Autumn Leaves and a Mild Sense of Panic (TJEd)

When you move from one house to another, there are always adjustments to be made. Where to put the silverware, where to pick up quick carton of milk, remembering the names of new neighbors. All of the moves I undertook during my adult life were pretty much within the same region (Southern California), except the last. In October 2007, my family and I moved from Corona, California to Lawrenceville, Georgia. Now, I was expecting to have to make some more significant adjustments than where to put the silverware, mostly on a social level. After all, we were moving from what many consider the most liberal State in our Union, to the heart of Redneck Country in the middle of the Deep South. And, there were some small adjustments to be made, like overcoming the shock of having neighbors actually visit us and introduce themselves the day after we moved in (one of them actually brought home-baked cookies and later hosted a “welcome to the neighborhood” shindig for us). But not nearly so extensive nor difficult as I had envisioned. The most surprising adjustment I had to make was primitively sensory.

We moved into our new home the first week of November. I was in awe of the turning of the leaves, something I had never really experienced before living most of my life in a two-season region (rainy and green for about a month, dry and brown the rest of the year). Thomas’s second floor bedroom window is very friendly with a respectably sized oak tree in our back yard. The week of our moving in, I would pass by his open bedroom door and notice the tree had changed its hue. By the end of our first week, the color had changed to such a brilliant, vibrant yellow, it seemed as though Thomas’ bedroom has been painted a new color. Then, suddenly, all of the leaves were gone, abandoning their trees to lay down a golden brown carpet on the earth. That is when the mild panic began visiting me.

In Georgia, Autumn means burning leaves. In open fires. In your back yard. In Southern California, an open fire demands nothing less than calling 9-11 immediately and letting the fire department know where they need to rush to prevent a blaze that could destroy hundreds, or even thousands, of homes. In our seven years living in Corona, we had no less than three major brush fires close enough to our home to 1) see from the front yard, and 2) warrant serious preparations to evacuate. The first was just weeks after we had moved into our first “ours” house (one we had bought instead of renting), and I was home alone with our brand new first child, still recovering from a difficult delivery. I stood in front of our house, swaddled infant in my arms, watching the gray plume of smoke in the not-too-distant distance, the unmistakable smell of smoke in the air, warily eyeing our 25+ year old shake-shingle roof made of actual wood, which was now old enough and dried out enough to catch fire rather easily. The second time, the plume of smoke rose straight overhead into the sky, ash was falling on the house, and the fire department had set up one of its operational bases in the park across the street. This time I had two small children, whom I packed up and took to a friend’s house across town, along with the family dog and the two cats I could catch on short notice (they were not happy). The third time was at night, there was a distinct red glow just over the nearest ridge, and we were watching the national news as thousands of homes all across California were being devoured by a dozen different raging-out-of-control fires, some of which took weeks to contain. Several of our own family members and friends were in the line of fire, literally, and were compelled to evacuate their homes by authorities, but all were, thankfully, unharmed.

So, the first time I stepped outside the back door of our new home in Georgia and smelled smoke, I was hit with a gut-wrenching anxiety-bordering-on-panic bred from years living in a fire zone. The only thing that prevented me from immediately calling 9-11 (and thus proving myself an incompetent foreigner to those parts) was the fact that our house came with its own fire pit in the back yard, and the sellers had kindly explained the best way to burn the autumn leaves without setting fire to the surrounding trees and houses. Breathing deeply, I called David. “Honey, there’s a fire somewhere.” He came out onto the back deck with me. “Yeah, someone’s burning leaves.” “Yeah?”. “Yeah, it’s fine honey.” It took me a month to get used to the smell of smoke so near my home. But, I did get used to it. Funny, but now the distinct smell of burning leaves is almost has homey to me as the smell of a mid-winter blaze in our own family room fireplace.

The second sensory adjustment was almost more primal than adjusting to the smell of fire, if you can believe it. It was the critter-induced rustling of the fallen Autumn leaves. We have squirrels everywhere in our neighborhood. And, I mean everywhere. And chipmunks, too, although they’re not nearly so bold as those darned squirrels. You can’t step outside the house without spying at least three or four squirrels bounding across the yard (they kind of run-hop, like drunken rabbits), scrambling up a tree, or dashing across a power line. When the ground is covered with freshly fallen dried leaves, there is an almost perpetual rustling sound, distinctly punctuated by scurrying, each time a human enters the zone. Now, in Southern California, a rustling sound usually means only one thing: a snake. And, it’s a fair bet it’s a rattlesnake, a critter you certainly do not want anything to do with, and certainly one you don’t want anywhere near your kids. So, again, stepping outside the door of our new home and hearing a rustling sound every time…well, it took a few weeks for the pounding of my heart to subside, and a few months before my heart quit its acrobatics every time I went outside.

The third sensory adjustment was more subtle, but has lingered longer. The rising sun is different here than what I was used to. In Corona, I had only a lace curtain across our bedroom window, because it looked out over our patio and secluded back yard. As the sun rose, bright light filled the bedroom, almost suddenly, making for a very pleasant, yet insistent, natural alarm clock. I loved waking to the rising sun, and pacing my day accordingly, shifting with the seasons. Here in Georgia, the sunrise is different. Not so bright, not so insistent. It sort of sneaks up on you, and even with the curtains drawn aside, it is so drawn-out and so subtle, the sunrise is not quite enough to waken you with a “time to get up!” I still have not adjusted, I still have difficulty obeying the sun, or even figuring out when it has actually risen, and rising accordingly. I hope this will change with a few more seasons. I hate relying on alarm clocks.

I’ve read a few authors who talk about “knowing a place”. Dr. DeMille talks about patriotism being linked to “knowing a place”. John Gatto writes about a similar sense of “place” as related to belonging and patriotism. After 2+ years of living here, I’ve come to know this place, even if I’m not yet entirely acclimatized yet. I’ve settled in a very primitive and instinctual way, as well as adjusting to the visual display that I love so much. There are times when I miss the new-found awe and wonder I felt our first fall and winter here; it has been replaced by a familiarity that almost borders on dismissive. But, I still find myself grabbing my camera and capturing images that make me smile and warm each time I look over them. I still love sitting on the back deck in the swing reading to the kids, even when we have to wrap up in blankets. I love the trees, and the fallen leaves, and the squirrels, and the slightly different tone of the morning sun. I love the bulbs pushing up in February, bravely risking being doused with snow or frost after their bloom, which seems to happen every year. I love the explosion of white blossoms on the dogwoods, so profuse in our little town, and madly clustered at the onramp onto the Parkway. I’m not quite far enough along to call myself a “Georgian”; I am still a “Californian transplanted”. But, I love my home, my “place”, as much as I love my country. And, I would do much to protect it.

Proof Positive I'm a Genius. Sort of. (TJEd)

My dear friend, Sarah, sent me this article, called How to Procrastinate Like Leonardo da Vinci. I could have just reached right through the ethers and given her a great, big cyber kiss. It explains in no uncertain terms exactly why those of us who procrastinate and rarely finish everything we undertake are geniuses on par with daVinci. Okay, well, it doesn’t exactly say that. But, close enough to suit my purposes.

There has apparently been a modern attempt to psychologically dissect da Vinci and write him off as someone who was so terrified of financial success that he subconsciously sabotaged himself into utter failure by never finishing anything that he started, a theory which has apparently been put forth by those who champion mediocrity. The linked article has a somewhat different take, one that I am (biased as I am) more apt to accept as applicable: Genius and efficient productively are not necessary compatible.

Now, I have nothing against planning and organizing. Among my friends and closer homeschooling co-conspirators, I am known as an Organizational Goddess. Anything and everything that might possibly need to be structured, organized, and condensed into a handy form or graph, I’ve got it covered. And, my innate organization streak has served me well in a myriad of environments and circumstances, whether it be in my PC (pre-child) career as an office administrator and property manager, or at home trying to keep a household running with the precision of a Naval battle ship (that would be me being ironic).

However, I have recently noticed a particular trend that might suggest that organization for the purpose of maximum productively might not actually be totally conducive to Leadership Education (yes, I like using big words). During those spells when I blow off our family routine, such as during recent spats with flue and colds, and spend more of my time lounging and reading and thinking than if I were otherwise occupied with running the household and educating the kids, I seem to be more creative in the one aspect of my life that I feel even remotely creative in, and that is writing. Suddenly, instead of just composing a response to someone posting a concern on a homeschooling list, I’ve suddenly got twelve different ideas about several different topics running through my head, and if I take a moment to jot them down, I’ve got some raw material to work with, either in the moment or at some time in the (hopefully) near future. Since I’ve recently bowed to the omnipotence and intemperance of the Writing Muse, I have found myself, more and more, jotting down ideas and notes about ideas; a flow that had, in previous times, been stoppered most of the time, and only released in times of apparent need. Now, I can’t get through one day without a half-dozen ideas charging through my head, and the more I write them down, the more of them that show up on my doorstep like poor, desolate orphans, begging for someone to take them in and feed them.

The “downside” of this is, there is so much raw material that I will never be able to bring each to fruition, fully developed and ready to bring forth unto the world. Or, even post to my personal blog. They come too fast, and time is too short for me to give each of them full attention. (Yes, believe it or not, I am not posting every idea on the Community blog that flits into my tiny little brain…it just seems that way). So, for someone who considers themselves entirely – ENTIRELY – uncreative, this apparent hint of creatively is simultaneously unexpected, titillating, intimidating, and horrifyingly non-conformist.

So, here I am with 116 pages (over 54,000 words) of “ideas”, only a small fraction of which are currently fit for public consumption, none of which have made it out of my "idea" file (yes, I hear you all trembling in fear). Very few of these “ideas” will end up on my personal blog (yes, I hear the collective sigh of relief), which a very small number of people will actually ever read. None of them, I am sure, will ever make their way into mainstream thought. The novels that I frequently have running around in my head, I don’t even attempt to begin writing, because I know time will never allow me to do them justice. But, there they all are. Patiently waiting.

Leonardo daVinci “produced” an estimated 100 volumes worth of “notes” in his lifetime, the vast majority of which never earned him a single penny, or even ended up being used for “productive” purposes. But, all of those thoughts, all of those ideas, culminated to reflect a human being of extraordinary genius. Every thought and every idea, built one upon the other, is what enabled daVinci to create the extraordinary, breathtaking, and timeless masterpieces that he left us. So, what masterpieces lie silent, latent, and waiting in each of us “common” folk, just waiting for the lapse of time, space of silence, and moment of daydream, that will allow the Mona Lisa, or the David, or the Flying Machine, to come forth? Perhaps the religion of productivity is not serving us so well as the principle of idleness may. Daydreaming. Staring out the window. Doodling. Jotting down ideas which may or may not culminate in anything “productive” or “commercially viable”. But, perhaps the non-productive and non-commercially-viable ideas are the most valuable in the long run.

My Grandfather's Eye (TJEd)

I know it’s supposed to be “she’s got her mother’s eyes”, but in my case (I hope), it’s closer to “she’s got her grandfather’s eye”.

My grandfather was a photographer. And a weaver. Okay, he was, technically, an engineer, but once he escaped his official career, he immersed himself in weaving and photography. He had “an eye” for photography, and an engineer’s meticulous mind. This was an absolutely perfect combination for creating his black-and-white Ansel Adam-style landscapes. Not so great when Grandpa wanted to take pictures of the grandkids. Kids just don’t sit still as long as valleys and trees and waterfalls do. I have several of my grandfather’s prints, and they are stunning in their beauty and composition and quietness. And, I remember, painfully, the day my three brothers and I sat for a portrait done by grandpa. Thankfully, his weavings were of landscapes, and not of children.



Today, it is snowing. This doesn’t happen very often in the Greater Atlanta Area, and my family has spent most of its cumulative life in Southern California in an area where it happened even less often. So, snow, for us, is a Big Fat Hairy Deal. Especially since we are only out in it for short spells, don’t have to work in it, don’t have to commute in it, and don’t have to shovel it. We go play in it for a while, we have a grand time, then we run inside for a hot tubby and a blazing fire. We love it.

But, there is just something about snow falling, and the rapidly changing landscape that impels me to grab the camera and start shooting. I suddenly begin seeing things in a different way, combinations of colors and shadows and textures that are just drawing me to see them. I shot off close to 100 photos in the course of about an hour, creating a visual history of the changes I was witnessing. Then, my camera died. Thankfully, I was able to retrieve the photos I had taken. But, there were still hours of beautiful light left in the day, beautiful children and giant dogs romping in the snow, comically timid cats delicately picking their way through the bare patches, bucketloads of beautiful, fat, wet snowflakes dropping and plopping from the sky. Without my camera, each passing moment, each gloppy slop of wet snow falling, is a moment forever lost in time, except in my own memory. I wish I could go back and catch each one of them, but they are gone.

Note: This was written on Sunday, while it was still snowing. I'll post a few pictures on My Page for anyone who would like to see them. Not all 100 pictures, I promise :)

You Just...Can't....Stop....Them! (TJEd)

Kids and technology. They’re joined at the hip. Or, more appropriately, hardwired to one another. You just can’t keep kids away from technology if it’s anywhere in the house or on their radar.


This is Thomas (9) on my brand-new laptop. That would be MY laptop, less than a week old, barely birthed from its box and midwifed by the Geek Squad. The laptop I FINALLY bought after a year-plus of debate, wrangling, angst, hand-wringing and, finally, justification (God bless tax refunds). By the way, my laptop has proven to be an exceptional Scholar tool, but I won’t go into that right now. Needless to say, I just can’t seem to keep Thomas’ greedy little paws off of it, and his brothers (including the four-year old) are lined up right behind him.

As depicted above, Thomas is in the process of looking up “hedgehog” on Wikipedia. I’m at a loss. When I was nine, we didn’t have Wikipedia, and we didn’t have laptops. We didn’t even have home computers (okay, I just dated myself, and not in a good way). I didn't even have access to a computer (at work) until I was well into my 20's. Now, kids just seem to have a “natural” affinity for computers that goes way beyond anything adults are able to comprehend. They figure out stuff effortlessly that us old fogies – um, I mean adults - have to take classes to learn how to do. If you need to figure out how to do anything on the computer, just ask a child, because chances are very good that even if they haven’t done it before, they’ll be able to figure it out in a few minutes, and then very matter-of-factly teach you how. If you have ANY doubt in your mind about kids’ capacity to self-teach using computers, check out this TED Talk on The Hole in the Wall Experiment (it’s a little ramble-y and not terribly slick, but hang in there because the conclusions are AWESOME).

So, here we are, trying to create a literate-rich environment for our kids, doing the TJEd “thing”, focusing on Classics, etc., etc, etc. And there’s my 9-year old on MY laptop looking up “hedgehogs” on Wikipedia. The up-side is, this is the biggest, fattest carrot imaginable, because I’ve very conscientiously taught Thomas the Phases, and explained that a laptop is a Scholar Tool. When he reaches Scholar Phase, he will get my laptop, and I’ll upgrade to a new one . He is now, he has declared, in Scholar Phase. I didn’t laugh. Really. (Okay, maybe I had to hold my breath to keep from laughing, and now I’m paying the price in hiccups).

So, is technology undermining our childrens’ educations? I don’t think so. We are a technologically astute family with computers and TV’s and cable and even a Wii. The kids spend time on these devices and enjoy them, and we even have Family Wii Night (this is a BLAST!, you really should join us if ever you are in the neighborhood).

But, they also LOVE books. Just try putting my kids to bed without a bedtime story, and you’ll be assaulted with indignant complaints of outrage and four-point arguments that would intimidate a Supreme Court Judge, until you finally concede and read to them (preferably while doing the “finger thing” so they can follow along). Almost as devastating, try sneaking off to the library (or, God forbid, the book store) by yourself for a little grown-up browsing, and you’ll have three kids sprinting down the driveway after you, tears of outrage streaming down their little faces, demanding to go along. When I first signed up for a library card at our local library and they told me there was a limit of thirty books, I almost laughed at them. “Thirty?!? Are you joking?!? We’ll never check out that many!” Well, now I have to put a limit on each child’s take-out, just so I can check out the items I’ve placed on hold myself (don’t you just LOVE placing books on hold at the library? ).

So, I guess the point I’m trying to make (yes, I know, do get ON with it!), is this: Old School classics-based education and New School technology-based education do not necessarily have to be mutually exclusive. There can be a balance, and that balance will, I believe, be IMPERITIVE during our childrens’ lifetimes. They must be absolutely literate in the Classics, as well as absolutely literate in Technology. Can’t you just envision the joining of the two? It’s almost breathtaking. And, OUR children will be doing it.

"The Real Crisis? We've stopped being wise" (TJEd)

I just can’t say enough about this talk by Barry Schwartz on wisdom (thanks, Terry for pointing it out to me). What’s great about this talk is not just what he says (although that is pretty satisfying), but who he is saying it to. TED in an annual invitation-only conference which includes about 2,000 of the most brilliant, influential, powerful and wealthy people out there. And, Mr. Schwartz is talking to them about virtue, service, mentorship, and moral will + moral skill (aka practical wisdom). He’s talking about why reliance on rules and incentives often has an effect opposite to our expected and desired result. And he’s talking to a room full of people who can get things done. That’s cool.

If you’re not familiar with the TED Talks, it can be a great way to graze mentally. There are some talks that aren’t very significant or pertinent, but there are a lot that are. Kind of like reading great books puts you in direct contact with the great minds that wrote them, these TED Talks are a way of spending about 20 minutes in direct contact with some of the greatest minds of our time. If you go sniffing around, be sure to check out Ken Robinson’s talk Do Schools Kill Creativity? and Steven Pinker on The Stuff of Thought.

Happy grazing!

Why Moms Blog (TEJd)

This is not as fluffy a topic as it sounds. Perhaps it is simply my own apologia. But, if you’ll bear with me for a bit, let me know what you think.

My friend, Grace, just started a blog. Grace is one of my brilliant mommy friends, one of the core group of brilliant ladies I’ve spoken of before, so I’m looking forward to reading her posts regularly. I have mixed feelings about blogging, just as I have mixed feelings about the internet. Both have an extraordinary potential to connect thinking minds together in a profound manner, unique to human history. In many ways, the internet and blogging are the new printing press, opening up a multi-dimensional dialogue in public debate which has been missing in our culture for generations. Most of us have lived our lives seeing only “one way” communication through the media; this Important Person (or Politician or Corporation) wants you to know this is how it is, and you really need not comment, just accept. Well, with the internet that is changing. We may not necessarily be able to have our voices heard by Important People or Politicians or Corporations (yet), but we Little People certainly are talking to one another, and the volume is increasing. The tide is rising, and pity the Important Person or Politician or Corporation that doesn’t at least make a show of acknowledging that We Are Out There.

The downside of the internet is Too Much Stuff. Anyone with access to a computer can put their Stuff out there, whether it’s worth putting out there or not, and this leaves most of us with a sense that some important voices may be drowned out in the overwhelming volume. It also leaves us with the question “Do I have anything to contribute?” What I love about Grace’s first blog post is that it pretty nicely encapsulates the most apparent questions, doubts, and ultimate reasons why many moms participate in blogging. Here are Grace's words:

Is Blogging the Epitome of Narcissim?

When I first heard about blogging I thought... how self centered can you be? Who wants to hear about the minutiae of your life? How impudent must you be to write day after day about your life and your family? After years of reading blogs I realized that I enjoy reading about all the treacherous, uplifting, mundane or hilarious elements of peoples lives. I have gotten some wonderful craft ideas, good homeschool references, great book suggestions, toy ideas, recipes, found links to other blogs and websites and more. In addition, it makes it easier to keep up with friends that live far afield.

Creative writing was a favorite subject in my undergraduate studies but years of technical writing, editing, and formatting sucked the life out of my creativity. So, maybe I can get a little of that back in this process. So, here goes. I am officially a narcissist.


So, why do moms blog? There are a thousand answers to that question, but I think a big part of it for many moms may be that it is a personal yet powerful form of expression during a period of her life when intelligent expression has been largely placed on hold. “I used to read great books and have great conversations with friends before I had kids”. “I used to have great troubleshooting sessions with colleagues in my field and write papers and wrangle with ideas before I had kids”. “I used to talk about something other than poopie diapers, picky eaters, and the consistency of spit up before I had kids”. So, I think there is an element of having a blank canvas and a full pallet of paint with paintbrush poised, a unique opportunity to express whatever is most important to her at this point in her life, with no restrictions on content.

Possibly even more primary, I think, it’s often the only time she feels like she can get a complete thought expressed in the way she means it to be expressed. In direct contrast with the rest of her existence wherein she can’t finish a sentence without being interrupted, can only dedicate about 50% of her communication capacity to speaking because her brain is working on several other things at the same time, or, best of all, fumbling for the correct word, missing, and being corrected by her precocious 4-year old (yes, I’m talking about me).

If, on the other hand, she is blogging, even if she is interrupted a dozen times (which she usually is), she can still go back, review her thought, fix it, continue it (usually), and get it “out there” in a way that pleases her (most of the time). And, by the way, thank goodness for the Thesaurus; without it I would never have pulled out the term "precocious". If she’s really lucky, her blogging time is “her” time, a quiet respite during which she can collect herself and do some reflection on life…mostly hers and her family's, but sometimes about larger matters as well. It helps her remember that she is an intelligent, eloquent and powerful woman, and offers up the opportunity to prove that to herself. "Others" don't necessarily matter in terms of proving.

But beyond the element of expression, and possibly even more primary, it is a way of marking the little milestones of her family and her Self, remembering to take photos when she might otherwise not, remembering to share something the kids did or made, noticing those things which might otherwise get missed. In my family, the women are the historians, writing the genealogies, collecting and caring for the family treasures, and passing on the family stories. At a time when multi-generational families are no longer the norm, and most kids are not being raised with their elders, there may be a sense that we need to preserve our daily lives in some significant way, lest something important in the next generation’s history be lost, or worse, overlooked in the haste of the moment.

When our days are so often so full and so chaotic and so frustrating and so dedicated to caring for others that we can’t get a firm grip on our own thoughts, sitting down at the computer and writing for a bit can be a much-needed balm for the spirit. And, in the process, we may end up leaving something that may one day be cherished by at least one child-now-grown. I think that’s why many moms blog, and maybe dads, too. Maybe we haven’t reached the pinnacle of our educations, we’re not yet stateswomen or the leaders we hope to someday be, and we’re not yet changing the world. But, we each have something significant to contribute, and this is one small way of doing that, from where we are sitting right now.

Okay, that may have been a little fluffy, but please pardon me my sense of satisfaction at writing something close to my heart. And, because I told myself I could only pick one (other than Grace), here is the most brilliant mom blogger I know. Kitmamma’s Pensieve. Okay, I'm probably biased because she happens to be a friend, but check out her piece called “My Broken Window” and see if it doesn’t stir your soul.

Dun Dun Dun, etc. – Part Two (TJEd)

The boys’ Nana and cousin were over yesterday, and the kids put together a little impromptu “talent night”. While William and Michael acted out a lightsaber duel in the family room, Thomas played the Star Wars Theme as a piano accompaniment. Reminded me of the original movie houses with the black & white silent film playing while an organist played music. I just couldn’t stop giggling because they were all so serious, and worked so hard on putting together a show for the adults, and it was just so “kid” in such a charming way. I’m chuckling just remembering it. I hope to remember it for a long, long time.

Kangaroos for Bambi? (TJEd)

I'm not sure any explanation is possible, but I'm going to do my best.

I'm reading Bambi to the boys. It's my first time through, so I'm proceeding cautiously. We reached the part where the human hunters have invaded the forest, killing everything in sight. Poor Gobo, frail and exhausted, has collapsed in the snow, his mother forced to abandon him to his fate to protect herself and his sister, Faline. After finding him lying there helpless, Bambi pauses, but cannot help his friend, and so ultimately dashes away at Gobo's insistence.

"Why doesn't Bambi help Gobo?". That's Thomas asking.

"What do you think Bambi could do to help Gobo?" I just love putting the ball back in their court, and making them think about it.

"He could get his mom". Thomas still thinks mom can fix everything.

"If Bambi could find his mom and Gobo's mom, what do you think the moms could do for Gobo?"

"They could help him run".

This quickly moves into a conversation about how from the moment of birth, young deer must be able to stand and move on their own, or risk being killed by predators. Deer don't have hands, and can't carry their young in the way that humans, primates, and other animals may be able to do, so their young have to be mobile almost immediately. Gobo's mom can't just pick him up and carry him to safety. She is forced to leave him lying there, helpless, to be murdered by the humans. What a horrific burden faced by Gobo's mother. What a horrific dilemma faced by a child listening to this story for the first time.

After concluding the chapter, Thomas finds his own way of dealing with this emotional turmoil. He runs upstairs and dons the kangaroo costume. He then goes through considerable machinations to insert Michael (4) into his "pouch", thereby assuring that his youngest brother will never be left floundering helpless in the snow to meet an untimely and horrific end. It's a game for the boys. But, also a way to work through and resolve an emotional dilemma that is almost beyond their compreshension or ability to process and resolve.

"Acting out" would be an apt term. Working through something in a very physical manner, to come to an emotional wrap-up that they're able to "sit with". It's another one of those "boy things" that I only vaguely understand, but try to recognize and embrace as it presents itself.

It seems to have worked in this case. Everyone is smiling.

“Did You See What Michael Did?” (TJEd)

This was not a statement of one brother tattling on another. This was a statement of pride and appreciation, coming from our nine-year-old son in reference to his four-year-old brother.

We were at the park, gathering together with our usual once-a-week playgroup. This group, in some form or another, has been meeting up for about a year and a half now. We’ve got a nice core of families, and have been very happy to have a couple of additional families add into the mix in the past few months. It’s something I look forward to each week, because I get to sit down and chat with some of the smartest women I know. Moms from varying backgrounds, each with an impressive educational and/or professional background (except for me), each committed to homeschooling their children, and each feeling somewhat a “minority” in our larger community of neighborhood “church-goers” and “homeschooling for religious reasons” folks. We have tended to “band together” for support and encouragement. This is one of the most lovely and brilliant groups of ladies I have ever had the privilege of knowing and associating with.

But, I digress. Our mom with the largest brood had just arrived, and one of her younger girls had taken off toward the playground, forgetting that there were several steps down from the picnic table area. She took a dive down the steps onto the concrete sidewalk, and was crying. Mom was juggling several other children, including an infant, and was doing her best to get down to the injured child, although was somewhat waylaid. When I looked up, Mike (4) was right there next to the little girl, holding her hand, and looking concernedly into her little face, talking to her, clearly doing his best to comfort her until mom arrived. My tender mommy heart could have burst.

Crisis resolved, that’s when Tom came over to me, almost imperceptibly whispering “Did you see what Michael did?”, wanting to point out to me what a great little guy his youngest brother was. "Wasn't that great?". My tender mommy heart just about burst again…

“I Want One!” (TJEd)

I’ve previously posted that "we" have three boys, ages 4, 7 and 9. Let me issue a modification of that statement. "I" have four boys, ages 4, 7, 9 and 42.

I’ve been knitting scarves and hats for the three younger boys, and recently finished Will’s scarf. When hubby saw it, he immediately said “I want one!”. And added “Can I have it before I leave for Denver?”. That was last Sunday. He’s leaving this Sunday. Can I knit a scarf in one week? Hmmmmm. I just might make it, only because I knit while I read, and obviously while I watch television. We started in on The Lord of the Rings trilogy last night, to be continued today. I also wanted to get in a viewing of A Midsummer Night’s Dream with the boys before I take them to the play tomorrow. It’s looking promising…


Luv ya, honey!

Dun Dun Dun Duuuuun Duuuuun, Dun Dun Dun Duuuuun Duuuuun, … (TJEd)

Tom (9) is learning to play the Star Wars Theme on the piano. He’s in LoL Phase, so he doesn’t really “study” piano, he “plays at” piano. His dad is helping him with some basics, and he’s learning to play “by heart”. He doesn’t sit down and practice for a 20 minute session every day, he just plunks down and works on it for a few minutes at a time, several times a day, usually when someone else is trying to have a conversation in the same room. He’s comfortable with the piano, seems to enjoy the challenge of learning a piece of music, and particularly gets a kick out of showing off his progress.

I’m one of those people for whom tunes get stuck in my head easily, and seem to hold on for very long periods of time. If I happen to hear the same tune several times in a day, or for more than one day in a row, that tune pretty much is permanently embedded until another persistent tune comes along to dislodge it and take its place. It can, at times, be maddening. Not just because I’ve got a tune, not of my conscious choosing, stuck in my head, but because I tend to unconsciously hum said tune. A lot. Any time I’m not doing something that requires active, semi-directed thought, I’m humming. Washing the dishes, folding the laundry, sweeping the floor, cooking dinner. Whatever, wherever, whenever. I’m humming, and mostly not even aware of it. And, I’m humming the tune that’s stuck in my head, which means I’m hearing it again, which reinforces the tune’s strangle hold on my mind, so I hum it more, so…. You get the idea.

I remind myself of a Robert Heinlein character (I can’t remember which, it’s been so long since I’ve read his books, but I think it was Lazarus Long) who said that his subconscious humming indicated that all systems were “go”, and everything was a-okay. I’m pretty much the same way. If I’m washing the dishes and I’m NOT humming, you better bet I’ve got a bee in my bonnet about something, or I’m chewing on a concept or idea which requires my attention. My kids haven’t figured out yet that if Mommy is not humming, it’s probably not the best time to talk to her. Maybe I should clue them in…

But, regardless of the possible ramifications of humming, I would really like to wake up in the middle of the night and NOT have The Star Wars Theme playing in my head. Just once. Maybe a little Mozart instead?

Family Treasures (TJEd)

My husband came home with a stack of old books, a gift from him mom. They are all books that belonged to my husband’s family, as far back as his grandmother. I love old books, and my wonderful mother-in-law knows this. So, you can imagine how pleased and touched I was that these books are now part of our library.


There really is nothing more to say, except "Thank you".

What did you learn at Bible Study tonight? (TJEd)

I asked this of our 9-year old son. For a couple of months, now, he’s been toddling off with our neighbors to their Wednesday night Bible Study. The main attraction for Tom, I think, is the visit to our local pizza joint, Stevie B’s, and the opportunity to play arcade games there before moving on to The Church. Although we’re not Christians, and I’ve quietly disclosed to our lovely neighbor that we’re a non-religious family, she still seems content (sometimes maybe a little determined) to invite our boys to Wednesday night Bible Study with their family. For me, it’s supporting our kids in their exploration of religion. For Tom, it’s free food, arcade games, and socializing. Sometimes they even have a bouncy-house.

So, like a good mom, each night when Tom returns from Bible Study, I ask him “So, what did you learn at Bible Study tonight?” His answer is pretty much the same each week.

“Nothing much”.

“You didn’t learn anything tonight?”

“Not really. Just some old stuff.”

“Oh. What old stuff?”

“I don’t remember.”

Whatever the lesson was, it doesn’t seem to have stuck.

The Muse is Blowing Bubbles... (TJEd)

“I’m going to loose you to your computer, aren’t I?”

“No, honey. I promise. I just want to get this thing going. It’ll just be a couple of hours.”

“Right. I know you.”

“No, really honey. I just want to get some stuff written up.”

That was Tuesday night as he went to bed. I’d been sitting at my computer most of the afternoon clicking away. Wednesday morning he left for an all-day seminar, and I sat down to jot down a few thoughts. When he returned from the seminar in the evening, I was still jotting. I’d called a one-day vacation, the kids were free to pursue their own pursuits, and I was typing away.

“I knew it. Do we need to hire a maid?”

“No, no, honey. It was just today. I just needed to get this stuff together, now I’ve done it, and tomorrow will be back to normal.”

“Uh-huh.”

It’s Thursday morning. I’ve restrained myself considerably, and have managed to get our usual morning routine started. But, then I got this idea. So, here I am, surreptitiously clicking away while dearest hubby is in the shower. It’ll only take a minute more…

I recently saw an interview with Cornelia Funke, author of the “Inkheart” trilogy. She has a beautiful little writing cottage behind her house, and after sending her son off to school in the morning, she walks back to the cottage and writes (and draws, as she is also an illustrator ). I want a cottage like that. You have to see it to really appreciate it.

Funke described ideas as soap bubbles. If you don’t catch them while they’re floating there, they will disappear and be gone forever, so you have to write them down as they come. If you’re not near a computer, use a paper and pen; if you don’t have paper, be sure to have a pen that will write on your skin. (If you go to see the “Inkheart” movie, you’ll get a little jolt of recognition at the end). If you are a writer, or want to be a writer, then this is what you have to do…write!

The past few days, I’ve been a writer. Not a good writer necessarily, and certainly not an important writer. But, the Muse has visited me. I’m sprawled out on the floor and she’s sitting on my chest blowing bubble after luscious bubble all about my head. I know I really should vacuum and do laundry and make dinner, but there’s just some irresistible force pulling me to the computer. And, I’m too weak-willed to resist.

I also know that if I don’t attend to the Muse while she’s here, she will leave. She’s very fickle that way. She demands your full attention whenever and wherever she cares to show up. And, if she doesn’t get it, then “Pooh on you”, and she abandons you in mid-key-stroke. I’ve gone through so many long, long spells when I have not been inspired to write. Now that I’m inspired, I’m sneaking in every key-stroke I can.

Book Review – The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame (Part Two) (TJed)

Can't you just smell the lovely mustiness wafting from this wonderful old volume?

As often seems to happen, there’s been a nice serendipitousness to my studies and our family study time. I began reading “The Wind in the Willows” to the kids right around the time I started reading Stephen R. Covey’s “The Leader in Me” as part of our “Study the Classics” book club (click on “Groups” and scroll down to “Study the Classics”). Being immersed back into the Seven Habits gave me a whole new appreciation for the characters in “The Wind in the Willows”, and you bet I jumped on the opportunity to blend the two during KidSchool. When I asked the kids “Which is your favorite character?” the answer was pretty much “Toad, because he’s so funny.” But, when I asked “Which character do you most want to be like?” the answer was “Badger”. Even if they weren’t sure exactly why, they knew that Badger was the better example to follow, the one they wanted to be more like. In short, the better role model.

Badger is the consummate Leader. He sees what needs to be done and does it, though always mindful of the right time. He is the animal trusted to lead out in Toad’s intervention. His rightness and strength of character inspire respect and admiration in other animals. At the same time, he is infinitely kind and patient (even when, in Toad’s case, we might say it was not deserved). He is brave, forthright, and not afraid to act. He is the living embodiment of moral authority. In direct opposition to Toad.

Oh, my, Toad. What a sad, sad example of an animal. Toad is never responsible for his own actions, always a victim to the whims of the moment, never plans ahead, is completely disorganized, and certainly is not, in any way, humble. Nothing is ever his fault, even when he is clearly guilty of criminal acts. When he accidentally falls into uncommon good luck which inadvertently rescues him from his own ridiculous idiocy, he prances about boasting, bragging and bellowing about what he considers his own greatness and cleverness. Into trouble, he’s blubbering about how Fate has turned against him. Out of trouble, he’s taking all the credit. Definitely not very proactive. Dr. Covey would be horrified should ever Mr. Toad appear in one of his seminars.

We are ultimately left with a small glimmer of hope for Toad. He has promised reform in the past, which has not stuck. But, in the end he shows signs that he may at last be settling down when he chooses to refrain from boasting and bragging at the banquet. One can only hope.

Book Review – The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Grahame (TJed)

I recently finished reading “The Wind in the Willows” to the kids. Despite a little initial grumbling about “We already saw the movie” and “Didn’t we already read that one?”, as usual once the story started, they were drawn right in. By the end of the first chapter, they were bellowing “One More Chapter!”

I love this book in large part because of the language. It was originally published in 1908, long enough ago that author still considered eloquence in language not only a noble pursuit, but an essential tool in word craft. The descriptions of the natural world are so tantalizing, they make me want to bolt down the street of my tidy little suburb in search of some Wild Wood to get lost in. I am certain that if I turn just the right corner, it will be RIGHT THERE, waiting for me. I can almost smell it as I turn the pages of my well-worn old hardcover book. Okay, maybe that’s just mustiness; my copy is about fifty years old.

I also love this book because of the character. Not the “characters”, as much as the “character”. Rat and Mole, each in their own unique way, embody goodness, rightness, and the greatest of friendship. When Ratty is tempted to follow the relentless and soul-wrenching call to the South, Mole gently and very firmly holds Ratty until he begins to come back to himself. He begins talking of the beauties of home and hearth and the life that they live, until Rat realizes that he does not truly wish to give up the home that he knows and loves. But, Rat is still despondent, and Mole does not leave him in that state. Nor does he give Rat a “pep talk” to try to get him out of his depression. Mole shows an extraordinary empathy and understanding of his friend by quietly offering Rat a focus and outlet for his restless urgings.

“Presently the tactful Mole slipped away and returned with a pencil and a few half-sheets of paper, which he placed on the table at this friends elbow.
“It’s quite a long time since you did any poetry,” he remarked. “You might have a try at it this evening, instead of – well, brooding over things so much. I’ve an idea that you’ll feel a lot better when you’ve got something jotted down – if it’s only just the rhymes.”
“The Rat pushed the paper away from him wearily, but the discrete Mole took occasion to leave the room, and when he peeped in again some time later, the Rat was absorbed and deaf to the world; alternately scribbling and sucking the top of his pencil. It is true that he sucked a good deal more than he scribbled; but it was joy to the Mole to know that the cure had at least begun.”

I cried when I read that part to the kids. They, as usual, looked at me kind of funny. But, I think they’ve almost gotten used to me tearing up (okay, sometimes emitting a gasping sob) during the really touching, happy or sad parts of stories. There was just something so beautiful in that passage about the friendship and dedication between two friends, and something so deeply touching about one friend knowing the other so well that he could offer, in just the right way, just the right cure to another friend’s woe.

The Children Have Taken Over the Kitchen (TJed)

Tom (9) wants to be a professional chef. This week. Next week, it is sure to change. Yes, he’s in Lol Phase. This week, when I asked him “What do you want to learn about this week?” his response was something akin to “Can we just cook all week?”. “Okay”, I said. I attempted to begin a conversation about meal planning, ensuring we had all the ingredients necessary, etc., but he kind of wandered off in pursuit of a stray thought relating to LEGOs. We’re still working on the “focus” thing.

Now, just for clarification, we have “family study time” each weekday in which I do my best to pull off something resembling “KidSchool” and I read aloud our “family book”; usually a classic the kids have chosen out of my pre-selected selections. In addition to this, Tom and I have an hour each day set aside when I’m available to help him with whatever else he wants to learn. I won’t go into my own expectations about this, but let’s just say that most of what he wants to learn is a bit over my head. Like skydiving, rock climbing, and adobe brick making. (I think I might be able to pull off the adobe brick making; we do live in Georgia, the Land Of Red Clay, after all). So, when he says “cooking”, I’m all over it. That, I can do.

So, on Monday I taught Tom how to make bread. He made a wonderful loaf of bread, and some mighty fine cinnamon rolls, which we all enjoyed.

Today is Tuesday, and he decided to make more bread; twisty bread to go with his Secret Ingredient Chicken Noodle Soup (which he’s been developing for a few weeks now), and Monkey Balls (I think it’s actually called Monkey Bread, but I call it Monkey Balls for sentimental family reasons…but that’s another story). Okay, one child in the kitchen I can pretty much handle. But, while I was “multi-tasking”, addressing a few e-mails on the computer, Tom quietly enlisted his two younger brothers into the dinner-making adventure. The result was a pretty tasty dinner, and this…..

I tried to explain the concept of “clean up as you go”, but it doesn’t seem to have sunk in. And, yes, those are LEGO creations sitting at the far end of the counter....I think they were somehow involved in the dinner making process, but I'm not sure how. Of course, the rule in our home has always been “The cook doesn’t have to clean up.” Let’s see….all three boy were involved in cooking, we only have three children, so clean-up is left to…..hmmmmm.

Please excuse me while I go clean up the kitchen…

Rediscovering Knitting (TJed)

I've just rediscovered knitting. Not that it was lost, mind you. But, I’ve discovered that I can still knit after many years of not knitting. Kind of like riding a bicycle…it seems to come back to you, even after many, many, many (you get the idea) years.

Now, I was never a great knitter to begin with, and my skills certainly did not magically hone themselves during the long pause between needle flashes. But, my little projects seem to be passable enough. There are three objects somewhat resembling scarves (one for each child), and an item that could pass itself off as a hat if you don’t look too closely. But, the kids don’t seem to mind I’m not a great knitter. That’s the great thing about kids. If you catch them young enough, they don’t seem to be too picky about the details; they’re happy enough with whatever comes off the needles if they can wear it. And the great thing about homeschooling is, the kids my kids hang out with all think that homemade stuff is cool, too, so they don't get laughed at or ridiculed when they show up at Park Day wearing something mom made.


So, here’s Mike sporting my first finished pieces. He picked the yarn, and for him, it’s all about the colors. Not that I can argue with him. There’s just something every satisfactory about knitting with variegated yarn. I love the shocking contrasts of colors (especially in Mike’s selection), and then the unexpected blending and bleeding together of rows. And, every once in a while, you get a very cool pattern that you couldn’t have done on purpose if you’d planned for a month. Mike’s hat has one of those. My husband couldn’t figure out for the life of him how I managed to “make it do that”. I tried explaining I didn’t have anything to do with it, but I also couldn’t explain the magic of variegated yarn.



So, here is my knitting basket. There are three projects in there, because when I “take something up” I can’t possibly do just one project at a time. That would be like reading only one book at a time, and what sane person would ever do that?!? So, there are two more scarves on the needles, black for Tom and red for Will, both about half finished. But I think what will end up being my favorite is my Milkweed Project contribution, the lovely, soft, fuzzy white confection that I hope will be included in the final exhibit. This one is the best to work on while reading (yes, just like my mother, I can knit and read at the same time…I think it’s genetic) because I don’t have to count anything. The scarves (which I have to count) are great to do while watching TV. It’s amazing how many rows you can get done while watching Hamlet (especially Kenneth Branagh’s version).



But, maybe the best thing about this recent spat of knitting is that my oldest son wants to learn to knit. He wants to contribute to the Milkweed Project, so I picked up a couple of knitting looms (of course, I had to figure out how to use the darn thing before I could teach him), he selected a “pound-o-yarn” (yes, they actually sell one pound skeins of yarn…who’d have thought), and he’s gotten a start. He can do it by himself now, and the great thing is that he can do it during family reading time. It gives him the all-important Something To Do With His Hands while I’m reading aloud. Whew. All you out there with BOYS! know how challenging it can be to get them focused and sitting (“still” is not necessarily required) during reading-aloud time. And here I thought I had lost out on the joy of teaching my kids handcrafts, just because they’re all boys. It’s enough to warm a mother’s heart. Just wait until Grandma hears about this...

Info on the Milkweed Project here (because I don't know how to make one of those cool click-on hyper links): http://sticksandstitches.squarespace.com/the-milkweed-project-you-p/2009/1/12/the-milkweed-project-info-and-guidelines.html

The Tooth Fairie

My sister-in-law has a 9-year old daughter. Like many parents, she has been playing Tooth Fairy for most of her daughter's life, swapping out cash for teeth in the middle of the night. And, of course, there have been the occasional panic-swaps when mom forgot until the child was actually waking up, and the cash had to be slipped under the pillow in the middle of a Good Morning Hug.

Well, the most recent tooth-swap was of the last variety. Mom actually forgot entirely until it was pointed out by the child that the Tooth Fairy didn't show. Mom made up some slick cover, suggested that maybe the cash slipped down between the bed and wall in the middle of the night, or some other fib, but she managed to pull off a last minute swap. However, she was left with the tooth to be hidden in the middle of showering, dressing and getting ready to head out the door (for which these two lovely folks are always running late). So, she stashed it in one of the bathroom drawers.

Some days later, child finds tooth and demands an explanation from mom. Mom pulls the tried-and-true "what do you think" tactic, and daughter comes back with "You are the Tooth Fairy!" Not that mom has been playing "tooth fairy" for daughter all of these years, but that
mom is THE Tooth Fairy for every child on the planet, and she's running around all night swapping out cash for teeth for every child who has lost a tooth the previous day. Which explains why mom is so tired all of the time.

Now, I'm not telling this story to start a debate about whether or not we should be lying to our children and leading them to believe in traditional fictitious characters, or to start up a discussion about the Tooth Fairy. I just wanted to share, because I thought it was really funny. But as an aside, I certainly don't want to be around when this particular strong-willed daughter is finally completely dis-illusioned about the Tooth Fairy, Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, Angels and/or God. It will not be pretty!

Autumn Means…Hand-Me-Down Day! (CHE 9/23/08)

The air is turning cooler, the nights pleasantly chilly enough to throw the windows wide open and sleep comfortably snuggled under a light blanket. The kids are asking for their footies, even though they’re still too hot in them at night. Thomas (9) wants to start building fires in the fireplace again. It’s Autumn. And, at our house, Autumn means Hand-Me-Down day. Out comes the trunk full of winter and not-quite-fitting clothes, line up the kids, and figure out who gets what. The kids are jumping up and down, squirming with excitement so much it’s hard to hold up the sweatshirt across the back to measure the arms, or even hold the folded jeans up to a waist to measure the legs. I’ve got my sharpie marker at the ready, adding dots* as needed, creating three piles on the floor. Quick little hands are grabbing items out of the trunk, “My snowman jammies!”, “My fish shirt!”, “My volcano jacket!”, quicker than I can check size and sort them. Everyone grabs an armload of new-old treasures and races off to their room to put them away.

I wore hand-me-downs as a kid. I was never quite as excited as my kids are about it, except on those rare occasions when I got a batch of really fashionable clothes from a well-thought of older family friend. The rest of the time, it was really basic stuff. And I was acutely aware that I was supposed to be ashamed to wear them, because it was a constant reminder of my family’s relative poverty. I knew this because the kids at school and in the neighborhood always reminded me of it. Like an Islamic women’s black burqua draping her in the traditional Muslim color of shame, my hand-me-downs and homemade clothes draped me in shame.

My kids don’t wear shame in the way I did, because they don’t know they’re supposed to be ashamed of wearing other people’s cast-offs. There are no kids telling them they should be ashamed, so they’re not. For them, each new article of clothing is a gift, something their older brother loved, and so they will love it, too. Just as they will love the new clothes they’ll get to fill out their wardrobe, knowing they will one day pass it along to their younger brother. Except, maybe for the occasional ultra-cherished PJ that they just can’t seem to let go of.

Am I ashamed of dressing my kids in hand-me-downs? No, I’m not. We could probably afford to buy all new clothes for each of the boys each season-change, but we chose not to. For me, it’s a responsible thing to do, getting the most use from an article of clothing. It honors the hard work my husband puts in every day to earn the money that supports our family. Unnecessarily spending money on things to feed my own vanity would be dishonoring his efforts and his gift to his family. I’m proud of my kids’ hand-me-downs in a way I was not able to be proud of my own.

So, we’ve completed one Autumn ritual, a sign that the year is turning, and the holidays are right around the corner. The boys will be sporting their well-worn and well-loved britches and sweatshirts and sweaters, in addition to a few new items. And, I am content with the blessings enjoyed by our family.


*For those wondering about the dots, here’s the explanation. We have three boys, with two and three years between each. The older two, particularly, are pretty close in size. So I can keep track of which clothes go with each child when folding and sorting laundry, I started putting dots on the tags of their clothes. One dot is the eldest, two dots is the middle child, three dots is the youngest. When a shirt or pant gets too small for its present inhabitant, I add a dot and it goes to the next in line. Yes, I know, I’m a genius.