In other news...

...and, just to make you feel better about yourself and the future of our country, I'm about to start homeschooling my children.

Maybe.

Probably.

I mean, we've been homeschooling all summer. And in those two and a half months we have learned about dolphins, dragonflies, and butterflies, among other things. We have completed workbooks, proving that we can, actually, accomplish something that can be measured in pages. We have read real, honest to goodness books, and my 4 year old is sounding out words. I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that I might be teaching him to read. Maybe. Probably.

But homeschooling in the summer (when everyone else is just wasting time anyway) and homeschooling in the fall (when everyone is dressed in super cute new outfits and toting sharp new pencils in their clean backpacks) are two very different matters. Because if I don't put my daughter in 2nd grade next week then, oh boy, have I gone and done it. Because suddenly, we've stepped off the forward-moving school train. Her classmates from the past two years will move on without us. And I'm left with my doubts and insecurities and worries and, not the least, budget.

Plus, I have a sneaking suspicion that on that first day of school, when everyone else has gotten on the bus, I'm going to look down at my kids and they're going to look up at me, and we're both going to have the same thought:

Now what????

See?? Don't you feel better about your life?! *grin*

My Unedited Life: What?? This isn't normal??

So. A couple times in the (very) recent past, I have found reason to pause and analyze my life and parenting a little bit.

The first happened at the veterinarian's a couple weeks ago. Our cat, Cat, had an oozing eye. And she was overdue for her shots by... oh... I don't know. Forever. So we made an appointment and went in.

For those of you who are pet-less, you may not know the joy that kids take in taking pets to the doctor. Because there is absolutely NO chance that they'll be getting a shot. Plus, vets are much more likely to let them play with a stethoscope that their actual doctor. (I swear. It's like the pediatrician thinks they have cooties. Why would she think that???)

I digress.

We get to the vets. Cat in cat carrier. Waiting our turn. All is well. We finally get called in to the room, and the vet begins to work with our cat. After a few minutes, three things happen simultaneously:

1. Thing 2 tries to jump up on the table because he's a "doggy",

2. The Munchkin bites my rump good and hard, since she's not the one getting the attention,

3. Thing 1 passes out COLD because she's sees a needle on the counter.

Herr Doctor looks at me with this face that says "Are you FOR REAL????"

I look back, as I'm dragging Thing 1 out the door by her shoulders, trying to muster up a look that conveys "What?? This doesn't happen all the time??"

The next thing was this past week when I took my kids to the store. The Munchkin had marker all over her face and was wearing a Minnie dress, Thing 2 was wearing really short shorts and a pajama top with galoshes on the wrong feet, and Thing 1 decided now would be a good time to roll her eyes back in her head and drool, just for fun.

Where did I go wrong???

Whispers.

Every year, on the first Sunday of the year, we get to change what time we go to church.

So last year was a flurry of up and out and ready by 8:15 to make the 9:00 service. Hilarity and tears often ensued.

This year, church starts at 11:00. So instead of rushing, this morning found me

sitting on the living room floor,

reading books to my children,

cutting out pictures of Jesus to look at during church,

and playing with bouncy balls and laughing our heads off.

And a tiny voice whispered "This is how it could be. This is how homeschooling could be."

And my heart felt a little braver.

But not yet brave enough. Not yet.

But closer.

Kodak Moment.

Aw, her first time out as a two year old.

Happy Birthday, Munchkin.

While You Were Blogging...

You have GOT to be kidding me.

Patience.

Count to 10.

1,

2,

3,

4,

....

What Dreams May Come..

It feels like summer is never going to end. It really does. Day after endless day of more than 90 degree weather, and not even the swimming pool is appealing any more.

School starts next week.

I am going to miss my daughter. Who will draw mermaids with me? Who will give me constant dance recitals? Who will answer when I go looking for her and find her room empty?

I think I hate school.

But she is thrilled.

I am trying to be thrilled for her.

But I have thought of one good thing: if she's going back to school, then surely fall is on it's way. Surely the leaves will change and the humidity will confine itself to Florida, like it's supposed to. And I'm watching for those subtle signs--the trees that I consider canaries in the mine. Their leaves are the first to change.

I thought I saw some tinged with red this week.

Someday, fall will come.

Can You Hear Me Now?

I woke up this morning, after an interrupted night's sleep (because The Munchkin never read Healthy Sleep Habits, Happy Child and doesn't know that we're all supposed to be OVER THAT by now) and decided "Today's the day I take control!"

Heaven only knows why.

Any by "take control" I mean that I announced to my children "Today is a no TV day!"
My brain in my head screamed, in chorus with them, "WHAT?!?!?!?!?!"
"Yup" I chirped, like someone possessed, "today we're going to play outside and use our imaginations and have FUN!"
The real me in my head clamored "BUT HOW AM I GOING TO TAKE A SHOWER?!" while Thing 2 started screaming for Blue's Clues.
"Maybe we'll even like it so much we'll turn it into No TV WEEK!" continued the Crazy Lady that somehow took charge today over the screams of her offspring.

Well. If I'm jumping off the cliff, might as well really go for it.
No TV.
No candy.
No giving in to the three year old when he pitches tantrums that would impress even Ghengis Khan. Which may be his new nickname, by the way.
Yup. Today, I'm going to be the kind of mom I always intended to be in the first place. Even if I now realize that the mom I always intended to be was probably a complete maniac.

Fake it 'til you make it, right girls?

Speechless.

Last night I asked Thing 1 to put on a pull-up.
She asked me why.
I told her "Because you drank a lot at dinner and I don't want you to wet your bed."
Minutes later, she asked me if she could have a glass of milk. I said no. She asked why.
I told her "Because you drank a lot at dinner, and I don't want you to wet your bed."

This morning, I found that she had gotten up in the night to go to the bathroom, taken off her pull up...

and peed all over the couch.

There are no words.

All Hail the Queen...

I have had a nerve wracking week.

Last Saturday, I took my friend, Merriweather, who was visiting from Maine to go and check on my bees and see how they were settling into their new hive. Well. They were downright ornery (meaning, they kept flying at me and buzzing and generally acting like bouncers). And I couldn't find my queen. I was so flustered by my own inexperience that I just hurriedly put the hive back together and ran away.

All week, I've been thinking about my queen.

A hive must, absolutely must, have a queen. They can't survive without her. They depend on her to give the colony cohesiveness and direction. They count on her for more baby bees, to keep the hive strong and healthy. Just by her mere presence, she sets the tone for every bee in my hive. All 10,000 of them, and counting.

But without my queen? Well. Without a queen, the workers start just wandering around like teenagers at the mall, being promiscuous without any clue of the consequences. It doesn't take long at all for the colony to shrivel and fail without their queen.

So I've been anxious about her. Without her, I fail.

Today, my mentor (bless him) met up with me and we gave my colony a thorough going-over. I have been humbled, which is a good thing--I am more careful. I ask lots more questions. I ask for more help. And on the second to last frame--there she was. But even if I hadn't seen her, I knew she was there. The colony was in perfect order. You could easily tell, they have a queen.

Which has gotten me thinking about my own little home, and my own children. How often I set the tone. How little I realize it. How I can send out the "All is Well!" signal, or the "Every man for himself!" signal at any given moment. That's my job. To set the tone. To give my own little baby bees cohesiveness and direction.

I need to be a better queen.

Everybody do your share...

This morning, Munchkin hucked her eggs off her high chair tray and declared herself "STUCK."

I got her out and started chanting the "Clean up, clean up, everybody do your share" song.
You know that song right?

She crouched down next to me, pointed at the eggs, and sang the REAL version of that song. It goes like this:
"Mom-my, Mom-my, Mommy Mommy Mommy Mommeeeeee..."

Yep. That's about right.

Vogue.

So this probably won't come as any surprise to you, my friends, but here's a confession: I am to fashion what thong unitards are to sunburn--not a pretty sight.

I'm being serious. My fashion sense is so out of whack that I'm holding on to my denim jumpers and overalls, just waiting for them to come back "in." Aaaaany minute now...

(Eeeek! Butterflies! C-ute!)

I blame this on the fact that I was fat in high school. Don't get me wrong--there are advantages to being fat in high school. Mostly the fact that if I were ever to go to a high school reunion (snort) people would be able to say "You haven't changed a bit!" even after 3 kids. Not many people can pull that off. But seriously, what do you expect when you go shopping for your Harvest Ball date in the PRETTY PLUS women's section at JC Penney? Your sense of what's "in" tends to get a little skewed.

Thankfully, I have my daughters to help me, and both of them have better fashion sense then I do. At 5 years and 18 months old, respectively.

I'm not the least bit kidding.

When I need to buy a pair of shoes, I go to Marshalls with Thing 1. Plunking myself down in the middle of the shoe department, I tell her to get me a size 9 and set her free. She brings me back boxes and boxes of shoes, which I try on. Then she tells me which ones to get. Then people proceed to tell me how cute my shoes are. If I stray from this procedure and try to choose my own shoes then I get comments that are more along the lines of "Oh wow! I haven't seen shoes like that since..."

What? Chunky shoes with square toes aren't in anymore???

And just this Sunday the Munchkin came toddling up to me carrying a dress and the matching pantaloons. "How cute!" I thought, and put them on her. Then I reached for the closest pair of her shoes to put them on her. She cocked one eyebrow at me and toddled back into her room, bringing back a shoe that actually matched her outfit. "Oh." I said, placing the shoe on her foot, and feeling a little foolish.

I went to find the other one and when I returned, she had wandered into the bathroom, climbed up on the toilet, and retrieved a matching butterfly hair clip and brush.

"Wow! I didn't even know we still had those!" I muttered.
I swear I saw her roll her eyes.

It's going to be a long twenty years at my house.
Maybe by then, my overalls will be back in style...

Easter Week.

Confession: I'm really terrible at celebrating Easter. I've just never known how to do it. How to strike the balance between the beauty of springtime with it's bunnies and Cadbury Mini Eggs with the serious observance of Holy Week and Easter.

So we've dyed Easter eggs and hunted for them the Saturday before Easter. We've tried to emphasize the importance of Easter Sunday.

But it's always been small and understated, and it somehow always felt... flat.

This year I was determined to really celebrate Easter. I "invested" in some more Easter decorations. (I have to say "invested" to justify buying them at all.) The Spouse and I started a countdown to Easter two weeks ago Sunday where, each night, our children open a numbered Easter Egg that contains a jelly bean for each child and a scripture about Jesus' life and ministry. We hung colorful plastic eggs on our front tree and talked about the symbolism of things in the spring that can remind us about Jesus.

In short, we did everything we harped and pounded on the subject until it was exhausted.

Sunday was Palm Sunday, and began the nightly opening of eggs that also contained a symbol of Holy Week and the countdown of this sacred time of year. We have talked about the life of Jesus a lot for two weeks now. I have drilled this into my kid's heads. This is going to be a week where they really get it. My hopes are high.

We sat down to read our scripture. My beloved Little Ones are gathered around me.
Filled with anticipation, I asked my five year old daughter what holiday is coming up.
"Easter!" she exclaimed.
"That's right!" I encouraged proudly, "and what is Easter about???"

A heartbeat of a pause. The Humpty Dumpty of my hope teeters.

"THE EASTER BUNNY!!!!!!" she screeched, and both she and Thing 2 started writhing on the floor in delight, amongst the shattered remains of all my plans.

But like a doomed sea captain in a fog, I floundered onward.
"Um, no. Not the Easter bunny. Well. Kind of. But what is Easter REALLY about?" I pressed.

"CANDYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!" they both exclaimed.

Deep breaths.
"What, besides candy, is Easter about?" I insisted.

Blank stares.
"A person?" I asked hopefully.

Oh well. Maybe next year. At least there will always be Mini Eggs.

Play in the dirt.

(Don't laugh at my poor, crooked, broken toes. It's not nice.)

I have spent the past two days outside. Barefoot. With my pants rolled up.

It has reminded me that doing that is so good for my soul.

I'm pretty sure that it's working wonders for my kids' childhoods as well.

Today, we all mixed compost (which I explained was cow poop and dirt) together with regular dirt and then planted a beautiful new blueberry bush. We added "apple mint" to our array of herbs that make up the border of my garden. The spearmint and oregano are sending up their green sprouts. I consulted with the kids on where we might want to put some lavender (English is better for attracting bees than French), and if we want to put strawberries near the front.

My oldest made her own lasso and played cowgirl. My son used his blocks to make his own "garden" on the porch. The munchkin crawled and rolled around in the dirt.

I could've lived in today forever.

Today, I was the kind of mother I always wanted to be.

Evolution.

This morning, I was perusing through Creative Loafing, looking for cool things to do this month here in the N.C. There were the usual small bands playing at small bars. Support groups. Opera. Theater. A parkour group. Then this listing caught my eye:

North Carolina Naturists!
Celebrating more than 20 years of family-oriented, clothing-optional recreational activities. Call for more info.

My mind began to race--what, pray tell, is a naturist? Well. "At The Naturist Society, we have members who are deeply committed to naturism, and view it as a defining idea of their lives. And we have members who don't give the philosophical side of naturism much thought. They just know that not wearing clothes often feels better and makes more sense than wearing them." (From "The Naturist Society", emphasis added.)

Glory be! There is a TERM for what my children are! Naturists!! (Not to be confused with naturalists, people. Very different.) Not only do my children have a genus and species, but they even have an official club for them! The ultimate opportunity to rub shoulders, so to speak, with their own kind.

I wonder if it's frowned upon for parents to drop their naturist progeny off for the "recreational activity" and head for the nearest clothing mandatory restaurant... hm.

Although, if they offer a special lecture series on "Chafing: Don't Let it Rub You the Wrong Way" then I could consider recreating along with them. Especially if they offer gluten free spelt or oat groats for refreshments...

Modesty.

You know, something struck me as funny this morning.

I have bought my daughter two Barbies in her 5 years of life. Each time, I was obsessed with finding modest Barbies that had actual clothing. With sleeves. I'm trying hard to impress upon her the importance of dressing modestly, and that modesty is beautiful.

This morning as I watched her playing with them, I was wondering why I bothered. They always end up naked anyway.

Happy Sabbath.

Transfer.

The Spouse and I are living by, and sticking to, a budget this year. A real one. We are determined to live within our means. We are determined not to dip into savings every paycheck. We are determined to actually HAVE savings at the end of this year, for emergencies. We.are.determined.

But I have to admit--it is hard, sometimes, to make things stretch. Make it do, or do without. I know that sounds like whining. It really isn't. I realize what a blessed life I live, and how fortunate I am. Living this way has made me realize that more than ever.

But sometimes you just don't care. Sometimes your determination slips away and you just want to throw up your hands and pull out your credit card. What does it matter? We've figured it out before. And those purchases are so easy to justify--Thing 1 doesn't have a single pair of jeans that aren't floods. It's Valentine's Day this weekend--why shouldn't I my sweetheart some roses, or at least the stuff to make red velvet cake balls? I haven't seen my mother in a year, and tickets are really *pretty* affordable right now.

But even all those things seem pathetic when you're debating--do we transfer money from savings to fix the furnace? Do we transfer money from savings to pay for school lunches? Do we transfer money to buy the Munchkin's soy milk or let her suffer the consequences of cow's milk?In the end, do we put on coats, make some bread to put jam on, and open the piggy bank and pay for the soy milk in change?

In the end--what is a want, and what is a need?
In the end, how determined am I?

I.am.determined.

I think.

My Unedited Life: February.

I blame my current blog fog on the fact that it's not yet halfway through February.

I detest February.

For the record, I don't know anyone who doesn't detest February. Unless they live in the Southern Hemisphere where February is warm.

I believe that's because I have to spend the *entire* month fighting my most basic February Survival Instincts.

Like hibernating.

(Don't even think about it, Romeo. True love does not wake True Love.)

Carbo-loading on comfort food.

(That.sandwich. Oh my. The utter perfection of that food.)

And watching various versions of Jane Austen adaptations.

(And for the record, it's edited. Also for the record, The Spouse and I agree that if my triple great-grandparents hadn't become Mormon and crossed the ocean and then the plains, I would probably be Bridget Jones.)

But no. Instead of doing what comes naturally (preferably from the comfort of my own bed under layers of down comforter, as nature intended) I actually have to get UP in the morning. And FUNCTION. Turn down the heater so that the gas bill doesn't equal the mortgage. Tip-toe out to the mailbox hoping for a new Netflix envelope. Carefully inspect my trees for any signs of spring. Watch my children slowly descend into cabin fever. Visit the Sandals website daily and gaze at azure water. Survive.February.

Which is why I have nothing blogworthy to say.

A Keeper...

Last night, after a frantic drive in an area that I am not familiar with, I pulled into the parking lot of a generic daycare that was absolutely packed with cars. A smiling man with a badge waved me on to the grass next to an ancient Ford truck. (I would so love a truck like that.)

I stepped out of my car and took a deep breath, clutching a yellow and black spiral bound notebook and pen. For the first time in almost 6 years, I had a class to be to.

I walked quickly to the front door. I had gotten lost on the drive, and didn't want to be late. On the glass there was taped a sign: "Welcome to Bee School."

Inside, there were more than 100 people. Some of them had generic name tags, which I was handed and told to write my name on. There were others milling around the edges proudly displaying tags that read "BEE MENTOR." How I wished I were already a bee mentor. They crossed my name off the list and handed me a "goody" bag. I wondered what you put in a goody bag for a beekeeping class?? Honey???

I peered inside hopefully and saw... stuff. A small rolled up bunch of burlap. A little stick. A big stick, cut in funny shapes. I smiled inwardly with the giddiness of the first day of class. I always get this same high from realizing that there are things that I don't yet know, but by the end of the class, I will know. And that makes me happy.

I looked around the crowded room and spotted an empty chair squeezed in between two other women. One of them looked kind of like me--the Mom type. Pink sweater. Inconspicuous earrings. The other woman looked like the Executive type. A bit intimidating. I slid into the seat and tried to make conversation with the Mom. She was rather cool, and gave short answers. When I asked her what brought her to learn about beekeeping, she arched one eyebrow and said "For personal reasons." I felt a bit rebuffed. Maybe we weren't supposed to make friends at Bee School.

I turned hesitantly to the Executive, and she gave me a broad smile. We had a warm conversation. Turns out that I was right--she is an executive at one of the big banks here. When I asked her why she was interested in beekeeping, she just laughed and said "I have no idea! It's just an itch I have to scratch." I loved her instantly.

The class started with a prayer to "God Our Father... er.... Or the Great Creator... whoever made the bees" and then launched into the lecture, and I furiously took notes. The history of bees. The earliest bees. The evolutions of beekeeping. Flavored here and there with stories from the teacher's own experience with his 50,000 bees. When he would go off on a story, I found lots of opportunity to look around the room and look at the kind of people who are interested in beekeeping.

Old Farmer types sat with slouched postures and closed eyes. A mom and dad with their son, who--from the disappointed look on his face, had hoped there would be honey harvesting at the first class. Lots of organic types with sigg bottles, short hair, and flowing clothes. An eclectic group.

The teacher emphasized very carefully the importance of being a bee KEEPER and not a bee HAVER. He said that if you have a hive of bees for only one year, then you are a bee haver. You don't care about your bees. They are a passing whimsy... nothing more. And he was scathing in his wrath for such people. "Bees are a GIFT and a BLESSING" he emphasized, "they are not here for your AMUSEMENT, so don't get them if you aren't prepared to take care of them and put up with them and get stung. A LOT."

A sobering point.

"But," he went on, "the thing you'll need the most to be a beekeeper is a love for it. And a love for them. For the amazing creatures that they are. That's what will make you a good beekeeper."

As I got in my car to drive home, that point was still in my mind.

I think that you could say much the same thing about children.

And I decided that I need to be a better childkeeper and less of a child haver.

Next week?? Building your hive!

Gold Medal Parenting...

I am the most fantastic mother. Ever.

This is what I was thinking this week as I scrambled over the seats in one of my friend's vans so that my son could pee in a pop can. The situation was desperate. And I certainly didn't want him to pee all over her beautiful van. So the Welch's grape soda pop can got to go above and beyond fulfilling the measure of it's creation.

I thought about what a fantastic parent I was, again, later in the day as I ran up the stairs at the local ice skating rink to grab Thing 1 from ballet, having left Things 2 and 3 locked in the car downstairs. It was pouring rain, for crying in the mud, and Thing 2 had no shoes. Because I'd forgotten them. So I ran upstairs and came rushing back downstairs, only to find my son standing in the lobby, barefoot, holding a dollar, with some woman holding his hand and glaring at me. "Is he YOURS?!" she growled, as I worried that her laser beam gaze was going to melt me on the spot. I didn't even reply, just grabbed his hand and shoved him out the door. Because she had no idea what a phenomenal mother I am.

It just confirmed to me that I am, truly, going for the gold medal in parenting as drove away from the ice skating rink with all my children screaming and I did the thing any good mother does: I pretended that there was a plexiglass barrier between the driver's seat and all the passengers (like in a limo) and made my way to the local Little Caesar's Pizza where I bought two five dollar pizzas to throw in the lion's den with my children while I went to hide in the bathroom as soon as we got home.

Night....

Last night, in the middle part, Thing 1 started crying. In all her five-year-old-ness, she was longing for some "Girl Time" and a "Girl Show." At 3:00 in the morning. I told her that mama wasn't up for Girl Time. Mama wanted sleep. So she settled for me snuggling in next to her while she fell back to sleep.

As I lay there with my tall, thin little girl curled up next to me, I started remembering the first night home with her when she was a newborn.

It sends chills down my spine to this day.

Do you remember your first night home, with your first baby? Especially if you were alone?

We had come home on that bright June day and I had laid The Baby down in her crib. Brand new crib. Brand new crib set. Coming Home Outfit that was way too big. She looked so incredibly tiny in that huge crib, but I walked away and considered myself a success. I had put The Baby down for her first nap. Ten minutes later, a tiny squawk, and I jumped off the couch and waddled to go and get her.

And so went the day.

Evening descended and The Spouse went to bed. I was left holding this little person, and I had no idea what to do with her. We'd bought all kinds of contraptions... but which one was for the first night home???

I laid her in her crib. She screamed. Holding her out at arms length, I put her in the car seat. I'd seen parents do that before. She screamed. Feeling a little frantic I put her in the portable swing we'd bought and turned it on to it's highest setting: ZOOM. Her head flopped to the side and her body lunged forward. I snatched her out of the still moving swing.

WHAT WAS I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH THIS THING????

I walked to the kitchen and considered calling the maternity ward at the hospital. They'd managed to get her to sleep for two nights. Maybe they could tell me what to do. Heck, maybe I could just take her back there for another couple nights. Or months.

Fear clutched at my heart as the clock slowly ticked past midnight and tiredness set in. Why wouldn't she sleep? I'd changed her 10 times. I'd fed her every other minute. She didn't look the least bit drowsy.

Drowsy.

I turned on our huge, old garage sale television and put "Pride and Prejudice" in the player. Jane Austen always lulled my off to sleep. Surely a 5 hour BBC version could do the same for a newborn.

Around 4 in the morning, she finally drifted off to sleep. On the hard floor. With my hand under her little head.

Picture me laying next to her. Cold. Uncomfortable. Not daring to move in case it woke her up. Terrified to leave her there. Maybe she would turn over (HA! FIRST TIME MOM ALERT! HA!) and smother. Maybe someone would break down the front door and kidnap her. So I slept fitfully for an hour, until she woke up.

The next night, I called my mother and begged her to come over. I couldn't handle another night. And my Mother has never appeared more beautiful in my eyes than she did that night, like a shining Angel of Salvation come to rescue me from my own ineptitude. In all her seasoned wisdom, she found the solution that saved us: put her in the laundry basket and tilt it up because she has reflux.

And there was peace.

I thought of that last night, as I extracted myself to go back to my own bed. And I hesitated, just the last bit. Time is going so fast. There are so few nights like this left. I was tempted to stay and be cold and uncomfortable, just to stay there with her and smell her curly hair. I was tempted.

But sleep and comfort won. And there was peace.