The Eyes Have It

Outside of the exam room, people probably momentarily thought that the doctor was removing a twelve inch splinter from Wm's eyes. pulling it out slowly. In reality, she'd only put one drop in the eye to dilate it. The exam was interesting on several levels. Wm was fascinated with the poster of diseased eyes hanging on the wall and interupted the doctor frequently to ask her what was wrong with each one. Though mostly very patient with him, it began to wear thin with the fifty-third question.

Trying to distract him with the fact she was shining a light directly into his light-sensitive eyes, I jokingly asked if she saw worms in there. Wm then graphically described the scene last week from "House" where a 25 foot tapeworm was pulled from the stomach during surgery. The doctor turned to look at me. "He doesn't watch that show, really," I sputtered. "He walked in at that moment."

"That show is quite graphic at times," she said.
"Yes, I know, that's what attracts him to it." (All you have to say is something is scary or bloody or gross and he's right there. Normally, we tease him out of the room by letting him watch something upstairs with Anna.)

The only distressing part of the day was that the technician quickly gave Wm a color-blindness test, declared that he was red-green colorblind, and sent us back into our room. I sat wondering, what does that mean? What does he see? Questions flew around the room in the air. Finally, the doctor came in, confirming that he was red-green colorblind.

Internet junkie that I am, I came home and scoured the internet. Google-ing it, I found many references, many photos of what the world might look like to a person with this, considered a disability. All day, when I had a moment, I looked it up. No cure. Can be rejected for military -hmmmm maybe an advantage there. No fighter pilots - yeah! Oh, but what paintings look like! Will he not see the colors of the master paintings, the reds of a sunset, the leaves in the fall? My heart sank. As disabilities go, I guess this was one that we could live with, but not something you wish for a child.

As I continued to read, I found a website that said RG colorblind people cannot distinguish between red and green apples. Having both. I asked Wm which he preferred. He said he liked the green one. He also was able to see the lines of the online color-blind tests I found. I am now thinking that he isn't colorblind, that there was some communication thing going on or misunderstanding, and that they didn't take time to do more. Now, I'm pissed! They sent me off thinking that this was unmistakeable and unchangeable. I'll have to continue to investigate further.

Oh, and you people that make those little pictures for eye exams - telephones don't look like that and haven't for the past, oh, twenty five years. Time for an update. Wm creatively said it looked like a chair to him, and it did.

As for me, I survived my exam as well but went about the day with dilated eyes, looking like either a bush baby or drug addict. "I've been to the eye doctor," I told everyone I met, hoping to forestall their speculations that I'd gone over the edge. My kids had a good ha-ha at my expense. Glad to be of service.

Next, He'll Be Asking for the Car Keys

Wm turns five this week, and just today, I saw an important milestone reached (sniff, sniff). Yes, ladies and gentlemen, he learned to use the volume control on the TV remote. Before I know it, he'll have complete control over the TV. Oh, wait....he already does.

I love those child development charts, don't you? The ones that tell you if Johnny is progressing at age level and is ready to go to school? They missed a few really important ones:

• Can play PlayStation for 8 hours straight without needing a bathroom break. Shows control of bladder
• Can wipe his own arse, but may still need help washing hands to get "it" off of his hands
• Speaks phrases of Spanish from watching "Go, Diego, Go", necessitating the employ of a translator.
• Can make his own "manly" food, like microwave popcorn and chicken patty sandwiches. Makes them repeatedly without bothering anyone else for help, eating his weight in them daily.
• Is adept at manipulating all the adults around him to do his beck and call
• Dresses and undresses without help, fifty times a day.
• Shows creativity in language development: "I knowed it because Aidan telled me."
• Can snore like his daddy
• Can quote SpongeBob

I'm sure those of you having experienced five year olds can join me in revising these lists, which are obviously missing key milestones.

Getting Warmed Up

A previous blog listed some of my reading and listening material right now. All true. But TC shamed me with her comment "You're much more refined than I am" because I realized that I hadn't told the whole truth. I also have "The Devils' Daughter" hiding under my bed with my chocolate stash. You, know the kind of book, the one where the woman is fabulously wealthy, gorgeous (though she doesn't pay any attention to that, tomboy that she is), and always lives happily ever after the life-threatening adventures that just make life so much more interesting.
I don't know why I read such crap, but I guess it takes my mind away from the fact that ocean levels are rising and the world is heating up.

I guess if I were shallow, I could say that the good news is that I won't have to buy a retirement home in Florida, which will be underwater. The beach is coming to me. That's convenient. Of course, all those people that live there now, will be migrating north and want to come live here.

All that talk of global warming seemed remote as cars slid into ditches on Saturday. Our roads weren't cleaned off at all and I wondered where all the tax dollars go. Though we live in a wealthy county (we're the poor relations), our roads were untreated. Dh said that we were just driving the wrong vehicle. In our county, you're expected to drive a Hummer when it snows. No road clearing necessary. It has warmed though, and we're about to enter my favorite (not) season - MUD.

At the Tractor Show

Is there anything that can make a little boy happier?

It is 13 @(#*%& DEGREES FARENHEIT outside and we're headed to Lexington with the horses, if I can pull the trailer up a small slope through several layers of snow. Anna and I, both of us disliking cold, have decided that in our next life, the girls will have to take up some indoor sport - like bowling or ping pong. This cold, outside sport stuff is for the birds. The girls are calling, so I'm off. I need a bumper sticker: I rather be blogging.

Snow

Today, we didn't go to Lexington as planned. Several of us felt a little under the weather, and the threatening snow and cold kept us home. We had a beautiful snow. Dh and Wm still made it down to the Farm and Tractor Show, as the van drives well in the snow. (My whimpy truck pulling a horse trailer with two horses is another story.) Dh reports that he and Wm traded our house for a combine.

The girls and I stayed home and watched the movie, "Marie Antoinette". I finished watching the movie, "An Inconvenient Truth" by Al Gore.

Reading: Holy Lane, Whose Land by Dorothy Drummond
Listening to: The Three Muskateers by Alexander Dumas

Maybe He'll Be an Engineer

In my last post, I wrote about my five year old's problems with tolerating clothing. Though it is 6 degrees F here during the day, he's likely inside wearing only his briefs. It makes one cold just to look at him. TC wrote in response:

I think he's destined to be a brilliant but eccentric engineer. Those engineering guys are... quirky. My father-in-law is 72, and he's still fussy about underwear fabric, socks, and his t-shirts HAVE to be line-dried. Oy.

Well, there you have it. It's a genetic defect, double recessive. Both my husband (agricultural) and I (chemical) are engineers by degree (BS - meaning, bullsh-t). Just call me Quirky.

And for how I spent yesterday, visit the blog at http://www.goodshepherdscare.blogspot.com/

Note to self: Curse blogger, which is having trouble today.

Shopping

I've written before why I detest shopping. Fish in My Hair detailed shopping with teens for jeans. (New reality show title, eh?) Honestly, I might as well stop blogging and just post a hyperlink every day:

What She Said

It will save me a lot of time typing. We are evidently living the same life in a parallel universe. Only, she's funnier. I have commented to her that I vote her Erma Bombeck's replacement. Either she gets syndicated soon, or I'm going to have to steal her material and make some money on it myself.

To continue on the clothing theme, I'd almost rather shop for jeans than try to clothe my near-5 year old. He has some kind of clothing hypersensitivity. He literally crawls in his skin at night, and can only sleep in his underwear, no shirt. Shirts bunch up around his armpits, he says, and he can't stand them. Problem? He also kicks covers off, so in the middle of the night he's freezing and wakes up. As I try to read to him at night, he pulls and tugs and wrestles alligators.

The fun continues in the morning. He wears no socks, even on the coldest days, as socks bother him. They don't line up right, the line on them often slipping to the sole. Tube socks, you say? They slip down. On to shirts. He can only wear short sleeves, as he cannot stop himself from chewing on long sleeves. This bothers him, but he cannot stop, so short sleeves only. No zipper or velco closings around the neck, no turtlenecks. Still, this is easy compared to pants.

Pants can have no elastic around the ankle, as they ride up. With a long torso and tall, he's more slender than most and the pants we have are too big around the waist. And so on. We're down to about 3 pair that are acceptable. Today, he's wearing shorts, the only thing we could find that were "comfortable".

I picture him as an adult male, having to get a job where they let you wear a white tshirt and a pair of baggy shorts, since that's all he'll wear. Kind of narrows the field, doesn't it? At present, I think he's headed for a career testing PlayStation games, so maybe that will take care of itself.

Happy Valentine's Day

Want some unusual, steamy verse for your homemade Valentine card? I can tell you where to look: The Bible. I'm serious. Go read the Song of Songs. Here is a sample:

I belong to my lover
and for me he yearns.
Come, my lover, let us go forth to the fields
and spend the night among the villages.
Let us go early to the vineyards, and see if the vines are in bloom,
If the buds have opened,
if the pomegranates have blossomed;
There will I give you my love.

How about:

O my dove in the clefts of the rock,
in the secret recesses of the cliff,
Let me see you, let me hear your voice,
For your voice is sweet,
and you are lovely.

I note that my Bible does have a preface to the book explaining that this poetic form portrays the love of the Lord and his people, using courtship and marriage customs of the time the text was written. "It is a parable in which the true meaning of mutual love comes from the poem as a whole." It is also possible to see it as "an inspired portrayal of ideal human love...and a descriptions of the sacredness and depth of a married union."

So get out your Bilble and brush up on your Songs, and have a lovely Valentine's Day.

Germany

Anna and her riding partner, Kristen, have been chosen as the novice pair to represent the United States in Germany this April. Keep an eye on our new website for updates on our progress to raise money to send them there.

http://usmga.home.insightbb.com/

Pin Yourself on My Map

I found a fun item over at Bravenet. Click on this

to place a pin on your place in the world. I've put this in the sidebar under "Visitors" so that you can check back later to see who's been here.

It's All in the Perspective

A law was passed recently in the county where I reside banning smoking in all public places. Based on irefutable data that second hand smoke endangers the health of bystanders, the county magistrates thought to clear the air.

Local business owners weighed in, complaining that they would lose business to the nearby largest city, which I doubt, as that city has imposed a similar ban. Yet, one magistrate in particular was able to get the implementation of the ban postponed in the hope of find a way to kill this law.

Smokers decry their right to smoke in a section designated for them. Not having any sense of smell left and having coated the lining of their nose and lungs with tar, they have little sympathy for those of us that get intense headaches and have allergies to the pollutant. Often, they compare their right to smoke with other activites that hurt only the user, such as overeating.

Dh says that the comparison doesn't wash. Smokers need a change of perspective. For example, let's say that a certain candy tastes very good to you, satisfies your oral cravings and nervousness, gives you a little (sober) buzz. Sounds good so far? Suppose this candy causes the user to have an outrageous amount of, shall we say, silent flatulance. You know the kind? The silent bombs? The ones that burn as they come out?

Let's say that not only is the smell unpleasant, but it penetrates your hair, your clothing, causing you to have to wash everything when you get home. The smell is pungent, giving you the feeling of a red hot poker near your eyes, which feel dry and itchy. Just about as the air clears, another wafts by.

In addition to the smell, it has been, let's say, been determined that these farts contain particles from, well, you know, and that these particles are known to cause colon cancer. And people die from colon cancer. And yet, the sulfur-causing candy is widely used, widely available, with users claiming to have a right to emit whenever and wherever they wish.

Dh says that the next time you read a letter to the editor from a smoker, insert the word "fart" for "smoke" and see if it doesn't make you see the light.

Kentucky Grammar

In a year and a half, I will have lived in Kentucky as long as I previously lived in Ohio, where I was raised. In terms of time spent living here, I will soon be a Kentuckian. I think the transformation has already occurred, as was evidenced by my (serious) discussion with my older daughter about Kentucky grammar.

We decided that your'alls is plural possessive: Is it in your'alls house?
Not to be confused, of course, with you'all, which is obviously a pronoun: Are you'all coming with us? Any well versed Kentuckian can also make use of the contractions where'all, as in "Where'all did you look?" and what'all as in "What'all are you doin'?"

Pronuciation has also seemed to take a turn for the, shall we say, country sound. Wha-d-jeat? often comes out of my mouth and my crisp "What did you eat?" has faded. In time, no one will know that I was ever ed-ji-cated.

I'm also told that directions to my house heralded my conversion to Kentuckianism: the barn is up closer to the road than the house and our driveway is blacktopped (not the norm in our neck of the woods).

My younger daughter, a writer and grammar-ologist, shook her head at us. I don't know what'all her problem is.

Fifteen Years Younger

My dear friend, Becky, came by with a gift that could only be given in a truly cemented friendship - a book entitled Fifteen Years Younger. Next, she'll be secretly videotaping me and sending it in to that show that puts me in a box and judges my age before and after my makeover. Perhaps I could use it?

But I mislead you a bit. The book is on yoga, and how fifteen minutes a day of stretching can make you look and feel fifteen years younger. Becky said she could do fifteen minutes. A week has passed and I'm still trying to find that fifteen minutes. In an email today, Becky asked if I'd skipped ahead, (knowing me well, she suspected I had), and I have to admit I have.

I do have one of the postions mastered, however, showing my comittment to the program:

New Chicken Lickin'

We drove through the back roads of Kentucky in the dark, looking for a chicken hatchery in Wincester (probably named after the gun). We'd had a long day at a riding competition, but through an internet search, I found a family that raised Blue Silkies, a bantam breed. Blue Silkie chickens have three colors: blue, a white with gray and tan, and the desired (for us) black.

We were looking for a young chick to tame to replace the beloved Chicken Lickin', murdered before her time by the neighbor's dog. Well, if you look at Wm's face, you can see that the drive was worth it.

We came home with three, the only black one available that was bigger and two whites. I eyed the adorable week-old chicks, more easily tamed but more fragile, as Will pointed directly at the older, bigger black chicken. "I want that one."

When I assured him that the little ones would grow up to be like Chicken Lickin', he said, "But look, this one is ALREADY the right size." So he went home with us. Yes, he. As luck would have it, two of the three are roosters. How do I know? Have you ever seen two goofy boys butting their bellies together? Roosters do that. They prance around, threatening each other. Mostly, they get along, but I think the white one will be looking for a new home.

We are off again tomorrow to a horse competition, and a long day.

The World's Best Horse

My girls laugh at me when I declare "Bay", my Tennessee Walking Horse, as the World's Best Horse. And he is....to me. His value to me is priceless, though anyone else might see an aging, scruffy and sometimes, pushy, horse.

Isn't it true, though that "best" is often a very personal thing? The "best" show horse in the world would be useless to me. A horse that knows me and I, him can't be bought.

Parenting and family issues are a lot like this. What works for one, may not work for another.

Here we are practicing for our next costume party. He's going as a human and I'm going as a horse.

Photo compliments of Christine

Wednesday

Yesterday, I was running low on laundry detergent, a serious situation, and ran to StuffMart to get more. Of course, I could think of dozens of other things I needed, and $123 dollars later, I returned home to unpack. No laundry detergent - the main reason for the trip. It was not on my receipt, so evidently the man behind me got a surprise purchase!

The girls have discovered a fancy score for "Chopsticks" and I am going insane. Okay, I'm happy that they, two sisters, are sitting together, laughing, working together, that they have this time together - BUT I'M GOING INSANE, PEOPLE!!! Wm, is sitting at my feet, using my meat tenderizer hammer to bust apart his least favorite Hotwheels cars. I'm going upstairs to hide in my room.

Posts Coming

I suppose I'm going to have to take up writing in my sleep, for there isn't enough time during regular business hours. Scott Adams of Dilbert fame says he spends two hours a day on his blog.
I think I spend 15 minutes. How is one to write anything meaningful?

In addition to our regular activities, I attended a homeschooling moms' night out on Thursday, hosted a teen costume party for about 25 teens and maybe 8 adults at our house on Friday; left early the next morning for Lexington and a competition where I was in charge of registration, did some announcing over the microphone, drove from there east to a chicken farm to pick up a new "Chicken Lickin'" and then back home; Sunday morning was Anna's religion class and Church. What a week! It was all fun and well worth it but I'm still recovering.

My mind is full of things to write.

A Cherished Moment

Yesterday, I was getting ready to leave for the afternoon. Lauren and Anna were to watch William for me. Generally, I try to be home for them. Book study has a way of not getting done when I'm not around, although if you count reading for pleasure, plenty of that gets done.

This board meeting (I jokingly said they don't call them "bored" meetings for nothing) seemed important to go to. And, William can be quite demanding, though I suppose I could record the time as learning what it's like to parent a four year old. That is, if I kept good records.

So, I was about to leave. Wm sat on the floor playing, fashioning guns out of the expensive connecting learning cubes I bought to unsuccessfully teach him patterns and math ideas. Lauren was playing the piano. Anna sat a few feet behind her, drawing. What a nice moment, I thought, both together, doing the thing that gives them joy. I needed to get out of the way, leave them to this moment.

Here is the drawing Anna made:

She has a real talent, self-taught. I love this drawing because I've seen this very image in real life so many times. Someday, I won't be seeing Lauren sitting there everyday, and photographs, at least snapshots, don't quite catch the moment the way a fine drawing will.

Seeing his sister drawing motivated William to also draw Lauren:

I love how happy she looks, and how she is looking to the side.

And the bored meeting was long, but not too bad. It is interesting to see the inside workings of our sports organization.

Carpe Diem

And in the end, it's not the years in your life that count.

It's the life in your years.

~Abraham Lincoln

Now that I have teenagers, I am often asked what they are going to study, what they are going to do with their lives as they become adults. Increasingly, I am seeing this as an interesting cultural question - what are they to become. To become, as if they aren't already what they are. As I continue to homeschool, I ponder this reality of our culture.

Children and teens are in a holding pattern, preparing for "real life". Choices are made in late teen years about what to study in preparation for getting a "real job". This way of looking at childhood as only a boot camp to prepare for the working world overshadows the chance to actually live in the moment of the day.

My girls and the way we live are slowly changing the way I look at childhood and education. Anna isn't just intent on becoming a writer, she is one. Each day, she writes and writes. Very private about it, I'll likely not read this writing until I buy the book. She is not, however, going to be a writer - she already is one. Getting published is an eventuality.

When people hear Lauren play the piano, they ask if she'll go on to study it in college. A normal parent, I can't help but hope that she does something with her study of piano and her beautiful playing. Unlike others, I know, however, that her intense study of it is not and will never be wasted. Piano playing is in her very skin. It has already affected who she is, and she has already done something with it. I know she will always play. She is a pianist.

Already, they are gifted horsewomen. Will they become horse trainers, competitive riders? They do, already. Perhaps you'll not hear of them, but they've already accomplished more with their horses than most people dream of.

I think our young people act out often because they aren't recognized for who they already are, what they already are doing, and given the space to be. And often, there aren't the opportunities and the mentors to help them find who they are right now. My girls are gifted with wonderful mentors, adults who share their love of their own specialties. Would that all young people find such adults in their lives and live dreams today.

Big Breasts

Now that I have the attention of all my male readers, I will have to disappoint you with the subject matter: the size of chicken breasts. I write to you now only because I sit waiting for my dinner to finish cooking. Four chicken breasts have been in the oven for well over an hour and they are still pink inside. My family dances in front of the stove. "WHEN? When will dinner be ready?"

Well, how am I supposed to know? Chicken used to take about 45 minutes to cook, but that was in the day before they exposed the chickens to steroids or growth hormones or whatever it is that makes them so big. Resultant mutant chickens are now a good six inches thick and weigh in like turkey breasts. I may have to buy new, larger pans to hold them.

Why do we need Dolly Parton chicken breasts, I ask you? Nutritional guidelines state that we should eat the amount of meat that would correspond to the size of a pack of playing cards or the palm of your hand. Yet, they are growing and cutting meat that each piece would feed a family of four in a third world country. Heck, it would feed a family of four in OUR country.

And in our family of five, that would do it, because William is now a confirmed vegetarian. Recently, he was eating a chicken patty. We had the following conversation:

W: Is this chicken?
M: Yes.
W: What part of the chicken is it?
M: Well, they chop up all the parts to make the patty.
W: Was the chicken dead?
M: Yes, they killed it.
W: How did they kill it?
M: Likely the men in the factory cut off it's head, hung it upside down.....
W: Why did they kill it?
M: So you could eat it.
W: Do chickens have bones?
M: Yes.
W: So if you cut open a chicken, you could see the bones?
M: Yes, you could.

The chicken conversation continued for some time with William conceding that he WAS willing to eat chicken patties, but not chicken, because he didn't like eating animals. By now, all the visualization of the killing of chickens 'bout had me turning vegetarian, but don't you worry. The first smell of a good steak would shake my convictions.

You can see why we don't raise and kill our own chickens. It's hard enough to explain to him why the mom who will tend to most any hurt animal she finds, will set traps and kill mice in our house. Well, I'm going to go stare at the chicken in the oven again and see if I can get it to cook any faster. Maybe I can nuke it.

De-Lurking

Did you know this week is de-lurking week? January 8-12

I'm sure most lurkers are just very busy, and though knowing how to comment, are often called at that moment of wanting to comment to wipe Johnny's, uh , nose, or maybe the dog is trying to eat the ham off the counter that you were going to fix for dinner. And, then you get sidetracked and forget to leave a comment and are unintentional lurkers.

For some readers, though I'm sure they're few, they not only don't know how to make a comment, but they also don't know what "lurking" means. It means reading in the shadows, being there unseen. So, who are you out there? I know from my stats you are reading!

Venn Diagrams

Math is intriguing to me because it all fits together so nicely. You don't have to have an opinion. It seems logical - until you apply it to real life. Remember those Venn Diagrams from sixth grade?



If you have three subsets of information on a given subject, the area where they overlap is an area where all three subsets have something in common.

Last week, I took the girls shopping for jeans or pants. One of my girls had but two pairs of pants in total. While shopping, I realized why.

Here is a Venn Diagram of my shopping experience:




























Notice there is no overlap, no common area. Pair after pair was tried. Too much decoration, leg too straight, leg too flared, fits too high on hip, fits too low. Too tight in the bum, too tight in the leg, too loose in the waist. And sizes seem to have no meaning these days. A size 4 in one department can be too big, while a size 5 in another can be too small. It's enough to make me hate math! (Not really, but shopping......)

Mirror Image Twins

Discussion of cow twins led Lauren to remember seeing a TV show in which "mirror image twins", human twins, were shown. Are there really mirror image twins, she asked? I've Googled it, and yes, there are, which fits in nicely with our Biology discussions of late:

What are mirror image twins?
Mirror image twins are identical twins that result when a fertilized egg splits later in the embryonic stage than usual, typically from day 9 to 12. Mirror image twins tend to exhibit characteristics with reversed asymmetry (e.g., one twin is left-handed and the other is right-handed). If this split happens much later than this, then the twins can be co-joined. A DNA-based zygosity test cannot determine is twins are mirror image twins.

Tying It All Together

One reason I suppose I love homeschooling so much is that I have days like today. It wasn't a remarkable day in most respects. It was overcast, feeling colder because of a brisk wind. We tried going to an indoor playground so that William would play with his friend while the girls and I studied together. We didn't accomplish as much as I'd have liked.

So, you might be thinking, what did happen that renews my spirit? The feeling that the way we are conducting our learning ties together, follows interests and is natural in its progression. This is a welcome feeling, after feeling rather alarmed and down-trodden on Monday.

We'd attended the open house of a newly formed cottage school with "Classical Education" offerings. The speaker decried that even most educated people hadn't studied Homer, Socrates, Aristotle. Vaguely, I know who they are, but I'd never studied them despite my years of schooling. Anxiety easily grips the heart of traditionally schooled homeschool mom. Am I covering enough? Are they learning enough? Have I ruined them???

But this week, today in particular, made me feel better despite the fact that Flylady would cry in shame at her student. I'd just recently finished a book Lauren had asked me to read - Annie Between the States by L. M. Elliott - so that we could discuss it. Set in the Civil War, Lauren and I have discussed that the central issue in the war was states' rights, and only later, slavery. I marvelled that we still fight this same issue today - states' rights, something I hear about on National Public Radio or in the paper quite frequently: Does the central government or states have the right to legislate on issues such as abortion and gay marriage? Fortunately, this battle today is fought in courts and not on battle fields.

Speaking of battle fields, the main character of the book, Annie, had a great love for her horse, which she had to allow her brother to ride off to battle. Horses featured greatly in the Civil War. As avid horse lovers, we followed this thread to a DVD called Horses of Gettysburg: Civil War Minutes IV. So far, we've watched half an hour of this documentary about an estimated 72,000 horses and mules which served in the Civil War. Tonight, we learned that Kentucky in particular was noted for the strong, fine mules that it bred.

And speaking of mules, we were studying cellular reproduction in biology when I ran across an interesting item in a 4H publication, Horse Science. (I'd saved it for years, thinking some day, we might use it.) In it, it said that horses crossed with donkeys, producing either a mule or a hinny, are usually sterile. I'd heard this before, but never knew why. This booklet explains that "they have 63 chromosomes, with 32 from the horse and 31 from the donkey parent. the resulting chromosomes are not in pairs and the sex cells usually end up without a complete set. The unbalanced chromosome situation prevents functioning of the sex cells, resulting in sterility." So there you have it, from the horse's mouth!

Sterility. Lauren remembered hearing her relatives, who'd run a dairy farm, that if a cow gave birth to twins, one boy, one girl, that the heifer was often sterile. Why is that, she asked? So we are off on another path, finding answers, learning along the way, tying it all together.

Follow - Up
A heifer born with a male twin is called a free-martin, and they indeed are usually sterile. To learn more, read at that a female calf, twin to a male, is usually sterile, is no myth at the bottom of the page. If you Google it, you will see that, as one website puts it, it happens often enough to have a name.

Creativity

Janet, a cyberspace friend, sent this to a list of which I am a member:

http://tinyurl.com/y4gj84
The speaker is Sir Ken Robinson author of Out of Our Minds: Learning to be Creative, and a leading expert on innovation and human resources. (Recorded February, 2006 in Monterey, CA.)

It is 20 minutes long, funny and well worth our time. It left me wondering how I could go to this conference that is held every year in California. From the website:

Each year, TED hosts some of the world's most fascinating people: Trusted voices and convention-breaking mavericks, icons and geniuses. The talks they deliver have had had such a great impact, we thought they deserved a wider audience. So now - with our sponsor BMW and production partner WNYC/New York Public Radio we're sharing some of the most remarkable TED talks with the world at large. Each week, we'll release a new talk, in audio and video, to download or watch online. For best effect, plan to listen to at least three, start to finish. They have a cumulative effect... "

Happy Listening! (And thanks for the link, Janet!)

A New Start

It must have been a female mouse, for she underestimated the size of her hips. While replacing games on the shelf of a closet I was cleaning, trying to make room for and organize new toys, I noticed a dark shadow near the back. I got a light, and decided that it was dh's turn to take care of this one. A mouse had tried to squeeze through the bars of the shelving, and gotten stuck by the hips and died. This was a grotesque beginning to my effort to get organized.

As I took out toys and matched pieces, Wm. expressed joy as if with long lost friends. Running away with a handful, my organization spreading to chaos. I push on today, against monumental odds, tossing out the old, in with the new.

After a week away, it's enough to find my shoes in the morning. New school work to do, activites outside the home resuming. I want to pack myself with the now deflated Christmas stockings.

Outside the window, the sun shines and it promises to be almost spring-like. I vacillate between loving the mild winter and feeling terribly guilty because maybe it's because of global warming. Today, I think I'll give myself one day to just enjoy it.

Global Warming

A friend of my dh stopped by and for whatever insane reason, the topic turned to global warming. I quipped that I'd heard on NPR that the greatest cause of global warming, more so even than all of man's activities combined, was cow, uh, gaseous emissions. Both laughed.

Well, I said, it takes a lot of energy also to raise a cow and then the cow farts a lot. So what are we to do, they asked aghast? Turn vegetarian? Then, one man, I don't remember which, rationalized that we'd all have to eat lots of beans to compensate for the lack of protein, and in turn, man would become the source of those gaseous emissions. Ew!

BTW, we are having prime rib for dinner tonight.

Sibling Rivalry

I found a photo on my computer from my sister. She and her children had made a ginger bread house last year:

Thinking to follow her example, I set out to make my own. My mother-in-law, Marilyn, was visiting, and she's a good cook and quite crafty. I made the pieces from kit a friend gave me. They turned out quite well. The house, however, looks like a snowblower ran past at high speed, shortly after a cement truck had run into it:

The more Marilyn and I tried to fix it, the worse it got. I wish I could say that this was after she and I shared several bottles of wine, but sadly, that isn't the case. We were really just that pathetic. The chickens enjoyed it.

I should have stuck to a present she brought to us, a gingerbread boy decorating kit. Here are the decorated cookies the kids made:

Anna was insulted because I couldn't guess the identity of her cookie in the top right corner. I thought perhaps it was the victim of a car accident due to the large amount of red icing on his forehead. Turns out, that was supposed to be Harry Potter's scar. Go figure!

Fruit Cake

Fruit Cake about describes my mentality during the holidays. Last night, I stayed up late wrapping presents, but couldn't locate one very important one. Likely, I thought, I was busy when it arrived and didn't put it in my locked hidey-hole for all presents. I looked everywhere but where it was, of course - in my hidey-hole for all presents. Way in the back it was. Now, I can rest easy.

Perhaps, I've not cooked enough fruit cakes. What?? You don't like fruit cake. Perhaps you don't have a recipe like this one:

The Best Fruit Cake Ever

1 cup butter
1 tsp salt
1 cup sugar
Lemon juice
4 large eggs
1 cup brown sugar
1 cup dried fruit
1 cup nuts
1 tsp baking powder
1 tsp baking soda
1 or 2 quarts whiskey

Before you start, sample the whiskey for quality. Good, isn't it? Now, go ahead.
Select a large mixing bowl, measuring cup, etc.
Check the whiskey again, as it must be just right.
To be sure the whiskey is of the highest quality, pour one level cup into a glass and drink it as fast as you can.
Repeat...
With an electric mixer, beat one cup of butter in a large fluffy bowl.
Add 1 tsp of thugar and beat again.
Meanwhile, make sure that the whiskey is of the highest quality.
Dry another tup. Open second quart if necessary.
Add 2 arge leggs, 2 cups fried druit and beat until high. If druit gets buck in steaters, just pry it loose with a drewscriver.
Sample the whiskey again, checking for tonscicticity.
Next, sift 3 cups of salt or anything, it really doesn't matter.
Sample the whiskey. Sift 1/2 pint of lemon juice.
Fold in chopped butter and strained nuts.
Add 1 babblespoon of brown thugar, or whatever color you can find, and wix mell.
Grease oven and turn cake pan to 350 gredees.
Now pour the whole mess into the coven and ake.
Check the whiskey, again, and bo to ged.

Chocolate

My husband works for a company that has vendors vying for their business. Around this time of year, goodies arrive at the office. I know this from past experience, and quizzed dh at dinner last night. Where are all the chocolates and goodies.

"Oh," he exclaimed. "You would not believe the piles of cookies, doughnuts, candies, stacked this high," he said holding his hand over the table.

"Where's the chocolate?" I asked.

"Oh, we got a WHOLE box of Godiva chocolates."

"And where are they, and why are they not HERE?" He has to know that it is Christmas, Prozac season for any mom. Given that I haven't a prescription, chocolate will have to do for self-medication. Evidently, in the spirit of the season, he was forced to share them with the office women, who I am sure need the boost as much as I. But Godiva chocolates? Give them the doughnuts.

"I do have a very large Hershey's chocolate bar on my desk, but I didn't bring it home. It says "From Rachel" (a vendor)." He was weighing how he'd come out on the deal, giving me chocolate but with another woman's name on it. Would it be positively received or I bite his head off? "WHO'S RACHEL," might come unwillingly from my throat, a deep gutteral, possessed sound.

No, I said, I want that chocolate, bring it home. I'll rip off the label, neatly taking care of Rachel. I want those Godiva's, too. One piece at least. I've got a week to survive yet.

Betrayal

Betrayal starts early. Around age four, I would venture. That's when the sheen of "mom is God" starts wearing off. Today, I got a glimpse of reality setting in with my son. We are expecting my in-laws, wonderful people, on their way home from their winter home in Florida for their base home in Northern Ohio. Life has been full lately, and well, I made the comment that today, they were going to see how we really live. My daughter asked me to clarify. Well, not that these loving people would ever say anything about it, but the house isn't exactly clean.

That's when Junior piped in. "You know whose house is really clean?"
I don't want to hear it, I don't want to hear it, I repeat silently in my brain. I don't want to hear that my son knows my house isn't worthy and someone else's is.
"Yes, Mrs. McWoy's (McCloy)house is really clean," he offers, implicating on of my closest and dearest friends. "REALLY, she has the cleanest floors."

My hand shot out as a tumbleweed of dog hair blew by and I stuck it in my pocket, hoping he wouldn't notice. "Is that right?"

He headed outside for a moment with my daughter, as I hurried to run the dust mop. If he knows this at four, what will he think when he's older? I better look at the 5012 emails from Flylady that are backing up in my inbox.

As of this moment, I am writing only because he's cleaning out the wood stove. I heard, "Oops" as ashes spilled on my newly cleaned floor. Back and forth he is going from the stove to the garbage can, dribbling ashes as he goes. He's helping to clean, he insists. Who am I to argue?

Skeptical

We were at the Breakfast with Santa event at our Church. William first showed his skepticism when, sitting on Santa's lap, his first comment to the bearded fellow was that we had no snow. This, in his mind, presented a problem, because we all know Santa drives a sleigh, and sleighs work on snow. Santa promised to see if there was something that could be done about the snow. I didn't know Santa doubled as a weatherman, did you?

The breakfast presented another opportunity for outright lies. William will eat nothing resembling real meat, that is, muscle. Processed meat sometimes will work, for it little resembles what it really is. Will picked up a piece of sausage.

"What does sausage come from?" he asked, holding a piece skewered on his fork.

"It comes from the sausage factory," I said vaguely, knowing if it got tied back to the pig, he wouldn't eat it.

"No," he insisted. "What was it before that?"

"It grew on the sausage tree," I flat out lied.

"Na-uhhhh." Wm wasn't going to buy it. Repeated lies did nothing to convince him.

He still believes a fat man in a red suit will ride a flying sleigh to our house and squeeze down our chimney to bring just the presents he's requested, magically. But, sausage can NOT grow on trees. Everyone knows that!

Getting Our Christmas Tree

Two weekends ago, we purchased our tree from friends who grow trees on their farm. Here's our friend, Steve, shaking the needles from the tree:

Losing Our Sponteneity?

Smile! You're an Unwitting Net Star

Article in Newsweek: Will fear of exposure on the Internet cause people to lose every day spontaneity?



"It's a new fact of life in the digital age: any time you step outside your door, the possibility exists that you may wind up an unwilling figure of shame and ridicule—if not in the "Borat" movie, then at least on YouTube."

I hope not. Sharing funny moments and adults riding down the driveway on a trike encourages us to not take ourselves too seriously, to remember to laugh. There is enough serious in this world. True, you may be caught by some blogger with a camera:

In my best Miss Manners voice:
Ladies of a mature age: We, the public, do not need to see your backside. Neither does my husband. This photo was snapped at a Breakfast with Santa. Ladies, those hip hugger jeans combined with a short sweater? You are not the target consumer. Please pass these garments along to your TEENAGE daughters or wear longer shirts.

See? Now we all have to worry about not only what we look like from the front, but now we also have to concern ourselves with the view from the backside. Oh, dear!

Ouch!

When we demolished the barn, the chickens were bereft of their coop, an unused horse stall. I hastily built a chicken tractor, which the chickens accepted as their night roost, but they would not lay there. Free to roam during the day, they found a hiding spot for their nest, and despite having many searches, we couldn't find the stash. Chickens, you might know, have had the broodiness (desire to sit on eggs) bred out of them, but they still have the instinct to hide them from you.

Over time, our front porch was beginning to resemble Ma & Pa Kettle's, with chickens sitting on the porch rail. That's very scenic for visitors, but the chicken poop all over is very unappealing. Given that and the cold, I've confined them to my garden which was fenced already with rabbit wire. And, lo and behold! We have eggs!

I feel a little guilty though. One hen might have been holding back for lack of a good nest. She must have saved up and laid a whopper. Boy, that must've felt like having a fifteen pound baby. This Aracauna isn't a big hen either.

From left to right, a bantam hen egg (the last one of Chicken Lickin', sniff sniff), a large store-boughten egg, an egg from our Black Giant breed, a normal Aracauna egg, and this 3.5 inch double yolked gianormous egg.

I've read before that these double yolked eggs will not hatch live young, but I'd like to try sometime. Here's a close up of the two eggs laid by the same hen:

This last photo is the egg opened, just before I ate it!

Blogger

What is up with Blogger???? Half the time, the icons aren't showing for adding photos, changing text, etc. and the other half of the time, the buttons are there but don't work. The other day, I lost a whole post when I hit "Publish". Luckily, and due to past experience, I had copied all the text to a file. Blogger said that BETA was going to be better. Since I switched, I've seen nothing but problems. I guess you get what you pay for.

So, in reference to another post in which I said that if I'm not posting, I'm either depressed, busy or both, please add the excuse that Blogger isn't behaving.

Heads Spinning

Here's the girls having a little fun being air-heads, literally. (Note: No animals were harmed in this production.)

What Homeschoolers Do.....

....when they get together.

I think I've met my match in willlingness to try the outrageous. Here is my friend, Becky, (http://www.xanga.com/becktumfleck) riding my son's three wheeler on my driveway:

Private Space

If you think you can take your laptop to an indoor playplace and accomplish anything, think again. The world is full of lonely people with only four year olds to talk to. Such was the case just an hour ago. Armed with my Christmas wish lists, a desire to write some and a good book, I happily sat down to my Chicken Cesaer Salad as I watched Wm go off with his friend to play.

I'd positioned myself against the wall, so my laptop screen wasn't visible. I was loading CDs onto it for later listening as I read and ate.

"What are you working on?" said a man walking over from a table where he'd obviously exhausted the conversation with another stay-at-home dad. That dad now nodded in slumber over his baby's carseat.

"I'm a writer," I lied, thinking he'd take the hint that I was busily working, and he should GO AWAY. No, he put his back to the wall and sank down to a crouch.

"Have you written any books?" The acid test of a real writer.

"Ah, no, I freelance," I offered. He didn't ask if I got paid.

He continued to talk all through my salad eating, as I gazed longingly at my book. He has a four and two year old, and seemed obviously starved for adult conversation. I've been there. I remember being home with a four and two year old, I remember wondering how best to parent, needing reassurance I was doing things the best way. I tried to put aside my annoyance.

He asked for websites where he could read more about parenting. I told him about Dr. Sears and Attachment Parenting. Finally, it was time for him to leave. He left, talking the whole time.
So, now I'm back to my writing and was just about to get out the wishlists, when I heard a loud scream from the playplace. My son was playing swords, which somehow resulted in the (loud but not serious) injury of another child. Maybe I ought not have any expectations. Oh, Lord, now a mom is over talking to my son who is in time-out. Over and out for now.

Analogies

Dh asked when the last time I'd written on my blog. He hadn't for some time received an email from Blogarithm notifying him of a new post.

I explained that when I was very busy, depressed or both, I didn't tend to blog much. But of course, I said, if I am blogging he was not to assume that I was not busy, not depressed or both, either. He shook his head, saying that he was reminded of a diagram that illustrated his own difficulty in understanding emotions of women in general and me in particular:

True, I said, women [I] need the dials to be fiddled with now and again. The on/off switch doesn't do it for me! Continuing with analogies, I compared women to a wood stove. To keep a fire going, I submitted, you had to put in a log now and again.

"Ah, ha," smiled dh. "So I need to stick a log in the old stove now and again."

This is why analogies of a woman's needs are wasted on men.

P.S. If you'd like to receive an email notifying you each time I post a new entry, click on Blogarithm to the right and enter your email address. It'll send you an email when I post, that is if I'm not busy, depressed, or both.

Amusements of the Day

One has to laugh, or cry. We went from temperatures in the 60's yesterday to a blowing rainstorm in the night. As the next day dawned, the cold blew in, and we're now at 28 degrees. The difference is almost too much to bear in one day.

So, today, Wm. came to me with a "surprise". He took care of "wiping" himself. This would ordinarily be a tremendous and joyous development, except for the part that he was responsible for the destruction of several trees in the rain forest to produce the amount of paper he used. Hopefully, he'll learn before my ancient septic system self destructs. Later in the day, he announced that he'd also learned to use the plunger himself.

And Anna presented me with a paper she is writing for religion class. Having chosen her sister, Lauren, older by two years, for her confirmation sponsor, Anna was assigned to write what she could learn from her sponsor. Anna wrote:

From Lauren, I can learn fairness, generosity, and patience. She is not afraid to show others their faults and help them sort things out.

Needless to say, I've asked her to do a little re-writing.

Keep warm!

Bah Humbug

We've now entered the season of my discontent - Christmas. This is the season that everyone is supposed to be cheery and full of goodwill. I try, truly. But our society makes the season less than the religious holiday it is supposed to be.

The buying begins earlier and earlier every year. I hold to my guns and refuse to buy or enter into the Christmas fray until at least the turkey carcass is in the trash from Thanksgiving. But, now that is over, and the leftovers devoured, I have no excuses. I must begin.

Granted, it is a little easier these days. Lists are made by everyone, complete with internet links, and there is no need to think about Christmas presents, just pay for them. With free shipping everywhere, I can at least stay out of the stores.

My kids know not to desire the latest tickle-me-whatever or new WAAAAAH (Wii) that requires standing in the cold outside the doors of a store that has 2 of them, because there is no thing that would compel me to do so. Perhaps, somewhere deep down, I can, like the Grinch, find a little Christmas spirit.

The Weekend After

I'm beginning to emerge from my Thanksgiving-induced coma, brought on by excessive cleaning, cooking and eating. It feels exactly like having finally beaten a bad case of the flu. My body is weak and unwilling to exert the slightest effort.

That must factored in when the accident occurred today. Wm was insistent, in his little boy way, that I play with him. I also owed my mom a phone call, and since multi-tasker is my middle name, we decided to ride bikes while I called my mom. Perched on my daughter's bike, which unbeknownst to me had been adjusted to accomodate my husband (my one-foot-taller-than-I-am husband), I absentmindedly began to ride.

I've ridden bikes all my life, and though I definitely have a few miles on my old bones, expected it to be like - well, "just like riding a bike". You never forget. What I did forget was to check the gear and the brakes. Phone to my ear, I hit the brakes which were like hitting the stop button on the DVD player. Stop it did. I did not.

Laying on the driveway, I yelled to the phone, now in pieces, "Hold on, Mom" as I assessed my injuries. Surprisingly, I felt okay. I retrieved the phone, only to discover blood on my jeans.

"See, Wm, Mommy isn't good at riding bikes," I told him, hoping this would get me out of bike riding for, well, eternity.

After finishing the phone call, I found I had a nice hole in my knee, small, but deep.

Tonight, my family asked if I was okay.
"Sure. Not that anybody would even notice if I died, except when dinner time rolled around and it wasn't made."

Lauren, the oldest, put her arms around my shoulders, murmuring a protest as Anna said, "Ahhhh, nooooo, that's not true. What about lunch and breakfast?"

The Day Before

Before leaving for work, dh asked what my plans were for today. Well, um, I have 17 people for dinner tomorrow, so I think I might go in for a manicure. Later, I might go shopping for new summer shoes. I'll be cleaning, for Pete's sake. Why, you might ask. Just family, isn't it?

Two days ago, I decided to tackle one teen's room because I was sure something was dead in there. She was going to be out for the day, so I decided to rent a backhoe and find the carcass. After much laundry and tossing of crumpled papers, I found four old yogurt cartons with spoons (which is why I have no utensils, the rest are under the deck outside, or in the sandbox). I won't tell you what else I found (think small, foo-foo, badly trained dogs) so that the health department doesn't come to investigate.

Teen #2, impressed with the results, asked me to perform similar miracles in her room. We started on her closet, finding evidence of a colony of mice or perhaps prarie dogs from the looks of it. They've been feeding off of the hoarded Halloween candy (and she didn't go trick-or-treating this year) and a bit from Easter. They were all comfy amid a gazillion stuffed animals that are too special to get rid of but not special enough to earn a place other than as a mouse mattress in the closet. We'll have to finish this project today, as she had to camp out in her sister's room last night since her's looks like Armageddon.

Like an archaeological dig, it's amazing sometimes the things I find in their rooms . For example the spoons. In Forever, Erma, she says that "You're rich when you can have eight people to dinner and don't have to wash forks between the main course and dessert." Well, we're dirt poor then. Dirt, I say, because that's where the forks are - out in the dirt - having been used to dig worms and slugs. A trip to Wally World fixed that yesterday, with a purchase of spoons and forks stamped out of sheet metal in China. So much for my Julliard Oneida pattern from my wedding. What was I thinking?

Yes, today will find me unmanicured and dishpan-handed, but I'm looking forward to Thanksgiving, the one day dedicated to nothing but family and eating. Can't get better than that!

And for those that have asked, we've not yet made more chin videos, so I leave you with this American Greetings Thanksgiving chin video. Now on to Thanksgiving. See you on the other side!

Click here to see the chin video.

Thanksgiving in Africa

PS3

Campers braved the chilly weather to be the first to own a PlayStation 3. We're not talking communing with nature camping. This was side of the road city and parking lot camping. Whether for profit or the pure joy of owning the latest system, these people were truly dedicated to the cause. Here in KY, one lucky camper set his tent on fire with his butane cookstove.

This obsession with an entertainment device and the lengths to which people are willing to go to get one must not read well in international newspapers. It almost took the chill out of my blood from hearing the word draft on the radio the other day. Perhaps these young people do need to get a life.

Perhaps the Playstation should be secretly designed to educate. To move on to the next level, you have to complete the following Calculus problem. Maybe we could hook it through the internet to generate electricity from the movement of so many fingers on the controls.

Better yet, the Playstation could end the war in Iraq. Yes, you heard me right. The war is costing this country billions. It would be less costly, in dollars and lives, to buy EVERY household in Iraq a TV, a satellite dish (for around the clock sports) and a Playstation 3 with games. The result would be that every man and young boy in the country would not emerge for weeks, maybe months from their homes. Just like in America, they would become inert, addicted to an alternate reality. We could ship in junk food for their favorite soccer game, inducing the fast food brain coma.

Truly though, what does it say about our culture that we're not on fire for causes, but we're willling to set our tent on fire in the attempt to be the first to own a game?

Now, I have to go get Wm off our inadequate PS2 where he's playing Lego StarWars, and try to feed him breakfast.

Black Monday

Irresponsible adults inflame me. My neighbor has a dog, part border collie, part lab, that has three times before killed our chickens. Last night, she killed Chicken Lickin', William's pet bantam that broods our eggs. I can't prove the dog did it, as we didn't see it, but we know. (Kind of like O.J.)

I've repeatedly called the neighbor, complaining that the dog comes into our yard and makes handling our horses unsafe and tries to get our chickens. He promises each time to keep her up. Time lapses, and again she's in our yard. The man evidently has never heard of a leash.

In the third attack, she was proven to be the culprit, found with a chicken in her mouth (who miraculously lived despite terrible injuries). Only domesicated dogs and cats (and men) who are well fed kill for the pleasure of it and leave the body. So, I know it was a dog, just don't have the evidence to prove it.

My only recourse, according to the law, is to shoot the dog while it's on my property. I can take it to animal control, but they will release the dog to the owner for a fee. I can't shoot the dog. She's actually a nice dog doing what her instincts bid her, but with a bad owner.

William took it pretty well, his greatest concern being "who will I hold now?" as the other chickens are hard to catch and don't like to be held. Chicken Lickin' had learned that if she tolerated being caught and held, she was hand fed nice morsels.

I am now rethinking my chicken population and considering reducing the ones I have. The remaining will have to stay in the chicken tractors, protected from dogs but losing their freedom. An interesting concept in today's world - better to live free but with more risk, or live safely with no freedom?

Can you tell I've been reading Op-Eds by Iraqis on the NYTimes website?

Lost After Translation
Republic of Dreams
Fear of Freedom

Keeping Up

"How do you know they're keeping up?" I'm often asked when my secret identity, Mom Homeschooler, is discovered. Just as often, I hear a worried homeschooler wondering if their own students are "keeping up".

Today at Church, the priest's words flowed over me, humorous and interesting, yet not so important. Then, I heard, like words in bold red:

God doesn't measure us against each other. He measures each life, each person. And the measure he uses is vertical and horizontal. He measures with a Cross.

So if you have children homeschooling, or even kids in school, consider this measuring tool before wondering if your child is "keeping up".

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?