the regular local commentators in the morning, finding out what they were writing as a clue to what I might write. I enjoyed the fantasy of having a voice on the air. Though I'll probably one day write an essay for "This I Believe", by it's nature, how many essays can one write about what one believes? It looks as if the essays pay well, $200 each, but not much if you consider that the essay can be used in any form, including books that will go out like Chicken Soup books most likely. Chicken Soup for the Chicken Lover's Soul.

If you believe they should continue the local commentaries, you could write to Heidi Caravan at hcaravan@wfpl.org and let her know.

Right now, I believe my four year old is impatient with me because he wants yet another tuna fish sandwich, so I believe I'll go make it.

Chicken on a Stick

Back at home, while we were away enjoying our campfire, my dear friend Christine and her children were trying to get our chickens to go to bed. I had told Christine that the chickens normally put themselves to bed, and that all that was required was to shut the door of the coop, locking out predators. Not so this particular day, of all days.

And Christine, city-born and raised, was perplexed to find that five of our chickens, one of which was the precious “Chicken-Lickin’” had settled themselves for the night on a tree branch. And, not any old tree branch. They’d scooted out along the limb to the end, which hung over our creek bed eight feet below.

I’d told her before I left to not worry if chickens somehow came to an unfortunate end, as they were aging chickens, rarely laying, and hey, raccoons have to eat, too. Except for Chicken Lickin’. Chicken Lickin’ is the small black Silkie cross that we have who broods our eggs and lets young children catch and hold her. She’s a therapy chicken, if you will. And here she was, dangling over the creek.

Bless her heart, Christine positioned her daughter, Crisann, below on the banks of the creek. She grabbed a long pole and began pushing the chickens one by one out of the tree. Christine’s mother, visiting from Virginia, was also along, and they all got to laughing. I’m sure she was thinking Christine has surely moved to the ends of the earth, for here was her city daughter climbing out over a creek bank to catch chickens in a tree. She called Christine’s dad on the cell phone to report on her daughter’s exploits. He then took the story to their church, which spread the news all over town. I’m sure it won’t be long before it hits the local papers.

Successful in their attempts, the chickens were retrieved one by one. Worried about a repeat episode, Christine called to let me know that Chickin’ Lickin’ was not given the liberty of free-range the next day, but remained in her cage. Can’t say’s I blame her!

NOTE: I'd add photos but it seems blogger is having difficulties this a.m. and my task bar and html tab is missing. Arrgghhh!!

First Place

The comraderie of Mounted Games is what I love. It's not that there isn't any rivalry. There was whooping and hollering when two horses neared the finish line together. GO!! we'd shout and jump up and down, laughing if a younger rider beat out a more experienced one. Each race was a chance for fun and excitement.

In many sports, its all about winning. Despite the large commitment, we've continued in this sport because everyone seems more focused on how they are progressing, how well they rode that day, or how well they are doing on their horse. Each rider and team can progress, and be congratulated for it.

Even so, it is fun to win. Anna and her partner won first place in the Novice division! Anna has been amazing at her progress, only learning to ride two years ago.

See the horse she is on? She can lean down and pick up a ball off the ground without leaving the saddle. It's so fun for her that they've won first place, though now that means moving up into the next division, where she'll have to work her way up again.

Here is Lauren and Quid. Quid is going to be a terrific horse for Lauren. They turn perfectly, and rode brilliantly the first day. The second day, Quid came up tender-footed and had to be pulled from the race. We hope that she just caught a stone, as she seemed better yesterday. Lauren finished the races on another borrowed pony, one she wasn't used to riding, so the competiton didn't turn out the way she wanted, riding her new horse. Still, she and her partner enjoyed the weekend.

Many thanks to all the kind and hard-working people at USMGA for making the weekend happen.

Camping

A lone coyote sent up a howl at an almost full moon. Soon after, his pack joined him in what sounded like puppies screeching in protest at being left behind. We looked up from our sputtering campfire at the near full moon. What was that, we wondered? After distinguishing the howls from the barks of two dogs left behind in a camper, we decided they were coyotes.

Only after returning home this evening from a weekend riding competition, could I appreciate how quiet our backyard is. Camping should be a quiet experience, a oneness with nature. Not so at the Hoosier Horse Park. A western horse show was in progress (that's another blog!). Loud speakers announced the winners well into the evening. One of the horses on the western show side whinnied all night, missing a companion or anxious at being away from home. The participants arrived at intervals with enormous trailers that had both living quarters and horse trailer. After dropping the trailer, the monster trucks needed to pull these semi-sized trailers pulled in and out of the camp area all night. The Western riders do like a night on the town and they like to camp in heated trailers.

Between the rumble of the diesel trucks, the coyotes continued to howl all of Friday night. Saturday night, they were a bit quieter, though the moon was now full. Might it have been that the National Guard was patrolling the field just east of us in their tanks?? Perhaps it was the large remote-control vehicle track in the adjacent campground, where the cars of boy scouts sent out a constant high pitched whine. No, they were probably put off by the flock of Canadian honking geese at the pond. Or maybe, just those trucks pulling in and out. But I didn't hear the coyotes again Saturday night until about five in the morning.

Sunday morning, I awoke in the frigid tent air to the sound of a man shouting. Should I be concerned? You hear stories of people murdered because no one paid attention when someone shouted. I listened. Getting louder, I could hear voices in response. A sing-song of response to the "a-left, right-a, a-left, right-a, left". It was the Guard, out marching. I pulled my covers closer, thankful that I wasn't in the army.

My mind began a sing-song of it's own:

I don't know but I've been told,
Camping out is mighty cold.

Still, we enjoyed the night by the fire with friends, laughing at our attempts to cook hotdogs on sticks, the full moon, and the fog of the morning.

Next: more on our weekend.

On the Air

Outside of the recording booth, a light declares "Recording" in red letters. All around, I can hear people going about the business of running a radio station, but soon, the door closes and it is utter silence. Ah, I wonder if I can have one of these sound-proof rooms installed in my house? I could hide in there with a good book and block out the sounds of everyday life for just a moment. Just a brief moment. The relief of the lack of sound washes over me, but doesn't last long, as I start hearing myself breathe. Finally, I hear the hiss inside my headphones that say that we're about to begin.

Reading my piece was a little harder yesterday. Bobby, who records the commentaries, says that this Ohio Valley climate affects our voices. My voice was either getting too dry or it sounded weak after water loosened not only my voice, but the gunk that collects from the air. What I needed was a good swig of whiskey, which would really clear it all out, but I suppose that wouldn't be compatible with trying to speak crisply. So, I struggled on, trying to clear my throat without blowing out the large mike in front of me.

You might think that reading 350 words without a mistake would be no problem, but it is really rather difficult. It takes one read through for me to calm down, and one or two more for the one I like. Some words are difficult, and you realize that until you try to read them in a paragraph. Yesterday, it was "the disasters" (in reference to the space shuttles). I get a lot of practice, however, reading aloud to Willliam, who will sit for as long as the voice holds out.

What Possessed Me....

....to think that I could go camping when I've not been in years. Yesterday was a beautiful, gorgeous bright orange fall day. A day that makes you think of apple cider and pumpkins, sitting in front of a campfire with friends. The weekend camping will be perfect, I think. S'mores, hot dogs. I'll save a considerable hotel bill. You get the picture. That's when I broke my cardinal rule - Never have expectations of the perfect weekend. Never dream about how it wonderful it will be.

As we gather the items we need to camp at the girls' riding competition this weekend, the temperature has dropped significantly and a light rain has continued all day. My resolve is beginning to drop with the temperature, and I wonder what I've done.

The last time we went camping, the girls were much smaller, four and two, to be exact. William was but a dream. We were city dwellers, hoping to find some solitude. We drove to Indiana, set up our new tent, and started a campfire. It all went well at first. The girls were asleep, we had some wine and sat at the fire relaxing, a romantic moment. That's when the skunk waddled into our campsite. We crept backwards, not knowing what to do, and retreated to the tent, firmly pulling the zippers. So much for romantic.

We tried to go to sleep, though the rednecks next door, closely resembling the relatives from Christmas Vacation, kept their radio on loud, guns propped against a tree. These same campers were our concern when Lauren woke up in the dead of night, screaming from a nightmare. We worried that they might put their rifles to good use. That was the last time we camped.

So, now I'm giving it another try. Sleeping on the ground will also be a challenge with my aging back. Whatever possessed me?

Riding

It was a beautiful day. I actually got to go riding with a new neighbor, who showed trails to me that are open to the public and just down the street. "Bay" behaved beautifully, but was somewhat the show-off for the woman's mare.

Lauren has found her horse for Games finally. Her name is "Quid" (for Quidditch, the game in Harry Potter books). She's about 5 or 6 years old, is a POA (Pony of the Americas) breed, and is smart, yet quiet, and she and Lauren just match.

Monkey Bananas

Cookies don't last long in our house. Wm has learned to try to bargain for more than one, and his sisters are not known to pass one up either. Wonder who they get that from?? So, I was amused by the book No More Cookies in which a mother tells her boy that he can't have any more cookies, but he could have Monkey Bananas.

So of course, we had to make Monkey Bananas. To make your own, cut bananas in half, push in a popsicle stick and freeze. (This varies slightly from the book's recipe, in which they did not freeze the bananas first. The advantage to freezing the bananas first is that they can then be eaten immediately, and we all know that pre-schoolers like "immediately".)

Melt chocolate, carefully to not burn, in the microwave. (Spoken from experience.) Then, dip the frozen bananas in the chocolate and add sprinkles. Eat! Put extras on wax paper and into the freezer. One variation of this recipe is to dip the banana into honey and roll in nuts. Wm ate a lot of bananas this week. One advantage to this project is the opportunity for the mom to steal bites of chocolate in the name of education.

Division of Labor

Some people might slap me for even having a husband that's willing to go to the grocery. We alternate the chore on Sundays. One of us takes the girls to church. Taking William to church at the moment is about as peaceful and prayerful as having someone stick your backside repeatedly with a straight pin. So, while one goes to church for a peaceful hour, the other takes Wm to the grocery. This isn't such a bad chore, because the grocery is usually not very busy yet and like most males, Wm's affections can be bought with the right food.

At any rate, this morning, dh and I discussed who would take which role this morning. It is tempting to take the church-going role. Though it was my turn, dh offered to do the shopping.

Okay, I agreed, if you'll do the groceries the way I do groceries. What did I mean? Well, before going, the dishwasher must be unloaded, loaded, the refrigerator cleaned (to make room for the new groceries), and the diswasher started. When he returned, he was not to deposit the groceries on the counter like a fisherman who's returned home with a string of trout that he expects the little wife to clean and fry up for dinner. No, he would have to put them away, too. Just like I would. Dh rapidly agreed that he'd go to church. And, bless his soul, he did help me put away the groceries.

I'm off now to watch the girls ride in a mini-competition while dh cuts grass and Wm plays in the dirt. Now there's a good division of labor!

Dark Brown

My new son, Dark Brown. Yes, I returned home yesterday to hear that Wm has renamed himself "Dark Brown". Where did this come from? He and Anna were playing with some Halloween capes from last year. His was black. I think he settled on this because he often hears us say his eyes are dark brown and it maybe sound a little like Darth from Darth Vader, only Wm still has a little trouble with the "th" sound. He's William again today, and feeling better after a weird temperature spike one afternoon.

A Real Looker

We were sitting in Friday night mall traffic, cars four across. No, I didn't lose my mind and decide to shop; I'd dropped Lauren off at dh's work so he could take her to the symphony. So here we were, waiting at the red light and I look over three cars to see a young man looking back. I looked away, but each time I looked, he was looking.

Now, I'm old and humble enough to know it wasn't me that he was looking at. If he was, it was because my shirt buttons had popped open (nope) or my hair was sticking up funny. OH, it dawned on me, he's looking at Anna! My 13 year old Anna.

"He's looking at you, Anna," I said.
"Yeah," she smiled. "I know."
"Gees, and he has a woman in the car with him. Quick, smile and flash your braces at him so he knows you're jail bait."
She laughed.

Lord, I'm in for a time of it, aren't I?

Sexy Hooker Shoes

On my radio transcripts blog, I noticed a GoogleAdsense ad pointed readers to "sexy hooker shoes". Intrigued, and scared at what ads my readers see, I had to go check it out. Imagine my delight to discover that they had light up shoes! My son has always had light up gym shoes and I wondered why adults can't get them. WELL! We were looking in the wrong places! Check these out!

And they make you taller to boot (no pun intended)! I won't have to have that operation to stretch my legs longer after all! Wonder what the ladies at church would think?

I had to go browsing on this site. What a hoot! Look at all the dress up clothes for women. Lots of fantasy stuff there for the guys. You can dress your woman as a maid, school girl, geisha girl, bunny, cat, French maid, pirate wench, and on and on. Now, look at the men's selection. Of the very few costumes, there are only six variations, whereas the women's section has multiple pages. (And a Hugh Hefner outfit? Yuck! Can you get any more icky than that??) Obviously, it doesn't matter what the guy wears. Rather amusing. Evidently, there are too many people with disposable income.

Biology

Nothing irks me more than to be told I can't do something. Recently, I tried to buy seemingly innocuous chemicals and was told that the company, Flinn Scientific, would not sell to homeschoolers or individuals. I suppose I could understand if I were trying to buy hydrochloric acid, but I was trying to locate pectinase, an enzyme that when added to applesauce, causes more juice to be released from the sauce. It's used in food production, for goodness sakes. The other was cellulase, used to soften jeans material. I wonder if the terrorists are planning to drive us insane by ruining all our jeans and making our applesauce runny? Whatever could I do with these two items that makes them restricted? I'll have to study on that one.

What really made me mad though is that with a chemical engineering degree, and just two students, more likely the chemicals would be safer with me than in a room full of thirty teenagers and a biology teacher. Oh, well, it's a crazy world.

I ended up buying a forensics lab from Carolina Biological that covers the concepts we are studying right now: carbohydrates, polysaccharides and enzymes. Lauren, who loves the show "Bones", will be much more interested in detecting saliva on "evidence" than she would be seeing if she could squeeze more juice out of applesauce. It looks fun.

I'm, in the meantime, trying to find my humor that's gone missing with a husband in the middle of peak season, gone most days dark to dark, teens that consider me their personal driver and social director, and a little boy that suddenly developed a fever this afternoon.

Another Birthday

It would probably be a kindness to ignore birthdays for women that are past a "certain age", do you not think? Yet, they still keep coming. The alternative to growing a year older (not growing a year older) is not attractive.

So, yesterday I submitted to adding another year to my age. It was an enjoyable day spent with my family. While I took the girls to church, dh and Wm went to the grocery and returned with steak, corn on the cob, salad and "a surprise" for my birthday.

Wm announced as soon as they returned that they had a surprise for me but he wasn't allowed to tell what it was. I was impressed with his ability to keep the surprise. I tried several times to trick him into telling me, but he was on his game. I was reminded of my sister, many years ago, who also was told not to tell her Daddy what his present was. Immediately on coming into the house, she ran to Dad and said, "Daddy, I'm not allowed to tell you that we got you socks for your birthday! It's a secret!" My secret prize was a DQ chocolate ice cream cake which calls to my expanding waistline even as I type this morning. It screams to me telepathically to be released from it's freezer prison.

Before dinner, we all went to ride at a nearby arena, all five of us riding at one time, a dream of mine I'd had for a long time, come true. My daughters treated me to a back and foot massage as their present to me. All in all, a perfect day. Perhaps birthdays aren't so bad.

Soggy

Saturday was the second day of rain and the date of dh's company picnic. It was a light rain as we left, and the company sometimes gives good door prizes. In the middle of their peak season and with moral lagging, it was important to show up at this event.

Sometimes, such events are hard for me. On the one hand, it is the company that pays the bills, the company that in normal times, gives dh the job he really likes. Yet, in this peak, pre-Christmas season, it's the company that steals his time, takes him body and mind. Here's the manager, sitting across from me in the large white tent, who I've heard stories about, who sometimes makes waves that ripple across dh's desk. I smiled my plastic smile, but I didn't have to like him.

A crisis was in progress even as we looked at snakes and spiders in the HerpAquarium. The blackberry on his belt beeped and called him away. I listened as he tried to rearrange schedules and deal with another crisis and the vampire bats in their glass cages drank blood. I could not help drawing a comparison. I wish I could save him from this stress.

We walked outside to view other animals and the heavens opened and it poured like a monsoon in the far East. We admitted defeat and returned home. In the end, we got six inches of rain. Dh's father and brother came to visit that night, and we went to an Irish restaurant for dinner to warm our insides with good, thick carbohydrates to try to banish the rain from our bones.

Biker Chick

My first mistake was in going to Walmart to buy a new purse. I've not had one in years. I generally just stuff everything in my jeans pockets to be hands free to hold onto Wm. Yet, as the years go on, one doesn't want to draw attention to the hips area, making them even wider by stuffing everything you own in them. I know guys do it, but they don't seem to care about their hip width.

Anyway, I'm at Walmart and see that all of their purses fall into the teenage genre of purses. Either impossibly tiny or enormously big, I can just see the girls with their bellybutton piercings, bleached hair and these purses. Where are the purses for the I-don't-want-to-look-like-a-mom-but-don't-want-to-look-14-but-don't-have-$50-to-spend-on-a-purse purses? There were several that were large enough to hold a laptop, if I had one, that is. I finally settled on a not too large black leather purse that had a pocket for my cell. It matches my black leather jacket but I fear makes me look like a biker chick. Perhaps I'll get a tatoo.

My mom visited yesterday and looked at it in dismay. I don't have much in it yet, and it hangs limp like a bra someone bought too big and no chest to fill it. She held up her proper brown alligator skin bag, and suggested a little more taste in my selection next time. Well, I'm not quite ready for the alligator track yet. Maybe I'll get a motorcyle to go with my purse.

My Son the Budding Vegetarian

William has eaten his share of chicken tenders with "fry-fries", his standard meal at any restaurant that has them on the kids' menu, and most do. In fact, he had them today at an Irish restaurant, though the breading was thick and crunchy enough to disguise that it was meat at all.

Lately, he's been analyzing and questioning the source of his food. Perhaps he's heard that spinach can kill? No, he's been asking about meat. Recently, he turned down steak, nicely grilled and seasoned, after we told him in response to his inquiry, that the meat came from a cow. I don't go into detail with the kids when young, but neither do I lie. Someone killed the cow and now, we are going to eat it. Except for William. He refused to eat the cow.

That brings us to this evening. I made fried chicken for dinner. William is eating shredded cheese. He won't eat the chicken after I answered his questions:

Me: It didn't come from one of our chickens. It was a chicken raised for meat.
W: It didn't have a head or feet?
Me: (internal laugh) No, it no longer has a head or feet.
W: Someone cut it's head off?
(I am smelling the wonderful smell of fried chicken and not enjoying thinking about this.)
Me: Yes, someone did.
W: How'd they get all the blood out?
Me: It comes out when they cut off it's head.
W: I'm not eating it.
Me: I'm not asking you to, but it's what you had for lunch.
W: No, that was a different type of chicken. Not real chicken.

As we sat eating our meal, he reached over for one piece. "Welllllllllllll......I guess I'll try one piece." He actually tried two small bites, but his face frowned in ethical objection. He spit it out in a gross gesture to the floor where the dogs waited in eager anticipation of pre-chewed food. Wm ate no more chicken.

Having hand-raised chickens and sat with them eye-to-eye, laughed at them and called them by name, Wm is giving up chicken he says. Will it last? Or is it just MY chicken?

My girls, having had their carnivorous habits firmly established before we had any chickens, have considered the option of vegetarianism, having several friends who are, for various reasons. But both say that though they'd like to be in a way, they like meat too much to give it up. They can, and did recently, devour a whole 2 pounds made into beef jerky in one day.

Wm will still eat meat that he's not recognized yet as having come from an animal. For example, he ate Polish kielbasa yesterday and loved it. Speaking of chickens, it's dark, and I must go shut their cages before something does eat them.

Alien

Now that I've written, recorded and gotten y'all softened up with my platitudes about the wonders of having a four year old, let me tell you about the other side of the coin. Today, it is raining, meaning no playing outside in the limestone sand mountain that is waiting outside our new barn for use in the stalls and around the barn. My mom and husband are coming, Lauren has piano later today, dh is working until late each evening, tomorrow is his company picnic and when we return, dh's father and brother are coming to spend the evening. Most likely, I'll be meeting my dad and brother for lunch on Monday about an hour from home. A busy schedule, but a happy one, surrounded by family for my birthday coming up on Sunday.

Four year olds, however, sense that you have a lot going on somehow, a radar for non-attention by the Mommy. The image that comes to mind is in some movie who's title I've forgotten (is it Alien?) when the octopus-like creature jumps out at the human and is attached to the human's face so that he can't breathe. Today, if Wm. could attach himself to my face, he would. He can't seem to get enough attention or holding. Now, you are probably wondering how I'm typing this? Well, as I type, he is climbing in my lap. He says:

"I love you so much, Mommy. I love you so much I want to be with you."

I guess everything else can wait, eh?

Mis-Communication

Dh watched Wm while I drove the girls to band practice. When I returned home, he told me that Wm had told him that his best friend's dad had died.

No, I replied, he's alive and well. Aiden's grandpa died. The boys had been in the backseat of the car, and I'd heard the following conversation.

W: There's a dead squirrel.
A: My paw-paw died.
W: He did? Why'd he die?
A: He was old and sick.
W: Do you miss him?
A: Yes, but it's okay.
W: I miss Juno (our dog that died).
A: (Nods)

So, Wm. thinking paw-paw meant papa reported that the father, not grandfather died. Dh, somewhat shocked but disbelieving (because surely I would have told him immediately), asked if Aiden were crying, if Aiden's mommy was crying.

"No," Wm reported.
"Weren't they sad?" Dh continued to try to correct the story.
"No, it's okay," Wm answered.

After I explained that the grandpa had died, Dh asked if they were going out of town, would I watch their animals. Well, the grandpa died several months ago (which I had told dh at the time), so no, I wasn't.

Glad to report that Rod is in excellent health.

Communication

Men don't converse the way women do. I'll give you an example. My next door neighbor put his house up for sale. About a month later, the for sale sign disappeared. My husband and the neighbor met over the fence and dh asked if he was staying, and the neighbor replied that yes, they were not moving.

If you are a woman and your dh just told you this, your first question would be "why"? If you had been talking to the neighbor, you would have found some easy, not-too-nosey way to say, "oh? did you change your mind?" and that would open the door to more conversation in which you would satisfy your curiosity.

Returning inside, I asked dh why the neighbor wasn't moving. "I don't know, I didn't ask him. I don't really care."

I guess it's a guy thing. Now, I'll never know.

Conversations with William

We were driving home from the recycle center and passed an old building next to the railroad tracks. The building houses a junk shop that rivals Sanford & Sons. The following conversation occurred on the way home with my four-year old.

Wm: What's that place there?
Me: They sell stuff.
Wm: Stuff?
Me: Yeah, junk people don't want anymore.
(I hear him in the back seat whispering: stuff-junk, stuff-junk)
Wm: I thought you said "skunk".
Me: No, stuff, junk.
Wm: You know if you take a rifle and point it at your neck and pull the trigger, you'll die.
Me: Uh, yes.
Wm: Do people eat skunks? (We're back to the skunks.)
Me: No.
Wm: Why not?
Me: Well, the meat is probably not good, and skunks stink.
Wm: You could shoot it with a rifle.
Me: Yes, but the skunk would still stink.
Wm: You could put confume (perfume) on it.
Me: You could.
Wm: You could shoot a deer or a skunk with a rifle.
Me: Yes, but why would you want to shoot the deer?
Wm: Maybe if someone was hungry. They could eat it.
Me: (bleeding heart animal lover) Won't the deer's mommy be sad?
Wm: (future hunter?) She's probably already dead from someone shooting a rifle. You could shoot either a deer or a skunk with a rifle, couldn't you?

He nods his head knowingly, confident we've completed this train of though which all started at a junk shop.

Foaming at the Mouth

I saw this on one of my email lists, from Louise in Israel:

While you're at it, you can do the wild-animals-foaming-at-the-mouth "trick"- it's the old volcano using baking soda and vinegar, except that you mix together baking soda, citric acid (powder) and powdered sugar (to make it a bit palatable). Add a tiny bit of food colouring and put a teaspoon of it inthe mouth. The saliva in the mouth causes the reaction, and of course youdon't want to swallow this (not that it'll harm you if you do however), soyou just foam at the mouth, in whatever colour you chose. Messy, but fun.

So, being the total fool that I am, I tried it:

Thank you to my friend Christine for being willing to photograph my more glamourous moments. (Anyone have Katie Couric's Photoshop editor to work on my facial lines?)

And my adventurous Lauren also tried it:

I'm not quite sure what learning we accomplished, but we did have fun.

Global Warming

I grew up in the space age. I am just old enough to remember my father getting me out of bed to watch the “giant leap for mankind”. As a teen, I gazed at the stars with a telescope and still wonder what’s out there. I’ve cheered the space shuttle, and agonized over the disasters. I’ve wondered what’s beyond what I can see with a naked eye.

Yet, in today’s world, I cannot help but wonder what we are doing spending billions and billions going back into space. The Europeans are heading to the moon again. We are hoping to put humans on Mars.

There is much news about global warming, but very little news about what they’re doing about it. Alaska is melting, “which may be triggering a self-perpetuating climate time bomb”, Greenland is dumping fresh water into the ocean which may cause Europe to cool, and any day, you can drive to the nearest big city and see a dirty, brown cloud over it.

Yah know what I think? I think the people in power, those with money, those in Congress, are planning to leave. Yup, and though I’m fit for space flight, (Are you? Take a quiz.) I haven’t the more than 20 million dollars it takes to book a berth, like this woman. And do you think they’ll take us peons? No, you’ll have to pay for a spot. The scientists and politicians, they know this planet is doomed, and they’re planning to colonize somewhere else, only they’re not saying, and they’re not taking you!

So here’s my plan. Let’s take all the billions of dollars they are spending on the space station and space programs, and use the money on alternate energy programs. We can start with the government buildings. They sure use a lot of hot air. We could install solar panels on the houses of lower income people, so they can use money spent on utilities for more interesting things, like food. We could build light rail systems. Now there’s a novel idea. We could actually move away from dependence on oil!

Let’s take some of those billions and feed the starving babies I see in the news, give medicine to the AIDS victims, who leave those babies orphaned. Let’s use some to give people clean drinking water. Let’s use it to save what we have now, instead of trying to find a way out.

Immigration

My father said he is tired of having to press “1” to hear an automated system in English. And so opened the door to the topic of illegal immigration. He didn’t disagree with a local politician who promises that, if given my vote, he’ll see that a wall is built along our border to stem the flow of people sneaking over in the night.

And whom, I asked him, do you think will build that wall? The Mexicans, of course. No one else would work for low wages in the hot Texas climate doing thankless work. And did he think that the builders wouldn’t know every inch of it and tell their friends the best place to cross over?

Does he think a wall will stop them? An image flashes of National Guardsmen atop the wall with vats of boiling oil. These people are willing to cross the ocean in a boat made for half the number of people on it to get to our shores. They are willing to risk death in the back of a hot truck. Come to think of it, when did a wall stop anyone? The Appalachian, and later Rocky Mountains, natural walls, did not stem the flow of white settlers into Native American territory even at the risk of a deadly attack.

No, the wall is a breadcrumb thrown from our politicians’ tables to appease us, make us think they have a plan. At the same time, their gardens and houses are kept by Hispanic people. They clean our barns and build our fences. They become part of our community.

Until and unless we admit our need for such workers, and try to become part of a solution to the problem that makes them leave their own part of the world to support their families, they will come.

Dad thinks they’ll take over “the world”, his world. And maybe they will. Maybe, hundreds of years from now, everyone in this part of the world will speak Spanish, just as hundreds of years prior, no one spoke English here. In the meantime, I’ll try to learn a few Spanish words and bring a smile to the face of someone far from home.

On Being a Boy and Four

Someone wrote in an email that they thought four year olds were the most difficult stage. Myself, I love four. Four is wonderful. Okay, I have my moments when I have to do a sanity check but let me list a few things:

A four year old is old enough to do things for himself, yet young enough to still need you.
Four is old enough to play independently, but love still to sit in your lap.
A four year old can communicate well, but still has a few baby words to cherish, like maz-a-gine (magazine), to make you laugh.
A four year old (without a cast) is old enough to walk, but young enough to pick up. Nothing feels like the warm, loving hand on the back of your neck while you hold him.
A four year old can go to the bathroom by himself, but is young enough to still go in the Women's restroom where you can see him.
A four year old can (almost) sleep through the night, but is young enough to still sometimes fall asleep in your arms.
A four year old can dress himself, but isn't old enough to know that orange pants with a purple turtle shirt isn't cool.
A four year old is old enough to not cry when they cut off his cast, but young enough to stir your sympathy when he shakes like a leaf.
A four year old likes to sit in your lap while you read, and can laugh at the book. He's not old enough that you worry yet about how well he is learning to read.
A four year old is still young enough to enjoy finding a cool worm, but old enough not to eat it.

And yes, there are moments when he asserts his grown up self that we all grrrrrrrrrr through our teeth. Still, I see our four year old slipping away into a five year old. It won't be long now and it won't be cool to be your mama's boy. Cherish the days.

Note: William did indeed have his cast removed today. The bone is healing well. He trembled as they removed it, but did not cry. He laughs that it feels funny, and says he can walk now, but has to go slowly. It'll take a few weeks. And, he's shedding his skin (yuck!).

Barn Raising

The Amish don't do things the way ordinary Kentuckians do. A good old boy would tell you he'll be there on Friday, not show up until Tuesday with only an explanation that he had to go fishin'. Here's what the Amish, who we weren't expecting at all until the end of September, accomplished in one day using regular hammers, no power tools:


Notice Chicken Lickin' in the foreground with her three babies.

Archaeology

Yesterday, we spent the day at Riverside, the home of the Farnselys and Moremans in the 1800s. Once the largest farm around, slaves built the brick home from clay found there on the Ohio River. The kids got to actually dig at the site, tour the home, and make their own bricks. Here's William in front of the house:

I was struck by the quietness of the inside of the house. No refrigerator, no electricity. The first man who lived there ran a bed and breakfast. He'd built the house for his sweetheart, but it took so long that she was engaged already when he went to ask for her hand, and he never married. The second family had eleven children, all homeschooled. There is something about the time period that calls to me, although most likely I'd have been a servant or slave!

Here are the kids on the back lawn with the Ohio River in the background:

And here's Wm's first job as an archaeologist:

Chicken Bowling

My friend, Christine, gave me a container of grapes that had seen better days for my chickens. They love just about any fruit or vegetable. William and I sat on the driveway and rolled the grapes, laughing to watch the chickens run after them. Sometimes, the grapes would roll between their legs, and they'd look around confused. Where did it go? Then, they'd turn around and start running. Like little children, they'd fight over every grape even though there was plenty.

We saved some for the next day, and while out bowling for chickens, they all suddenly lost their appetite. At first, I thought the presence of the dogs was bothering them, until a shadow crossed the driveway. Looking up, I saw a red-tailed hawk, trailed by a turkey vulture, both looking for dinner. Minutes later, the hawk was joined by five of his friends, circling our backyard. What am I - the Colonel? We are not serving KFC here.

Dh wondered if we could put fake beaks on the Chins (very small dogs) and pass them off as chickens. The kids would really appreciate seeing their pets being flown off by large birds. Hawks are beautiful and facinating, but from the point of view of a chicken, terrifying. It must make their blood run cold. I wonder if they'll be back?

Notes

Lauren is home, and trying to recover from jet-lag. All went well with her trip, and she reveals a new story each day about the food they ate, the people they met, and of course, the horses they rode. Here she is with friends in front of Notre Dame. Lauren is on the far left.

William reports that he cannot possibly eat his dinner, as his belly is full, but there is room for one doughnut. Two more days until his cast comes off!! Yeah!! He is nervous about having it removed given his history with cutting implements.

Tomorrow, we'll be going on an archaeological dig at the Farnsley-Moreman Landing.

Forgotten

"If you would not be forgotten as soon as you are dead..., either write things worth reading or do things worth the writing."
~Benjamin Franklin

Metacognition

My new word for the day: metacognition. That is, if it is a word, as I don’t find it in my Webster’s Dictionary. I got this out of our county newspaper this week. A well-meaning teacher wrote about how to teach children to read. In a quarter page article, she at length described metacognition as the key to teaching children to read. That is, children must be taught to think about one's reading while reading. During and after reading, teachers will get the kids to work through the process of reading by letting them ask questions and by modeling how to ask questions. Even the thought of sitting through this makes my eyes glaze over.

Contrast this with David Albert in Homeschooling and the Voyage of Self-Discovery: A Journey of Original Seeking in which he writes:

“Let me let you in on a dirty little secret. All children, in a literate culture, learn to read. “

With the exceptions of children with developmental or learning disabilities, children in abusive situations or children in literature poor environments, all children will learn to read. Granted, they will learn at different ages, in different ways and for different reasons. Some children learn early, pleasing their parents with their genius. Others, at age ten, barely read and worry the adults around them until one day, they pick up high school level material that interests them and off they go!

How do I personally know this? William asked the other day for a "maz-a-gine" with just words to read while he ate his lunch. (At age four, he knows a few letters, and definitely cannot read in the traditional sense of the word.) He asked me to give him one without pictures. I tried a Highlights Magazine. No, it had drawings in it. Smithsonian? It has only a few photos. No, he wanted one that had just words.

I had to laugh. He’s seen his sisters sit and read as they ate their lunches, and was imitating them, looking at words that as yet had no meaning. But surrounded by books and maz-a-gines, he knows reading is a desirable and valued activity, even if he can only imitate it.

I am often asked how I got my girls to be such avid readers. I remember being laughed at for reading to Lauren while she was still so young that she could not sit up. And as they got older, anytime they wanted lap time, we read and read and read. I took crates of books from the library, which we visited weekly. They saw me read, they saw their dad read.

As David Albert says:

“Children cannot be taught to read; at best, we make it possible for them to learn to read (and that’s probably being charitable)”

And

“We do not have to train children to learn, or even account for their learning; all we have to do is avoid interfering with it.”

---

Links: Metacognition, What does thinking have to do with reading?, and finally, how to totally take the joy out of reading

Poor Old Pluto

If you have one of those table top models of the solar system, you can just crack Pluto right off. Perhaps you can use it as a paperweight or something. Too small to be of significance, Pluto is being mourned by all of us who, if we remember nothing else from our elementary years, can rattle off the nine planets. The International Astronomical Union (IAU) bills itself the 'internationally recognized authority for assigning designations to celestial bodies and any surface features on them'. And Pluto, cited by IAU for it's erratic behavior and small size, has been defrocked. Given my sometimes erratic behavior and small size, I wonder if I'm next?

I find it interesting that this has caused such a brew-ha-ha. Newsweek reported in it's September 4th issue that the opening of the Rose Center in 2000 with only eight planets depicted in their solar system exhibit resulted in "a flood of angry letters from second graders". Now, really, do you think that second graders initiated this protest? No, adults, reluctant to let go of the surety of the facts they were taught in school put them up to it. Knowing that what you know is exactly the truth is comforting, but not always the truth.

As a homeschooler, over the years one of the most prevalent of the many questions I'm asked about our lifestyle include "How do you know they're learning what they're supposed to?"
What they're supposed to learn decided by professional educators, not how they are to incorporate learning as a lifestyle. Education is often thought of something you attain, rather than something you live. Until we, as a culture learn to view education as a lifelong journey of discovery, rather than a list of Presidents and planets, our educational systems will fail to reach our greatest expectations.

Testing has become a big business, assuring parents that the children are being taught all the right things and how the school is doing. Even in Dr. Seuss' book Hooray for Diffendoofer Day, students shudder that they "must take a special test, To see who's learning such and such - To see what school's the best." Schools not doing well are sent to miserable Flobbertown. But Miss Bonkers assures the students:

You've learned the things you need
To pass that test and many more-
I'm certain you'll succeed.
We've taught you that the earth is round.
That red and white make pink,
And something else that matters more-
We've taught you how to think.

And of course, they lived happily ever after in Diffendoofer after passing the test and exceeding expectations. I can only feel sad, however, for all the Flubbertowners still memorizing the nine eight planets.