Okay, so I haven't written anything since I started my travelogue. To be honest, I've been too "close" to the experience to want to relive it right away---and I stayed away from blogging anything because I felt like I had to FINISH the travelogue. And I will finish it. Just not today...and probably not tomorrow, either. But, I"m back, committed to writing regularly ("regularly" being defined as "whenever I feel like it.") And here are the two biggest reasons I'm back:
www.lytlemomma.blogspot.com and www.rageagainsttheminivan.com. These two blogs are completely different and yet both of them speak to me and inspire me.
The first of the pair is written by Stacey Lytle, a fellow homeschooling mom and personal friend. She's also a small business owner, an event planner, a motivational speaker, and aspiring author. She's been one of my mentors since I started this homeschooling gig and I've learned significant lessons from her, like how to look on the positive side of any situation, how important it is to be inclusive and loving, how to be a cheerleader for my kids and everyone else, how to ask the right questions, how to plan social events, how to laugh at myself, how to muster enthusiasm and interest when I'd rather be sleeping or crying or running screaming from the room. Stacey is positive, insightful, spiritually-minded, loving, and a lot of fun--all the things I wish I was. I get a kick out of reading her blog because it's so HER...she makes me feel like I can accomplish ANYTHING. She writes about her own homeschooling and life experiences and her spiritual journey. Oh, and if you thought it couldn't get any better, every now and then she tucks recipes into her posts. Ain't nothin' better than Momma's Waffles. (Just ask my kids.)
The second blog is technically a website, with a blog thrown in...or something. I don't really know how it all breaks down in tech-lingo. Anyway, the writer of Rage Against the Mini-van is Kristen Howerton, who is not a homeschool mom and not a personal friend (but I wish she was.) Kristen is the mother of four kids. She's also a Marriage and Family Therapist and freelance writer. She writes about all kinds of things, from the quotidian aspects of parenthood, to issues of race, politics, religion, social justice, adoption, and pop culture. She also has a guest post series called "What I Want You to Know" wherein folks can write about what they want the world to know about their particular life experiences. Kristen is fascinating, thought provoking, and funny--in a wry, tell-it-as-it-is kind of way.
These women feed my heart and mind and make me want to write all kinds of stuff---tomorrow. Right now I need to catch some zzz's while the baby is sleeping. I"m hoping for a solid four hours tonight. Wish me luck.
Wednesday, January 25, 2012
Monday, October 24, 2011
The Ultimate Field Trip-- Washington DC Version, Part Two: How NOT to Get Through Airport Security
We begin our trip not at the airport as shown here, but the day before, wherein I frantically packed our gear and cleaned out our garage so we could stow the cars there while we were gone for two weeks. I did the same thing I do every time we are about to embark on a long vacation; I pulled an all-nighter getting everything ready. So I started our vacation feeling like a zombie and with a serious lack of patience.
Those who know us, know we travel light—carry-on only—but with five kids and two adults, this translated to 11 carry-ons, two car seats, a stroller, and a partridge in a pear tree.
This is a lot of stuff, but I was determined to make getting through security at the airport as easy and painless as possible. I made sure the kids left their box cutters, automatic weapons, and crayons at home. We looked up the “restricted items” list on the TSA website and I made sure the kids weren’t even wearing belts or carrying pocket change. We coached the kids to remove their coats and shoes and put them on the conveyor belt and how to walk through the security portal. We advised them not to tell jokes or mention guns, knives, or bombs as we were going through. Fortunately, when we got to the airport, it was so early in the morning the kids weren’t up to potentially damning wisecracks. I figured we had this security thing down.
My plan was to have Julio go through security first so he could corral the kids as they went through and I’d bring up the rear. This was a very efficient plan. Unfortunately, the security personnel do not define efficiency the same way I do. First, after the kids had taken their shoes off and were waiting patiently for their turn to walk through the metal detector, they got yelled at for removing their shoes. Yes, yelled at. They were told to put their shoes back on and then my husband and I were yelled at for having had the kids remove their shoes in the first place.
The kids were flustered and stressed, scrambling to do what they were told. The security dudes then barked at the kids to get moving through the metal detector. Blythe, our four year old, was so confused by what they wanted him to do and where they wanted him to go, he had a complete meltdown. I couldn’t even get to him because they made the kids go through first before Julio (my husband) and me. (Why do they always do it that way?) Blythe was scared and the other kids were bewildered and didn’t know what to do, so then the security guards barked at them to get out of the way and move over to somewhere else, but they weren’t shown WHERE.
Next, it was Julio’s turn to go through, and, as always, he set off the metal detector even after having removed his shoes, belt, and pocket change. He was pulled aside to be wanded and possibly patted down. I have no idea because at that point, it was my turn and I had a security guard snarling at ME.
I was told I had to take the (sleeping) baby out of her car seat and put it on the X ray conveyor. I was also told I had to fold up the stroller and put it on as well. I asked why I couldn’t just take the stroller through the metal detector, and was given a withering look and again commanded to fold the stroller and put it on the conveyor.
The security people are either really stupid or really sadistic, because it was next to impossible for me to do this while holding the baby in my arms. I struggled with it, trying not to drop the baby, and trying to stay upright enough that Blythe could still see me from the other side of the metal detectors and machinery. The guards just stood there barking orders at me, and the people behind me in line were instructed to stay where they were, as if they’d be aiding and abetting a criminal if they helped me. I don’t understand why I couldn’t just take the stupid stroller through the metal detector! I tried to warn them that it was too big to go through the machine and would get stuck, but did they listen? It got stuck. They tried to back the conveyor up to get it unstuck. It took them probably five minutes to wrestle the stroller through the machine.
THEN, they wouldn’t let me carry the baby through the metal detector portal—I had to pass her through to Julio. I wonder, what would they have had me do with her if there was no one on the other side to pass her over to? Put her on the conveyor belt and have her go through the X-ray? I was so mad I was ready to scream. No wonder they won’t allow guns and knives in carry on luggage. I was ready to use both!
We finally got through, and it took us a good fifteen minutes to gather all our things and put our shoes and belts back on, re-pack our bags (toiletries, lap top, cell phones) and put the stroller and the baby carrier back together. Blythe was still crying and the baby joined him. Ellen, our eleven year old, was freaking out about missing the plane (we had plenty of time, so that wasn’t an issue, but she was stressed out even so.) In an effort to grab all our bags off the conveyor after inspection, I stepped over some invisible barrier and was ordered by two or three guards to “back away from the restricted area.” One guard came at me like he was going to physically remove me.
I lost it. I had already gotten the bags, so I just yelled at them “Okay, okay! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” in a tone that made it abundantly clear I was NOT sorry. I will not repeat to you the words I uttered after that. You’d make me go soap my mouth. Honestly, I tried to keep in mind that the security guards are people just trying to do their job and it was early in the morning, but sheesh.
One guard at the far end of the security check area, a portly, aging black man, had been watching the whole thing and it was clear he was a decent man, but apparently couldn’t move more than five feet in any direction from the stool he was stationed on. As we were finally putting our stuff together and trying to soothe Blythe, the man called to him to catch his attention and then told him to look down at the floor. I saw the man flip a coin to the ground, just outside of his patrol range. He told Blythe there was some treasure for him. We walked over and Blythe picked up the shiny new nickel. He clutched that nickel for dear life. I thanked the man and he smiled a knowing smile. I could imagine him rolling his eyes at the mean guards and saying “Jackasses.” Blythe was a little happier after that, but not much.
On the plane, the boys sat on one side of the row and the girls on the other. I thought they all behaved beautifully, but the woman who sat in front of Blythe chewed Julio out when we landed. Apparently, despite Julio’s best efforts to keep the boys from disturbing the other passengers, Blythe once pushed his feet into the back of the seat in front of him. When we landed in Chicago, the woman popped up, turned around and demanded “Are you going to Virginia?” Julio replied we were going to Washington DC. Then she said “If we’re on the next flight together I am NOT sitting in front of YOU. I refuse.” I hadn’t even noticed the woman talking until she raised her voice. She huffed out of her seat and off the plane. I’m glad Julio was the one sitting on that side, because with the mood I was in, I might have punched her in the face.
I really need to learn to go to sleep before traveling.
Those who know us, know we travel light—carry-on only—but with five kids and two adults, this translated to 11 carry-ons, two car seats, a stroller, and a partridge in a pear tree.
This is a lot of stuff, but I was determined to make getting through security at the airport as easy and painless as possible. I made sure the kids left their box cutters, automatic weapons, and crayons at home. We looked up the “restricted items” list on the TSA website and I made sure the kids weren’t even wearing belts or carrying pocket change. We coached the kids to remove their coats and shoes and put them on the conveyor belt and how to walk through the security portal. We advised them not to tell jokes or mention guns, knives, or bombs as we were going through. Fortunately, when we got to the airport, it was so early in the morning the kids weren’t up to potentially damning wisecracks. I figured we had this security thing down.
My plan was to have Julio go through security first so he could corral the kids as they went through and I’d bring up the rear. This was a very efficient plan. Unfortunately, the security personnel do not define efficiency the same way I do. First, after the kids had taken their shoes off and were waiting patiently for their turn to walk through the metal detector, they got yelled at for removing their shoes. Yes, yelled at. They were told to put their shoes back on and then my husband and I were yelled at for having had the kids remove their shoes in the first place.
The kids were flustered and stressed, scrambling to do what they were told. The security dudes then barked at the kids to get moving through the metal detector. Blythe, our four year old, was so confused by what they wanted him to do and where they wanted him to go, he had a complete meltdown. I couldn’t even get to him because they made the kids go through first before Julio (my husband) and me. (Why do they always do it that way?) Blythe was scared and the other kids were bewildered and didn’t know what to do, so then the security guards barked at them to get out of the way and move over to somewhere else, but they weren’t shown WHERE.
Next, it was Julio’s turn to go through, and, as always, he set off the metal detector even after having removed his shoes, belt, and pocket change. He was pulled aside to be wanded and possibly patted down. I have no idea because at that point, it was my turn and I had a security guard snarling at ME.
I was told I had to take the (sleeping) baby out of her car seat and put it on the X ray conveyor. I was also told I had to fold up the stroller and put it on as well. I asked why I couldn’t just take the stroller through the metal detector, and was given a withering look and again commanded to fold the stroller and put it on the conveyor.
The security people are either really stupid or really sadistic, because it was next to impossible for me to do this while holding the baby in my arms. I struggled with it, trying not to drop the baby, and trying to stay upright enough that Blythe could still see me from the other side of the metal detectors and machinery. The guards just stood there barking orders at me, and the people behind me in line were instructed to stay where they were, as if they’d be aiding and abetting a criminal if they helped me. I don’t understand why I couldn’t just take the stupid stroller through the metal detector! I tried to warn them that it was too big to go through the machine and would get stuck, but did they listen? It got stuck. They tried to back the conveyor up to get it unstuck. It took them probably five minutes to wrestle the stroller through the machine.
THEN, they wouldn’t let me carry the baby through the metal detector portal—I had to pass her through to Julio. I wonder, what would they have had me do with her if there was no one on the other side to pass her over to? Put her on the conveyor belt and have her go through the X-ray? I was so mad I was ready to scream. No wonder they won’t allow guns and knives in carry on luggage. I was ready to use both!
We finally got through, and it took us a good fifteen minutes to gather all our things and put our shoes and belts back on, re-pack our bags (toiletries, lap top, cell phones) and put the stroller and the baby carrier back together. Blythe was still crying and the baby joined him. Ellen, our eleven year old, was freaking out about missing the plane (we had plenty of time, so that wasn’t an issue, but she was stressed out even so.) In an effort to grab all our bags off the conveyor after inspection, I stepped over some invisible barrier and was ordered by two or three guards to “back away from the restricted area.” One guard came at me like he was going to physically remove me.
I lost it. I had already gotten the bags, so I just yelled at them “Okay, okay! I’m sorry! I’m sorry!” in a tone that made it abundantly clear I was NOT sorry. I will not repeat to you the words I uttered after that. You’d make me go soap my mouth. Honestly, I tried to keep in mind that the security guards are people just trying to do their job and it was early in the morning, but sheesh.
One guard at the far end of the security check area, a portly, aging black man, had been watching the whole thing and it was clear he was a decent man, but apparently couldn’t move more than five feet in any direction from the stool he was stationed on. As we were finally putting our stuff together and trying to soothe Blythe, the man called to him to catch his attention and then told him to look down at the floor. I saw the man flip a coin to the ground, just outside of his patrol range. He told Blythe there was some treasure for him. We walked over and Blythe picked up the shiny new nickel. He clutched that nickel for dear life. I thanked the man and he smiled a knowing smile. I could imagine him rolling his eyes at the mean guards and saying “Jackasses.” Blythe was a little happier after that, but not much.
On the plane, the boys sat on one side of the row and the girls on the other. I thought they all behaved beautifully, but the woman who sat in front of Blythe chewed Julio out when we landed. Apparently, despite Julio’s best efforts to keep the boys from disturbing the other passengers, Blythe once pushed his feet into the back of the seat in front of him. When we landed in Chicago, the woman popped up, turned around and demanded “Are you going to Virginia?” Julio replied we were going to Washington DC. Then she said “If we’re on the next flight together I am NOT sitting in front of YOU. I refuse.” I hadn’t even noticed the woman talking until she raised her voice. She huffed out of her seat and off the plane. I’m glad Julio was the one sitting on that side, because with the mood I was in, I might have punched her in the face.
I really need to learn to go to sleep before traveling.
Sunday, October 23, 2011
The Ultimate Field Trip: Washington DC Version, Part One, or An Introduction to the Way We Travel
Fair warning, this series of posts will be part travelogue, part diary, and part rant—with a few pictures thrown in for dramatic effect.
We travel. A lot. Comparatively speaking. It’s my husband’s fault, he likes to see the world, and I succumb to peer pressure (gladly!) and tag along. And what an example I’m setting for the kids---because they do, too!
When we travel by plane, we take only carry-on luggage. No matter how long we intend to be gone. TSA will only allow one carry on bag and one personal item (like a purse or a back pack) per person—but we find this is sufficient for three full changes of clothes, extra undies and socks, and whatever books or games it takes to keep the troops happy on the flights.
We want our kids to know how to navigate through airports, so we coach them how to check in, get through security, read the arrivals/departures boards, and find gates. Surprisingly, we do better in larger airports like Chicago O’Hare than in, say, Boise, Idaho---where on this trip, we met the Security Checkpoint from Hell.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Please return your seat backs and tray tables to their upright and locked positions—thank you for flying by the seat of your pants….
I’m writing this as I re-wash some laundry—a rogue red hand towel made it into a load of whites. I tried to convince my husband that he should adopt the motto of the cowboys at the Snake River Stampede, “Real men wear pink,” but he insists the slogan doesn’t apply to underwear. Okay, fine. So, here I sit, my socks and undies not the only things being agitated.
So far, it feels I’ve spent the school year hurried and harried. I realized today that I have horked down every meal since we started school, frantic to shovel fuel into my body so I can rush off to deal with whatever kid, crisis, or event is careening toward me. There is something seriously wrong with this system. Funny thing—at church in a couple of weeks, I’m supposed to teach a lesson on “avoiding crisis living.” Of course, the lesson plan focuses mainly on financial planning and staying out of debt. But I see parallels with time management. Wise use of time, like wise use of money, makes us better able to deal with unexpected events and issues. Supposedly….
I have a bunch of kids involved in a bunch of things, and I’ve discovered it’s impossible to expect to get them all out the door and be somewhere on time five minutes before we’re supposed to be there. (Cue flickering lightbulb in a thought bubble over my head.) So I’ve been experimenting with how much time is needed to get everyone ready for any given event, their bodies and supplies safely buckled and stowed in the car, and to arrive at wherever early enough to look like we have our act together, but late enough that I don’t have to resort to hog tying the little ones to keep them under control. I’ve found that with five kids, it takes me approximately 50 minutes to gear up to take them anywhere. If I were to divide that out, that would run around 10 minutes per kid—but they EACH take the entire 50 minutes. (What branch of math explains that equation?)
Then, it seems that any place we go requires a thirty minute minimum in driving time—and I can only stand about 10 minutes of Raffi songs in the CD player. Obviously, our car time would be better spent listening to an audio book, that is, if we could hear it over the bickering or robust renditions of “Jingle Bells/Batman smells.”
I am flying by the seat of my pants—which has always worked for me--I’m still able to get everything done and even have it turn out well (with the possible exception of my socks and undies tonight.) but I am not enjoying the rush, the adrenaline, the borderline panic that used to get me really jazzed. I am not finding my high in this lifestyle anymore.
I must be getting old and responsible, because I find myself wanting to fill out my calendar several months in advance. I want to do things like stock my pantry and my arts and crafts cupboard so I feel “prepared.” I am feeling a desperate need to have a structured schedule, and as little “stuff” as possible. (Craft stuff doesn’t count as “stuff” so please don’t quibble with me on it.) It is as frightening an experience as it is liberating.
My kids, who have been used to my “Jack Sparrow” approach to things--because it’s the only thing they have ever known--are struggling with my newfound desire to be organized in home and spirit. I won’t say they are resisting me—they just don’t know what to make of me when I tell them to get their karate uniforms on a good hour before we even have to leave for class. They are boggled by the fact that I’m now planning meals—and disheartened at the elimination of “half price Happy meal Tuesdays.” (Okay, kind of miss that one, too.)
I am trying to be patient with them as they learn to adapt to my attempts at avoiding crisis living. I am trying to be patient with myself when, despite my best planning, things still go awry and we STILL fly by the seat of our pants. Even on our best days, things are slightly insane around here, especially in the evenings after school. But, as long as I can laugh about it all, I think we’ll be okay. Even if I have to schedule the laughing in. Now, where’d I put the pencil?
So far, it feels I’ve spent the school year hurried and harried. I realized today that I have horked down every meal since we started school, frantic to shovel fuel into my body so I can rush off to deal with whatever kid, crisis, or event is careening toward me. There is something seriously wrong with this system. Funny thing—at church in a couple of weeks, I’m supposed to teach a lesson on “avoiding crisis living.” Of course, the lesson plan focuses mainly on financial planning and staying out of debt. But I see parallels with time management. Wise use of time, like wise use of money, makes us better able to deal with unexpected events and issues. Supposedly….
I have a bunch of kids involved in a bunch of things, and I’ve discovered it’s impossible to expect to get them all out the door and be somewhere on time five minutes before we’re supposed to be there. (Cue flickering lightbulb in a thought bubble over my head.) So I’ve been experimenting with how much time is needed to get everyone ready for any given event, their bodies and supplies safely buckled and stowed in the car, and to arrive at wherever early enough to look like we have our act together, but late enough that I don’t have to resort to hog tying the little ones to keep them under control. I’ve found that with five kids, it takes me approximately 50 minutes to gear up to take them anywhere. If I were to divide that out, that would run around 10 minutes per kid—but they EACH take the entire 50 minutes. (What branch of math explains that equation?)
Then, it seems that any place we go requires a thirty minute minimum in driving time—and I can only stand about 10 minutes of Raffi songs in the CD player. Obviously, our car time would be better spent listening to an audio book, that is, if we could hear it over the bickering or robust renditions of “Jingle Bells/Batman smells.”
I am flying by the seat of my pants—which has always worked for me--I’m still able to get everything done and even have it turn out well (with the possible exception of my socks and undies tonight.) but I am not enjoying the rush, the adrenaline, the borderline panic that used to get me really jazzed. I am not finding my high in this lifestyle anymore.
I must be getting old and responsible, because I find myself wanting to fill out my calendar several months in advance. I want to do things like stock my pantry and my arts and crafts cupboard so I feel “prepared.” I am feeling a desperate need to have a structured schedule, and as little “stuff” as possible. (Craft stuff doesn’t count as “stuff” so please don’t quibble with me on it.) It is as frightening an experience as it is liberating.
My kids, who have been used to my “Jack Sparrow” approach to things--because it’s the only thing they have ever known--are struggling with my newfound desire to be organized in home and spirit. I won’t say they are resisting me—they just don’t know what to make of me when I tell them to get their karate uniforms on a good hour before we even have to leave for class. They are boggled by the fact that I’m now planning meals—and disheartened at the elimination of “half price Happy meal Tuesdays.” (Okay, kind of miss that one, too.)
I am trying to be patient with them as they learn to adapt to my attempts at avoiding crisis living. I am trying to be patient with myself when, despite my best planning, things still go awry and we STILL fly by the seat of our pants. Even on our best days, things are slightly insane around here, especially in the evenings after school. But, as long as I can laugh about it all, I think we’ll be okay. Even if I have to schedule the laughing in. Now, where’d I put the pencil?
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Revelations
I don't normally wear my religion on my sleeve, but I thought I'd touch on a few spiritual experiences I've had lately. For those of you who don't know, I am a Beehive advisor in my ward. For those of you who may be unfamiliar with Mormon-ese, that means I teach the 12 and 13 year old girls in the youth program in my local church congregation. As part of this responsibility, we are asked to guide the girls through a program called Personal Progress, which is a highly structured yet very individualized series of activities and exercises designed to help a young woman develop her faith in Jesus Christ, develop her talents, and overcome weaknesses. In order to guide and direct the girls through the program, the advisors are encouraged to participate in the program as well.
After much dragging of feet over having yet ANOTHER thing to commit to, I started on the first exercise; a bit of study in the scriptures concerning faith, a commitment to begin and end each day for three weeks with a prayer, and a few sentences written in my journal about my feelings about how my faith has increased with prayer. I admit I have been sort of hit or miss with my personal prayers for awhile, though prayers with the family and grace over the food have been a long time habit. I have also been known to utter "Lord help me!" when a kid is having a meltdown at the grocery store or I'm fishing another sock out of the toilet, but actual "on-the-knees" conversations with God have been few and far between before I started this Personal Progress thing. But, now that I'm involved, I have to say, it's been pretty awesome.
So, I'm coming up on the three week mark of this prayer gig, and I realized a few things:
My days go better when I start them with prayer. I feel more centered, more optimistic, more goal-oriented, and more enthusiastic about taking on a houseful of gangly, energetic kids.
I am more alert. Even when I've only had three hours of sleep the night before. Prayer (even if it's done eyes open, driving home from dropping the four year old at preschool) is better fuel for a tired me than caffeine (but I'm still hedging with a daily Coca Cola. What can I say? Bad habits die hard.) I notice things I haven't before. My eleven year old is more obedient and long-suffering than I give her credit for. (Ah, the blessing/curse of being the oldest child.) My nine year old is patient and hard working and is very in tune with my moods and eager to please me. My six year old a deep thinker behind all the comic book reading. The four year old is a natural leader. And I'm finally able to keep pace with my baby's shifting schedule.
I feel more spiritually "plugged in." I have been asking in my prayers for guidance concerning my kids' greatest needs from me, and I'm starting to get some answers. My oldest girl wants more than anything to be validated. My oldest boy wants to feel important. My middle girl needs to move her body around to focus and learn. My little boy needs consistency and clear-cut rules. The baby needed a break from solid food (she'd been cranky and not sleeping well until I laid her off the baby rice cereal.) These were all revelations that have come to me within the last three weeks and each one was so significant, I felt like running through the house, hollering, Eureeka!"
This prayer thing really works. I always believed in God, but I figured He had bigger things to deal with than whatever I might want to whine about. Now, it's clear to me that my little issues matter as much to him as anything else. That's a huge faith builder right there.
After much dragging of feet over having yet ANOTHER thing to commit to, I started on the first exercise; a bit of study in the scriptures concerning faith, a commitment to begin and end each day for three weeks with a prayer, and a few sentences written in my journal about my feelings about how my faith has increased with prayer. I admit I have been sort of hit or miss with my personal prayers for awhile, though prayers with the family and grace over the food have been a long time habit. I have also been known to utter "Lord help me!" when a kid is having a meltdown at the grocery store or I'm fishing another sock out of the toilet, but actual "on-the-knees" conversations with God have been few and far between before I started this Personal Progress thing. But, now that I'm involved, I have to say, it's been pretty awesome.
So, I'm coming up on the three week mark of this prayer gig, and I realized a few things:
My days go better when I start them with prayer. I feel more centered, more optimistic, more goal-oriented, and more enthusiastic about taking on a houseful of gangly, energetic kids.
I am more alert. Even when I've only had three hours of sleep the night before. Prayer (even if it's done eyes open, driving home from dropping the four year old at preschool) is better fuel for a tired me than caffeine (but I'm still hedging with a daily Coca Cola. What can I say? Bad habits die hard.) I notice things I haven't before. My eleven year old is more obedient and long-suffering than I give her credit for. (Ah, the blessing/curse of being the oldest child.) My nine year old is patient and hard working and is very in tune with my moods and eager to please me. My six year old a deep thinker behind all the comic book reading. The four year old is a natural leader. And I'm finally able to keep pace with my baby's shifting schedule.
I feel more spiritually "plugged in." I have been asking in my prayers for guidance concerning my kids' greatest needs from me, and I'm starting to get some answers. My oldest girl wants more than anything to be validated. My oldest boy wants to feel important. My middle girl needs to move her body around to focus and learn. My little boy needs consistency and clear-cut rules. The baby needed a break from solid food (she'd been cranky and not sleeping well until I laid her off the baby rice cereal.) These were all revelations that have come to me within the last three weeks and each one was so significant, I felt like running through the house, hollering, Eureeka!"
This prayer thing really works. I always believed in God, but I figured He had bigger things to deal with than whatever I might want to whine about. Now, it's clear to me that my little issues matter as much to him as anything else. That's a huge faith builder right there.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Extreme Home Makeover, WHERE ARE YOU?
Aaaaaand...I'm back. Hi. Missed me? Of course you did. I've missed me. It's been a crazy six months since the baby arrived. It's still crazy, but I think it's getting easier to keep my head above water, so to speak. We are officially a couple or three weeks into the new school year..and other than a crappy first day, spent sleep deprived and with sick children, I think we're doing okay. The academics are going fine, but I find myself feeling frustrated and agitated by my surroundings. It is a PIT here. And this is AFTER I spent the summer de-junking and attempting to reorganize.
You are now forewarned that this is as much a wish list post as anything else.
Here's how it works right now. The kids work on schoolwork all over the house. We used to sit at the kitchen table for everything that didn't involve using the computer--but since the baby was born, I've had to have the kids come sit by me on the couch while I nurse. Or the kids will sprawl out on the floor in whatever room hasn't been taken over by laundry or siblings. There are stacks of books, papers, school supplies, scratch paper, half finished projects, and who knows what else on every available horizontal surface. And it's making me crazy.
My first attempt to control it all was to buy more bookshelves. Unfortunately, this just created more horizontal space to stack stuff on. Then I tried more shelves with fabric BINS. But now we can't see anything, so we forget we have eight pairs of scissors and sixty different kinds of glue. Sigh. I need a better system. And while we're at it--
I need pretty. Seriously. I am so tired of cheap plastic bins and plywood furniture, white walls, piles of junk, and dilapidated vertical blinds. Actually, aside from pretty, I need more space--we are pretty cramped in our little dollhouse. But, since gaining more space isn't going to happen anytime soon, I need functionality and I need PRETTY.
I don't exactly know how to accomplish these things, so I'm going to use this post to think, uh, aloud.
Curtains. The family room faces east, so we get a lot of sun during the morning. Vertical blinds suck--we've had them for years and they have become brittle and pretty useless. I need sheer curtains for daytime--something to let in light without blinding us--but I need another layer of something heavy and not see through so we don't look like a lighted aquarium from the outside at night.
Wall color. I love orange. I am dying to paint something bright, eye-popping orange. The whole room is probably overkill, so an accent wall--but which wall? I also like blue--that Martha Stewart pale aqua color is pretty awesome--but it kind of doesn't go with orange. I also like bright pink--somewhere between magenta and Pepto-Bismol....hmmm....
Mirrors--depth for the narrow rooms! (But it will reflect all the clutter--double the clutter?!!?!?! NOOOO!!!!)
Storage. Pardon me while I collapse on the floor and weep, wail, and gnash my teeth. We have zero storage in this house and I have no idea how to create any without making us feel like the house is coming down on us from all sides.
Elegance. Okay, with Pepto-Bismol pink and bright orange, I don't know if this is possible--but I like clean lines and not a lot of doodads and gew-gaws to deal with. But I hate the minimalist/modern look. I like a place to look lived in and personal.
Light fixtures. I hate my light fixtures--all of them. They either collect tons of dust or they are shaped like boobs. Ugh. But what do I replace them with? I don't have room for end tables and lamps.
I seriously want to call that Nate Berkus guy, or one of those other home makeover shows and say--"I have a challenge for you!" and then show them this place. I can imagine the designers talking to me about what my passions and goals are, asking me about our lifestyle, and then having them pick out the fact that I like bright colors, I like cushy, kid friendly furniture, but I like elegance, too. And then I picture them working their magic. But when I picture the big UNVEIL--after I get past the scene of me uncovering my eyes and hopping up and down squealing in gleeful disbelief and gratitude and hugging and possibly smooching the designer, I see---nothing.
I guess I"ll have to figure out my own design stuff...hmmm. Gonna go stare at the walls for a bit.
You are now forewarned that this is as much a wish list post as anything else.
Here's how it works right now. The kids work on schoolwork all over the house. We used to sit at the kitchen table for everything that didn't involve using the computer--but since the baby was born, I've had to have the kids come sit by me on the couch while I nurse. Or the kids will sprawl out on the floor in whatever room hasn't been taken over by laundry or siblings. There are stacks of books, papers, school supplies, scratch paper, half finished projects, and who knows what else on every available horizontal surface. And it's making me crazy.
My first attempt to control it all was to buy more bookshelves. Unfortunately, this just created more horizontal space to stack stuff on. Then I tried more shelves with fabric BINS. But now we can't see anything, so we forget we have eight pairs of scissors and sixty different kinds of glue. Sigh. I need a better system. And while we're at it--
I need pretty. Seriously. I am so tired of cheap plastic bins and plywood furniture, white walls, piles of junk, and dilapidated vertical blinds. Actually, aside from pretty, I need more space--we are pretty cramped in our little dollhouse. But, since gaining more space isn't going to happen anytime soon, I need functionality and I need PRETTY.
I don't exactly know how to accomplish these things, so I'm going to use this post to think, uh, aloud.
Curtains. The family room faces east, so we get a lot of sun during the morning. Vertical blinds suck--we've had them for years and they have become brittle and pretty useless. I need sheer curtains for daytime--something to let in light without blinding us--but I need another layer of something heavy and not see through so we don't look like a lighted aquarium from the outside at night.
Wall color. I love orange. I am dying to paint something bright, eye-popping orange. The whole room is probably overkill, so an accent wall--but which wall? I also like blue--that Martha Stewart pale aqua color is pretty awesome--but it kind of doesn't go with orange. I also like bright pink--somewhere between magenta and Pepto-Bismol....hmmm....
Mirrors--depth for the narrow rooms! (But it will reflect all the clutter--double the clutter?!!?!?! NOOOO!!!!)
Storage. Pardon me while I collapse on the floor and weep, wail, and gnash my teeth. We have zero storage in this house and I have no idea how to create any without making us feel like the house is coming down on us from all sides.
Elegance. Okay, with Pepto-Bismol pink and bright orange, I don't know if this is possible--but I like clean lines and not a lot of doodads and gew-gaws to deal with. But I hate the minimalist/modern look. I like a place to look lived in and personal.
Light fixtures. I hate my light fixtures--all of them. They either collect tons of dust or they are shaped like boobs. Ugh. But what do I replace them with? I don't have room for end tables and lamps.
I seriously want to call that Nate Berkus guy, or one of those other home makeover shows and say--"I have a challenge for you!" and then show them this place. I can imagine the designers talking to me about what my passions and goals are, asking me about our lifestyle, and then having them pick out the fact that I like bright colors, I like cushy, kid friendly furniture, but I like elegance, too. And then I picture them working their magic. But when I picture the big UNVEIL--after I get past the scene of me uncovering my eyes and hopping up and down squealing in gleeful disbelief and gratitude and hugging and possibly smooching the designer, I see---nothing.
I guess I"ll have to figure out my own design stuff...hmmm. Gonna go stare at the walls for a bit.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Math and a melodramatic post about how much I hate it.
Is it possible to start a post with a belly-ripping, headache-inducing scream? Because that’s what I want to do right now. I HATE math. And even more than hating math, I HATE TEACHING MATH. (Excuse me while I breathe into a paper bag for a minute.)
Maybe it’s because I have a long and humiliating history with the subject. In the first grade, I was asked, in front of the whole class, to “count by ones.” We had just gone over skip counting by 2s and 5s and 10s, so you’d think I’d have had this in the bag. But, I was a shy, dreamy little kid, still trying to wrap my head around skip counting and had never heard of “counting by ones.” Either you COUNTED “1,2,3,4…” or you SKIP COUNTED. I was not familiar with the term “counting by ones” and told the teacher I didn’t know how. She gave me a “You are such a little sh@#.” look and then asked another student to “show Marissa how to count by ones…” The kid then proceeded to sneer at me, emphasizing how dumb she thought I was with each number, “One. (Moron!) Two. (Dork!) Three. (Stupid!) Four. (Dummy!) Five…”
Duh.
After that, I mentally checked out of math class and never returned. My worst nightmares aren’t about losing a loved one or being chased by bogey men—it’s of having to go to a math class.
So how does this translate to homeschooling? A lot of hyperventilating went into my lesson planning. I finally turned math over to a computer program called ALEKS, which absolves me of most of the work involved in teaching. But, sometimes my kids still struggle with a concept and don’t understand the explanations and examples the ALEKS program offers and I have to step in. Did you know there is a huge difference between knowing how to do something and knowing how to teach it?
A typical teaching session goes something like this:
Me: (demonstrating a math problem) So that’s how you do it.
Kid: Why?
Me: Here, let me show you another example (demonstrating again). See?
Kid: Um, no. What?
Me: Okay, well, you carry the…wait, move this here..then carry the..oh, dammit. Class dismissed.
Kid: Yay!
Have I mentioned I hate math? I don’t want to hate it. In fact, I kind of got a taste of the beauty of math when I stumbled across this scene from the crime drama Numb3rs:
“Math is nature’s language; its method of communicating directly with us. Everything is numbers…”
Wow. That is SO cool! I remind myself of this constantly, because I really don’t want to hate math. I want to love it, and I want my kids to love it—for the very reasons brought up in the video clip. Unfortunately, I have yet to work through my deep seated issues with math, so I’m turning over the teaching in this department to my husband (who was a math minor in college.)
More on my epic math phobias later. It’s time to bust out some grammar!
Maybe it’s because I have a long and humiliating history with the subject. In the first grade, I was asked, in front of the whole class, to “count by ones.” We had just gone over skip counting by 2s and 5s and 10s, so you’d think I’d have had this in the bag. But, I was a shy, dreamy little kid, still trying to wrap my head around skip counting and had never heard of “counting by ones.” Either you COUNTED “1,2,3,4…” or you SKIP COUNTED. I was not familiar with the term “counting by ones” and told the teacher I didn’t know how. She gave me a “You are such a little sh@#.” look and then asked another student to “show Marissa how to count by ones…” The kid then proceeded to sneer at me, emphasizing how dumb she thought I was with each number, “One. (Moron!) Two. (Dork!) Three. (Stupid!) Four. (Dummy!) Five…”
Duh.
After that, I mentally checked out of math class and never returned. My worst nightmares aren’t about losing a loved one or being chased by bogey men—it’s of having to go to a math class.
So how does this translate to homeschooling? A lot of hyperventilating went into my lesson planning. I finally turned math over to a computer program called ALEKS, which absolves me of most of the work involved in teaching. But, sometimes my kids still struggle with a concept and don’t understand the explanations and examples the ALEKS program offers and I have to step in. Did you know there is a huge difference between knowing how to do something and knowing how to teach it?
A typical teaching session goes something like this:
Me: (demonstrating a math problem) So that’s how you do it.
Kid: Why?
Me: Here, let me show you another example (demonstrating again). See?
Kid: Um, no. What?
Me: Okay, well, you carry the…wait, move this here..then carry the..oh, dammit. Class dismissed.
Kid: Yay!
Have I mentioned I hate math? I don’t want to hate it. In fact, I kind of got a taste of the beauty of math when I stumbled across this scene from the crime drama Numb3rs:
Wow. That is SO cool! I remind myself of this constantly, because I really don’t want to hate math. I want to love it, and I want my kids to love it—for the very reasons brought up in the video clip. Unfortunately, I have yet to work through my deep seated issues with math, so I’m turning over the teaching in this department to my husband (who was a math minor in college.)
More on my epic math phobias later. It’s time to bust out some grammar!
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