Spa Day

The kids have been helping me make Christmas cookies for our homeschool group.  They rolled all of the molasses cookie dough into balls and dipped into sugar.  Once finished, JT announced, "Wow!  My hands feel so clean and moisturized...whatever that means."

Poking the Sleeping Dog

The book I so painstakingly chose to introduce JT to the world of sex, bodies and babies has been gathering dust on the bookshelf for about four months now.  He claimed to have no interest in the book.  I decided it was time for him to read the book because I like to torment myself, think I know what's best for everyone have heard some things from JT that let me know it was time.  I sent Mo out to play with friends and casually tossed the Where Did I Come From book to JT, with a casual "got something for you" (very, very, very casual. I'm so casual), and walked away to continue with my housework. Shutup.Yes, I was doing housework.  Sort of. I did break out a bottle of Windex and go to town busily spraying any glass surfaces with in 10 feet of JT.  He sat in the armchair and didn't move for about 20 minutes while he read the book cover to cover. I cleaned all around him like I wasn't the least bit interested in what he was doing. If I got too close, he'd close the book to where only he could see the page - as if I had no idea what he was reading. I was watching his little face like a hawk, of course. Accidentally sprayed myself with Windex a couple of times because I was paying so little attention to my "work." When he finished the book our conversation went something like this:

me: Do you have any questions?

JT: NO, I AM NOT GOING TO TALK ABOUT THIS. I WILL NEVER TALK ABOUT THIS. I WILL NEVER HAVE ANY QUESTIONS.

[He was not yelling, as the all-caps indicate, but he was quite adamant. His tone suggested finality.]

me: Okay, that's fine. By the way, there is nothing in this book that is "bad" in any way. God created our bodies and decided how we'd make babies. This is all very natural and normal.

JT: OKAY, MOM, BUT THERE WERE SOME VERY, VERY INAPPROPRIATE PICTURES IN THAT BOOK. I DO NOT WANT TO TALK ABOUT THIS.

me: Will you at least tell me if you learned something new from reading this book?

JT: YES, OKAY? I LEARNED SOMETHING. BUT I WILL NEVER TALK ABOUT IT.

me: You don't have to talk to me. You can talk to Daddy. He knows all about this stuff, too. It's normal to have questions. You can't just know this stuff. If you ever want to talk, you can talk to me or Daddy.

JT: I. WILL. NEVER. TALK. ABOUT. THIS.

Could the kid have been any more clear? Why couldn't I just drop it? My poor kid is going to be telling his therapist about how his mom chased him around the room with a bottle of Windex while begging him to talk to her about where babies come from.

Wonder if this means he'll grow up to have perpetually dirty windows due to an aversion to Windex? I'm thinking that's a big, fat YES.

The Talk

After striking out on finding a book that would give me a complete script guideline of what to say to my baby child about sex I knew I had to bite the bullet and just do it. A couple of weeks later, I was finally alone with JT in the car. I asked him if he had anything he’d like to talk with me about since MO was not around.

JT: Oh, yes, Mom, I have a couple of things.

Me: (Okay. Deep breath. I’m braced and as ready as I’ll ever be with a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel.) Go ahead and ask, Honey.

JT: Is the Tooth Fairy real?

Me: (oh, bother!) No, JT, she is not real. (*exasperated tone*) It’s me and Daddy just like Santa and the Easter Bunny. Anything else you want to talk about?

JT: Well, in a way Santa is real since Saint Nicholas was a real man who helped people, right? Was there a real person who took kids’ teeth and gave them money?

Me: No, JT. (growing frantic.  Is there some way to slow the car's progress since we're getting close to home and I may never have the gumption to tackle this topic again? Should I fake a flat tire?) Why don’t we talk about sex? Do you remember asking me about that and I told you we’d discuss it when MO was not around? Now is a pretty good time.

JT: Uh. Well. Uh. No, not really. I don’t want to talk about that. It’s too – ooooohh – just too gross.

Me: (Well, shit. Must come up with new approach.) Hmm, well, it seems that you already have some idea what sex is. Why don’t you tell me what you know about it so that I can correct any misunderstandings? Sometimes when your friends tell you things they are not sure about, they get some details wrong.

JT: No! It’s just too gross. I don’t want to think about it or talk about it!

Me: (Well, double-shit and damn. What has this kid heard?) JT, actually sex is not bad or gross. It is how babies are made and God created sex for men and women who are married. (Approach #3 - I’m working on the fly here).

JT: (completely horrified) WHAT?! God made that? What was HE thinking?

Me: (not going to answer that one in this conversation) Do you have an idea about what sex is?

JT: Yes and it’s too disgusting to say. It involves bad, bad, bad parts.

Me: (WHAT?! Since when is ‘private’ a synonym for ‘bad’? Why is my kid so screwed up here? This cannot be my fault, can it? Yes, it's always the mother's fault.) What do you mean by bad, JT?

JT: Well, mom, I’m only going to say this once, so make sure you’re listening.

Me: Well, say it loud, then ‘cause Mama’s hearing ain’t what it used to be.

JT: You rub your private parts together. It-it-it-it’s just too gross.

Me: (Yay! It's gross!  So glad to hear that it's gross!) Yes, JT that is pretty much right. There is more to it than that and I’ll be happy to tell you about it whenever you are ready to hear it. I also have a book for you all about sex and babies. You can have it whenever you want it. It’s okay that you think sex is gross right now. Several years from now (God willing) you will not think that sex is gross and you may have more questions about it. Daddy and I will be here to answer them.

JT: I will never want that book. Never. I want sex out of my head.  I want it out of my mind. And I want it out this world!

Immaturity Prevails

After my son tried to make my heart stop beating, I decided a trip to the bookstore for literary reinforcements was in order. I drug a friend with me to search for books on sex and bodies for kids whose parents are not ready for them to know about sex or understand their bodies. In no time at all, we were on the floor giggling like we were back in junior high. Let me just say that there are some baaaaaaaad books out there on this subject. Here’s an example: “Sometimes it feels good to touch your body. Some parts of your body feel better, more sensitive, than others. This is called m*sturbation.” On the top of the very next page: “Sometimes it feels good to touch other people, too.” Now mind you, this book is illustrated with cartoons and the touching other people page is about hugging mom and dad. But still! Still! No change of wavelengths from m*sturbation to hugging your mom. Ewww! It was sending me over the edge! One page had two kids, one dressed as a doctor and one covered in band aids that said something like, “It’s okay to be curious about what other people’s bodies look like.” Are you f*cking kidding me?!?!?! No It Is NOT!!! Well, of course curiosity is okay and normal, but it is not okay to talk your little sister, brother, cousin, neighbor, into taking her/his clothes off! Have mercy! One book for boys was narrated by a cartoon penis. I am not kidding, folks! Lots of discussion about poorly-timed erections, wet dreams, etc. I was nearly hysterical when I came across the cartoon penis. Actually, I kind of regret not buying that book simply because it was so funny. Bad, but funny. After perusing every book on the topic in the bookstore, I went home with Peter Mayle's gold standard, Where Did I Come From?

I am soooooooo not ready for this! I kept looking ever-so-longingly at the books on potty training and giving up pacifiers. Barnes and Noble has a bizarre sense of what books to shelve in the “Growing Up” section of the children’s department.

Warning: Strange Content

I just saw a promo on a children's television channel for an upcoming show.  The promo was this: Barnyard Animals Gone Wild!  There were red signs covering up some of the animals with words like Outrageous! Out of Control! Shocking! Strange Content!  So scandalous you must see it for yourself! I swear I'm not making this up.  Why in the world would a children's television show be modeled after something like that?  Y'all know what I'm talking about, right?  Girls Gone Wild, the p*rn videos of college girls doing x-rated things on camera during spring break.  All I can do is shake my head and mutter 'Why?' over and over.  Are the kids supposed to get that reference?  If so, WTF?!  Are the parents supposed to get that reference and think to themselves, "Oh cute, a cartoon commercial modeled after x-rated p*rn.  Let's Tivo that one for the kids."  If so, WTF?! 

What is this world coming to? Wow.  I feel even older today than usual.

Wholesome Summertime Fun

The next day (yes, it got worse), MO and JT came in all dirty and muddy from playing outside. I made them take their clothes off in the laundry room and sent them upstairs to clean up. MO came back down declaring, “JT wants to do sex with me.” Uh huh. You read it right. JT looked sheepish (in the kid’s defense, he has no clue what sex is at this point. He now had an inkling that it’s probably not something he should’ve mentioned to his sister). MO was – as I always knew she would be – put out and irritated that someone would say such a thing to her (even though she, also, doesn’t know what it means). I explained to JT that “doing sex” was not something that was okay. His reply? “Well, everyone else does it.” Uh huh. I smell tweenishness on the horizon. I told him that no, everyone does not do it. Of course he needed to know what IT actually IS. At this point, I wasn't sure how much he really wanted to know, but he did need an explanation. How is it that an afternoon of playing outside can so quickly go from wholesome summertime fun to, well, incest?!?!?!

The Birds and The Bees...and The Ostrich

This summer the birds and the bees reared their pesky little heads in our household. You know the ones I'm talking about....those birds and those bees. We're still dealing with the fallout from my oh-so-botched initial conversation with JT. It was just a normal summer day. We'd been to the beach earlier that day and I was hot, sandy, sticky and starving. All I wanted to do was cook supper and go take a shower. As I'm cooking, I suddenly I hear JT screech:

“Mooooooooom! MO’s having sex with the dog!”

I stood there for a moment thinking about the ignorant bliss of a few seconds gone by before turning around and sweetly saying, “What did you say, Honey?”

JT continued, “MO’s having sex with the dog! Look, she’s letting the dog lick her face!”

Whew. Okay. “Honey, MO is not having sex with the dog. She cannot have sex with the dog. (At this point MO is returning the dog’s kisses, minus the tongue). Your sister is kissing the dog. Kissing and sex are not the same thing. Please don’t say sex when you mean kissing.”

My turn to screech: "MO! STOP KISSING THE DOG THIS INSTANT!"

I turn back to my cooking, knowing that I will not get away with this. But foolishly hoping nonetheless.

“Well then, Mom, what is sex?”

Crap! And what does this totally unprepared mom say? “Well, JT, sex isn’t kissing.” Now I’m wracking my brain to try to remember exactly what sex is because suddenly I’ve forgotten. There is just a roaring train sound in my head. Nothing else. No synapses firing. Nada. Maybe a few crickets chirping, but that's it.

JT says, in a knowing tone, “Oh, thaaaaaat’s right, I know what sex is. It’s when a man and a woman take off their clothes and, you know, do stuff.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. This cannot be derailed. So, of course, I do the only obvious thing and tell JT that Daddy will talk to him as soon as he gets home. Then I call Hubs and tell him to get himself home asap.

Hubs works late in order to cower and hide from the discussion awaiting him at home. I don't blame him a bit.

I began to search Amazon and Barnes & Noble for the perfect sex-for-kids-who-are-too-young-to-know-about-sex book. I know he’s 9 years old. I learned about sex when I was 9. I was utterly disgusted by it all at the age of nine. I was determined to ‘do this right’ so I began with research. JT does not even weigh 50 pounds yet – he’s close at 48 – but somehow a 48-pounder is simply not ready to know about sex. Yes, I know how ridiculously mommy-headed that sounds. It’s my ostrich logic on this topic. I have no defense for it.

Just wait until you hear about my trip to the bookstore....

Thanks, Mr. Phlebotomist!

Earlier this week I had to give blood. This is never fun for me because I have the mortifying tendency to pass out. So, so embarrassing. I had to fast, of course. The overwhelming ramification of this is that I could not have my cup of coffee. No. Coffee. I had to get dressed, motivate JT and MO to get dressed, get us in the car and drive to the doctor's office with no coffee. I was not the least bit pleasant. Just ask my kids. No, wait, don't mention this day to them.





So there I was, stomping my way into the doctor's office with a scowl across my face at the crack of dawn. Or maybe it was 8:00 AM, which is the crack of dawn to most homeschoolers. Of course there is a guy hacking and coughing H1N1 germs all over the waiting room. I ordered the kids to not breathe as I glared at the sicko. I would've had all the compassion in the world for his plight IF I'D HAD A CUP OF COFFEE!!!! Thankfully, we only had to wait a few moments before I was called back for the torture.





The phlebotomist glanced at the kids and said, "No school today?" Snarl. I get this question all the time. All. The. Time. I hate this question. I find it rude and annoying. What business is it of the masses whether or not my kids are skipping school? Is everyone an undercover truancy officer? So when Mr. Phlebotomist asks me this question on a morning with no caffeine, I give him a surly, "We homeschool." Then I proceed to tell him all about my ridiculously Victorian tendency to pass out at the sight of my own blood. He quickly and graciously moves me to a private room where I can recline while giving blood. He proceeds to tell me that he and his sister were homeschooled and loved it. He distracted me throughout the bloodletting with wonderful stories of growing up homeschooled. He gave me his positive opinions on the socialization of homeschoolers. I was so wrapped up in the conversation that I hardly noticed the unpleasantness going on with the needle in my arm.





Thanks, Mr. Phlebotomist, for turning my day around!

Ganging Up

If you read yesterday's post, you can tell we're having a bit of a rocky week around here.


On Monday, Jacob was the "good cop." He did his schoolwork in a timely manner, with a happy heart. Morgan, on the other hand, dug into her role of "bad cop." She SMACKED the beads across the abacus with a scowl on her face during math. She whined and mumbled her way through reading.


On Tuesday, they switched roles. Morgan was cheerful and eager to tackle her schoolwork. She claimed that math was fun! She happily read from her reader. Jacob, oh Jacob. He snorted and snarled his way through math. He banged his head on the table while whining, "I can't doooooooo this!" He rolled his eyes through his language lesson.


This makes me want to whine, "Whyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy????" Why can't we all just be happy AT THE SAME TIME?


I know, I know, I know, this is the way it goes. Kids have been ganging up against their mothers since they lived in caves. If only I could catch them planning their roles for the day. A little heads up would be so beneficial to my lesson-planning.

Do They Draw Straws?

Do they do it on purpose? This "good cop/bad cop" thing JT and MO do? Do they get up in the morning and secretly decide who gets to be the angelic, model citizen and who gets to be the terror-child? I wonder how they decide? Rock, Paper, Scissors? Is there a point system?

Why can't they both be "bad cop" on the same day? We could just hunker down and have one, big, nasty, miserable day full of griping and misery and be done. Then we could have a "good cop" day where everyone is happy and there is a rosy glow to our day filled with butterflies and singing.

I cannot remember the rules from my childhood. Surely, my brother and I knew them and strategically worked out the good cop/bad cop plan for each day. Right? I wonder if he remembers.

Now I'm curious about how families with more than two children work this out each day. Do the kids split the good cop/bad cop duties down the middle? What if there is an odd number of children? More good some days, more bad others? What about an only child?

Teachable Moments (Me or Them?)

As you know, we have a snake living in our garage. He's welcome to stay there as long as he doesn't get any ideas about coming into the house. Don't worry, he's non-venomous. He is welcome to hang out in the garage and eat as many frogs as his little snake heart desires. Last week the Frog Annihilator shed his skin and the kids found it. Oh, the wonder! Oh, the excitement! Oh, the teachable homeschool moment!

I exclaim, "Bring it in and we'll show Daddy when he gets home!"

Now, here is where my mothering fails miserably. I don't think to tell the kids WHERE to put the snakeskin. I stupidly think they'll just KNOW that the appropriate place to put a snakeskin is in a plastic bag, in the laundry room or in a plastic bag, on the school table.

Uh huh.

Imagine my shock when, hours later, I am cooking dinner and move a bowl of tomatoes to find the snakeskin perfectly posed on my kitchen counter. The skin "head" of the snake was looking directly at me. I managed to not scream. I managed to not throw the bowl of tomatoes across the room. I managed to not shriek in horror and do the I'm-such-a-girl-I-cannot-stand-this-ickiness dance.

Maybe I'm getting used to this parenting gig.

Smarter Than The Average Bear

Last night, I went upstairs to turn out lights and give goodnight kisses. When I got there I found my darling children playing a math card game from our math curriculum. I heard the sounds of the game as I approached and thought that I must be hearing things. But, no, there they were sweetly playing "Ten as the Minuend." I was so overjoyed that I let them stay up for an extra half hour.

Those homeschooled kids sure are smart, aren't they?

Stalked!

I am so ridiculously terrified of frogs. Cute, tiny, Kermity frogs scare the shit out of me. It is all because a little tree frog threw himself backwards off a wall and landed on my face many years ago. My face! I’ve just barely regained my sanity from that episode. Frogs are still tiny and cute when there is a thick glass separating me from their crazy jumpadelic tendencies. There was a frog (okay, probably a toad) the size of my arm doing the backstroke in my in-law’s pool one night this summer and I almost lost my mind. I was screeching to the kids, “Get the frog! Scoop him with a bucket and throw him over the wall! Hurry! Eeeeeekkkk, he’s looking at me!!!! Hurry!” I curled myself into the fetal position in a deck chair while the 6, 8 and 9 year old kids tried to get him out of the pool. I am not the brave one when it comes to frogs. I can handle snakes, spiders, pretty much any vermin – just not frogs. My nephew was the hero who scooped the frog up out of the pool and tossed him over the concrete wall. The wall has decorative cut-outs in it and the damn frog crawled back up and peeked over ‘window’ made by one of the cut-outs. All we could see was the top of his head and his eyes. People, his eyes were as big as golf balls. (Or, maybe marbles. Or, maybe skittles.) They were huge froggy eyes! I could see his thoughts through those eyes! And, he was stalking me! His giganto eyes followed me around the pool deck for the rest of the evening. I tried to get the kids to shoot him with a water gun, but they thought that would be mean. Mean, my ass! The frog was trespassing and deserved to be persecuted by water gun!

I need therapy over my frog fear. They are EVERYWHERE and I’m convinced that they STALK ME! Today, I encountered one in the half-bath and was too terrified to move. His tiny little frog eyes peeped at me from under the door. Before I could do anything, he squirmed his way on in and began to hop towards me! Eek! Seriously, if I didn't dig deep I could've spent the day in that tiny room cowering from the frog. Instead, I began squealing like a little girl and jitter-bugged my way out of there. I closed the door in an attempt to trap the critter which was completely ineffective, since it can just crawl under the door. The frog was scaling the wall as I left. Does this mean it will drop down from the ceiling onto my head when I go back in there later today? Because you KNOW I'll forget and go back in. I'm stupid that way. Where is my hubby? Must go find him. He's got some frog-trapping to do.

Update: Hubs caught the frog! I do so love that man! The critter had skeedoodled into the laundry room, probably in an attempt to escape my screams. He was completely covered in lint and looked like a furry, spidery-frog-blob hopping across the floor. What a hoot! A hoot from far, far away, mind you. He was tossed onto the back patio where he sat, dejected and lint-covered.

I just came home from chauffeuring the kids and glanced outside to find a pile of lint sitting next to the cutest green frog. Oh, they're all kinds of cute when they're OUTSIDE and I'm INSIDE behind a nice, thick piece of glass. I think I need therapy. Anyone know of any therapists who specialize in Amphibious Disorders?

Salmonella Shoes

I desperately need more sleep. I've had insomnia for the past three nights and just told JT that we were all going to get salmonella and die because he was standing on the kitchen counter while wearing shoes. Am I turning into the crazy mom who says random, nonsensical things and whose kids stop believing anything that comes out of her mouth? Because she is random. And nonsensical. And a sleep-deprived nut.

Oh, don’t ask why the kid was standing on the counter. His reasoning makes even less sense than contracting salmonella from shoes.

Homeschooling on the Road...Or Not

When planning a road trip I always have such high aspirations of what kind of schooling we can do while stuck in the van for hours on end. I compile loads of books, games, activities and actual schoolwork to pass the time. For this trip, I intended to further our study of George Washington and the American Revolution. I also intended to expand MO’s knowledge of geography since we were driving across four of the states she has been studying in her geography class. Yeah, well. *Sigh* This is what our trip was actually like.

The books on George Washington and the American Revolution were never cracked open. The audio tapes of George Washington’s life never made it into the player. We stopped in Alabama and purchased postcards at the Tourist Info Center. That was the extent of our geographical studies. Actually, that was the extent of our schooling. Unless you count life lessons in human body noises, the perils of an unhealthy diet (no relation to the human body noises) or the effects of poorly maintained (biggest pothole I’ve ever seen) roads on the tires of a loaded minivan (blow-out). We survived the trip. Isn’t that what really matters? We were in the van for over 13 hours. My #1 recommendation for road trips with children: CANDY. Lots and lots and lots of candy. The kids watched DVDs and ate candy all day long. They were happy campers. Spastically hyper campers, but very happy. This meant that Chet and I could actually converse and enjoy each other’s company. So nice. Never mind thoughts of rotting brains and teeth – a small price to pay for the sanity of the two adults in the van.

Speaking of rotting, I had the worst road trip meal of my life last night. We stopped somewhere in Mississippi and ordered burgers at a place where we could dine in our van. It was beyond disgusting. Hot, wilted, gooey lettuce, slimy meat, melting bun. BARF! The worse part of all is that one of the cooks came outside and stood right in front of our van. This guy had the biggest stomach I have ever seen on a man. It was like a droopy, uniboob stomach. It actually hung down to his crotch. Never seen anything like it. It was like a train wreck - I couldn't look away. Somehow this guy's stomach made my burger that much more disgusting. The kids were in awe of this man’s stomach. Thoughts of grasping that teachable moment to discuss proper food choices went out the window when I looked down at the giganto-burger goo in my own hands and the piles of candy wrappers littering the floor.

JT is the best little traveler. He hunkers down into his seat with his legos and action figures and pretty much refuses to budge until we arrive at our destination. We have to force him out of the van for potty breaks - I swear the kid is a camel. Both kids were completely entertained by the special features on one of their DVD’s where they could supplement the dialogue with "human noises." I'm sure you can imagine the crude, low-brow humor that ensued. Lots of burping, farting and toilet flushing sounds. Normally I'd be irritated that we'd purchased such a vacuous DVD, but yesterday I was thanking my lucky stars because those kids listened to cartoon characters open their mouths and have fart sounds come out for HOURS. They laughed so much - truly the best sound in the world.

The last two hours of the trip are always the hardest and last night MO was miserable. She'd be sleeping then suddenly sit upright and screech, "I can't sleeeeeep!" Then she'd mutter and toss and turn and go back to sleep only to sit up a few minutes later and screech, "When are we going to beeeeeee there?" If we weren't all so miserably tired and snarky it would've been quite funny. Actually, it's kinda funny now that I'm no longer trapped in the van.

We arrived in Louisiana to an empty house. My parents heard we were coming and took off lickety-split all the way to Arizona to get away from us. (Kidding, Mom.) My mother warned me that her cupboards would be bare since she and my dad have been traveling the country for the last week. My brood is up and muttering about empty bellies. Think I can sneak out to the grocery store pre-shower with my hair shoved into one of my dad's old hunting caps? Yeeaahhh, not gonna happen. Starve, people! Mama must shower.

To be continued….

Eating Through the Alphabet

I began by eating a cupcake in order to deal with the drama of a playdate gone bad with MO and two other little girls. It seemed like a logical stress reaction to me - stressful playdate, eat a cupcake. Three is NOT a good number for little girls. There was drama, drama, drama. Then, when Hubs did not come home to take the kids to karate, I moved on to Cheetos. I did not realize just how much I'd been looking forward to that hour of solitude until it was taken from me. Whine, whine, whine. Maybe I should've had a glass of wine. It would've helped with what was on the horizon for my evening.



The kids and I hunkered down for a night at home and I'm thinking that the drama is over. Silly, naive Cindy, the drama was just beginning! For one thing, MO wanders in to discuss the whole playdate/friendship/why doesn’t anyone like me thing during my six-minute bath. I take very public baths. In wanders one kid, two kid, red fish, blue fish.... Where is that damn Calgon??? Calgon promised to take me away, yet here I sit in a lukewarm bath with a draft from the door that keeps opening. Later, when Hubs called to say he'd not be home for at least another hour, the kids chose that moment to fight over the last orange sherbet popsicle (picture fists flying and the popsicle becoming airborne). While that is happening, the dog is barfing up a strawberry that she'd swallowed whole. "Love you so much, honey!" I say to Hubs as "Cell Block Tango" from CHICAGO is running through my mind. I finished up the night with a bowl of Corn Flakes.



Apparently, if it started with the letter C, I was going to eat it. I feel great. I feel wonderful. I feel great. I feel wonderful. Wonder what letter of the alphabet I'll eat my way through today?

Gravitational Pull

This weather today is killing me! Overcast with clouds and rain - all I want to do is take a nap! My eyes keep closing and my body is being pulled towards the couch and my snuggly blanket. How am I to homeschool with this kind of gravitational pull exerted by the couch? The barometric pressure is forcing my eyes to close! I'm racking my cloud-covered brain in an effort to come up with a homeschooling spin for midday napping. Here are the possibilities so far:

1. Healthy Bodies (pe/health)

2. Nap now to conserve energy for tasks later today. (Practical Living)

3. Dream Study (psychology)

4. Sleep Stages Study/ REM (science)

A Tale

MO was reading aloud a fanciful story about a group of animals. The main character, Pig, is homesick and begins telling a tale about his hometown. The other animals were awed at Pig's outrageous tale of a land filled with colors. Comprehension questions went something like this:

Me: Are the other animals surprised by Pig's tale?

MO: Yes.

Me: Why were the other animals surprised?

MO: Because a pig was talking to his tail. Duh.

Nothing Funny About It

I took MO for her 7 year well visit this week and flu shots all around. I THOUGHT I heard the nurse coming back into the room with the shots and decided to let the kids know what was coming - they'd both been asking and I was feeling bad about lying to them, er I mean, distracting them. They are getting too old for the distractions. They looked me in the eye and asked what was up and I caved. Yes, you are getting poked today I say with all the shame in the world masked as cheerful tranquility. I feel like the executioner or, more accurately, like the poor guy who had to drag the doomed to the executioner's ax. They both immediately went completely ape shit. Whining, Crying, Screaming, Wailing, Hand-Wringing...and what do I, their loving mother, do? I start to laugh. I cannot make myself stop laughing. I am so broken - what kind of a mother does something like that? It was as if someone added batteries and flipped a switch and they were ON. I've never seen anything quite like it. The nurse took another lifetime - okay, it was 5-10 minutes - before coming back. I volunteered to go first so they could see that it was no big deal. Except that during my flu shot they were both rolling on the floor with their hands covering their faces while wailing loudly (the kids were wailing, not their hands). I'm too tired and stressed from the whole emotionally taxing day to correct my grammar. Besides, my arm hurts. Karma, maybe?

What's Next?

Yesterday was one of those days....

• Stupid argument with Hubby stemming from our standard inability to communicate.
• Snake in the garage. Did you hear? Snake! In my garage!
• Late for the kids' golf lessons due to a 10 mile detour that was not a real detour. It was basically just a ten-mile loop back to the original route to golf.
• Car dies in grocery store parking lot while MO is at her golf lesson.
• Reaction to flu shot which is leaving me dizzy and nauseous.

This all occurred before noon.

The highlight of my day was my dear friend who transported my child home from golf, followed me to and from the car fixin' place, entertained me over lunch and listened to my dizzily nauseous whining about my morning. She's either a glutton for punishment or a true gem of a friend. I know a diamond when I see one! I also know how lucky I am to have such good friends.

Shake-Up Over Shopping

Okay, so I dropped the kids with Hubs yesterday and went shopping for something to wear to this blasted reunion. I spent 1½ hours in the dressing room of a store filled with beautiful clothes. A store that is filled with ridiculously overpriced clothes that I would never spend that much money on... did I mention how beautiful the clothes are? I just HAD to go in. I don’t get out much and here I was all alone with no children tugging on me and no husband whining about how much he hates shopping. I just had to go into the store with the beautiful clothes. Well, they are beautiful on the pencils in the catalogs, not so much on this bod, I quickly discovered. Although, I did find a top that I fell in love with and asked the barely-post-pubescent salesgirl to help me find something to wear with it. She took off and came back with several items. After I’d tried them all on, she asked me if I liked any of them. I replied, “Yes, they’re wonderful. I like them very much; however, they do not like me.” I think my sarcasm frightened her, so she ran out for reinforcements and I ended up having THREE salesgirls in and out of the dressing room with all kinds of things for me to try. Here are a few of the items, just to give you an idea of what a nightmare shopping has become for me. In case you care. In case, please God, some of you can relate.

1. Pair of pants with snaps down the front that were reminiscent of a baby’s onesie or a sailor’s uniform - only different. As if those two items have anything in common. Anyhoo, here they are. Take a quick peek, but then come back. Don't get lost in the beautiful clothes. Okay, I'll wait. http://www.anthropologie.com/anthro/catalog/productdetail.jsp?id=923290&parentid=QUICKSHOP&navAction=jump&isProduct=true The pants came up to my armpits and hung at least a foot past my toes. But, hey, they did fit through the hips, which is a miracle in and of itself. The salesgirl commented that they would need tailoring. Ya think? No thanks, I looked like a






She didn't bring any more pants to the dressing room.

2. Super-Cute Silvery Sparkle Skirt with ruffled pockets. Go ahead, check it out. http://www.anthropologie.com/anthro/catalog/productdetail.jsp?id=920098&catId=CLOTHES-SKIRTS&pushId=CLOTHES-SKIRTS&popId=CLOTHES&sortProperties=&navCount=400&navAction=top&fromCategoryPage=true&selectedProductSize=&selectedProductSize1=&color=009&colorName=BLACK%20MOTIF&isSubcategory=true&isProduct=true It was so cute…until it encountered my body. I had to stand with one foot in front of the other to get the damn thing over my hips. The adorable ruffle pockets actually stood up and waved from my hips - like fins. The horror! The cherry on top was when the salesgirl told me that I just didn’t have it on right. (I guess I've reached idiot status now.) “Pull it up,” she orders. I pull it up and now the waist is swimming around my boobs while the ruffle pockets are now waving from somewhere above my waist and the skirt is still groaning over my hips. More horror! I think it’s too large and that you're not wearing it right she says. WTF?! Where are the 38 year old salespeople? Why must they all be 22 years old and perfect-looking? She brings me a size smaller and a size larger (at my request). I determined that only a pencil can wear the Super-Cute Silvery Sparkle Skirt. I am no pencil. I am the slightly scuffed eraser that has been stuck on the top of the pencil and worn into the shape of a pear.

3. Super Fun Purple Skirt! Oh, I LOVED this one! Never in a million years would I have pulled this off the rack, but when the salesgirl showed up with it, my eyes glazed over. So, so, so cute! You've got to see this one! http://www.anthropologie.com/anthro/catalog/productdetail.jsp?id=923347&catId=CLOTHES-SKIRTS&pushId=CLOTHES-SKIRTS&popId=CLOTHES&sortProperties=&navCount=400&navAction=top&fromCategoryPage=true&selectedProductSize=&selectedProductSize1=&color=050&colorName=PURPLE&isSubcategory=true&isProduct=true How fun is this skirt?! My first thought when I put it on was, oh shit, you can see my knees. No one should be subjected to my knees. They’re gnarly and wrinkly and generally scary-looking. But the salesgirls, all three, squealed, "Oh, I love it!” In unison, no less, so I almost bought the skirt because I was high on their squealing and the dressing room lighting. (I’ve decided that I want all of my surroundings lit with this particular dressing room lighting.) I was close to triumphantly yelling, “Done!” and ripping out my credit card. Until. Oh, until. Until I sat down in the Super Fun Purple Skirt. Hmmm…now the knees ain’t lookin’ so bad because the varicose veins and cottage cheesy thighs have been exposed. Oh the freakin’ horror!


I left with the top and, sadly, no bottom, so now I must gear up to tackle the stores again this weekend for the rest of the outfit. To all 22-year-old-perfect-looking-salesgirls, consider yourself on notice. You've got your work cut out for you this weekend.

A Barrel Of Chicken

Overheard around my dinner table last night:


Jacob: Wow! This is the best chicken I’ve ever had in my life!


Me: (stunned…then exhilarated) Thank you, honey! That is so nice of you to say! I’m thrilled that you are enjoying your dinner.


Jacob: Well, at this house. It’s the best chicken I’ve had at this house. I’ve had better chicken at Steak and Shake.



Me: (rapidly deflating)


Morgan: And that Chinese place that Daddy takes us to has better chicken than this.



Me: (Daddy, Daddy, Daddy...grrrr!)


Jacob: Well, for this house this is good. I could eat a whole barrel of this chicken.


Morgan: Yeah, me too. A whole barrel. Or I could eat a whole barrel of Steak and Shake chicken.


Jacob: Yeah, Steak and Shake….



I simply cannot wait to cook dinner tonight. Can you feel the sarcasm oozing through the keyboard? Maybe we'll just go to Steak and Shake and order a barrel of the best chicken ever.

Ms. No Depth Perception Strikes Again

How am I supposed to educate my children on a day like this? It started around 4:00 this morning when some random alarm went off. Apparently, it was an alarm clock alarm on a clock that we don’t use for alarms. Go figure. I thought it was the smoke alarm and FREAKED OUT in a big way. I never did fully go back to sleep. I did spend some time in that murky, semi-sleep state dreaming of fire, smoke, death and dying. Later this morning, as I’m dragging myself out of the shower I get a phone call that the dog was late for her grooming appointment. Now that seems insignificant, I’m sure. Around here it takes about a week to get an appointment with the dog groomer and my dog can no longer see because her sweet little eyes are covered by fur. I feel immensely guilty about this since the dog cannot arrange her own grooming appointments; so I throw on clothes and race off, with wet hair and unbrushed teeth, with the dog under my arm for the groomer. As I back the van out of the driveway, while rolling down the window to adjust the side mirror, I hear a nasty crunch. I look out the window to see what toy I crunched and smacked my lip on the window which had not rolled down all the way. I hit the damn window so hard that I thought I knocked my tooth out. I’m still worried that my front tooth is going to turn black and fall out. I’m also slightly concerned that I have a concussion from the impact. Can those radiate from lip to brain? Either way, my head, lip and tooth are killing me.

Teacher Mom is sleep-deprived, nightmare-ridden, scatter-brained and may be suffering a mild concussion. The kids say I’m acting the same as usual, other than the puffy lip, so I guess we’re off and running.

Birthday Girl

Today is MO's birthday. I cannot believe she is seven years old. SEVEN! When did that happen? It seems like just yesterday she was clinging to my pants leg and begging to be held. Okay, that was yesterday. She is still a clinger - even at the newly minted age of 7. I cannot wait to see what Seven brings out in MO. Six was the year of Hot Wheels cars, Indiana Jones and baby dolls. MO is slowly turning from a complete tomboy into a bit of a girl. Certainly there are no frilly princesses in our future, but there has been a bit of nail polish and fashion consciousness here and there. This girl knows how to put an outfit together!

MO has formulated a Birthday Plan for the day which includes creating a cake in the shape of Mickey Mouse riding a skateboard. As expected, MO (aka Little Planner) has mapped out the entire day, including my allotted shower time. She gave me a full hour, which is more than generous, in my opinion. Guess I'd better get moving before I waste all of my shower time.

Friendly Letters

There is nothing “friendly” about teaching a fourth grader to write a friendly letter. Nothing. Friendly. About. It. He was to write a personal narrative then put it into the form of a friendly letter. He’s been re-writing his letter, after revisions and proofreading, since about 9:30 this morning (it’s now almost 1:00). I could strangle him. We’re out of one of his ADHD meds, so he’s only taking the one med right now. (Normally he takes an extremely low-dose cocktail of two meds.) I’m beginning to really question the lack of the one med. Especially since he has his karate test tonight. Sabotaged by his own mother’s inadequacy as a drug pusher. He just asked if he could type the letter on the computer instead. “Yes!” I almost screeched. Yes! Yes! Yes! Just get it done! I no longer care about your penmanship!!! Not true. He’s got great penmanship which is evidenced with his first draft – and that will suffice JUST FINE. I kid you not, he just came in here and asked me what our address is. We’ve covered this about 10 trillion times in the past two years, including a refresher last week. Is it wrong that I told him to go outside and look at the mailbox and a street sign? Yes, I suppose it is. In his current state, he may get lost and not be able to find his way home because he doesn’t know his address!!!! Maybe we should take a lunch break so that the carb surge will cause his pencil to move across the page at a normal rate of speed, rather than one stroke every 14 minutes. Lunch was the dangling carrot that was to motivate speedy letter writing. Who am I kidding? Have I forgotten who my child is? “He loves a Happy Meal: Just hold the meal and he’ll be happy.” Oh, right. He doesn’t care about food. Gggrrrrr!

Heartsore Homeschooling

Most days I love homeschooling, but (y’all knew there was a BUT coming, right?), you know, some days I wish I were one of the moms who ships her kids off to school and has time to herself during the day. I wonder what that must feel like. I had snippets of freedom when the kids were both in preschool for 3 hours a day, twice per week. I’d love to know what it feels like to have 7ish hours a day, 5 days per week. Just for a little while.

I get so tired of good-intentioned gushes of, “I just don’t know how you do it. I’d go crazy if I homeschooled and was home all day with my kids all the time. You’re a better person than I am.” I suppose that those are supposed to be compliments (?), but all I hear are recriminations of my own idiocy, misguided priorities and loss of touch with reality – my perception of their perceptions, I’ll admit. Sometimes I think of how it would be so much easier if I didn't mention homeschooling to Some People. I should just answer their questions with "I teach" rather than "I homeschool." But I'm kind of twisted and like the uncomfortable looks on Some People's faces. It's almost like I've said that I have 24 cats or communicate with space aliens. The looks people give are about the same for all three statements. Some People are so wrapped up in WHAT they do that they've lost WHO they are. It's sad to be so wrapped up in the what and not the who, but I digress.

Most days I really do enjoy homeschooling. I LOVE being home with my kids. I LOVE the schooling part. Watching them learn. Seeing their excitement. Building memories. Introducing them to new things. The freedom, ah yes, the freedom. I could go on for hours about the positives. But, let’s focus on the negatives for a bit, people. Sometimes I feel like I’m more about quantity than quality. I don’t like the hours after school is done and before bedtime on days when I cannot summon the mood to do all the Good Mommy things, such as crafts (*shudder*), visiting the park, baking cookies, etc. Y’all know the drill. Those afternoons are filled with pesky, witching hours around here. I wish I had a neighborhood full of kids so I could kick the kids out of the house to play until I called them at dinnertime, but I do not. Some days I feel the need to “get some things done around here.” The kids know this means Mom needs to be left alone to salvage what is left of her sanity.

Anyone else?

Homeschool Hiccups

I’ve had the “You’re in 4th Grade Now and Must __________” lecture YET AGAIN this morning. It’s a fill-in-the-blank lecture to fit any given circumstance relating to school, the fourth grade, adhd, and anything else that pops into my head while I'm babbling, I mean, lecturing. Truthfully, it’s all about the same. Bottom line is that it is about damn time for JT to SUCK IT UP, BUTTERCUP, AND GET HIS SH*T TOGETHER. Fortunately, I have not filled in the blank with that particular response. I’m couching it with phrases like pay attention, organize yourself, take responsibility, have pride in your performance, etc. It all means the other, though, in reality. I also used the phrase “timely manner” with JT. As in, “You must complete your schoolwork in a timely manner if you want to….” Timely manner! Did I really just use those words? Don’t old, uptight, buttoned-down, dinosaur-era teachers use phrases like ‘timely manner’? What is happening to me? When did this happen? Have I become an uptight dinosaur? (Don’t answer that.)

MO, on the other hand, has finished her entire day’s work with smiles and enthusiasm. Armageddon is near. It must be. There is no other explanation for that child doing anything willingly. I’d like to be the kind of mom who appreciates the doll that her daughter has been, but I’m not that mom. I’m the kind of mom who feverishly wonders what crime has been committed. Did MO cut her own hair again? Cut the dog’s hair? Paint her bedroom walls with finger paint? Hide last night’s dinner under her bed? I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop. That child is never agreeable unless something is up. More than a little nervous over here, folks. I should focus on the positives, though, right? MO is now eating lunch and moving on with her day while JT is still twitching and tweeting and snapping and working on his first lesson of the morning. Do I hear shrieking? What could that be? The construction next door? Ooops, it’s me. Breathe, Cindy, breathe.

June who?

Recently, I took one of those silly Facebook quizzes entitled, "What Kind of Mom Are You?" I know, do I really need that question answered by Facebook? But I was bored and goofing off, so I took the quiz. The response was June Cleaver. Huh? Wha? What kind of mythical Pollyanna World was I mentally residing in when I took that quiz?


I thought of good, ole June while cooking breakfast recently. I was making homemade Belgian waffles with homemade whipped cream and strawberries to the background music of, "But I'm huuunnnnggrryyy now!" "But I don't even LIKE waffles!" "How much loooonnnger?" "Why can't I just have cereal?" "These taste weird." (They were whole grain.) "What's this yucky white stuff on top?" Lovely tunes for cooking, right? I'll let y'all guess which comment was made by Hubs and which were made by JT and MO. I was standing there thinking that Ward, Wally and Beaver never said anything like that to June. Maybe it was the pearls. If I cook breakfast in pearls, a dress and kitten heels will my life turn into Pollyanna World? Sheesh. I'm thinking it wouldn't be worth it.


No, I'm thinking that Facebook got it wrong. Rather than June Cleaver, I am more like June-With-A-Cleaver. That's more my style.

Another trophy for me!

Hubs has been working late, blah, blah, blah. Same old story. Last night he called and said that he’d not work too late and that he’d be home “at a decent time.” I’ll let y’all know when I figure out just what time that is. Anyhoo, I made dinner. Well, I made breakfast for dinner. I dirtied skillets and pans and spatulas and all kinds of kitchen utensils to create a sausage casserole and homemade (from scratch because we’re out of mix and just had to have them) chocolate chip pancakes. He doesn’t show. And doesn’t show. And doesn’t show. A couple of hours later, he comes strolling in, looking completely exhausted – whatever – I don’t much care.

He eats dinner, standing up in the kitchen, and proceeds to clean the entire kitchen while I remain curled up on the sofa watching some comedy on tv that I care nothing about. I can hardly be bothered to acknowledge him because I’m so irritated that I cooked a meal that is being eaten cold. Don’t know why that gives me a rash, but it does. He told me that he brought something home for me. I still don't get off the sofa. Great, I’m thinking, ‘bout time he remembered those two paper clips I asked him to swipe from the office for the kids’ folders. Am I supposed to jump up and be all excited because he managed to come home with paper clips?

It turns out that Hubs felt so bad about being so late so often that he went by Peterbrooke Chocolatier AND Sephora to grab me some goodies. The man willingly, and without duress, went into Sephora (a store he despises due to its malodorous smells) and purchased eye cream for me because he’d noticed that the dog chewed holes in my current tube of eye cream. (Which I’m still using, btw, because the tiny tube cost $35 and I will not waste a drop. I am nothing if not frugal. Well, except for the fact that I bought $35 eye cream in the first place. Vanity, who?)

I felt like such a heel. Such. A. Heel. I need to see about installing shelving for all of my trophies. I’ve got at least three or four Mom of the Year and am now branching out into Wife of the Year.

Heel. Wretched, despicable, wormy heel. That’d be me. Go me!

Two birds?

Can cleaning up breakfast dishes count as science class? Curdled milk, anyone?

Mom of the Year

Last night I took a glass of wine upstairs to sip while watching TV with the kids. I finished about half of it and left it upstairs when I went to bed. This morning while tidying up, I grabbed the wine glass and headed downstairs. I opened the front door to say something to the kids (who are playing outside on this GORGEOUS day rather than doing school) and there's my neighbor. I'm standing there in my comfy, stay-at-home clothes holding half a glass of wine at 11:30 in the morning, bellowing at my kids not to ride their bikes in the street. The smile literally slid off the face of my neighbor.

HOMESCHOOL MOM OF THE YEAR, right here! Where's my trophy?

Broken

But, Mooooom, it's barely broken!

Really??? This means it is okay to use your sister's necklace as a slingshot? The fact that it is barely broken? What if it were completely broken? Then the ADHD brain would think, "Oops. I broke it. Now what?" While it is in the barely-broken stage, all systems are go and we can continue to slingshot the necklace across the room. Gotta love the mind of a 9 year old boy.

To Underline or Not To Underline

I had SUCH a conversation with JT in the car the other day. He was doing a writing practice sheet where he was asked to write about a play he has seen. Why were we doing school in the car you might ask? Well, I had a doctor's appointment, so I loaded up the kids and their schoolwork and took them to Hubby's office to hang out and get their work done. When I retrieved the kiddos 2-1/2 hours later, they spilled the beans that Daddy let them play their DS's the entire time. What a great Daddy. But I digress. My conversation went something like this:


Me: You must underline the name of the play.

Jacob: Why would I do that?

Me: So that people will know it's a play.

Jacob: Mo-o-om, they have to already know that. I'm writing about a play. It says so in the directions.

Me: But when you write the name of the play you must underline it.

Jacob: What's underline mean?

Me: (gritted teeth) Draw a line under it.

Jacob: But there's already a line under it. (He's writing on lined paper.)

Me: (Do I feel those gritted teeth starting to crack?) Add another line so that there are two lines.

Jacob: Do I write it on top of the first line or below it? Either way it will mess up the words I've written.

Me: (Where is that screeching sound coming from?) Just draw it on the line that's already there.

Jacob: But then it will just look like one line again.

Me: Who's on first?

Bags Are Packed

MO, who is on the cusp of turning seven, loves to pack. She can pack herself for a trip like a pro. She also packs every single purse, backpack, shoebox, plastic bag, etc, that she can find. She'll pack any random items that she deems packable into pretty much any container. This makes finding, for example, her tights for church on Sunday morning somewhat difficult. You never know where they've been packed.

I was searching for something - I forget what - and came across a toy purse in which she'd packed a toy cell phone, a pair of panties and a toothbrush.

Let that sink in for a moment. Um, yeah, aren't these the items she's supposed to carry around in her purse during college? Isn't second grade a little early? I think so. I know it was just a random assortment of items in her little world, but this particular grouping freaked me out!

Vocabulary

JT was doing vocabulary today and asked me what the word flinched means. Stick with me on this next part, I thought I'd demonstrate the word, so, without saying anything, I reached out to flick my fingers towards his face and misjudged the distance. I flicked the poor kid in the face. After gushes of I’m sorry’s and are you all right?’s, I cracked up. I couldn't help it. He laughed a little, too. Actions speak louder than words and my actions distinctly said: You ask a question around here, Kid, and you get smacked in the head.

Homeschool Mom of the Year, right here. Again and again, I keep racking up the points! Next time I'll just send him to the dictionary.

Just call me Ms. No Depth Perception.

Broken-Hearted

JT could not find his beloved stuffed lion, Poquito (full name Poquito Tito for those of you who are Skippyjon Jones fans), last night before bed. I was exhausted and told him to just go to bed and that we'd search for Poquito in the morning. JT wailed, "But how can I sleep when my heart is breaking?" Poor, little buddy. Of course one cannot sleep when one's heart is breaking. This is why I was crawling around on all fours in a sleepy fog last night calling out to a stuffed animal.

Poquito didn't answer, in case you were wondering. But he was found, safe and sound, so JT's world could continue to turn. And I could succumb to the fog and get some sleep.

Pressure

JT, who is nine and full of questions, recently asked me how an airplane stays in the air. Hm...good question. As the homeschool teacher, I felt compelled to actually answer this question rather than pushing it off on my dear husband, the airplane fanatic. So I decided to do an entire unit on air. (Yawn) But it's what the kid is interested in learning, so off we go. I look up air pressure online (where else?) and discover Bernoulli's Principle. Yes, discovered as in never heard of it before, since I've never questioned WHY the airplanes stay in the air. I'm just happy that they do. This is what I learned:


"As the fluid passes over the central part of the tube more energy is used up as the molecules accelerate. This leaves less energy to exert pressure, and the pressure thus decreases. Concerning flight, Bernoulli's Principle has to do with the shape of an airplane's wing. The bottom is flat, while the top is curved. Air travels across the top and bottom in the same time, so air travels slower on the bottom (creating more pressure) and faster on top (creating less pressure). This keeps the plane in the air."



Huh? What? I had to read that approximately 3.5 trillion times to determine that I don't know what it means. And this was the simplest explanation I could find. Several failed experiments later, my head huuurrrtttss!! (she whines LOUDLY). I don't care how the $%#@ airplane stays in the air...just that it does. Is science class almost over? Oh well, I'm off to go prove that air can do work by making some tea and maybe we'll blow up a balloon or two to prove that it takes up space. I'm taking the kids to the museum that does a class on air pressure...so the pressure is off me. Ha! Ha! (Is that a twinge of hysteria in my voice?) Maybe I should open a bottle of wine instead of drinking tea. Think I could tweak that into a lesson on air pressure? Eh, probably not the best idea.

Blogging? Me?

So I guess I'm blogging now. Will I stick with this or flit away to something with a bit more sparkle in a few weeks? Hard to say...guess we'll find out.