In prior years, I have taken my older children to Southern Vermont Art Center for camps and workshops. The day camp quality there is amazing and the instruction second to none.
I have not found available workshops there this year so I had to look elsewhere for some art to satisfy that piece of our education.
Another local community has an old one room school house building that is used for extra curricular activities for families educating at home.
I brought my children there for the first time today to have some formal art instruction.
Today we learned how to make wire and tissue paper sculptures.
They had a lot of fun! All four were super interested. I asked little Huck what he wanted help in creating and without hesitation he blurted out 'ELEPHANT'.
I got busy without dwelling too much on my lack of sculpting skills. My son wanted an elephant so an elephant he shall have. Out of wire.
Here is a snapshot of all of our creations. Harleigh had no trouble sculpting a diving dolphin and some waves out of wire. It was stunning, actually, and I'm wondering where she gets it from.
Certainly not me.. and no way from her father, who recounts how he drew stick figures in a college-level sketching class.
Apologies for the sideways photo. Usually my phone flips it around for me.
From the top: Fish, shark, surfboard, Huck's (any my) elephant, Harleigh's diving dolphin, football.
Meet "Rambo". Our new friend. He is a Green-cheeked Conure. He is adorable and belongs to some friends.
Rambo likes to perch on little fingers, be pet, danced with, talked to and fly freely in the house.
He also likes to climb in my long hair and close his eyes.
We like him. A lot.
Last night, I stayed up researching the different species of conures and what they are like. I like the green-cheeks and the painted conures.
I'm thinking a conure would have fun in our log and timber frame home. There is always a lot of life in our home to keep such an amazing creature entertained. Our friends have an extra bird cage to give us. We are mulling.
What about the cats? Hmm.
They may have to adjust.
Thirteen years ago, we were in the market to buy our first house. In the process, we met a man who would become a dear friend.
Farmer Mark is/was a third generation dairy farmer at one of those high-on-the-hill beautiful Vermont farms that possess a Sound of Music vista. The farm had been his grandfather's. Life there seems to beckon one to hop on a tire swing hanging from a large willow tree in the yard while chickens cluck at your bare feet and cows moo. Things move slower there. Life feels significant and important. One can envision watching their grandchildren play there while sipping sweet tea on the porch.
{Sigh}
When we met Farmer Mark, he had just earned his real estate license to supplement and spice up his life on the farm.
We had no idea how to search for and buy a home and we figured he probably had little idea as well - being new and all. But The Husband and I decided we would take the journey with Farmer Mark. We would only buy a house with Farmer Mark. We almost lost our dream cabin out of this loyalty in a scuffle with another realtor (that one owns a tree and shrub nursery). We were willing to walk away from the cabin if Mark was not a part of the deal. But it all worked out and we got the log cabin and everyone won...And we bought some shrubs to go with the place.
'We have a dairy farmer as our realtor!'. He still calls us 'Ken and Barbie' (I had very blonde hair back then..and a figure. And The Husband...well..he still looks kinda like a Ken doll).
Yes. It felt like the right thing to do. Working with Mark. And it was. We are still in that home today (with some added square footage and four additional children). And Mark is still a part of our life.
Not having seen Farmer-Turned-Realtor-Mark in a few years, we crashed his farmstead last night with a BBQ in a truck. We brought the grill, too.
Yes, this is how we roll.
Except that we forgot lighter fluid.
That was okay because apparently, according to the boyz, one can use Diesel fuel.
Reeeeaaaalllly? Are you certain? (in my whiniest voice ever).
Oh No...
Oh Yes.
Farmer Mark has his own diesel tank.
'And while I'm at it, let me cut down some boards from my fallen barn over here to get our BBQ really started!'
Me next to the the imaginary tire swing in the middle of my photo essay of Farmer Mark and our BBQ.
In case you wondered what diesel looks like as it is being poured over your BBQ charcoal.
Me and my Barbie shoes are inquiring about boiling the hot dogs inside.
Mark grabbed some printer paper from his real estate home office to burn along with the fell barn wood.
I'm pretty sure I heard some grunting and boy noises during this part.
success.
Contemplation...Are my children and I going to die from consuming hotdogs cooked over diesel.
Boy is it purdy here.
Part of educating at home is assuming household responsibilities at a young age.
As three year olds, they are invited to match socks for 5 cents a pair. This helps teach them matching and the reward for doing something of value to others in the house. It really is of value because if they don't match, we all wear mismatched socks. I love doing laundry for six people but I loathe socks. They get tossed clean into a bin for the little matchers.
Pretty quickly, matching grows old and requests for more important chores are made.
I try to allow them whatever chores they are interested most in doing. I also try not to insist they perform chores they don't like. This keeps a positive feeling associated with household work and in my experience, creates an environment of helpfulness.
I have a weekly garage sweeper, two children who like to clean car interiors, a few who like to dust. No one chooses to clean bathrooms but they are responsible for wiping down their own space and is a part of their deal of schooling at home.
The older ones receive a small allowance in exchange for certain chores they pick each week. They keep track of chore completion and may choose to skip their allowance if things go undone. When their father and I are ready to pay more in exchange for more help around the house, we meet and discuss the opportunity and usually find enthusiastic kids who want more to do.
Twelve year old daughter empties the dishwasher thrice each week and is a helper to me with vacuuming, mopping and whatever room I'm working on that week.
Ten year old son washes, dries, folds and puts away his own laundry. He actually chose laundry as his weekly chore. He loves doing his own laundry! He also sweeps the garage once a week.
Six year old daughter loves to dust and clean mirrors and wipe down bathroom sinks. She actually scrubbed off some sticky tape glue that was on my mirror for years because I couldn't get it off. Without my asking, she just tackled it.
Three year old son... well... I suppose he is comic relief and moral support and of course, Chief Sock Matcher.
When I am organized with a weekly list of things I'd like done around the house and an idea of what time of day it should happen around schooling, the house runs like a well oiled machine. In contrast, when things feel disheveled or messy, I get this feeling of overwhelm being home. In those moments, I can see how I did not order our day well. In those moments I see that it is me who can do a bit better.
When our shared space is tidy and clean, the rest of our day goes well. The Spirit of learning, of helpfulness, of cheerfulness, of knowing seems to dwell easier in our home on those days.
Last night on the way home from son's lacrosse game, we found a small tavern in Salem, NY late in the evening.
As we walked in the practically empty dining hall, I noticed a man sitting solo with just a glass of red wine. He greeted us with a smile and a nod as if he were the establishment's owner. But the gadgets on his dusty belt coupled with steel toed work boots suggested he may have been a contractor.
We were famished after a busy day leading right into an away-lacrosse game. Son Colton had scored his first two goals in a 6-0 game and we were celebrating.
We ordered typical tavern fare for six, and as usual, I found myself wishing my grown children were little enough to find the kids' menu appealing after a mental tally of the tab. I attempted to compensate by ordering water for myself and a less expensive plate.
Sometime during the meal, one of us sneezed and a 'God bless you' came from the loner across the room.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the man rising to leave. He said goodbye to us as he passed.
After enjoying our meal we asked our waitress for the check. She confessed at that time that the man who had been the only other patron in the place with us was a regular there...and he had paid for our meal before he left.
We spent the ride home recounting our feelings on the event which suddenly trumped the lacrosse goals. We discussed the value of giving something freely and anonymously.
FREE AND ANONYMOUS.
We also agreed upon how our family will 'pay it forward'.
On a flight from Utah to Chicago on Southwest, I met a most interesting older gentleman.
For those needing a refresher, Southwest Airlines has an Open Seating Policy which requires some calculus to understand the boarding process.
Otherwise known as 'Freedom to Choose Your Seat' begins at check in where customers are assigned into groups A B or C and a number between one and 60. This procedure was introduced to minimize the feeling passengers described as 'The Cattle Call' or free-for-all that may or may not have been happening at the gate.
I love to notice human behavior when subjected to Select Your Seat. Those already seated will either scan incoming passengers to try to make eye contact with someone 'acceptable' to sit next to or completely bury their face in the in-flight magazine while placing a host of personal belongings on the vacant seat next to them to create the illusion that the seat is taken. The only behavior I adopt is the bury-my-face-and-hope-no-one-wants-to-sit-with-me.
The past few times I've flown southwest alone and have probably checked-in later than others. Despite arriving to the airport at the prescribed time, I seem to end up with boarding passes that are in the C-51 range. Seats with that lot are slim pickings and I'm likely to get the poor soul who needs the arm rest up to fit us both or has a hacking cough.
On one of my flights to Utah, I picked a window seat in the very last row and was joined by a young woman donning giant dark sunglasses who had a special visit by security at the gate while the rest of the cattle boarded. Someone must have reported her displays of emotional instability and possible intoxication. Apparently, a search through her Gi-Normous pocket book yielded no fruit for TSA. She was allowed on the plane and planted herself with a sigh, next to me. She spent the preflight time alternating weepy calls to her mother and hate calls to another woman combined with calls to the phone company demanding a few numbers be blocked. She spent her in-flight time with her head zipped inside her coat.
Burying my head in The Hunger Games was not sufficient to drown out her engaging the flight attendant with tales of her failed rendezvous and calling us all "Shugga".
Back to my flight OUT of Utah. Quickly scanning the available seat mates hoping I could avoid another row 'situation', I decide the safest bet would be an older man I saw in a window seat about halfway down the aisle. I really had no idea how old he was, but he wasn't coughing, would surely leave the arm rest between us, and hopefully not talk to me.
As I approached the row, he never looked up from his paper once. This was a BONUS and confirmed I was making the right selection as I knew instantly he wanted to be avoided as much as I did. He had the window seat, I took the center seat. I think there may have been a Mormon missionary in the aisle seat as evidenced by his business casual attire, clean cut look, and Quad scripture book open and well worn. Now THIS I could handle. I have known countless missionaries and understand what their lives are like. He'd probably be fun to talk to and learn what exotic place he is being shipped off to. This was going to be a decently drabby flight and I was pleased with my C-51 ticket lot.
A mere minutes after take off. I glance past the older gentleman out the window and noticed the Wind River Range and Grand Tetons of Wyoming, my home from 15 years prior. I have not yet returned. Eager for an aerial photo to show The Husband and kids, I asked permission from the older gentleman to extend my camera into his window space to snap a photo. He obliged and when I got the photo, I diverted my eyes back into my book to assure him I would not bother him anymore.
He then takes out his matching iPhone 4 - Do a lot of 80 year old's have iPhone 4s?
The nice man leans over and asks if I could show him how to take a photo with it.
Of course I help him and demonstrate how to take a photo of us both and show him how to text and email it to his children if he wanted.
He then proceeded to point out Gannett Peak, the highest point in Wyoming. I was skeptical that ANY peak in Wyoming was bigger than Grand Teton. I did live there, afterall. but I politely said something like "Wow, I had no idea." Then went back to my book.
He then told me he and his wife climbed it....ALONG with all of the high points in each of the 50 states including Alaska and Hawaii. Including Kansas and Oklahoma...? Are you kidding that there is a high point in Florida?
After hearing about this at length and sharing with him tales from my former pro downhill mountain bike days, he then confesses that he and his wife had cycled across the continent, from Seattle to Maine then Maine to Florida, then Florida to California. Not that long ago.
Crude math guesstimates using the revealed ages of his children and grandchildren gave me the notion this man was in his 80's.
Oh yeah, they cycled across Canada, too.
I inquired as to the whereabouts of his esteemed wife. She was indeed on the plane, but they take the liberty of Selecting their Own Seats very seriously and use the time apart. Apparently, they both like the window seat. So they both take one, in different parts of the plane.
As we conversed the entire flight, he revealed he was a Masters Alpine Ski racer in New Hampshire and had been skiing in Utah This struck me funny as I am a Masters Alpine ski coach in Vermont. We know a few of the same people.
A successful real estate developer, my new friend gave me life inspiration on topics ranging from calling my grandfather more often to selling my home and developing projects.
A few minutes after taking off in Utah, we sadly landed in Chicago. We must have been on the Concord that day. It was the shortest flight I've ever been on.
I made a friend. I took his email but did not give him my personal information. I left with a feeling of hope that we might keep in touch. I have not yet emailed him. It has been two months.
I did visit my grandfather.
The Husband and I are plotting to pick away at the high points in all 50 states.
I never did determine where that missionary was off to.
I almost forgot to chronicle about my March trip to Utah! I am an administrator for the Midwives College of Utah based in Salt Lake City. Periodically I am summoned out to participate in a clinical skills conference.
This trip I threw in some very important skiing and visiting at Snowbird.
I have yet to show my children Utah, as my trips out there keep me busy working or teaching. It is on the short list, though. Ciao!
Even an urban commute is stunning.
Snowbird with two other midwives.
Cottonwood Canyon, maybe? Access road to Snowbird.
Driving out of canyon from Park City to SLC. I love the red Martian sand.
This is me quizzing a clinical skill to a lovely student. I won't trouble you with the details of this one.
Our mountain host went to great pains to lay down and get this photo.
My classroom.
Eight hours of clinical documentation discussion. Zzzz
Do all women get that "I'm DONE" feeling when they know their families are complete? It sure seems like most women I know have. I started hearing "I'm DONE" from my professional girlfriends starting back in our 20s. In my late 20s, I had two very small children (Cassidy and Colton) and never stopped to consider if more babies were in store for me. At that time, mothering was probably not my main priority. My career was.
By age 30, I was pregnant with child number three (Harleigh) and making plans to leave the "real world" work force as a Financial Advisor (aka stock broker) for a global corporation and start midwifery school and bring my children into homeschool.
I wondered if I was having a mid life crisis. One that The Husband was 100% behind. He expressed no nervousness about supporting the family on his own while I tended to the kids and home. He was thrilled! In fact, the responsibility of supporting the family single-handedly totally empowered him and ushered us into a new phase of our partnership together.
This midlife crisis included joy and elation for my pregnancy and new baby tangled up with an internal struggle between career and wanting to be home for the first time. My earlier two pregnancies were plagued with worries about what my boss might think. What my assistant would think. What my parents were thinking. I suppose then for this pregnancy too, I was afraid to admit what everyone else seemed too eager to imply out loud: "How could I afford three kids in daycare and/or school schedules and still balance a career?" Wait, should I not be celebrating life like a normal prego lady? Why do I feel ashamed to be pregnant again?
I recall being in the corporate office for this third pregnancy. A male peer in the office had just announced his stay-at-home wife was expecting their first child. I recall our manager and others giving him slaps on the back of congratulations. I could see foaming at the mouth about how productive this father-to-be was probably going to become. Shortly thereafter I broke the news to the office that I was expecting. I could only hide my dashes into the ladies room to be sick and reduction in coffee for so long. Absent of slaps on the back, my news was met with sighs of sympathy and questions about my maternity leave plans (a good 6 or 7 months ahead) and I imagine side bets about whether I would return to work at all. This was not my first instance of professional difficulty as a pregnant working woman.
"Of COURSE I'll be returning to work! I mean, who is going to take care of my clients while I'm out? In fact, I think I can probably work a bit during those early weeks when I'm covered in spit up and blow outs, sleep deprived and wondering how I'm going to get in a shower that day." These are the lies I told myself. And the firm.
I started to have an awakening to my primal motherhood for the first time during this third pregnancy. I like to credit the work of my midwife, Melissa, for her diet zeal and emphasis on emotional health during pregnancy. She was a bit of a nutritional fanatic and by mid pregnancy I was wheat and dairy-free. I ate very little meat and felt and looked the best in my life. I had a new found clarity. I still managed to make a 10+ pound baby on my 5'3" frame. In fact, my midwife was so inspiring, I decided to apply to midwifery school. And quit my career. And bring my children home.
This decision turned out to be the most important of my life. It sounds like a crazy turn of events, but as I walked that path, it seemed as though the skids were already greased with copious amounts of pork lard. This was precisely where I was meant to be at that moment in space.
I never looked back. My life has been so rich and full at home with my children. Honestly though, it has been a financial BLOOD BATH. After I left work to attend school and to our three children, Husband, who appeared to be on a trajectory of nice growth in his career, had an immediate string of unfortunate events including a medical trauma leading to a very difficult financial period for us. We had just built a very large addition onto our smallish log cabin and had a subsequently large obligation to fulfill.
I was an only child. I had always wanted a large-ish family. Definitely more than two. Maybe more than three. I was unsure about any more than that. Do most couples articulate with each other how many kids they are going to have? We never really did. We never gave a number to our family. We would start discussing the concept of a third and soon after became pregnant. Then we started discussing and liking the idea of a fourth, and soon became pregnant.
Sometime in 2007, we created Huck (#4). Yes, his name is REALLY Huck. Huckleberry Bridger, actually. Huckie is what I affectionately call him. Huckster is what The Husband calls him.
In contrast to carrying Harleigh, this pregnancy was a bit less enjoyable. I had the same lovely midwife, but due to my busier life at home with three other kids, their school and mine, I just did not have time to savor the pregnancy. No time for exercise, I gained a few additional pounds than my nice 25-pounder pregnancies before. No time to prepare leaner meals for myself, I succumbed to nibbling on whatever I fixed for my kids on any given day. These additional ten extra pounds or so seemed to take up new residency on my new found slow-to-metabolize frame in my mid-30s. Not my favorite pregnancy.
Huck was born a "higher-maintenance" baby. Some of you may get this. Anyone who tells you there is no such thing is a stinky fibber. Like adults, some baby personalities are easier than others. Huck was the kind of infant that might have elicited an "I'm Done!" out of me a time or two. Only to be lost in amnesia soon after, if it even occurred.
Now that Huckie is four, this is the longest time period I have gone since knowing Cory without being preggers. I just told him that as I typed this and he grinned and said, "Really?!?" That's funny."
In our latter 30s, The Husband and I are just having those mindful conversations now regarding conscientious family planning. I suppose we've just
remained flexible and open to our lives at any given time. Now my clock
is ticking, "tick-tock", and I'm feeling the need to make some decisions
and finally put to rest whether my family will expand further or not. I'd like to bring consciousness to our decision rather than not talking about it and assuming we both want the same thing. Because what if he thought, what I thought, six months ago changed, and what if what I thought what he thought has changed. And what if we both think we want the same thing, but are afraid the other person still wants that other thing and it never gets discussed. Wait. Who's on First? What's on Second?
The Husband is Bud Abbott. I'm clearly Lou Costello.
The Husband and I had a difficult year of marriage last year that almost ended tragically. We count our blessings as a family every day that we pulled it together. I am now a believer in miracles. But the memory of that dark time of separation and the scars it left both of us complicate the feelings associated with bringing a new life in.
I think I will grieve my pregnant self. I was fortunate that creating a baby was never a challenge for us as it is for others and I am mindful of that. My pregnancies were fairly easy and my births extraordinary. Yes, I will definitely miss the childbearing years of my life as I enter into this new phase of womanhood.
On the other hand, my life now is nice. My children are out of diapers that have been a constant in our home since 1999. We have changed diapers and helped smallish ones brush their teeth and fall asleep for over 12 years. I am now able to devote more time to my older children. I probably passed over them sometimes when pregnant or with a newborn. Now I feel more..."together". I dress nicer. I have more time to myself. I have time to fix my hair and makeup. Things I found difficult to carve time out for with tiny ones. I can work and earn more again now that my little man is four. I have a midwifery practice that I run out of my home. Life seems to be getting easier. We have discretionary income again for the first time in years. We just took a big family vacation that did not involve camping, tents, DEET or outdoor toilets. I am happy!
So I should "Be DONE", right? The Husband may be feeling done. We are both enjoying our new freedom from the little tethers accompanying pregnancy and nurselings. So why do I not feel, "Done"? Is there another soul that belongs to my stewardship here on Earth? Or is this a universally normal feeling for women who are physically equipped and young enough to continue to bear children. Perhaps it goes against natural instincts to feel "done". So why do so many women portray a clarity and knowing that their families are complete and they are ready to make the shift? Why don't I? Am I afraid to change?
The mancession (male-oriented recession) has also taken its toll on the providers of the home as I counsel pregnant women in my midwifery practice who struggle with husbands burdened in these days with providing and nervous about more mouths to feed, clothe and shelter. I wonder if this difficult economy is causing major shifts in families in the sense that mothers feel more alone in pregnancies while fathers are focused on work and providing. I seem to be seeing a bit of this as as midwife. It is amazing that the economy downturn has been so severe that it has altered the course of many souls coming into the world.
I find myself soaking up every single nano-second with baby Huck, who is actually four. We snuggle. I fawn over him. I giggle and play with him. I spoil him silly. I am already missing his baby self and having a baby or toddler to care for. This has been the longest period in 13 years that I have not carried or cared for a tiny baby. I miss it.
For now, my work is to honor my husband and our children's needs. Basque in my current state of peace and happiness and allow myself to grieve just a tiny bit for the loss of my prego belly, babies and small frys in my life. And embrace the silence that forces me to really deal with myself without an infant to distract me.
Living and loving in rural Vermont, I thought it was an urban hair thing that I was clueless about...the male hairstyle with copious
gel turning locks into a flippy, curvy, bed-head-meets-mohawk style. I noticed the
hair style donned by the squads of young and handsome missionaries from the west
coast who would visit and teach us. I noticed the faux-hawk when I was in Chicago O'Hare awaiting a flight and chalked it up to what all male hair styles must look like outside of Vermont. Until...I remembered that I was sitting
in a gate for a plane bound for Utah.
"Boy, these people have great
hair and shoes.", I thought.
The light bulb finally went off while watching NBC's -
The Sing Off. We were big fans of BYU's Vocal Point - a cute, wholesome college group of a Capella singers, who rocked closely clipped, meticulously gelled faux-hawks.
While cheering on Vocal Point, ten year old son, Colton, declared his intention to have a faux-hawk and gel for himself. This struck his father and I funny, as Colton is a homeschooling jock, who until that moment in space, appeared to care minimally about his outward appearance, let alone his hair. He persisted for weeks. And he also happened to need a haircut. So he got one (We all did. Not faux-hawks, but hair cuts) on our trip to South Carolina, as we frequent my mother's hair stylist, Patti. Patti is actually the one who told me it was called a "faux-hawk" after watching me flounder around trying to describe the thing Colton wanted on his head. One faux-hawk and a bottle of L.A. Looks gel later, Colton found a new hobby working his hair like clay, reminiscent of that 'Ghost' romance scene with Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore sharing the pottery wheel.
It does strike me funny how hard one works to get his hair to look like he just rolled out of bed.
{Sigh} I have another "tween".
To my oblivion, faux-hawks have been around for a while. I guess they started in the punk age of the 80's and became mainstream with David Beckham in the 90's. I'm really not hair-style-aware.
Euro trends are slow to come to the U.S. and even slower to make it to Vermont, apparently. But our exposure to Mormon culture caused me to link them to Utah, BYU and by default, the faith. Other things I think about when BYU comes up in conversation is Very Long Blonde Hair. Very White Teeth. Honor Code. Holding Hands. Marriage.
Yes. Yes, I think I will show my sons and daughters BYU as an option to consider for college. Thanks to the faux-hawk.
It has been a year since I started to write down my thoughts and publish them here. Thank you for stopping buy in your busy day to read, subscribe, and justsit with me. I feel like I am getting more comfortable with this and maybe ready to share a little bit more of my life.
Events last year created a vulnerability in me and as I review my writings, I can see that I I have withheld a great deal of myself. There is some scar tissue there that feels like it is ready to be ancient history.
I love this photo a girl friend took during my third pregnancy that would give birth to Harleigh. I post it today because I feel figuratively pregnant...with me.
Last year, I took you on some homeschool trips and shared a few yummy treats as I felt like a big girl trying to impress guests with cooking and homemaking. Yes, I'm a Mormon. For a funny read, check out: Sister Bloggers: Why so Many Lifestyle Bloggers Happen to be Mormon. For more on what I believe in, click here.
I think I will usher in this next year with revealing just a little bit more. About my home and the people I share space with. About me. Yes, I think I will fly my Freak Flag. Maybe just a corner of it. I warn you, that I am born of two corporate fiance professionals who worked for Fortune 100 companies their entire careers... Translation: I have to dig deep for those authentically creative pieces of ME and grow comfortable sharing them with YOU. This will be an exercise for me to journal honestly, and not be really flipping mad at myself for days after wondering if you still love me or not.
I always get fun inquiries from random people about homeschooling. People who want to come over and watch, or people who want to know what materials I use and how we get it done. It reminds me of my own trepidations about bringing my children home to educate them almost six years ago and I wanted to share that process now that I am a seasoned home educator.
First, like any decisions we make outside the norm, herd and conveyor belt mentalities, deciding to educate your children in the home takes courage and curiosity. If you are reading this, you most likely have a curiosity about the notion and the process. All great learning and important endeavors ever undertaken start with simple curiosity. Jumping off the conveyor belt takes courage.
If you commit to encouraging and unleashing your children's natural curiosity, you will find that underneath the exterior shell they probably wear when attending school, they are really highly self-motivated. All human beings are naturally curious about their environment, community and world. Our biggest job in the home as parents and educators is to create and maintain fertile ground for curiosity to be born, cultivated and fueled.
Encouragement and support to pursue their own curiosities is critical, even if you do not share their interests and passions and is the greatest fuel regarding self-inspiration and learning you can give your children.
Embrace tangents. The BEST learning and teachable moments occur in those important conversations we have when we are reading something interesting in science, literature or history. Hands down, these are the small moments that create a profound richness and depth in my children. Schools are unable to routinely offer intimate conversations that occur inside the family that link together every thing they are learning with discussions, debates and experiences. I could write an entire post on the bizarre tangents we have taken that leave me buzzing with positive energy and feelings about homeschool. Tangents usually end with trying to make sense of how we started with one thing/lesson and ended up discussing something entirely different. I cannot explain how or why this is so important, but I promise to write more about this in another post. The biggest growth in myself as a home educator over the past several years has been in embracing tangents. My first year, I stuck so tightly to assignments and schedules that we had less fun, less creativity, less real learning and more tears. Five years later, I still accomplish all of the assignments in my curriculum, but I skim or skip over the bits I know they will find less interesting and really spend time on the bits that I know my children will be more curious and inquisitive about. This is another area that schools cannot compete in.
Demand healthy interactions inside the family. This is one thing I am very structured about and expectations are clear. There is a zero tolerance for inappropriate remarks, teasing, bullying, physical rough housing among siblings. This will carry over into their ability to function well with other children and adults, despite mainstream's fear-mongering that children educated in the home lack important social opportunities and interactions. We work on a consistent and reliable reward/penalty system. This concept also deserves a post of its own.
Take trips. Lots of them. Find something along the way that will tie into your curriculum that year. Then write off the trip as an expense on your tax return.
Strive to know your children and how they learn in ways you could not possibly comprehend if they were in school. My eldest went to a charter school for K and 1st grade before we began to school at home. I recall sitting through parent/teacher conferences in those early years wondering if the teacher and I were talking about the same kid. Looking back, I understand now that the teacher had assessed spot-on how my daughter learned and the positives and negatives of that learning style. The teacher explained how my daughter needed to really comprehend the material AND understand the WHY's of why she needed to know this stuff before it would be committed to her memory. Because the teacher had a class full of kids who were better at "memorizing" things, this left my intelligent daughter behind a bit in certain areas when things were not explained how she needed to absorb them. I realized at this moment that my bright but seemingly average daughter needed rescuing from "the System" that rewards children who are gifted at rote memorization. I understood that if I wanted my daughter to have a shot at excellence as measured by our modern society, I needed to take responsibility for her learning. So I did. This moment with this fine teacher combined with an intimate knowledge of my daughter's learning style helped me understand that a masters degree in education equips one to have a pretty good understanding of the various learning styles children have and how to get most of the kids to retain most of the information in a ten month period to advance to the next grade level. I testify to you that a degree in education is not necessary or required to educate your children at home.
My 12 year old (6th grade) daughter is a breeze to educate at home. A breeze and a delight. She is a bright girl who would likely be penalized in the herd system of a rote memorization reward system, because she is not "hard wired" to memorize stuff. She needs to really understand it from all angles before it sinks in. I learn like this, too. I can do that with her with ease. I am her mother. That being said, it is way easier instructing my 10 year old son who is gifted at rote memorization (more like his father). He would probably excel in the school system. But I can testify that his comprehension and ability to link complicated concepts together is unmatched to his sister's. This child who is "easier" to teach by most normal standards is perhaps my greatest challenge - to make sure he really "gets it". I can do this with him. I am his mother.
Next post will contain resources about the amazing curriculum we have used for five years.
I am a sucker for a poached egg. I am currently in the habit of preparing one for myself almost every morning. Lately, I refuse to consume eggs any other way than poached. Perhaps it is the arduous process of preparing the poached egg that makes me appreciate it so much. Or maybe it is how much it resembles a pretty scoop of whipped cream.
Whatever it is, I notice that after fixing one, I savor each and every tiny bite.
Poaching an egg can feel like kind of an enigma. I am here to remove the mystique and help you enjoy this simple pleasure found in la oeuf (I'm working on my French).
After failing a few different techniques, I've mastered one that I wish to share!
Gather these and do this:
Preheat oven to 400 degrees.
Turn on your tea kettle (boil some water).
Pick up one of these cute little custard dishes shown below
La Oeuf (the egg)
Something to grease with (PAM spray with canola works best, butter, butter or butter, lard. )
Your favorite spices (I like a pinch of salt and Cajun seasoning).
Oh - If you are feeling really naughty or deprived, you can get out a slice of American cheese. Tsk tsk tsk...
Aren't these dishes the BOMB? I love them.
When I was a little girl "helping" my mother bake pies, she used to let me bake a mini pie filled with jam in one of these. They come in glass or porcelain. I've been using porcelain. My mother used glass.
While the oven is preheating and water is boiling, watch a TED video, pour yourself a breakfast beverage, and set your table! Because a watched kettle NEVER boils and a watched oven NEVER heats up.
Oh - and grease your cute custard dish using a paper towel and your Crisco, butter, or coconut oil.
Precisely when your oven heats to 400 degrees, take your boiling water off the stove and fill your cute little GREASED custard dish about 1/3 full with water. Immediately break the egg into the boiling water in the cute little custard dish and place into the 400 oven for 8-9 minutes.
This is the perfect time in my oven for a soft or medium cooked poached egg.
If you forget to grease the cute little custard dish very WELL, you are going to hate poached eggs forever on this next part and never read my blog again. You must grease the cute little custard dish.
Sorry! I couldn't resist! Tee hee!
When the timer is up, BE SURE TO SET THE TIMER!
When the timer is up, carefully remove the cute little custard dish from holding your poached egg and some water from the oven and CAREFULLY drain out the remaining water over the sink.
Even though you listened and greased the cute little custard dish, your poached egg is probably going to stick a tiny bit to the bottom just enough for you to drain the water out without losing la oeuf.
Sprinkle a teeny weeny bit of salt and Cajun seasoning AND IF you are anticipating a rough day, place your naughty American cheese on top.
Enjoy right in the cute little custard dish!
Please let me know if this worked for you and if you liked it in the comments below.
It is okay with me to share this page with your friends if you liked it.
Swimming/wading in the Gulf, I noticed in the wave swells in front of me, these long green things that looked like pieces of grass. I dismissed it but a few minutes later, I looked again and saw eyes and a head that would brush up on the surface a bit.... then a LONG snout. Then razor TEETH!! yikes! They were about 18" long! Their heads reminded us of sea horses almost floating on the surface, yet their sharp snouts and teeth were indicative of a hunting fish.
They were staring at all of us wading in waist deep water as if they were wondering what we were and if we tasted good. They would literally hover two or three at a time about 12 inches from us and just BOLDLY hang out there.
They lined right up together, pointed at us like this!
We slowly backed out of the water and offered a detailed description of what we saw to the local guys employed by the surf shop selling paddleboat excursions - hoping they could tell us what they were and if they were harmless. The guys said they were probably "ballyhoos". Nope...a quick search on ballyhoo photos did not yield what we saw..
They looked a bit like this. But very green (like above photo).
I fervently phone-googled "sea serpant", "gulf of Mexico sea snake", "Marine life in Gulf" yielding no results of anything that was what we all saw.
It took a more dedicated search later on my laptop to discover photos
and interesting information of the creature.
Meet the predatory Needlefish. Sometimes called Alligator Hound Fish!
There are several varieties. Common in the Gulf and all over the world, they kill more people each year than sharks and jellyfish combined. A needlefish encounter killed a 10 year old boy who was fishing when a beak penetrated his eye and fatally lodged in his brain.
These hunting fish were stunningly bold when Cory walked toward them to investigate and deter them from encroaching too close to us. They were a bit slow to evacuate the area and returned a short time later.
http://www.aloha.com/~lifeguards/needle.html
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Needlefish
Apparently, they are a cousin to the flying-fish and can leap out of the water at 30-50 mph for great distances. This is often where encounters with humans turn fatal.
The local beach guys/surf shop in Captiva appeared to lack awareness
of what these things were, which added to the mystery.
I promised I would report back about my family of six sharing one piece of luggage on our trip.
I notified them that THIS is what I had in mind. What? All we would be taking would be flip flops, bikinis, bathing suits and maybe a shorts outfit or two! C'mon, guys!
They all chuckled and completely disregarded me and my over-active imagination and went off in search of their own packs, leaving me with this thing, which I felt was redundantly large for my simple beach needs.
I stuffed it silly, leaving room for take-homes... when we arrived in our destination... I discovered that I FORGOT to pack any shirts at all (besides the one I had on)...and socks, which was frustrating when I wanted to go out for a walk/run.
I had to do a little shopping while there, but basically lived in a bikini with a sundress and flip flops.
My daydreams of traveling light and efficient with everything we would all need able to fit on our backs at a dead run was thwarted. Our car was stuffed with several packs. Next purchase - roof rack.
