Five Frozen Chamorros

Memory Blanket

2012-01-27T11:20:00.000-08:00

Last year I made the horrific discovery that the Mighty Miss Po had outgrown all of her 4T/5T footie jammies.

Outgrowing toddler footie jammies = she's not a baby anymore = a distraught Mama.

Unable to part with them, I piled up the pj's, which my mother spotted. "I have an idea," she said, and snagged the pile.

UPS just delivered the result of her brilliant idea:

A Baby Pajama Blanket.

I managed to stop crying long enough to take some pictures. How precious is this?!?!?!
She cut out and adorned a frog that graced the cover of a cuddly pink and green pair.
Sweet and girly adornments, including a little creature with a binky. Paloma was my Binky Baby, and carried a Yellow Binky Basket with her everywhere.
I will try to be a good mother and allow my daughter to cuddle with it, on the second and fourth Mondays of each month (I get it the rest of the days.)

Thank you, Mom, for a blanket that is beyond a treasure.

Hijacked: Happy Birthday to My Gorgeous Wife!

2012-01-25T06:18:00.000-08:00

This is Sarah's Mister, hijacking her blog because I know she won't want to give notice that today is her birthday.

So Happy, Happy Birthday to the most wonderful mother, amazing wife, and incredible person I know.

As many of you know, Sarah has a tradition of making everyone in our family a special, from-scratch birthday cake for their birthday. Not an easy set of shoes to fill for this guy, but the kids and I gave it our best this year.

What more fitting for my wife than a yarn cake? That blob of pink fondant is supposed to be a ball of yarn. Other possibilities that were suggested: brains, intestines and "unicorn poop."

Yarn.

My wife has many amazing qualities that make her very special to us. A while back, I heard this song and it's as if my wife herself wrote it. All those things in the song are important to her.

Happy Birthday to my lovely wife. We are so very lucky to have you.
Love,
Your Ardent Admirer

Gotcha!

2012-01-22T06:37:00.000-08:00

Paloma often swipes my iPod Touch, makes videos and sends them to Hatfield. I never know just what I'm going to find when I sync.

For example:

Yesterday:

2012-01-20T06:20:00.001-08:00

* The boys had a great second day of school. Score! We had a highly productive day of homeschool (two in a row!). Score!

* My dishwasher/kitchen sink became MAJORLY backed up. No score! Gag! My dear husband drove down from the U.P. to unclog the entire production, and then drove back up north for work. Before he left he held up his trusty plumbing snake tool which has saved us hundreds of dollars in unnecessary plumber fees, announcing to our daughters: If the guy you wanna marry can't use one of these, you may want to rethink your decision.

To which Hatfield responded: Why does he need to use one if I learned how to use it from watching you?

Thatta girl, Hattie Lou. Thattagirl. Man, I love that kid more and more every day.

* I tore apart my homeschool shelves and storage area in the basement, looking for the next math text/workbook for Atticus (we rotate between Teaching Textbooks and Math-U-See, so that each reinforces the other, creating an absolutely stellar math curriculum). I knew I had the set, as Hatfield had completed it several years back. But, it wasn't in my Math-U-See container.

An hour and a half later, I realized that my little math nerd (said lovingly) had already finished that set some 6 months back, and I had placed it in Paloma's bin. He finished it a grade and a half earlier than I thought he would, but it hadn't occurred to me that he was already set to begin the next level.

Oops. Why is it that as my kids get smarter, my brain get dumber?

* I made oatmeal/blueberry pancakes for dinner, along with these hash browns. Holy Hash Brown Heaven, Batman! They were soooooooo good. I didn't use that much oil, and I used olive oil instead (but not too high, because the scorch temp for olive oil is a lot lower than that of veg oil). Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm.

* The kids' dance costumes have been trickling in all week. I LOVE costume week, and since my sieve-like brain cannot remember what any of the costumes we ordered actually looked like (hey, it was way back in October, and we ordered a million of them), it's like Costume Christmas all over again.

Miss Hatfield is now nearly as tall as me, so guess what? I can now try on her gorgeous ballet costumes that I have been stealthily drooling over the for the past years.

So I did!

And you know what?

Somethings are better left to one's own imagination.

Things like ballerina costumes.

Because this is what I had pictured in my head:

which I then somehow had to resolve with this reality:

(*shudder*)

When Home Education and Attachment Collide,

2012-01-17T11:47:00.000-08:00

sometimes, the results are less than ideal.

What began as a honeymoon some 7 months ago ends today, with my Haitian Sensations attending public school, starting tomorrow.

For the past few months, the uphill task of educating my trauma twins has been icing up.

It started with little things, like leaving out letters in their names, or insisting that they never learned that 4 comes after 3.

For a long time, I'd say, "Uh oh, looks like Keenan is too tired to remember how to spell his name. Better go up and take a breather on your bed until you feel stronger and can remember how many "e's" you have."

At first, he'd be up there, pitching a fit for 2 or 3 hours. Then, he'd stomp up and sit on his bed sullenly for 60 minutes. It slowly dropped down to 30 minutes, then 10. For a while, he'd go up, plunk his butt down, hop back up and have it fixed within 30 seconds.

But then, suddenly, it escalated into a flat-out refusal to do work. Each day became: "Good. I don't want to do this anyways. I'd rather sit on my bed/do a chore/etc."

He'd sit there smugly, knowing there's nothing I could do about it.

Miles wasn't much different. He would do math fine for the first few problems, but then before we got to the end of the page, he'd freeze up. Circular discussions always ensued. "Why aren't you doing your math nicely?"

"Because I don't like math and I want to play."
"How many problems do you have to go until you play?"
"4."
"So why don't you do you math nicely and then play?"
"Because I'm mad I have to do math."

Over and over. Rinse and repeat. Always coming back to: "I don't want to do math/reading/school because I'm angry that I have to do math/reading school."

Insert second smug-faced child into bedroom.

The counselor would tell me, "He's smug like that because in his mind he just won."

Not sh#t, sherlock.

But the bottom line is that this is a 7-year old child who does not know what he wants or what he needs to survive in this world. If he thinks that sitting on his bed, bored and learning nothing is winning, he's clearly losing, and it's my job as Mama to intervene.

What can I do?

I can't force him to do his math worksheets.
I can't force a child to learn to read.

I can, and have, incentivized, candy-vized, stickers, cartwheels, extra boob tube time, extra outside time, all for nada. I have issued chores, lectured, allowed children to be really, really bored.

I'm amazed by the people who can't figure out just why I can't make them do their work. Y'all think a little spanking's gonna work? I could promise you that I if I beat the kid until they were black and blue and in the hospital, and he'd just come home tomorrow and not do his math.

These boys of mine spent 4 years in a Haitian orphanage-- you really think a sticker, sucker, spanking or grounding is really gonna make them do math for me? Any amount of boredom, any chore, any sort of unhappy feeling here in America is a million times better than what they had in Haiti.

Seriously.

So that's half of it. The other half is that I can't spend over half my day, day in, day out, trying to constantly disengage from the boys' games with their schoolwork. It's not fair to any of the other kids who are working hard each day to try and figure out a tough math problem when Keenan's upstairs kicking his feet against the wall, screaming, "Ow! My Feet!"

I can't use up all of our energy and oxygen on trying to keep a "normal" feeling in the house for those kids maintaining.

I've done it before and I will not do it again. I will give the greatest energy/oxygen to those who are "using their powers for good" or "playing in the boundaries" or what have you.

I will give everything I can to helping pull my boys through, but I will not let their crazy come at the expense of their sibling's education.

I know that sounds harsh, or mean, or unfair, but it's the way it is. I have tried every trick, plot, therapeutic parenting technique in the book, but I will not let their issues run the show in our house.

I do not tie my own pride or value into this. I am a person, and I am a mother. I try my best with all my kids.

But, I will not breath oxygen into the fire of their manipulative games.

I will do everything I can to equip them with everything they need: I employ a great therapist, I constantly read and try to learn more and do better, and I am committed to their education and recognize that if they aren't learning from me, then I best send them to someone from whom they can learn.

I have one child who is 30 reading lessons behind, and that's padding it with the "trauma factor," alotting 2 days/lesson instead of expecting a completed lesson each day. I have two who move at a snail's pace through math, all in the name of "it makes me mad to have to do math." Ugh.

I homeschool for a multitude of reasons, but the first and foremost is a serious education.

So, off they go.

I have worked far too hard---my boys have worked far too hard-- on attachment and building a family love and understanding to let homeschool undermine it.

I was really hoping that teaching them to read would come across as a loving, bonding activity as it had with the other children.

Yet, it hasn't. And that's okay.

My role with them is Mommy who Loves them and Cares for them.

Not Mommy who Educates them.

Does it make me sad? Yes. I've grieved over this. It seems so unfair that Trauma can take this away from us.

But, I'm okay with it, too. I love those boys, and I'll meet them where they're at.

And starting tomorrow, that will be by the monkey bars every day at 2:55 p.m.

2012-01-07T17:26:00.000-08:00

One thing I wish I would have done more of is record the funny conversations I've had with my kids over the years. So that's what I'm attempting to do now.

It's early evening, and the Mister has dropped Hatfield off at bowling, and is now bringing out his inner child at Toys R Us with the Boy Squad.

Paloma stayed home to help Mommy bake Daddy's birthday cake and wrap presents for tomorrow.

"I love to tape Mom. It's like I took a class in taping before I was born."

At one point, Paloma nearly slipped off the table bench when it slid away from the table while she was standing on it. I gasped a bit and said, "Careful, babe." To which she responded: "Don't worry, Mom. I'm trained in this."

I don't recall ever taking Paloma to a training class, but then again, I often confuse my children's names, and really, most of them look nothing alike.

While helping me, she whispered on the DL: "You don't have to pay me for wrapping, Mom."

And just now, while writing this out, she came in to let me know that when we were in the baking aisle at the grocery store, and we were by the birthday cake candles, in addition to the ones that are in the shapes of 1, 2, 3, 4, etc., "I am DEFINITELY POSITIVELY sure that there was one that was 39 in glittery numbers, Mom."

Today is:

2012-01-06T12:15:00.000-08:00

Today is January 6th

It is 45 degrees F outside.

I just brought Wanda in from a looooooonnnnngggg walk.

She's one happy dog.

Now I am working outside.

I am not shoveling.

I am working in the dirt. Not snow. Dirt. Cutting back vegetation that I didn't cut back in October due to my rotator cuff wackiness.

My boys are playing tackle football.

My girls are a Roller Skating Taxi Service for Unicorns (love that Hatfield creates these games for Hatfield.)

I feel like I died and gone to Heaven.

Did I mention that it's January 6th? And I'm in Wisconsin?

First FO of 2012

2012-01-02T16:40:00.000-08:00

We finished up 2011 in the mid-30's with barely any snow (under 1 inch, so truly, barely any.) Our New Year's Eve was spent dancing with the kids, taking breaks to cool-off on the front porch, in our shirt sleeves.

All I could think was: This is AWESOME! I am so gonna make it this winter! Because 2011 is over and winter hasn't even started because it's still warm outside!!

2012 has arrived and do you know what that means?

Only 3.5 months of winter left, baby.

I can SO DO 3.5 months of winter blindfolded with my hands tied behind my back.

Tonight the temps are dipping to the frigid range, but I can still see all my garden beds and the the fall leaves blanketing the soil on each, promising me goodness in just a few months' time.

I can handle a few months to snuggle in each cold evening, with a cat on my lap and knitting in my hands. Christmas knitting is finished (Hallejulah!). And I've dusted off the Jalapeno Crunchers' Dust that the Mister sprinkled all over my log cabin blanket while en route to Florida (the man did not stop eating once on the entire drive home. Not. Once. Nearly drove me batty.)

The blanket has been On The Sticks since Winter 2010/2011, and I think it's about time to finish this.

Speaking of finishing, I have my first FO (that's Finished Object, Gutterminds) of 2012. And on New Year's Day 2012, no less.

Seriously, some awesome yarn company somewhere should send me some kind of prize or award, just like those mom's who have the first baby on New Year's Day get free diapers and stuff.

This bad boy, knit from a Woolstock kit which I bought at Stitches, glows in the dark (oooooooo...)

This is actually Hat 2 of 3, as I promised all 3 of my sons some Glow-in-the-Dark Knitty Awesomeness.

Bewaricus the Piraticus Atticus!!

Coffee-induced-bulletproofness strikes yet again (because, seriously, not only knitting 3 of the same hat, but having to listen to small child whine, when is my hat gonna be ready? while knitting? WTF, indeed!)

Thankfully, it's a fun thing to knit, so as far as some of the more stupid decisions I've made after 3 cups 0' hyperactive early morning goodness, this one is fairly innocuous.

Or so I hope.

Trading Up to Balls of Steel

2012-01-01T11:01:00.000-08:00

While 2011 was one of the more 'difficult' years of my life, it was also one of the best in terms of my personal growth/development and improvement.

When I review the year, I feel pretty good. There was a lot this year that I went through that was un-bloggable, which is why the frequency of postings took a huge hit. But, I learned that wading through sh*t doesn't always leave you smelling like a cesspool.

While it might have taken me 36 years to get to this point, the point is, I'm here now. Here's some of what 2012 brought me:

* After two years of sweeping an emotionally devastating and toxic situation under the rug, I traded my cojones up to a Steel Pair, rolled up my sleeves, and slogged through it (and I have the therapy bills to prove it, lol.)

And you know what? Despite I was pretty sure that it would at times, my head did not fall off and roll across the floor. In fact, I'd say my head has never been screwed on tighter. Pretty cool.

* I garnered the strength to set some Boundaries for Mental/Emotional Health in my life and relationships. Knowing that there would be backlash, but not knowing just how much backlash there would be, but still establishing them anyways, was scary. Really, really scary.

But I did it. I knew that I had to, no matter the outcome (because the outcome that mattered most was my health), and I did it.

Pride is not always healthy, but in this case it is. I am really, really proud of myself.

* I surrounded myself with a group of amazing women and friends who gave me the strength and encouragement I needed when I wasn't quite certain I could power through on my own. Everyone in this world should have such a fierce, loving group of people to hold up the corners of one's safety net. I am beyond blessed.

* I learned to deal with passive aggressive people. Because suddenly this year, it seemed like they were popping up left and right. I learned to not care or become unnerved. And conversely, I learned to not allow people to force their passive aggressive propaganda down my throat. Because I found that most people who excel at the passive aggressive art do so because they are not used to people saying, "No, that's not how it went/is/will go at all." So, if someone was going to drag me through the mud with some bullcwap, I wasn't going to sit by and demurely take it.

I wasn't rude, or aggressive, but I spoke up for myself. And it felt good.

* Not once, but Twice, I went into full-immersion situations on the turf of groups of people where I am unliked/looked down upon/villified, and twice I came out with my integrity intact, my head held high, and my high road well-traveled upon. I don't like using the word "revenge," but living well and acting well is a great way to deal with toxic people.

* I began respecting myself again. I began liking myself again.

So, despite the hardships, I'm totally okay with how 2011 went down in the books. This morning while drinking my cup of coffee, I got out a polishing cloth and shined up my pretty new balls as part of my brand-new 2012 Morning Routine.

And 2012 can bring it; my shiny balls and myself are ready.

Secret Santa Magic

2011-12-31T08:33:00.000-08:00

In our home, Santa brings each child three gifts.

Ask any of my children why, and they'll invite you to put your feet up awhile they pour you a glass of our red-and-green Kool-Aid : "If it's good enough for Baby Jesus, it's good enough for us."

(On occasion when we are asked why other kids get more than 3 gifts from Santa, we simply reply: Parental Subsidies. We don't subsidize Santa; we subsidize dance. It leaves them stumped, yet mystically satisfied.)

I (Mama) give an ornament to each child every year, so that when they are grown, they'll have a collection of ornaments from their childhood.

And, in an effort to promote sibling bonding (and don't knock it, this works BIG time, especially when some of your children's primary love language is gifts), we have a Sibling Secret Santa Exchange. Hatfield organizes a name drawing, and then each child gets a special shopping trip out with Mom to purchase a gift for their assigned sibling.

This year, Paloma's MOST FAVORITEST GIFT EVAH was from her Secret Santa, Hatfield.

A pair of Fashion Eye Glasses (non-prescription.)

If you were to happen upon our home on any given day to see what the Mister and I wear, you will wonder just where-oh-where does Paloma get her Fashionista Passion.

I assure you, it is from neither of her parents.

A Gift that Can't be Wrapped

2011-12-29T10:11:00.000-08:00

My Christmas gift from the Mister this year didn't come in a shape or form that could be plunked into a box and wrapped up with a bow.

Instead, he gifted me with the ability to say good-bye to a very important part of my life, in for form of two weeks of vacation time off from work, and sandwiched between two- 24 hour car rides with five kids and a papillon.

Which probably sounds like he wrapped up Hell and slapped a bow on it.

But it wasn't. Not by a long shot.

My grandparents built a home on Sanibel Island, Florida (off of Ft. Myers, in the Gulf) right around the time I was born.

When I was going up, every family winter vacation took us to Sanibel. I have so many memories of my grandparents (now elderly), my father (now deceased), and my childhood, in the house.

Yet, my grandparents are aging and no longer able to travel to Sanibel. The house and island are pricey, so it's no longer practical to keep the house.

My folks went down there for the month of November to work on the house-- paint, repair, pack.

Basically, they have the terribly difficult and bittersweet job of dismantling a world.

My mother begged us to come down, to give them a reprieve from the weeks of sadness. For the Mister (and boys) to help Boppa with some of the heavy lifting jobs that he couldn't do on his own (carpet removal, anyone?)

So, halfway through November, we packed it up and headed South.

Being there this year, without my grandparents' presence, was terrible in and of itself. It was not the same, and something was just very much missing.

But that hurt was covered by the joy I felt in watching my children swimming in the pool, playing on the family room floor, running down the beach.

Watching my parents and my aunt and uncle watch my children, seeing how much they loved all the crazy life my kids breathed into that place, was wondrous. "It is soooo good to see the house be used the way it was intended to be used," my aunt commented on Thanksgiving night, watching the kids take a post-Turkey swim.

I spent a huge part of my time on Sanibel one breath away from choking up with tears---seeing the beach for the last time, being in the house for the last time, driving away for the last time.

But it was worth it.

So thank you, Mister, for "forcing" me to agree to this trip. It was priceless.

And as bittersweet it was to leave, what a gift my grandparents gave all of us--over three decades of family memories.

Demolishing the Fortress of Coping Mechanisms, Brick by Measly Brick

2011-12-27T09:18:00.001-08:00

Clearly, attempting the 12 days of Christmas was overly ambitious on my part.

This month has flown by. The entire second half of the year has, really, as the calendar in my mind shows July 2011.

Where did Summer and Fall go?

Our holidays were nice this year, truly. The past two weeks have been a blur of baking, knitting (seriously, if you ever find me attempting to knit Christmas presents the week before Christmas, for the love of all things holy, stage an intervention and take my needles away), watching Christmas movies, preparing presents, etc.

My mom and I took the kids up to visit my grandparents, who are somewhat housebound in their home on a lake in very Northern Wisconsin (i.e., the middle of nowhere.) We brought up pictures and the keyboard and violins, and had a little Christmas recital for them.

The kids have been fighting off the flu/headcolds all week. I knew my turn was coming, but somehow I literally forced my way through it until 6 p.m. Christmas Day. Within 5 minutes of the last guest leaving, my sinuses blew up, my tonsils caught fire and my lymph nodes swelled into shooter marbles.

Fortunately (or not, depending on your reference point), the Mister's industry takes the week between Christmas and New Year's off. Meaning he has been on Mr. Mom duty ever since I took to bed. I'm on Day 2 in bed, resting so I can be up and about for Knitty Knight tonight.

My Haitian Sensations have been holding it all together remarkably well, given the buzz about the holidays. In fact, now that I think about it, they did great, and I'm really proud of them.

While at times I feel like we're treading water, when I look at the Yearly Big Picture, the amount of growth is amazing.

Slowly, but surely, Keenan is beginning to recognize, acknowledge and process emotions. This is huge. H-U-G-E. It is neither an easy nor pretty process, but it's so important that it happens. Testing shows he's at the emotional development of a 24-30 month old, but that's okay.

For the first 2 years he was home, he had nearly zero emotional development. The child was stuck in a Fortress of Coping Mechanisms.

In many ways, he still is, as he retreats to that Fortress often. He is completely uncomfortable and often unwilling to accept any feelings of discomfort, dislike, and displeasure. Sometimes I get confused thinking this is an entitlement issue, but really, I think it is an inability-to-process-emotions issue.

This is a constant push-pull dance that we have with homeschool. Keenan does not like doing math work. He is super stinking smart in math, and can do all the work, but he doesn't like it. It's not fun. Why do math when you can play with toys and feel good.

So, instant retreat into "I don't know what a 4 is," or "I don't know what a pencil is." Anything to try and block those feelings of not liking something.

I work hard at pulling/coaxing him out of it. When I'm "on," I can remain perky and try to pull/coax him with positivity and rewards. It takes tremendous energy/effort to do this, because most days I just want to roll my eyes and say, "Too bad! No one has ever died from doing math! Deal with it!"

(Although I don't say that, because I'm pretty sure that doing so would tempt fate into making me the First Homeschool Mom who Died from Math. And that, to steal a phrase from Paloma, would be a Bad Bummah.)

On days when I can't muster it, or when the situation becomes so imbalanced that I must give focus/energy to the others and not allow Keenan to suck all the oxygen out of the room, then I move to an (ideally) empathetic and (hopefully) calm manner of: "You are welcome to play/go outside/call a friend to play as soon as you are done with math. School is every child's job, including yours."

I call that the Empathetic-yet-Practical Boredom Approach to Math.

Somedays he can pull through and get it done; others he will sulk and refuse to do it, choosing to spend an afternoon pretending he doesn't know how to add 1 + 2.

Those times are tough. It often seems like he literally wants to be forced into doing his math, whether it is me encouraging him or me warning him that if he doesn't want Mama's Homeschool, he can do Daddy's Homeschool after dinner. Either way doesn't matter to him; it is just that he wants someone else to force him into it. As if he is somehow forced into doing it, then it's not really him doing it.

Does that make any sense?

I don't quite get that yet.

But, the larger picture is that he can't live in a bubble, nor can he expect/demand/force other people to let him live in that Happy La-La Land (which was the main trouble with public school, as he is very cute and very charming and he knew exactly what to do to get out of work.)

So, I'm trying to turn something unbearable for him into something bearable. To try and teach him: there's always going to be something we don't like, but we have to push through and get the work done. And you know what? That sense of accomplishment from doing something we don't want to do but do anyway? That feels really good.

So far, he's not really buying into that.

At times I want to say: Holy hell, kid, you'll be doing math every day for the next 11 years! Do you really want to make yourself miserable every day for the next 11 years?

But honestly, that thought makes me really nauseated.

On the Second Day of Christmas

2011-12-15T14:06:00.000-08:00

On the Second Day of Christmas,

My True Love Gave to Me:

Two Singing Friends

Paloma taught her bff Audra the song she sings daily to Buddy, our "Elf on a Shelf", all in hopes of getting him to talk to them.

Good luck with that, girls. ;)

On the First Day of Christmas

2011-12-13T05:31:00.000-08:00

On the First Day of Christmas,

my True Love gave to me:

Our First Teenage Daughter

I still feel flummoxed at the notion that my very first baby girl is a teenager. I can recall every tiny detail about her birth and bringing her home from the hospital. I feel nearly panicked at the thought that in another year and a half, she'll be off to high school. If 13 years went by in a blink of an eye, how quickly will those final four years at home seem?

The Mister and myself and our entire family are beyond blessed to have Hatfield in our lives.

Here is the song Hatfield and I listened to over and over (and over) again all summer. I will never not hear this song and think of my girl. It's a great one to start off the morning, so crank it up and dance about wherever you are.

Day of Rest

2011-12-11T09:43:00.001-08:00

For years now, the weekends have been my "big chance" to catch up and get all the things done each week that I hadn't gotten done earlier in the week. This especially became true once we began our homeschooling lifestyle. Then, I found all that time I had once had to do things like vacuum, clean, organize, and decorate, suddenly evaporate, taken over by the necessity of juggling math lessons, history readings, and science projects.

We brought more children into our family, the kids grew older and activities were added into the mix, and suddenly, the weekends became a time to stress out, trying to shove 50 hours of duties into a 48-hour span.

A few months back, I realized that I was burning the candle on both ends. I never seemed to have time to relax and just enjoy life without worrying about all I have to do. I found myself trapped in the cycle of thinking: Oh, I'll be able to veg/knit/relax for a while as soon as I get the ironing/mopping/shopping/planning done.

News flash for myself: the ironing/mopping/shopping/planning would never be done. It's like painting the Golden Gate bridge. As soon as I'm done, I have to start all over again.

So, I have now claimed Sundays to be a day of rest for me. God really got that one right, and shame on me for being such a self-asborbed, bone-headed martyr for me to miss out on it for all these years.

I have friends who are Adventists, and they take their day of rest very seriously, to the point of having lists of approved and unapproved activities.

My list isn't legalistic in a biblical/Christian sense. I just more or less took some time to think about what fills my tank and what things deplete me into an exhausted stupor.

Things I'm okay with doing on my day of rest:

* Taking a walk/bike ride/ run if the goal is to make me feel re-energized, or to give me time away from the house. I love to explore the larger neighborhood, looking at landscaping or exterior color design on houses.

* Baking/cooking if it is not done to make the week easier, but instead out of a craving/intense desire and liking of the food.

* Reading a good book

* Knitting

* Enjoying yard or garden work, as long as there is no set work goal in mind

* Napping

Things that are not allowed and which I gave my husband permission to look me in my bedroom and throw away the key if he catches me being a numbskull:

* Preparations for the week. While it makes me feel more organized in the end, the actual process stresses me out. I have 6 days each week when I can plan and prepare. No one--least of all, me-- is going to die if I skip out on this one day.

* Cooking for the week.

* Exercising to achieve a goal or keep a schedule.

* Reading parenting books.

* Cleaning (except the Dyson. I allow myself the luxury of vacuuming if I am going to sit on the couch and knit, because I don't want a ton of dog hair in my knitting.)

* Ironing or laundry.

I am amazed by how much just one day of doing nothing each week improves my mental and emotional health. And I have found that I get more done in 6 days/1 day of rest than I did in 7 days of feeling tired and sluggish.

The past 3 Sundays consisted of cross-country roadtrips and our dance school's Holiday Performance at a local theater, so my self-prescribed Day of Rest was missed. As such, I awoke on this Sunday morning, feeling panicky and off-kilter about all that needs to be done.

But then I took a deep breath and reminded myself: it can wait.

So, I spent the morning reading in bed, with kids coming in and out to cuddle, look at books, show me their newest lego creation, etc. The Mister is whipping up batches of bagels and English Muffins (because, yes, I somehow managed to score a husband whose biggest stress buster is baking!) and the house smells of a doughy-heaven. It's sunny out and a very warm 38 degrees (I'm not being facetious here. 38 degrees right now feels awesome.) and this afternoon I'm going to take a walk and look at Christmas decorations. And then I'm going to whip up a big batch of my dad's chili (because I want to), open up a cold beer, and watch my 12-0 Green Bay Packers whip some Raider ass with my little boys.

Reindeer Games

2011-12-04T16:14:00.000-08:00

My kids were shocked to come home and find that not only does Santa has some new reindeer this year, their front hall photos were swapped out with reindeer photos. Please meet:

Deerfield

and

Deerloma,

Mildeer,

Keendeer,

and

Deericus.

File under: Fun and Free Holiday Decorating that You Don't Have to Drag Up from the Basement.

A little bit of nothing interesting

2011-11-11T05:12:00.001-08:00

With the exception of the first garbage bag in the foreground holding bed pillows, the rest of these suckers are stuffed to the gills with the girls' stuffed animals.

I still find myself chuckling because I gave the Mister the assignment of bagging up the toys while I was treating the girls.

"Oh my God!" he'd yell. "You have GOT to be kidding me."

At first I ran in horrified, fearful that he might have found a cooties' nest (no worries, they don't exist--just my overaction imagination). Nope. Not the case. He just couldn't believe the amount of stuffed animals two little girls can have.

"Why don't you two set some aside to be thrown out? You'd still have enough for a small army." he suggest to the two girls.

Paloma immediately began wailing.

Hattie teared up, lower lip trembling.

Daddy caved. Big Time. He went back to bagging stuffed game without a word.

Bagged up and waiting to be run through the dryer once I feel we have this whole cooties thing under control. Rid or whatever the heck chemical concoction did jack squat. I'm having the best luck with having us sleep in coconut oil/olive oil saturated hair, plastic wrapped umpteen times and kept toasty hot in a hat. Followed by a morning wash with blue Dawn dish soap and a good long white vinegar rinse.

The oils kill the adults/nymphs; the vinegar unglues the eggs (nits.) Gagging at what was coming off our heads those first few times, this morning I was hard-pressed to find anything on Po's head.

Thank. God.

Next week we leave for Florida through the end of the month. We've always said that one of the reasons we homeschool is so that we could travel during the year without worrying about missing school issues. Have homeschool; will travel. As such, the weekend will be full of packing, trip planning (we're driving), and last minutes stuff around the house. We had our first snow this week, and the cold floors in the morning are killing me. A few weeks at the beach sound mighty nice about now. . .

Brain Drain

2011-11-08T05:42:00.000-08:00

I'm suffering an acute case of homeschool-induced Brain Drain.

The honeymoon has officially dissipated, more often than not each day consists of a whole lot of math amnesia, letter unrecognition, and the occasional bout of "I don't know what a pencil is"-itis.

Sigh.

Over the past year particularly, I've tried hard to learn how to avoid falling into the black pit of control battles on our home turf.

Adding a second dimension of "school turf" onto home turf = a new battleground of control issues.

Sadly, last week I hit a wall-- a big, thick, brick wall-- and by Thursday morning I had lost it.

I locked myself in my bathroom and called the Mister. "Tomorrow morning at 7:45 you are marching the two boys over to the neighborhood elementary school and enrolling them!" I ... emoted.

"Uh, no, I'm not. I need to be out of the house by 7:30 tomorrow morning. Probably best to wait until we're home from Florida at the end of the month."

At that point I may, or may not, have dropped a big ol' F bomb.
And then my phone may, or may not, have lost reception.

Poor Mister. It's not easy being my husband at times, particularly on those days when the children turn into emotional vampires sucking the lifejuice out of me.

And you know what? The Mister was still home Friday morning at9:30, still trying to fix some work crisis that a coworker was having. Ooooo boy, I was not happy. Those kids could have been in school for nearly 2 hours by then!!!

But wanna know how he survived, with all genitals intact? It's a doozy....

Lice.

Around 10 am I discovered a lice outbreak in the girls and myself. So on Friday by 1:00 pm, I completely had forgotten that he left me high and dry, distraught and abandoned and still homeschooling 5 children completely against my will, because I was solely focused-- panicked, really-- on eradicating a boatload of unwelcome, itchy crawly houseguests.

How the heck do people get rid of head lice without going insane, burning out their washing machine, and in under a month? Because do you know how much hair my daughter Hatfield has?

Ask Essie. She'll tell you. Hatfield has an ENORMOUS amount of hair. It took the Mister and myself--together-- 3 hours to go through her hair with those little picky combs.

Ugh.

But that's how the Mister got off the hook last Friday.

However, now that I think of it, my Top Three Coping Mechanisms are, in no particular order: Knitting (with wine); Trashy cable series (with wine); and a lot of sex (with wine.)

2 out of 3 of those happen to make the Mister REALLY happy.

Maybe it's behooving him too much when I'm highly emotionally stressed? Am I sensing a conflict of interest here?!? I'm starting to imagine him thinking up ways to make me wanna run for the hills. . .or the tv . . . .or our bed.

Crap, I bet we have some negative Pavlovian response thing going on here.

But back to the boys, no, I'm not enrolling them in school, as tempting as it might be.

Because crazy or not, I'm in this homeschool biz for the long haul. I love homeschooling, and most of the kids do too. I'm hopeful that someday my boys will as well.

Especially while they are little, I want to keep them at home to avoid exposure to negative stereotypes. I mean, do you know how hard it is to be a black boy in a Green Bay public school?

Pretty hard.

Now, imagine being the angry black boy in your class. Or the black boy who thinks it is cute and funny to pretend he only knows 6 letters after a year of school.

How could going to an environment where they are given endless opportunities to manipulate and control each day be good for them?

I don't think it would be.

At some point, however, I recognize that the benefits of homeschooling them could be outweighed by collateral damage inflicted upon the homeschool environment itself (because there are 3 other kids.) But for now, with the exception of Thursday when I completely lost my mind, I feel like I have a good grasp on that.

And if I don't, I at least have ways to cope (although tread carefully, Mister, because they are apt to change ;)

When stubborn determination pays off

2011-10-31T08:48:00.000-07:00

About a month or so back in September, I blogged about some MAJOR I-didn't-buy remorse I had after seeing the most perfect wrap ever during the Stitches Midwest Convention.

After reviewing dozens of vendor's websites and emailing a handful of them, I did indeed find the vendor offering the pattern/yarn for the wrap, and within a week I had it in my hot little hands.

Hours spent knitting my little heart out in airplanes, on Granny's couch in Seattle, in the car on my and the Mister's weekend getaway, 4 Knitty Tuesdays, and nearly every evening on my couch in between, and voila! My wrap is finished!

And I am In. Love. With It.

The colorway consists of 8 colors, wool-silk blend, knit two at a time in a grading color scheme, all in the linen stitch.

I am so pleased with the turnout that I'm even willing to break my own rule and post a picture of me taking a picture of myself, in a mirror, in my wrap.

I don't know why, but taking pictures of myself in a mirror makes me feel like a huge a$$hole. BUT, it's a burden I'm gladly willing to bear when it's taken in the name of determined knitting.

Worth every minute

2011-10-26T14:54:00.000-07:00

Coming off of two weeks of back-to-back, away-from-the-kids vacations, last week was a doozy.

Predictably so, but a doozy, nonetheless.

And just because you can predict, sister, doesn't make it any easier. I bet I get a few Amen's with that statement.

After a long week of flat-out disobedience, errant p*ea, sneakiness and crazy-ass lies, we've regained our foothold on our very own special flavor of Normal Life.

Chores, School, Play/Family Fun, Meal. Rinse and Repeat.

My Haitian Sensations thrive best with a simple, predicable routine. Even the whole "you can't play until you finish your math sheet," can upset them to such an extent that they'll stall on a simple, easy-peasy 5-problem sheet, angry that they are missing playtime (so often they're angry before anyone has finished and when playtime hasn't even started), yet not able to move forward in that if they just do the darn sheet, they'll get to play immediately thereafter.

These constant struggle with natural consequences are a daily occurrence in our home. I'm getting better with handling it. It's just where they are, and the struggle is likely one we'll be dealing with for years.

I walk that tightrope between helping the boys move forward (positive) and getting sucked into a vortex of control issues (negative.) It's a fine line, somedays. I'm learning to simply refuse getting sucked in, and instead of playing control games, I am redirecting all my time and energy towards the kids who aren't stuck at that moment.

Yet, progress, however slow, is being made. What used to be a 3-hour stall-out is slowly weaning down in time. Interestingly enough, they take turns in the Stalling game. One stalled yesterday, the other today.

I'm pretty sure that they must confer or something after Lights Out.

Happily, though, the stall today was only 12 minutes. That's amazing progress, and I'm proud of these little guys. Hey, you take what you can get.

And you know what? No matter what type of homecoming I received, every minute of both vacations were worth it. On principal alone I refuse to succumb to the notion that going away isn't worth it due to payback.

It is. I have earned this time away to recharge. My neuro-typical children have earned this time away to recharge. And the Mister has earned the time away. No excuses, no guilt. Just gratitude that we had these opportunities.

:)

I'm a bit disillusioned as to where summer went, and the beginning of Fall, for that matter. Last weekend the Mister took the boys up to Camp and closed up shop until May '12.

Always a bummer of a time, because closing Camp is pretty much writing "The End" to our Summer. And the ridiculous--and I'm a mother of 5, so when I write ridiculous, I mean RIDICULOUS-- amount of laundry generated by the return of all the bedding, sleeping bags, clothing, etc.

I suppose I could leave it up there until Spring, but I hate the thought of some sneaky vermin getting in there and cozying up for a long winter's nap in a closet. *Shudder*

So, I get all freaky and make the Mister remove every single piece of clothing and paper products, as well as place a fabric softener sheet (to deter mice) on every piece of furniture, air vent, cupboard, and other random nooks and crannies in the trailer.

I purchased a jumbo-sized box of Downy sheets, and he returned home with at least half of them. "You didn't use them all?" I nearly screached.

"I could have covered every square inch of flooring and furniture if I used all of those," he replied.

"SO!?!?!?!?" People who do not have a fear of mice will never, NEVER understand those of us who nearly pass out at the mere mention of them.

While I slaved away in the laundry room, the Mister and Boppa installed these in our garage:

The lockers are from my folk's new house, which used to be owned by a Packer's coach, so it is probable that the lockers could come from one of their training facilities. I bet if I marketed them as such, I could make some money on eBay. Amazing what Packer fans will pay for things, like rusty, used lockers.

Honestly, who would have thought that lockers could make kids so darn happy? I suppose it's a homeschool thing, as my kids have never had lockers of their own.

The girls set to work at decorating their garage lairs. The boys just stuff their belongings in and hope that the door will close.

Point of View

2011-10-22T16:44:00.001-07:00

The Mighty Po is going to be a Unicorn for Halloween.

The Mister, being under Mighty Po's spell, has big plans (aka paper mache) to assist his girl in her endeavor for the perfect home-made unicorn costume.

This is His Idea:

This is Hers:

And Never the Two Shall Meet.

Kids Lie. Including Sweet, Kind and Devout Ones. Really.

2011-10-21T08:24:00.000-07:00

There are two types of homeschooling moms who cause me to grind my teeth.

1) The moms who publicly declare: "We take a "real life" approach to math. We tripled a cupcake recipe this afternoon for today's math lesson. And tomorrow we are going to figure out how many $1.69 songs the kids can each by with a $40 iTunes giftcard. Because, you know, when are they ever going to use trig or calculus in real life?"

Seriously, I do not enjoy taking public scrutiny for these people who clearly are failing their children in the area of mathematics. And seriously, I know many people who use advanced math in real life: engineers, chemists, mechanics, etc. . .

I believe in allowing my children to have EVERY education/career option available to them upon turning 18, and that means that I have to provide them with some serious-ass math & science education (which also includes me getting them to the right teachers/schools/etc. if it is something that I myself am not qualified to teach.) And I'm tired of taking guff for the failings of others.

2) "Christian" homeschool moms who think their middle school aged children can do no wrong and would Not Never Ever think of lying or being mean or lying or doing anything other than holy and God-inspired actions.

This story is about the latter.

On Monday morning, I received a phone call from an *upset* Christian homeschool mom. Our daughters belong to our association's Tween Group (ages 11-13). The woman was dramatically upset and explained to me that Hatfield led a group of older children in a "bully charge" against a group of the newer, younger girls. These charges included:

* Using the "L" Word.

(insert her dramatic pause for this to take full effect)

The "L" word? Seriously? I am SO ASHAMED of myself in that I failed to think of a single good "L" word to question her with. If she had said, 'Hatfield used the "c" word," I would have dropped the c word. If she had said the "tw" word, I would have dropped that in questioning her. Same with the "f" word or the "a" word. But the "L" word? I had nothing.

Side story: I told Essie about this and she looked at me said, " Sarah. . .'lesbian.' That would be the L word that would spark fear and shame in the hear of any devout Christian homeschool ignoramus."

Doh! Man! I wish I had Essie's bad-ass, quick-on-her-feet, Dark Art of Snark.

Anyways, the "L" word that so shocked this woman and troubled her daughter to the point where she was now scared of attending future homeschool events was:

Loser.

Yes. Loser. Seriously. But more on that later.

Charge #2: Hatfield pushed a younger girl, pinning her up against a tree, all the while yelling and screaming, necessitating an older "sweetly devout and innocent" (I shit you not, that was the descriptor) girl to have to intervene to prevent Hatfield from hurting her.

My Hatfield? Seriously?

I asked the mom if she spoke to any other parents of the children involved (other than the mother of the sweetly devout and innocent girls), and she said "no." She even badmouthed another woman (who happens to be my friend), saying that the Mom was "aggressive and confrontational" and refused to call her.

Okey dokey.

Now, I'm not about to think my kids can do no wrong. And I was not about to think that Hatfield was innocent of all charges. But I can tell you that unless she was trying to protect another children from an assault or prevent an assault upon herself, the likelihood of Hatfield doing that to a child is pretty much nil.

And here's the thing: If you are going to make up nasty lies about my kid, yeah, you're going to piss me off. Big time.

So we talked to Hatfield about it. She totally admits that she, and everyone else she was with, were calling each other's Losers when one group disrupted the play of another group. But it lasted about a minute, and they all went off onto the next activity and got along as a group for the rest of the evening.

Which, maybe I'm not a good Christian mom, but, eh. If that's the worst thing my kid is involved with, I'll consider myself lucky and will do a cute "I have a decent middle schooler" happy dance.

But, Hatfield became TREMENDOUSLY upset over the accusation that she pushed her friend up against a tree. And screamed/yelled in this girls' face. Or was involved in anything that required a girl to "break it up."

She couldn't figure out why these girls singled her out as the big bully, or why they would make up such things.

So, last night, we saw this family of the said pushed/bullied younger girl. A family that we've been friends with--and our kids have been playmates with--for nearly 5 years.

When we talked about the accusations, their kids laughed. One even suggested that those girls had a "short term memory loss." They defended Hatfield and were upset that someone would even accuse her of such a thing.

So, armed with that information straight outta the horse's mouth, I emailed this mother:

Now, it seems to me that this is a case of kids with differing personality types in a large group setting. I think it's perfectly normal for a group of middle school age kids to struggle while they learn how to get along with different types of people.

Not everyone is going to feel the same way about different people. Some people don't mesh well. For instance, you explained to me that you felt ***** is an aggressive and combative person and therefore you would not call her. I, however, find her to be a completely delightful and charming woman and am puzzled by your callous description of her.

I get the fact that some of these girls probably don't mesh well. However, just because your girls don't care for Hatfield does NOT make it okay for them to make up a vicious rumor about Hatfield.

Making up and spreading lies about someone assaulting another child IS bullying. Hatfield is TREMENDOUSLY hurt and upset that these girls would do such a thing. The other kids we spoke with couldn't believe that such a lie would be told within a Christian group.

If any other families or children were told this lie about my daughter, we expect it to be redressed immediately. Because it is absolutely NOT okay with us that anyone spread a lie about my daughter assaulting another child.

Beyond that, I am done dealing with this issue. I'm sorry that some girls in the group do not care for Hatfield or the way the evening went. But honestly, after taking with other Tweens at the party, and now having to deal with this terrible lie that was stated about my daughter, I can't say that I find credibility in anything that your daughters say or do.

Now, you don't know just HOW BADLY I wanted to end the letter with:

"And you know, I'm not really certain of what types of games your family allows (her daughter was in the group of kids playing Ghosts in the Graveyard; my kid was in the group that messed with their game), but I find it both shocking and shameful that such a pagan-ritualistic game would be played at a CHRISTIAN homeschool event. My sweet, devout girl was incredibly uncomfortable with such a game being played, and maybe your girls didn't mean to make up lies about her but instead was possessed by whatever demonic spirits their heathenistic game conjured up. I propose we know get ALL activities at these gathering pre-approved by the Board so that my innocent girl won't be further subjected to such witchcraft."

just to mess with her and her high-brow, we-are-so-much-holier-than-you-Christian-bullshit-attitude. (We're all about Harry Potter and Halloween and Scary Movies in our house, so don't get the wrong idea there.)

But I didn't.

Of course, within moments of the letter, this woman telephoned me.

And you know what she had the balls to say to me? She said: "Really, this whole thing is about the name calling for my girls. The whole pushing thing was just an afterthought after we talked about the namecalling."

WTF?!?! "No, I'm afraid that the moment your daughters told a lie that Hatfield assaulted another child, then that lie because the WHOLE BIG DEAL thing to our family."

She constantly tried to backtrack on the whole pushing thing. She even went so far as to begin to question whether she may have recalled the pushed child's name incorrectly, until I informed her that she questioned her daughter as to who the "hurt" child was while I listened on the phone.

Met with an uncomfortable pause on her part. I refused to let her back down. She apologized, but just kept on saying, "I can't believe my daughters lied to me."

Well, believe it. Because they're kids. And kids lie. Not because they are inherently evil or hateful. But because it's part of the growing up and learning process.

But you know what the absolute worst was? From this Christian woman, whose own son had to be kicked out of their home due to erratic behavior? Was she said to me: "I know you've all had a lot of . . .changes.. . . in your home lately due to the boys' arrival, and I was wondering, you know, if maybe all that stressed changed Hatfield into a more aggressive person."

The fact that I did not Roar, Hang Up or drop the "F" bomb at that moment in the conversation is a testimony to. . . well, I'm not sure, but something good, right?

Instead, in the iciest voice I could muster was: "Now, really, I'm sure you more than anyone understands that just because a family has one troubled child in it doesn't mean that the sweet nature of our other children are compromised or changed. That would be a terrible thing to insinuate."

Very. Uncomfortable. Pause.

In the end, the woman went on (and on and on) about how she likes it when things are Happy and Friendly and for all the kids to be friends.

I explained that while I expect my daughter to be kind and respectful of all people (and we'll work on that, I assured her), I think it's silly to expect her to be friends with or like everyone.

Because if I make my daughter grow up thinking that she has to like everyone and everyone has to like her, then I am handing her a Life Sentence of Misery.

MISERY.

And I refuse to do that. My wish is for My children, to please be kind. Be respectful. And be wise enough to keep far away from Homeschool Moms who loudly acclaim their pre-teen daughters to be as devout and sweet and kind as Jesus himself. Far, far away. Because they're the worst of all.

Excuses,excuses

2011-10-19T05:43:00.001-07:00

Haven't posted in forever,

because I've been too busy

biting

tongue.

I'm pretty sure it's close to severing,

but God forbid I take off the pressure

lest I can't stop it from flapping

once

do.

Given that this is a public blog

(yeah. . . what a stupid idea that was)

and given that I am trying

very,

VERY

hard to keep quiet when I have nothing nice to say,

I have found just avoiding my blog is

the most surefire tactic to keeping

the

hell

shut

up.

I used to

go to a gym

where I would

Punch

and

Kick

the hell out of a bag.

While repeating different

cathartic

and

profane

mantras in my head.

Repeatedly.

Several times a week.

Now, with 6 weeks of complete shoulder/arm rest,

I have lost that outlet.

I need that outlet, people!

Life would be SO much easier

if God had attached a

Bullshit Meter

to everyone's forehead.

Then we would know

when a pile is being dumped

on us

looonnnnggg before the

smell

hits

us.

I apologize if this is a

tedious

melodramatic

cryptic post.

Those suck, I know.

SO,

here are a few tangible things

I promise to post about

soon:

* The Dark Art of Taking the Low Road

* Christian Homeschool Children who. . . gasp. . .lie to their mothers

who have never left the prairie and think that their

precious, innocent angels would never yell or. . .

worse....

say a certain word

* Me Kicking a Lying Christian's Homeschool Mom's A$$

when she falsely accuses my daughter

* A potential podcast involving

knitting

wining

wit

creative profanity

So stick around!

PLUS!

There's always the potential

if my therapist cannot help me find a way

to process all this bullshit I've been trying to deal with

I just may go back to the

tried

and

true

method

of blogging it,

fallout be damned.

(But srsly, that would not be the adult way to handle it.)

This Weeks' Theme Song

(because everyone should have a weekly theme song)

is:

Dammit

Blink 182

(And srsly, I AM NOT REFERENCING my marriage

by posting this song.

It's just a damn catchy song

and the chorus "I guess this is growing up"

and "I turn to a friend who sees through the Master Plan"

is my theme to help me get through this week

because I'm doing a whole bunch of stuff

that I really

really

don't want to deal with.)

Frayed ego

2011-10-03T15:14:00.001-07:00

Generally, I like to think of myself as a healthy person.

I eat a primarily vegetarian diet, which doesn't mean that I binge on non-meat options like Doritos and Girl Scout cookies all the live-long day. I truly love veggies and fruit, so I eat a lot of those each week.

I work out multiple times each week. Long, hard, sweaty workouts that get my heart rate soaring and require a shower before I can further venture from my home. Granted, I work out more for my mental health than my physical health, but I'm happy to reap the benefits of both.

I have a high pain tolerance and doctor office's give me the heebie jeebies. Which is why I'm able to ignore an ever increasing pain and crunchiness in my shoulder for, oh, I don't know, a good 3 months.

See where this is headed?

Over time, I have strained/possibly torn tendon in my rotator cuff, responsible for the pain with repetitive motion, along with fraying of some ligament thingy or something, which is causing the crunchiness.

Which equals 6 weeks of complete upper torso rest, and I can't lift anything heavier than a gallon of milk (and even that I should do left-handed.)

I. Am. Ready. to. Scream. And not from the pain. This is a major blow to my personal sense of pride (which I know is totally wrong to have, but whatever) at being a healthy person.

But, you know, a healthy person addresses health issues as they happen. Not ignore them for 3 months.

A lightbulb moment, for certain.

Oh well, at this point, what can I do? I'm thinking a glass of wine would be kinda nice, but the Mister hasn't brought back my script from CVS, and I'm unsure if alcohol will be a no-no.

And while 6 weeks of reduced motion and yucky shots and pt may not be enough to get me to drop the whole personal pride issue, you can be certain that a 6 week wine fast will.

Haywire

2011-09-29T13:30:00.000-07:00

A sign just off the road from the Mister's childhood home. Seriously. I was so tripped out about it that I was going to turn around on the highway and traverse back to take a picture. Only, I didn't have to because there was another. And another. And another. There were FOUR of these signs within a 2 mile stretch. What does that say about your confidence in your penal system, Washington State?!?

I don't travel much, but somehow I am finding myself in a back-to-back trips situation and I'm feeling the stress, sweethearts.

In a few days, Hatfield and I are travelling out to Seattle for a week to see her birth family.

We are staying with Granny and Papa, who are technically her grandparents but who are the kindest and most generous people and who are grandparents to ALL of my children. Granny and Papa have visited over the years, call, send cards, gifts, etc., and Hatfield is ecstatic to be getting in some time to see them.

We will also be seeing some aunts, uncles, and her birthdad and his family.

Hatfield has not seen her birth father since the Mister and I were married back in 2000. We've never been back to Washington since then, and he has never come east to see her in the past 11 years. Years even went by before we'd hear from him via mail, and now he corresponds with Hatfield on her birthday and at Christmas.

But, it seems like the right time to go. He is married now and while I've never met his wife, I find myself truly liking her through our facebook interactions. They have her two girls from a previous marriage, and two boys of their own.

I'm nervous, though, to do this. Hatfield has grown up in a very secure, stable home environment. She is incredibly bonded with the Mister, who adopted her at age 3.

The Mister and I have always been very matter-of-fact about her birthdad; she has one, he lives in Washington and has a family, they are nice people. We've never said a bad word about him.

I'm worried, though, that she'll somehow come home feeling conflicted about her life. Thus far, she has never felt abandoned or wronged by her birthdad and his actions.

By visiting, I'm afraid that we'll be opening up a can of worms. I'm afraid that she's suddenly going to feel pressure that she now somehow has to fit into his life and his family. That she'll feel like she has to fill some void in birth dad's life due to his choices years ago.

We just want her to have a fun trip where she can start putting faces to names. We don't want her to feel the pressure that she suddenly has this 'other family,' because she's not ready for that. Not yet.

We know it's inevitable. At some point in her life, as she ages, she'll look at the entire situation and think, "Why the hell did you never visit? Why the hell couldn't you get your act together when I was a baby?"'

And, we'll be there to help her through that.

Thus, this entire thought process has me questioning why I am doing this. Even though I know it is the right thing to do, at the right time. Additionally, we don't want Hatfield to hit some difficult teen years and develop the "grass is greener on the long-lost birth parent" side. We'd rather her get to know him and his family so she has a realistic perception. Hatfield may someday want to escape little brothers in our house, but it certainly won't be to his as she has two adorable little half brothers out in Washington. She's doomed in the little brother arena, mwahahahahahaha.

In all seriousness though, everyone out there is so excited to meet and get to know Hattie. They are going to loooooovvvvveeeeeee her, because how can you not? She is the kindest, most laid-back, easy-to-be-with kid on the planet. So in this day and age of a rocky planet, the more people in my kids' lives to love them, the better. And who knows? Maybe she'll want to go away for college (although this would throw a major wrench into my blissful daydream of her attending UWGB), and then hopefully she'd go out there where there is family in the vicinity.

So while I'm looking forward to our trip, right now I'm in the throes of pre-trip What in the Hellenistic Age was I thinking!?!?! (family joke courtesy of Hatfield.)

The Mister is staying home with the four youngest, hopefully homeschooling, but if keeping them fed, hygienic and clothed gets in the way of his homeschooling plans, then so be it.

Because upon our return home, we are home for 2 days, and then the Mister and I turn around and leave for a weekend getaway to a spa/resort that he won at work.

My mother is staying to watch the kids; one of our good family friend's delightful 16-year old daughter is coming to help as well. But still, I don't know if 48 hours is enough time to put the house back together after the Mister flying solo for 7 days, snuggle and bond with the children, get homeschool back up and running, purchase food and activities for the weekend, and pack for our trip.

Who am I kidding? I know that I can't do that.

So, it's triage time. Focusing on the most important, saying Eff It to the rest (or, alternatively, stuffing it into the basement storage closet for the "out of sight, out of mind" approach.)

Does anyone else's brain go completely haywire at the triage mode? Mine does. I started this blog yesterday morning, and what did I do all afternoon? Clean out the fridges? Do laundry? Organize the kids' bedroom? Clean up the workdesk?

Nope. I painted subfloor. And put together a shoe holder from Ikea.

Haywire.

Nature vs. Nurture, Cont.

2011-09-25T11:01:00.001-07:00

When the Mister and I married some 11 years ago, our biggest newlywed fights were mainly his carnivorous ways clashing with my vegetarian ways.

He'd angrily fixate a toxic stare at me and complain that he went from eating 2 meats per meal, 3 meals a day, to eating meat maybe only once a day, as if I should feel sorry for him. (I'm dead serious here.) I'd wail that he was marring my precious new wedding gift cookware with animal carcass (I'm serious here as well; I would cry.)

Ahhh, young newlywed love.

Fast forward through those years, we rarely now argue about food. I still eat a primarily vegetarian diet, and we eat mostly vegetarian meals each week, with about 3-4 meat meals mixed in there (I'm included lunches for a total of 14 meals a week, since we are a homeschool family and I cook 3 meals a day at home, every day.) I'm selective about the meats I purchase, and the Mister's subsequent blood pressure and cholesterol issues make him selective about the carcasses he consumes.

This summer the Mister went deep water fishing and brought home over 40 pounds of king salmon, coho salmon and lake trout. I gladly partake in those meals.

We also purchased 15 chickens from a friend whose father raises free-range, organic birds (at $1.50 per pound, so it's a great deal from an environmental standpoint, a local economy standpoint, and our checkbook standpoint.)

The Mister is pretty satisfied with our home menu, and he can get his red meat fixation satiated with work meals.

Anyways, the Mister just returned with Hatfield and Atticus from the Homeschool Father/Child Weekend Camp Out. With a pack of hot dogs in tow.

Miss Paloma's FAVORITE food are hot dogs. FAVORITE.

Clearly, this is a Nature dynamic, I thought.

So, this afternoon at lunch, Paloma was gleefully sitting down to dig into her hot dog, when she pauses and asks if she can have some pepperoni to put on her hot dog.

I nearly vomited, and instead ran out to share my grossed-outedness to the Mister.

"You'll never guess what your daughter wants to put on her hot dog. Pepperoni!" I gagged, expecting even that combination to elicit a WTH response from the Mister.

"No problem. I think we have some in the garage fridge. . . " he said, about to retrieve it for his little Pepperoni Princess.

Given the fact that her father was perfectly willing to put pepperoni on her hot dog, without even blinking, is making me realize that I now have the double whammy of nature and nurture working against me.

Losing my religion

2011-09-23T12:08:00.000-07:00

Was anyone else seriously bummed to learn that REM called it a day after 31 years of making music?

I was.

I'm neither snobby nor snotty when it comes to music. I can't name dates and obscure bands and concert scenes. I absolutely abhor sitting around people who feel they are "in the know" in the music world as they drop names and dates and act like they are somehow superior to those of us who just listen to the radio.

I have no time nor patience nor know-how to sit on iTunes or wherever it is that people buy music these days. The Mister will bring me home cd's from the library, and Hatfield puts good stuff on her iPod. I listen to the radio, mostly, or whatever they are listening to. It works for me.

All that beings said, I like music. Music, and songs, are one way I catalog life moments. I 'came of age' in the alternative/grunge scene. I can bring back intense memories and accompanying feelings whenever I hear certain songs.

It's been an entirely bittersweet week where I feel like I've been a ghost, shifting in and out of past scenes and times from my life.

REM walked away, the radio bombarded us with their stuff, and so often I felt my old high school self.

A ton of Nirvana from Cliff's computer reminded me of college days.

It's was my father's birthday yesterday-- he would have been 63. I shadowed many memories of family birthday celebrations from my childhood. I've spent a lot of time this week, listening to the Beatles and Willie Nelson, my dad's two favorites.

And to top off all the bittersweet trips down memory lane, Cliff and I spent an evening partially watching a movie, but mostly crying because our old, 3-legged beagle Ernie was sprawled out between us, exhausted and rheumy-eyed, his soul letting us know.

Ernie is slowly but surely and all too quickly calling it a day upon his own life.

It seems like just yesterday I was a young single mom with my one-year old Hattie, bringing Ernie home from the local humane society. He made us a family of 3.

Knowing that our time with Ernie--this 'era' of my life--is coming to an end, breaks my heart. Knowing that Hatfield is moving out of her childhood and into her teens, leaves me crying and wishing that I could slow it all down. Looking at the people who have already left my world makes me feel like I have shifted through several phases of life. Knowing that this all goes by all too quickly reminds me all the more that I need to slow down and live each day more in the moment than I did the day before.

Someone at Horizons is Hammered at Work

2011-09-15T19:39:00.001-07:00

Yesterday, while working in her Horizons Phonics Level K Workbook, Paloma announced:

Hey Mom! Look! This guy is hammered!!

I nearly got whiplash from turning around so fast. What the heck was my 6-year old talking about? And how did she know what "hammered" meant?!?
See?!? She said triumphantly. He got nailed!

And sure enough, the guy had been hammered, as Paloma had drawn in a bunch of nails to hold this maniac down to the page.

Seriously, though, I think someone over there at Alpha Omega (the publisher of Horizons) has been getting a little hammered before they start creating textbooks.

Over the past week, we have encountered these two photos in our workbooks. With both photos, the children are to identify what the photo is, and then determine the first consonant and vowel of the word.

Can anyone out there tell me just what the heck this is?!?

Or how about this?!?

I feel like I'm hammered just looking at them. What the heck, Horizons?!?! Someone there needs to lay off the sauce before coming in to work.

A Story of Dreaded "I Wasn't a Buyer" Remorse and Perseverance

2011-09-09T05:33:00.000-07:00

About 2 weeks ago, Miss Essie, Miss Angie and myself piled into our cleared-out minivan and headed down to Chicago for

Stitches Midwest

Stitches is basically Disney World, the Sears Tower and the Playboy Mansion all rolled into one huge, happy, yarn-laden, knitting & crocheting paradise.

I am still riding my Stitches high.

The Market in Stitches is a massive, and I mean MASSIVE, indoor marketplace of fiber goodness. While we were able to go through the Market in our time there from 10 am to 4:45 pm, it just wasn't enough.

By 3 pm, I found my blood sugar rapidly plummeting and all the fabulous yarn blurring before my eyes.

At 4:30, right before I departure, I saw it.

The wrap of all wraps. The shawl of all shawls. The most perfect knitted object ever.

I looked at the price tag, and my wallet shuddered because my debit card was already smoking.

Exhausted, delusional, and guilt-ridden about my previous yarn purchases, I passed.

Alas, the moment I walked through my front door 4 hours later, I had it.

A HUGE case of "I wasn't the buyer" remorse.

Over the past 2 weeks, I have dreamt about that shawl. I have tried to picture it in my mind. I have scoured the internet to determine the stitch type, the yarn colors, the design. The pattern and the photo.

Alas, I'm not all that artistic. And my memory isn't all that great. The shawl was going from the Perfect Shawl to the Shawl that Should Have Been But Wasn't.

By yesterday, I could no longer stand it. So, during the Packer game,

(oh,

and,

Holy crap!

Did you see our little ol' Green Bay on the Today Show?

How cool was all of that?

Whooohoooo Green Bay!

This place kicks ass.

So glad to live here

and be raising my kids here.)

During the Packer game, I took out my Stitches map,

Page 1 & 2 out of 6 pages of vendor listings & information

ransacked my yarn-overloaded mind to determine the approximate area of the Market in which I saw the Perfect Wrap, and emailed 5 vendors to ask them it they had it.

And guess what.

This morning, I heard back from the store that has it!

The Silky Wool Linen Stitch Wrap.

Oh, how those beautiful words roll off my tongue like...well, like silky wool. And as soon as the store owner returns from a Toronto Show, the wrap yarn and pattern will be mine.

Allllll mine.

Now how's that for a story about perseverance .

Hattie's Point of View

2011-09-04T16:26:00.000-07:00

One of the disadvantages of being a homeschool student (in our home, at least), is that there is no back-to-school shopping extravaganza. Well, the Mister and I, and our checkbook, don't really chalk that up as a disadvantage.

And now that I think about it, my kids have more than enough clothing and really could care less about shopping. So why I state that this is a serious disadvantage, I'm not sure.

Years of doesn't-really-make-any-sense programming, I guess. So scratch the whole disadvantage comment; I'm too lazy to edit today.

Either way, Hatfield and I were at Target the other week, when she spotted and fell in love with these Chuck Taylor's.

On an aside, Did you know that Target carries Chuck Taylors now? I had no idea they were popular again. In high school, my boyfriend loved Chuck Taylors, and one time we wasted an entire Saturday driving around Green Bay and then the entire Fox Valley looking for a pair of Chuck hightops.

The sacrifices we make for young love, right?

Back to my girl. Realizing that she has never participated in back-to-school shopping, I thought it was fun to oblige.

Aren't they cute? I love them. I got such a kick out of the entire experience (ooo, punny! and I didn't even realize it until I re-read this), because this was the first time ever that Hatfield a) showed interest in clothing all on her own and b) answered decisively when I asked her if she would like me to buy them for her.

I also love the fact that she took a photo of her new kicks.

Also found in her week's upload (I never know what I am going to find after her uploads, and there's always a gem or two in there)

Her very best four-legged friend

and a good mantra for a teen-ager:

If you were a fruit loop, what flavor would you be? Does anyone even know what flavors are in fruit loops? I don't, but I would be yellow, because that's my favorite color. Plus, I sampled some really yummy lemon-coconut cake today, which I can't stop thinking about. Which is probably a really bo-rrrring answer. Can you imagine what Po's would be? It'd be something like: I'd be green, so I can be my own vegetable and then my mom would never make me eat veggies, or something like that.

The Paloma Show

2011-08-30T15:56:00.000-07:00

Paloma takes the longest to eat any meal in our family, namely because she does not stop talking.

Here's a sampler of her conversations. Or rather, here's a sampler of the way she controls the dinner table conversation.

Because really,

she's Paloma,

and we just happen to live in her world.

* "Mom, would you rather buy a motorcycle for $1, a really expensive car, or an airplane for $25?"

* "Mom, wanna see the world's biggest scoop of mashed potatoes?" (She holds up a half teaspoon on her spoon.) "I'm gonna only eat half of it, because I don't want to be bad news for the person who ate the world's biggest scoop of mashed potatoes before tonight."

* "Mom calls hip hop "hippity hop," because she's old, and, you know, her brain doesn't remember good."

* "Mommy, you should see the trick Trixie did! She was standing up, without even holding onto something."

"Mom, if you had no food and were hungry, would you rather kill a chicken or kill a reindeer."

Ummmmmmm.... when in doubt, deflect the question back to them.

"I don't know, Po, what would you do?"

"I would kill the chicken because reindeers are fast. AND, I don't want to upset Santa. Then I'd eat the chicken, have the eggs for dessert, and make a pillow from the feathers."

I know that I should feel rather disturbed that she actually had thought this through, on her own, in her own 6-year old mind.

But, I gotta admit it, I'm kinda impressed.

Monday's Musings: So what about the blog. . .

2011-08-29T14:00:00.000-07:00

I've spent a lot of time thinking about my blog this summer. Namely, what the heck I am going to do with it.

The summer has been good and solidly busy, with family activities, children activities and gardening time. I have no complaints, except that it went by all too quickly.

Over the course of that time, I found little time to blog. Often I felt wishy washy about what to write. Or I would write, find it entirely too personal, leave it in draft and write the whole thing off (oooo, how punny!) as a cathartic experience.

Recently, my dear girl Essie seemed to start a blog-ending trend. Good Lord, girl, you said it best when you wrote: I don't have anything left to say. Sweet, short and succinct, because she has nothing left to say. And we miss you! But, I get it.

Seriously, though, holy moly, suddenly, everyone else has decided that, like Essie, they too have nothing left to say. Blogs are dropping like flies, girlfriend! I was shocked by the number of blogs I had to erase from my bookmarks because they just are not there.

Oh, well.

(And I say, Oh well, only because I get to hang out with Essie every week. And sometimes on weekends. My vocabulary is still growing in brilliant ways, and I feel smug about it. Shameless, shameless of me, I know ;)

So, two weeks back, I found myself preparing a post in honor of Paloma's 6th birthday. A post in which I linked to all of her other birthdays, all of which have been documented on my blog.

Among those birthdays were many, many stories and fun times and crazy moments that I completely forgot about.

I sat reading through the blog, laughing so hard I was crying, and the kids came over to see what the commotion was about.

I started reading it to them. Atticus and Paloma, who were really, really little when I started 5FC, kept saying: "I didn't know I did that!" or "Wow! I forgot we went there!"

Hatfield kept saying, "Oh, I remember that! I loved that time!"

Miles and Keenan saw how they suddenly took root in their lives in our families.

And it hit me really, really hard: I am by no means done with my blog. (I still love you though, Essie, and I'm still one of your groupies, even if I'm not following your trend.)

I think just about one of the saddest things I have ever heard was when my mom said to me: "One of the hardest things about losing Carl (my late father, her late husband) was that when he died, I lost that ability to remember with him about our family's times. We lost so many family memories and stories when he died."

I don't want my family to lose our stories... (I was going to write, "I don't want my family to lose our stories when the Mister dies," but man, that sounds kinda morbid. Or hopeful. Neither of which I am! Although, if the Mister dies, and he's working while he dies, we get something like 4x the amount of life insurance his company gives us if he just regular ol' dies while sleeping. So we always joke that if he does die in some ol' boring way, we have to haul his body in his work vehicle and ditch him in the parking lot of a doctor's clinic in the U.P. of Michigan. Cha-ching. Just kidding. Just trying to pep up after a sad thought.)

I may not have much to say at the moment, but the likelihood that something will happen that I want to get down for family preservation purposes is huge. I want my kids to have these times documented.

So, these are some things I have decided about Five Frozen Chamorros. Here goes:

Things my blog will not be:

1) I will not try to brand myself, attempt to become a community touchstone, or otherwise promote myself as a go-to person on anything. (Unless you want to make fun of Dance Moms, or have a support group for people who decimate washing machines at unusual rates, or help me start a Homeschool Group for Moms who Drop the F-Bomb. I would be okay being a community touchstone on those topics)

2) I will not post up oodles of photos of me, most of which were taken by me while holding a camera or cell phone up at arm's length. In fact, I don't post many photos of myself, because really, I just don't get people who do that ALL the time.

3) I will not have a fancy blog with moving parts or headings or doohickeys. While I would like to be cool enough to have theme music with each post, I'm not, and in those cases I will just tell you: This blog should be read along with this song, and since I'm not cool enough to get my blog to play this song while you are reading this post, you'll just have to sing it in your own head while reading this post. If you want to.

Things my blog will be:

1) Stories about my family and children, some of which may cause you to roll your eyes or throw up in your mouth a little (and not necessarily from sugary sweetness, because my kids can be kinda groody.)

2) When we encounter something new with our adoption journey, I may post it for the purposes of emotional catharsis or hand-holding.

3) Random postings about knitting, gardening, recipes and pets. None of which will likely have any continuity with the postings before and after it. And none of which will turn me into a super-with-it-crafty blog.

4) Lots of brief mentionings of topics with the catch phrase: more on that later, none of which I will follow up on. Because honestly, between 5 kids, 3 dogs, 2 cats, 1 homeschool, and 1 husband, I'm lucky I even remember to have a blog.

So that's the State of the Union Address for Five Frozen Chamorros. If my blog isn't what you hoped it would be, I'm cool with that. If it is, please stick around and witness our life in the making.

The Demise of 2,418 Tortured Stitches

2011-08-24T05:40:00.000-07:00

Upon retiring to bed last night, the Mister asked me if I was done with my most recent library book. No. I've had it for 3 days and I homeschool/cook/manage our 5 children, plus I like to sleep, and I do shower but maybe he can't tell. But, although I'm not quite sure he thinks I'm superwoman or if he feels that I let things like the children and hygiene go to the wayside, but obviously he thought I have enough time to finish a 350 page book in the past 2 days. Whatever.

"Okay, well, let me know when you are done with it, because I found a great book at the library that I can't wait to bring home for you," he tells me.

"What is it?" I ask.

"I don't want to tell you."

Now, the Mister hates leaving things a secret surprise. He can't help but tell. I knew that if I were silent for all of, oh, say, 6 seconds, he would spill something.

"Okay, okay, okay," he said (as if I were begging him or something.) "It's going to be made into a movie, and it's about a bunch of women sharing their lives, and it's about knitting."

"Oh, Friday Night Knitting Group? or something like that?" I asked.

Disappointment set in. "Oh, you know about it?" he asked.

"Yeah," I replied indifferently. "But I live my own knitting group story."

Can you tell that I've been watching Pee Wee's Big Adventure and Rango, plus a couple of other western-esque movies, as of late? Far too often. I sometimes feel like everything I say comes out in some wise-loner-who-is-against-the-world-melodramatic-pause-in-a-Clint-Eastwood-voice sort of way.

It's driving me crazy. I'm driving myself crazy. So hopefully, in an attempt to reach a faux-Western catharsis, I'm going all out.

Here's a (true) knitting story of my own, where my Knitting Friends and I battle inclement weather, bad parts of town, and our scariest nemesis: knitting gone bad.

* * * * * * * *

Last night, right around the time for knitting club departure, the darn tornado sirens went off. I used to mostly ignore the things, just keeping an eye on the local news instead. Now, after watching the constant devastation to entire regions, one after the next, you bet I heed them. I herded the kids into the basement.

Within a half hour the the warning had expired with nary a drop of rain here in our little village.

Within moments of the warning's expiration, my other die-hard knitters texted each other: Leaving home! Be there soon!

The sky looked ominous out there on the horizon, but I was game, and soon out my own door.

Knitting requires a 12-minute venture into the bright lights and big times of the city (eye roll.)

Down the hill toward the river, over the bridge, and through a "questionable" block (eye roll) here in the city (eye roll.)

But we're not scared. The city (eye roll) can bring it. We're armed with multiple sets of sharp metal needles, Essie's renowned stink eye, Angie's castration skills (seriously) and a creatively wicked array of bad ass vocabulary (praise be to Essie) that leaves others wisely avoiding us.

One-eyed eye roll, cause da truth's da truth, no?

5 minutes north of my home, I hit some of the most torrential rain I'd ever experienced. Literal sheets of rain and wind were smacking my window, and about 2 dozen cars had pulled over to wait it out in the SuperValu parking lot.

Not me.

I pressed on.

I got rockstar parking, counted about 5 lightening flashes between leaving my car and entering the door, 10 feet away, and sighed an immense sigh of relief. Not because I avoided the bad weather. But because I was home to my knitting family.

(Note: I was GREATLY TEMPTED to write: Because I was safely ensconced in the warmth and safe bosom of our cozy knitting retreat. But I don't want you to choke on your own vomit, so I didn't. So if at an point you think that I getting a bit over-the-top, remember! I held back on being safely ensconced in a bosom, for your benefit.)

Here is a curtain/window treatment I'm making for my bathroom. I want a spa-like curtain that lets the light in, while offering privacy.

I started this waaaaaayyyyyy back in March in Orlando.

Upon beginning the project, and for the first half of the curtain, I had to follow a pattern, which required my counting out each row (a varied pattern of 15 stitches repeated 6 times per row, and changing every row). So I couldn't bring it to knitting, since I can't Count and Drink and Knit at the same time (but I can talk and chew gum, and I can rub my belly and pat my head at the same time. And if I were in an actual Western, I might be able to ride a horse and shoot a gun at the same time, although I'm scared of horses. Either way, don't think less of me.)

But as the bubbles in the curtain lessen, I didn't have to count so much, and I started brining it out.

For the past 2 months I knitted nonstop on this damn thing.

I'd knit, and then hold it up to measure against my bathroom window.

And no matter how much I knit the night before, do you know that the damn curtain was always--ALWAYS--- 7 inches too short for my window.

7 inches. For 2 freaking months, it was 7 inches too short. What the heck.

Anyone, way back in, oh, I don't know, June, I realized that I made a mistake in reading the pattern way back in March. I was creating the curtain without a border edging. And since the curtain is in stockinette stitch--the edges were seriously curling in.

In my own Happy Land of Denial, I pressed onwards.

By August, though, I realized that I was about to have a problem on my needles.

So one night, after a Corona Light with Lime and an order of fried cheese curds, I had to put aside my Denial, and my Ego, and confess my Stupidity, out loud, to my posse.

Essie put down her knitting and peered over. "That's not a big deal. Just pick up the side stitches and knit a garter stitch border. It will actually be stronger and stop the curling less than had you knit a border in at the beginning and ending of each row."

So my mistake was actually awesomeness that I had not known about. THIS IS WHY I LOVE MY KNITTING FRIENDS.

Now, fast forward a couple of weeks, to this past weekend.

All last weekend at Kelly Lake, I worked my little tail off, picking up the side stitches, every last one, (italicized to foreshadow my impending doom) to create a fabulous, strong, worthy border.

During my bind off, I realized that the damn sides were now ruffling.

There can be no ruffles in my spa curtain! Ruffles have no part in my attempt to create a smooth, soothing bathroom experience.

F*ck a Duck.

Man, is this not the longest story ever? Still, I must press on.

I brought in my freakishly ruffling curtain, through the torrential downpour and neverending lightening.

I laid out the curtain over the couch.

"Yep, it's ruffling," Essie confirmed. I momentarily wanted to writhe in agony on the carpet. But the carpet--ew.

"But I pick up stitches like this all the time in my log cabin blanket!!" I whined. "I didn't miss a single one!"

"But that's a garter stitch blanket . Don't you know that there is a different formula for stockinette stitch?" she asked me.

My dumb-founded silence was the answer.

But here's the awesome thing. She knew the formula! Off the top of her brilliant head! And she shared it with me!

My friends held my hand as I had to rip back all 2,418 stitches (not literally, because I was using my hands to rip those !&Y#$*& stitches out.) Which. Was. Painful.

And that was when our waitress brought out the complimentary chocolate wine.

* * * * * * * * *

No, I don't want to read that book. I announced indignantly to my well-meaning Mister. I have my Tuesday Night Knitters, and a bartender who buys us chocolate wine.

What more could anyone ever need.

Tonight's Suppertime Conversation

2011-08-22T16:26:00.000-07:00

Atticus: Mom, families want a son so that their family name can be carried on.

Po: Actually, families want a son so they can pick up dog poops.

Trixie had nothing to add to the conversation.

all photos courtesy of Hatfield

Unicorns, Rainbows and Marshmallows, Oh My

2011-08-15T06:07:00.000-07:00

My baby girl Paloma is SIX years old today.

Miss Po is an itty bit, but the girl is Larger than Life. She keeps laughing, she keeps us on our toes and she keeps us in never-ending awe over her sharp wit (and potty humor.)

Life has never been, and will never be, the same because of our girl Paloma. And I wouldn't want it any other way.

Paloma is enamored with

All

Things

Unicorn.

So what more worthy way of celebrating her birthday than with a Unicorn-Laden, Rainbow-Draped, Pink-Buttercream-and-Marshmallow Birthday cake?

Seriously, this is the BEST WHITE CAKE ever. Simple, whole ingredients. Dyed with (highly toxic) food coloring to produce a magical rainbow of cake. (we tend to live on the edge here)

Delicious, moist, not overly sweet.

Perfection.

With Buttercream Frosting to die for '

(store frosting should be banned. Just sayin'.)

I started this blog shortly before Paloma's first birthday. And I'm so happy I did, because what a treat it was this morning to dig back through my archives. How my girl has grown is so bittersweet and my heart aches.

First Birthday

Sassy Second

Terrific Third

Fabulous Fourth

Favorite Fifth

And our girl today.

Who was SO excited for her Birthday-Cake-for-Breakfast

(a family tradition

Celebration

that she didn't even take off her sleeping mask.

Happy, Happy Birthday Po.

You are one of our greatest joys.

We love you forever and ever.

My own little Eden in the land of frozen tundra

2011-08-09T09:39:00.000-07:00

Any season in which I can dig in dirt, plant, grow, and dig some more is my favorite. Which gives me half of Spring, all of Summer, and most of Autumn to muck around outside to my heart's delight.

(Evidence of the mucking. No, I normally don't place my filth on my bedding like this. The bedding was due for a washing and I needed a light enough background to show the contrast between clean and dirty.)

The Mister built me these four raised garden boxers for Mother's Day.

Best.

Gift.

EVER.

I planted all the beds using the square foot method of planting. I didn't create fancy wooden grids like many (over-achievering) gardeners use. I roped off my grids using--what else--yarn! Give me yarn, dirt and a staple gun and you've made me happy for an afternoon, + 2.5 seasons.

I have several large, traditional-style garden beds in my yard, but I've been yearning for these garden boxes for several years nonetheless.

Due to my insane love of raspberries, I've allowed 2 out of my original 3 plots to boast a huge raspberry forest, as I have never practiced raspberry vine birth control and have let them reproduce with abandon.

Our Pope-Approved Catholic Raspberry Patch

I can't believe how delightful the square foot method of garden is with raised garden beds. Planting, weeding and picking are soooo much easier and more enjoyable. We're able to meander through our Eden, oohing and aahing at what is growing, simply reaching in and plucking off the bounty, with nary a thought as to what we're crushing underfoot (which happens quite regularly in our large garden beds. And you know, nothing kills an earthy, summery moment in the garden more than Mom screeching "Watch where you're stepping! You're squashing the squash!")

I assigned each kid a garden bed to care for.

The Haitian Sensations share the "hot pepper sauce" bed since they equally share an intense love of hot pepper sauce.

Atticus wanted vining beanstalks. We use large sticks we collected in the forested areas around Kelly Lake to vine the stalks.

Amazingly, they have remained stoically upright despite some crazy windstorms as of late.

Paloma's bed has produced 14 zucchini so far off of two plants.

She credits this to the fact that she both sings to and kisses her plants. "Grown with love," she'll tell you as she flutters her eyelashes dramatically.

Where she gets her dramatic flair, I couldn't tell you.

So far we've had no wildlife trouble with the gardens, even though we have a number of adorable bunnies residing under our backyard deck. I credit this phenomena to the fact that I allow a huge plethora of clover to grow throughout the backyard because I refuse to put pesticides on our grass. The bunnies happily munch the clover and grasses, and my gardens remain happily untouched. Maybe I'm smoking crack, but it's worked for the past 4 years, so I'm sticking with that system.

This entire system is working so well, in fact, that guess what I'm asking for Mother's Day next year? I mean, I have a lot more open yard. I bet the Mister is really rethinking the wisdom of getting that table saw after all. . .

Futile

2011-07-28T14:31:00.000-07:00

fu·tile

adj \ˈfyü-t^əl, ˈfyü-ˌtī(-ə)l\

Definition of FUTILE

: serving no useful purpose : completely ineffective futile>

: occupied with trifles : frivolous

and last but not least:

3: Attempting to harness your nervous energy by trying to organize your son's 5.2 million legos by color, size and shape while he is away at camp.

Seriously, if this isn't my biggest WTF was I thinking?!? moment of the summer, then I'm very, very scared to see what the rest of the summer will hold.

Loneliness

2011-07-28T07:14:00.000-07:00

This has been a very lonely week for me.

I miss Hatfield and Atticus so much it hurts. I'm a bit surprised to realize that many others do not get this or think it is somehow weird. But, I think it is one of the dynamics of being a homeschool family. I'm with my kids all the time. They are who I prefer to be with. I'm not used to them being away from the house day after day. And I miss the terribly and feel so lonely.

I recognize that their job in life is not to make me feel less lonely or keep me emotionally regulated. I'm not a parent like that.

A couple months back in marital counseling, I was crabbing about something. In return, our therapist said something which shocked me and first, truthfully, angered me. He said, "It sounds like Sarah is very lonely in the marriage."

I was pissed. I mean, how pathetic does that sound? I don't want to be looked at or viewed as a sad, lonely person. I want to be a person who lives life to the fullest, or at the very least, survives with finesse.

But the therapist was right. I feel lonely, and quite often. I don't blame my husband or my marriage for it. I don't blame my kids. Really, it comes down to me and how I choose to handle my life.

I can't control how other's treat me. Ask any Trauma Mama and you'll get a huge Amen, Sister to that one.

Having a child who rejects you constantly is a terribly, lonely experience. Because as a mother, your job is to love. I was smart enough to know that my children would come home and not love me. Having lived in an orphanage for four years, I knew my sons would have no idea what a mother is, what a family is, and how to function in them.

I knew there would be struggles. I knew that I would have to give a lot of love, and that love would feel like it was falling flat.

What I didn't know is just how terribly stinging and lonely the constant rejection would be. Having a child look into your eyes while they are peeing on the floor less than 6 inches from you is maddening, yes. But the overriding emotion for me is loneliness.

I see how fearful and alone my son is, and I know he is drowning in it.

Even as I extend my hand to him, I feel my own loneliness crashing upon me like tidal waves as my love and care is constantly rejected.

I've had to set a lot of boundaries in the past few months for myself. Within my role as a mother, wife, friend, extended family member.

While the boundaries are for my self-health, self-worth, self-dignity, some of those boundaries have angered others. I knew that they would, but at a core level, I have to take care of myself.

But I'm finding that feeling others' resentment and anger and disapproval directed at me for those boundaries, again, leaves me feeling lonely.

Which makes me feel kinda pathetic. Like I'm destined to be a lonely old woman with a ton of cats when I grow old.

A friend of mine received an assignment in therapy where she had to write an essay on who she is. The kicker being that she couldn't use her roles to define her.

&#*$, I thought. I can't even been to imagine having to write that.

Which is a problem, because I should be able to. I'm nearly 37 years old, and yet, there are many times where I still feel like I'm just kind of floating between a bunch of situations that I'm not really conquering or surviving. I guess by floating I really mean treading water.

Sometimes I feel very strong and kick-ass. I feel like no matter what is thrown at me, I can handle it and move forward and get smarter and stronger.

Loneliness undermines that, and quickly.

But I have to start, once again, focusing on me and my own person while I move beyond the uncomfortable gnawing feeling loneliness leaves me with. I am worthwhile. My feelings are valid. I am strong. I am my own person without apologizing for who I am.

Seriously, I'm 36 years old, and I think it's time that I start defining myself for myself, loneliness be damned.

Away Camp

2011-07-26T05:32:00.000-07:00

This past Spring, we found out about a great camp in Michigan that our friend's family (grandparents/parent/children) had been attending for years. They asked if Hatfield and Atticus were interested, so I asked my kids, and they enthusiastically asked to attend.

Knowing that I'd be nervous when the time came, I nonetheless signed them up because I think going to camp for a week is a great way for a kid to grow as a person and come into their own person. My kids are pretty much with family all the time, and I felt that it's great for them to get a chance to spread their wings for a time.

On Sunday, we dropped Hatfield and Atticus off at camp, along with our good friends and their extended family. Atticus is bunking up with his good buddy, and Hatfield is bunking with dear Jill's 12 year old cousins.

The kids were SO excited. Upon arrival, they claimed their bunks and put on their suits for a Swim Test.

When we left they were happy, content and excited. Atticus was chilling on his bed, waiting to take a camp tour with his cabin. Hatfield was playing tetherball with a bunch of girls from her cabin. They pretty much gave us a casual wave goodbye.

I tried not to smother them with hugs and kisses.

I held it together until we got home. My kids have never been away from us. I feel just lost without them here. I am so lonely. And worried. And pathetic.

I know that they are having a great time, and I can't wait to hear all about it on Saturday during pick up.

I laughed when I downloaded camp pictures off of Hatfield's i-Touch. Here is what kept her busy on the drive to camp. She turned her family into unicorns.

Oh, the indignities from which little boys suffer at the hands of an older sister and her iTouch.

Paloma will be thrilled, as she is upset that we are people and not unicorns.

And the Mister, well, sorry for posting this, but I can't help myself.

Man, I love that kid.

Pete, Re-Pete & a Parenting Quandary

2011-07-23T05:46:00.000-07:00

This summer, Keenan is going through the same anger/grief/adjustment cycle that Miles went through last summer.

The good news is that I'm a BTDT Mama, and so I'm not making the slew of mistakes I made with Miles.

The bad news is that I'm finding some behaviors just as draining, as misplaced u*rine has never lost its magical ability to suck the marrow clean outta your bones.

On occasion, I'll ask my boy, out of sheer exasperation: "Don't you remember Miles doing this last summer? How fun was that?"

He can tell me, yes I remember, and not fun at all. Miles will often exaggeratedly smack himself on his forehead, shake his head and say in his cute and deep voice that carries a trace of his Haitian accent: "Oh, Keenan, Keenan! Dees is ridiculous! Have fun! Play!"

Doesn't matter how much we say in the moment. Keenan will get there when he gets there. I do believe that me saying it, however, that repeating my mantra's of: "Mom's a good Mom. Mommy takes care of you because she loves you. Mommy is a safe Mom. This is a Safe House" and so on and so forth does seep in.

Miles can tell you those facts in his sleep, and it seems to be part of his internal dialogue now. He's certainly fierce in his protection of me, often scolding Keenan and telling him: "I do not like it when you act not nice to Mommy! It makes me angry because she loves us."

Holy Cow, what a turn around with this child.

Yet, Keenan is a completely different child with a completely different set of issues. Why the great delay in processing this grief and anger? Well, he hung on to a deeply ingrained set of coping mechanisms-- pretending not to understand, speaking unclearly, basically acting cute but dim-- which prevented him from ever having to face his trauma.

Now that he's been essentially stripped of those behaviors--and now that he's not in a school environment, which is basically a daily hallucinogen of 8 hours of free "feel good" love with no strings attached--he has no escape where he can resort to those long held coping techniques.

Hence, the anger, rage, grief at his short but tumultuous life that has had so many major changed that he could not control at all.

So now he's trying to control everything. He's remarkably good at trying to take "time and energy" away from me (something we are working on in therapy.)

No matter what I ask this child, he will take a full 2 minutes to answer. Even if I ask him, do you want an Oreo or a chocolate chip cookie?" he will look at me and wait. Not because he's trying to think of a way to get both, or he's stuck in the throes of indecision. It's just his thing. Making others wait.

This are really sticky behaviors.

The waiting 2 full minutes to answer a question. Or to respond to his name, no matter whether I'm calling him or one of his siblings.

The answers which don't match the questions I ask: "We're going to dance, where's your backpack?" answer: "My shoes are in the garage."

The constant interrupting, as I'm talking to the neighbor in the front yard. "Mom, Paloma is wearing a green shirt." "Mom, they are painting their house." "Mom, we have 3 dogs."

The constant asking: "Can I play with this?" "Can I get out this toy?" "Can I play with Miles and Paloma?" "Can I play with this?" but never doing anything of the things for which permission was granted.

I have read the books and understand the different techniques for how to handle these types of situations. Our intuitive therapist is great at offering perspective.

But here's my quandary: How do you deal with a child who is trying to suck the time and energy out of a day, when you have 4 other children, who are doing great, to parent?

Last summer, I gave ALL of my energy to Miles. The other kids were maintaining, and I let them.

Biggest. Mistake. Ever.

I'm trying to teach Keenan that it's not okay to steal time and energy away from the other kids. I refuse to make the same mistakes again.

Yet, at the same time, I owe him the time/energy to help him heal, learn and cope.

I am finding this so frustrating. I have not seen this issue addressed in books. And our therapist, God bless him, has one perfectly adorable, neuro-typical child, and does not truly get this situation. Or he does, but the theory behind it and putting it into practice are two very different things.

So that pretty much sums it all up. We're here, and despite dealing with Keenan's coming to terms with his life, we're doing well. The kids are enjoying their summer, and it's flying by with dance, camping and swimming. And I'm trying hard to live in the moment with them, making sure it doesn't go by with me missing out. But it's sure not easy.

The Force is Strong in These Kids, Yes

2011-07-13T10:35:00.000-07:00

Note to Readers: The title only works if you say it to yourself in your very best inner Yoda voice. Or if you imagine me saying it to you in my very best Yoda voice (which is surprisingly good, if I do say so myself.)

Every Spring, Atticus' violin teacher holds Summer Family Fun Recital. An opportunity for her violin students, and their families, to take the reins and have some fun.

Last year, Atticus played Andantino or something like that. All by himself. Sans family. Because apparently, I had never gotten the memo (or made the connection) that Family Fun = familial involvement. I just thought it meant the entire family went and everyone got ice cream at the end of the recital.

That recital, we were put to shame by the Nick U. family quartet's rendition of Old Joe Clark, complete with two kids on violin, the mother playing the washtub bass, and the dad on a fancy ukelele while singing in an Irish brogue.

To shame, I tell you.

I remember the Mister and I looking at each thinking, whoa. We are totally out of our league.

This year, my kids decided to bring it. They channeled the inner depths of the Force, and this was the result.

That's Nick U. in the front row, videotaping it. I imagine that he will force his kids to sit around the kitchen table all year and watch the video, much like a football coach forces their team to watch video footage of the opposing teams' most recent game, evaluating what my kids did and how they can up their game next year.

Sure, that dad can sing. And play the ukulele. And the mom can take ordinary household items and make music out of it. So what?

Can they play toy drums, dress up like Star Wars characters and look cute? Do they have the honest to goodness, one and only FORCE on their side?

I think not.

An Update on Mr. Stinky Pants

2011-07-07T18:59:00.000-07:00

You wanna know what Mr. Stinky Pants' bowel movements and horror movies have in common?!?

Really, really bad sequels. And threequels. And let's not take it further than that.

Effin' A, man.

Back in April, I blogged about my dear, sweet son, Mr. Stinky Pants and his unholy bowel movements and breath.

We received a dx of giardia, cryptosporidium and a (gag) tapework from rat feces.

We treated with a cocktail of pharmacological wonders.

The tapeworm, we're happy to say, has left the building.

Best not to picture that.

The giardia test, we were told, came back clear.

Yeah, uh huh, whatev.

Mama's intuition and sense of smell prevailed.

Something was rotten in Denmark, and by Denmark, I mean Mr. Stinky Pant's intestines.

Earlier this week, I called the pediatrician to double check on his most recent stool sample.

All clear! I was told by an annoyingly chipper nurse. Clearly, none of her children ever had giardia.

"Ummm, I'm thinking it's sticking around, because my lord, it's like an exorcism in the bathroom several times a day at our house,"

I'm guessing the nurse did not appreciate my honestly graphic descriptor. "Huh," the chipper nurse said. "I'll call you back."

She calls back with a plan to see a pediatric GI specialist. Who is in Milwaukee. Because GB doesn't have one. And Milwaukee is 2 hours away.

No problemo. A bunch of schedule re-working, and my boy and I were on our way this morning.

The specialist walks in and announces: "So, why aren't you treating your son for giardia?"

Say what? I tell him what the ped's office tells me, and he points to the test results. All I see are "Giardia" and "POSITIVE," with the POSITIVE being in all capital letters.

Now, I'm pretty sure POSITIVE isn't secret code for something else. I'm kinda an expert in secret code (like when my kids say to his siblings: "Hey guys! Watch our Old Mama dive off the diving board! I didn't know old mama's can do that!" I know that the secret code for Old Mama is Smoking Hot Buff Woman Who You Would Never Guess Has 5 Kids. Right? Right! It's like I majored in it or something. Not really. It just comes naturally.)

So, we end up with an aggressive treatment plan for this whole gross giardia business, all done in the comfort of a (pretty cute) specialist's office only 121 miles away from home despite the fact that the testing was done in the comfort of an office only 5 miles away from my home. But whatever. The plan is aggressive, and we're ready for action.

Which, in the end (and for Mr. Stinky Pant's (rear) end), is all that matters.

You have to forgive me for all my juvenile butt jokes. It's kinda hard to stop myself because laughter is the only way to survive such grossness.

But you know what? I actually found a huge silver lining in all of this.

My poor kid has had giardia, a highly, nastily contagious condition, in my home for 23 months.

And no one else has caught it.

Clearly, my house is way cleaner than my mother thinks. Boo-yah!

Revisiting Roots

2011-07-02T10:31:00.000-07:00

The past two weeks have been such a blur of activity (and post-vacation catch-up) that I haven't even had a chance to blog about our whirlwind cross-country trek to Seattle.

The Mister had his 20th year high school reunion, which was both our reason for the trip and for the ridiculously short nature of the trip. He was in Vegas for a mandatory work meeting through that Friday, so we arrived in Seattle Friday afternoon. We left Sunday, because Monday was Hatfield's birthday and I don't miss my children's birthdays. Not evah. So, a 72-hour trip it was.

This was our first time back since we were married back in 2000, and Atticus' first trip ever out there.

On Friday night, we ate dinner with Granny and Papa, and then Atticus spent the night with them.

We are so incredibly blessed to have Granny and Papa in our lives. They are technically Hatfield's birth grandparents, but they are Granny and Papa to ALL of us.

Oh that Granny and Papa! They visit, send cards and gifts and have always worked very hard on making sure they are a presence in our lives, even from afar. We are SO incredibly, incredibly blessed to have them. The moment they found out we'd be out there, they dropped everything to accommodate our wonky schedule and spend time with their boy, Atticus.

Thank you, Granny and Papa. We love you.

Before we caught up with the Mister's family, we were able to drive around his hometown of Port Orchard. My boys at the docks.

Atticus was able to spend a lot of quality time with Cliff's family and all of his cousins as well. It was so fun to see them all at play. My MIL made an awesome Chamorro feast for everyone, which was soooooooo good.

I loved watching Cliff catch up with his family. Especially when he was schooled by our niece in Let's Dance.

Cliff's beautiful sister, Clarice, who is a wonderful person and auntie to our kids.

Funny little multi-racial family side note: Upon leaving, the Mister asked Atticus if it felt different to be around all brown people. Atticus shot him a strange look and said, "Uh, Dad, the only people who are NOT brown in our family are Mom and Hatfield. We outnumber them."

Touche, my son.

I was able to touch base with some college roots of mine, in the 5 minutes that it chose not to rain on Saturday ;)

Here is my alma mater.

Here is my freshman dorm.

Actually, right here was my freshman dorm, if you want to be super specific.

We totally scored in getting a second floor balcony room. Oh, those nights of Henry Winehard-induced craziness on that darn balcony.

How I ever managed to live through--and graduate from-- college is beyond me sometimes.

Which is totally why Hatfield is going to college at UWGB. And living at home. In her room. With her sister.

Okay, maybe not. But I haven't found an anti-anxiety med yet that makes me not hyperventilate at the thought of her going away to college, especially since I remember all too well what we did at college.

I digress. But for all of those out there who were wondering if we would return home with the Mister gung ho about moving back?

He was able to decide that within the first two hours of being back in Washington.

Minute 1 (upon airport pick-up): Oh my god, Sarah! Did you see the city and Mount Rainer on the way in?!? I totally miss it! It's gorgeous! It's so green!

Minute 5 (upon entering I-5 to get us from SeaTac to Tacoma, a 17 mile trip): Look! We can get right onto the carpool lane! See! I told you that you were being overly negative in your memories, Sarah! This is going to take no time, you'll see!

Minute 60 (turning to Atticus in the back seat) @ Mile 6: You see, son, if we lived here, this is where I would be spending a lot of my time, in traffic. It'd be something we'd have to get used to as a family.

Minute 120 (turning to Atticus again) @ Mile 12: See, Atticus, this is why we don't move back here. It's gorgeous, but man! I'd never be home to see you guys!

Minute 147 @ Mile 16.6: Wow, we're almost there! Good God.

Pictures of the class reunion to come. Have any of you been to your 20th yet? This is how the Mister's began.

Me to the Mister: This can't be the right restaurant. The reunion site said they rented out the whole place.

The Mister to Me: I'm pretty sure it is. Why do you think it's not the right. . . . Oh my god! Are we really that old? I'm pretty sure that is the dad of someone I went to high school with!

It wasn't the dad. It was the classmate. And yes, some were looking that old.

Welcome Wagon, Po-Style

2011-06-22T09:51:00.003-07:00

Upon our return home, the Mister and I found Welcome Home signs taped all over the house by our children.

Here is the one Po left us:

"Mom and Dad. Where have you been? P(cross out the "a" because let's face it, writing'Po' is easier)o"

And, why, yes,

it is indeed affixed

to the inside lid of our master bathroom toilet.

Only Po.

A Teen is in The House!

2011-06-21T11:27:00.000-07:00

Miss Hatfield Louise is 13.

How 13 years seem to go by in 1.3 seconds flat is beyond me.

I've written it before, and I'll write it again, but this child has been my saving grace.

For the first three years of her life, it was just me and my Hattie Loulou.

The Mister and I then married, and he adopted her. He has always considered Hatfield his girl. She has always known him as her dad.

They have a very special, connected relationship.

Which often manifests itself in silly ways in public places, like KFC.

We are so proud of what a beautiful, kind, smart, hard-working and wickedly witty young woman she is.

We love you, Hattie Lou!

Happy, Happy Birthday!

And we're off!

2011-06-17T04:47:00.000-07:00

My boy Atticus and I are off on a whirlwind trip to Seattle. A cross-country adventure with just the two of us.

We are SOOOOO excited!

In Seattle, we're meeting up with the Mister, who is flying in from Vegas.

Lots of being spoiled by his 2 sets of Washington grandparents and the Mister's class reunion are on the docket.

Have a great weekend!

Finally!

2011-06-14T07:20:00.001-07:00

EVERY DAY

for the next

THREE WEEKS,

I have

FOUR HOURS

Each Day

ALL

MYSELF.

Y'all know that I'm not one to self-promote

with constant photos and videos of myself on this blog,

but my dears,

This

MONGO

JUMBO

Reason

Celebrate!

I love homeschool. I love my kids with all my heart.

But not once in the past 13 years have I had 4 hours each day, at home, all to myself, for more than a day here and there ( like a day here once a year, and a day there the next year.)

And maybe this is a bit presumptuous of me, but I deserve this.

Whoooooohooooooohoooooo!

All is good

2011-06-13T15:10:00.000-07:00

I haven't blogged in forever, but it's because all is good :)

So nice to put in a happy update.

Well, it'd be a complete happy update except for the #*@$&( IRS and their #*@*($-way in which they are processing the Adoption Tax Credit.

But, oh well. I'm taking the "Haiti Adoption Approach." Which is:

Sooner or later they will run out of requests.

Sooner or later they'll have to review my file.

Sooner or later they'll have to approve my file.

Because, seriously, what else can I do? (And seriously, if you know what more I can do, please let me know! I want my moola!)

Last week I took all 5 kids sans the Mister camping up at the lake in just about the most miserable June weather possible. But despite the weather, we had a blast. One morning, I actually laid on the couch and read a book for 3 hours straight while my kids played around me without bothering each other or me!

It. Rocked.

Over the weekend we took the training wheels off of Po's, Miles' and Keenan's bikes. A move I would not recommend that one replicate. After a crash-filled, rather harrowing first day, the kids are rapidly improving. When a child can go 5 days (in a row) with no crashes, then they can go on bike rides on the trail solo (and not on the tagalong behind my bike.)

They are counting the days, folks.

I have strawberries and raspberries growing, spinach and chard ready to pick and radishes a week away from consumption. I need nothing more in summer, except an occasional margarita on the deck, and I've been getting that in too.

So all is good, and more to follow.

May the Force Be with Him Always

2011-06-05T16:15:00.000-07:00

Today's Post Disclaimers:

I am not a baking professional.

I am not a cake decorating professional.

And as you will see, neither I (nor my children) are video recording professionals.

Instead,

I am a Mom trying to give my kids some great memories

(so cut me some slack and don't expect

culinary greatness here :)

All that being said, here is the cake I made this year for Atticus' birthday:

In case you don't know,

or can't tell,

what it is,

here's a hint:

The Millennium Falcon

Okay, that really wasn't a hint.

I just flat out told you.

I've never been one for guessing games.

Atticus was super stoked about his cake.

Warning: the above video may make you motion sick,

as it is shakier than the Blair Witch Project.

Not to toot my own horn, but the cake itself was beyond delicious.

You should never use a box mix when making a cake.

It should be illegal.

All cakes should be made from scratch.

This delicious, moist chocolate cake

(and frosting, under the fondant)

can be found HERE.

This was also my first experience with fondant.

I was a fondant virgin before.

Fondant is super easy (unlike me)

and super fun (like me? unlike me? depends who you ask ;)

I will definitely work with fondant on all my future cakes.Show all

You can make fondant with this recipe HERE.

One kid cake down so far in 2011,

Four more to go.

9 years ago today. . .

2011-06-04T05:43:00.000-07:00

A merciful God took pity on me

and ended this condition:

and in exchange, gave me him.

The amount of joy my crazy-haired boy has given me has been immeasurable.

His crazy, happy hair.

His crazy, happy laugh.

Both of which got crazier with each passing day.

I would gladly re-live every single day I've had with my baby boy.

Happy 9th Birthday to our Crazy-Hair,

Crazy-Happy Boy,

Atticus.

We love you!

A Message I Needed to See

2011-06-02T06:58:00.001-07:00

From Heather Forbes' Facebook status:

Children with trauma histories are not able to just "find" their way out of overwhelm.

They won't just "get used to it" or "grow out of it."

They will sink further and further away.

What they need is

support,

guidance,

acceptance,

relationship,

and unconditional love.

It's always a cool thing when you receive the very reassurance you need without even having to seek it.

Crabby School Mom Seeking Advice

2011-05-31T14:19:00.000-07:00

I try to be a good "kindergarten/public school" mom. I really do.

Okay, that's kind of a lie. By "good," I mean, I let the teachers do their jobs and stay out of their way. I'm not a hovering helicopter mom, and I'm able to keep my mouth shut that the kindergarten curricula used in public schools (which, generally, is formerly a 1st grade curricula that they sped up for testing purposes), even though I think about 90% of it is ridiculous and creates a bad experience for the kids who are "not advanced" (aka "average.")

Because, truth be told, I'm a Crabby School Mom.

This week, I'm SUPER CRABBY SCHOOL MOM.

My kindergarten sons are basic boys, bright and active, but their attention spans and learning capabilities reflect the fact that they are indeed 6-year old boys.

For a fascinating read on gender differences in learning read Why Gender Matters. I wish the educators in my children's school would. Because then they could untie the knot they get in their undies over the fact that one of my Haitian Sensations only uses the green crayon. Get over the green crayon, preachy school people.

It's not a trauma thing. It's a Perfectly Normal Boy Thing.

Another great book that every parent and teacher should read is A Mind at a Time.

So, I need some advice from other people.

Keenana Banana (his nickname because he always writes an extra "a" at the end of his name. Why does he write an extra "a?" "Because I like 'a.'" He'll explain.) and his kindergarten class are participating in a Living History Wax Museum with the 1st and 2nd grades.

Each child is assigned a historical figure. They have to come to school in a costume and give a 30-second speech in first person (as their historical figure.)

Just like Bill and Ted's Excellent Adventure.

Okey dokey.

Now, I should tell you. I think this whole thing is STUPID. I have a SUPER BAD ATTITUDE about the entire project. Because my kid, and many of the kids, don't get this.

I personally think the school does this because it's cute to have little kids with cute little learning impediments get up on stage and say words like "his-tow-icky im-poh-tent" in lieu of "historically important."

I think it's a HUGE OLE PAIN IN THE A$$ for the parents and a wasted opportunity for my kid and a way to fill in time at the end of the school year.

So, guess who Keenan is? You know who I'd like him to be? A strong black man in history. I don't care who. There's a whole bunch to chose from. But a strong black man with whom he could identify himself in by skin tone alone. That in this white bread, feel good, stupid-ass school we sent him to, they could have given him someone with whom he could identify, and even if he truly doesn't understand exactly who the person is or what they did, he would have been exposed to, at the very least, at least one black man did something important in this world. Because thus far, at school, he hasn't been exposed to anyone other than President Obama.

Because, news flash: schools don't promote a whole lotta diversity at times other than funding "Diversity Club" or "People of Different Culture Celebration Day."

But you know who they gave him?

Walt. Disney.

Barf. I will stop my rant right there.

Anyways, here is my problem. Here is the "speech" they sent home for Keenan to memorize (in two days, no less, because this is happening on Thursday):

"I am Walt Disney. I created the first animated musical, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. I also created the first amusement park, Disney World. I was born in 1901 and I died in 1966."

Here's the thing. No kindergartener talks like this. Keenan can't say "animated" to save his life.

I can explain to him over and over what the words mean. But he'll spend so much time focusing on pronunciation, he won't grasp the meaning. He's freaking 6, for God's sake.

So, is it horrible if I rewrite it to this:

"I am Walt Disney. I made the first music cartoon movie, Snow White. I also built Disney World. I was born in 1901 and I died in 1966."

Because that he grasps. He knows what a movie is, what a cartoon is, and what music is. He can't say amusement park easily, but he can say Disney World.

So what do I do? Do I "dumb down the speech" to make it kindergarten appropriate? So that my son can kinda sorta understand what he is doing?

Or do I just try to get him to rattle off the big words so all the other parents can awwww, and did you know he was an orphan from Haiti? Isn't that just amazing? his performance?

Or maybe I'm just making too big of a deal of this. But the whole thing just irks me.

So what would you do?

Camp Fun

2011-05-29T16:02:00.000-07:00

Although the campground has been open since May 1st, we opened up Camp this weekend due to schedule constraints and highly uncooperative weather.

Beautiful weather, a trailer in which nothing crawled into and died over the winter (not that anything ever has! I just have this huge fear that a raccoon or something would crawl into the trailer and die over the winter. So when we showed up and the windows weren't swarming with flies, and no one keeled over from a death stench when we opened the door, I knew we were once again in the clear.), and a campfire complete with s'mores made for a great opening weekend.

The lake is far too cold to swim at this time of year, so we the kids made a lot of use of the campground park.

And Hatfield spent a lot of time posing the kids for photos. She barks orders at them, they willingly cooperate, and fun is had by all.

(Okay, it totally looks like they are NOT having any fun, but they are. Hatfield was posing them to have "angry urban faces." While I personally do not know what an angry urban face is, all 5 of my children seem to, so chalk up yet another thing that Mom is clueless about.)

My boys brought up their Star Wars gun-thingies.

It does my Mama's heart good to see my three sons playing together. The first week Miles' was home from Haiti, Atticus would ask him: "Do you want to play Star Wars?" And he would go on and on (and on), giving minutiae-based detailed explanations about who each of them would be. Miles would stare at him blankly, and then run off for the tree swings. Atticus was SO disappointed and disheartened. Clearly, we hadn't prepared Atticus at all for the fact that while his new brothers would want to play with him, they would not have a clue as to what a Darth Vader is.

But now, we have three serious Star Wars nuts. And all is right with the world.

Paloma played with her unicorns. The girl has a serious, SERIOUS love, which truthfully borders upon obsession, for unicorns.

Her other obsession is having myself and her be "matchers."

So here we are on the first day of camp, matching sweatshirts, each with pigtails and kerchiefs.

Given the fact that now that Hatfield now never wants to match me (although she does like to share clothes with me, so I'll gladly age up to that with her), it's so nice to have a little one who wants to be like Mommy :)

Scrapping plans for the right reasons

2011-05-26T05:20:00.000-07:00

Our plans to take a year sabbatical from dance ended on the way home from the last recital.

The Mister asked Hatfield if she had fun, and our girl burst into tears. Huge, sobbing tears.

Hattie is a calm, steady child. She rarely gets ruffled and she's pretty easy going about plans and activities. When she bursts into tears, we know that it's more than likely something serious.

I think we all--even Hatfield---failed to grasp just how important dance is in our day-to-day life.

Especially as a home school student, dance gives Hatfield about 10 hours each week, plus travel tournaments and recitals, to hang out with a great group of girls. These girls have summer pool parties, arrange for holiday events, and just hang out together all the time. They take dance seriously and work hard together as a team.

Looking at all the fun they were having, and watching my daughter on-stage and seeing how confident, poised and athletic she is, I know that we made the right decision.

And each time next year when I'm ready to cry because I have to go out late at night, in another snowstorm, to haul kids home from dance, I'm going to re-read this post to remind me of that :)

Represent

2011-05-24T05:39:00.000-07:00

Paloma and Atticus joined the Mister this year in the Dad's Dance for our dance studio.

This year's Dad's dance was a "hard-hitting" (insert eye roll here, because it's only as hard-hitting as a bunch of paunchy middle-aged dads can get, lol) hip hop tribute to this year's Super Bowl Champs, our very own Green Bay Packers.

Please ignore the fact that Paloma is wearing a Nascar/Earnheart jersey. We're only as "fan"tastic as our local Goodwill allows us to be.

Watching these two on stage, dancing and having fun with their Dad, brings me such joy and laughter. The laughter is from watching Po constantly try to push Atticus aside so she can steal his 'lift' from the Mister (the Dads lift the kids several times in the air during the show.) The joy is the fact that Atticus is a great sport, and by the third show he figured out a way to outsmart his smarty-pants kid sister. Which isn't easy to do. Because the girls is as tricky as she is cute.

Good Morning

2011-05-23T09:49:00.000-07:00

Ernie's always a bit ambivalent about Mondays.

Time Warp

2011-05-18T05:18:00.000-07:00

I used to think

that each morning was the present,

but that was before.

Now,

each and every morning,

I'm greeted by

FUTURE GIRL

and her trusty sidekick,

Teen Age Dog.

And now,

I'm never quite sure

what time and dimension I'm in.

Figures

2011-05-15T08:48:00.000-07:00

Dance classes are over, the pea*ing streak has ended, and I finally get a bit of down time.

So you know what I get?

Strep throat and an ear infection.

I've been oozed out in bed since Friday night and I still feel like absolute garbage. I'm too sick to even knit, which says a lot.

Blech.

Increased Productivity

2011-05-12T09:41:00.000-07:00

The single best thing I have ever done to increase productivity, without even knowing in advance that it would increase my productivity, was to get rid of my cell phone that allowed me to check email and get online with ease.

2 months back, after a lot of hemming and hawing because it would be eliminating my "main" cell phone number that all the schools, doctors, family, etc., had, I got rid of our second cell phone line because we just never used it, and it cut our bill by over 40%.

What a silly little fear that was. One email, 2 phone calls and a mass test sending updated everyone with our new phone number. Yes, it was a silly little fear that cost us a lot each month.

I dropped the data plan, and voila! Suddenly I feel free. I had no idea just how tightly I was tethered to my email. Now I can sometimes will check it at 10 am, and then not again until afternoon the next day.

Our weather here is finally getting nice and I've been happily digging into the back yard. I find I go days without thinking of the blog, and I will go weeks without reading any, I think because I don't feel so lonely anymore in my trials of life. I have people IRL to bond with, and that fills the void that I so often sought in the blogging world.

I won't stop blogging, but it will probably slow down quite a bit now that the weather is nice.

I'm happily digging away my days, stealing even 20 minutes at a shot here and there, planting, pulling and re-configuring.

The potatoes are in under a bed of straw.

My Holly Hocks are up and growing.

The rhubarb looks like it's on steroids, thanks to a late fall mulching of compost.

I felt energized enough to tackle the monstrosity known as the Side Yard. I think finally sitting down, compiling all of our adoption expense receipts (sans the ones that seems to vaporize--what is up with that?),and sending those suckers off to the IRS so they can FINALLY give us our tax refund had something to do with my decreasing anxiety and increasing productivity. Yes, we too are caught up in the disaster that is the IRS Adoption Credit bullcwap. Hopefully, someday before the boys go off to college, we'll actually get our refund. Any readers out there get their refund after sending their receipts off to Examinations?

Well, that was a tangent. Back to the backyard. For years now, I've felt like we were one step away from Ma and Pa Kettle's farm. You name it--it housed it: broken lawnmower, Big Wheels, wire pepper cages, tangled chicken wire, weeds, weeds and more weeds.

No longer!

I even figured out a way to make my new compost container look snazzy!

I am in my bliss now that the weather is nice and I can spend the day toiling in the yard. Why we don't live in a nicer climate, who knows, but the winters here make me all the more thankful for each day that I can be outside.

The Big Slow Down is Nearly Here (and not a moment too soon)

2011-05-03T10:52:00.000-07:00

T-minus 3 Weeks and Counting

I'm not sure exactly when it became apparent, but sometime this year I finally accepted the realization that we are overscheduled.

We are Far. Too. Busy.

And I'm tired.

Really. Really. Tired.

We used to go to a church where we heard Busy is Being Under Satan's Yoke, which, you know, is a bit too churchy-churchy barfy for me, but there is a ring of truth to that.

I think once the boys were home and their issues came out, sometimes it was just easier being Busy. Well, maybe not easier, but at least the busy was distraction. A distraction for me because somedays I was just too busy to know better. A distraction for the neuro-typical kids who needed a break from the crazy.

But I'm done with being Busy. I'd LOVE to be done with the crazy, but that's not likely for a spell. But instead of distracting ourselves with busy-ness, I want us to enjoy the life we have around the crazy, if that makes any sense.

When Hatfield and Atticus were little and we lived in a different neighborhood, we spent every night after dinner outside. We'd visit with neighbors while the kids played. We'd walk to the local park and visit with friends while the kids played. We'd walk to the local ice cream store, or coffee shop, or video store.

Nights were leisurely and we were never rushed for anything.

It was a simple time. It was one of our happier times.

Now, although we live in a different neighborhood, we live within walking distance of a park and soccer complex. 3 schools with cool playgrounds. A regional paved walking/biking trail.

We live within biking distance of 2 SUPER cool playgrounds. A frozen custard store. A video store. And my parents and their pool.

Do you know how many times last summer we biked for frozen custard? Or met friends to visit at the park while the kids played?

One measly time for each.

Soccer took up 4-5 nights a week. Dance took overlapped nights, and then took up afternoons. Day after day after day.

We'd come home, exhausted, with me counting the milliseconds until I could get the kids in bed.

This year, I started to dread the thought of summer. And fall.

Something's gotta give, I realized.

We decided to completely clear the calendar and start fresh.

Dance has been taking up far too much. Too much in terms of gas/travel. Too much money. Too much family time. Too much money.

With the kids in agreement, we are taking a year hiatus and will evaluate next summer.

We didn't sign up for soccer. This year I'd have 5 kids in 4 levels, 2 with same/conflicting times and locations. The kids love soccer. I was really hesitant to bring it up.

They surprised me. The little ones were the only kids who seemed game for it, but their season started last week and conflicts with dance, so it was a no-go. Hatfield and Atticus said they'd rather have their night's free.

"All the boys in the court (across the street) play kickball every night!" Atticus preferred. I LOVE the fact that there are 6 boys, all within 3 years of his age, just across the street.

Things that made the cut: Summer School and Fine Arts Day Camp. All activities which all 5 can do, at the same time, from 8:30 am to noon.

Did you catch that?

ALL FIVE KIDS.

8:30 to NOON.

For 6 weeks.

OH MY LORD IN HEAVEN!!! I am gonna have 4.5 hours each day ALL TO MYSELF!!! AND MY GARDENS!!! For SIX WEEKS!!!

That thought makes me shiver. SHIVER, I tell you!

But the key there is: it's just the morning. Afternoons are ours to swim, bike, lounge and play. No running. No rushing. No trying to stuff dinner in 5 bellies before we race to 4 hours of back-to-back soccer games.

The other thing that made the cut: Camp for Hatfield and Atticus. Like REAL Camp. On a lake with crafts and hikes and canoeing and fishing and archery and the mess hall and all the other cool stuff that camp has. Just like in The Parent Trap with Hayley Mills (okay, I'm romanticizing, I know, but Hatfield and I watched that on this weekend.) Sunday through Saturday. In the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.

I am ready for the Slow Down.

This weekend, I take Hatfield and Atticus to Chicago for a dance competition. Just the 3 of us, Friday through Sunday. They dance early Saturday through Saturday afternoon. Then, instead of going back late Saturday, we are going to have a fun night in the hotel. Take out. Swimming Pool. Hot tub. Sunday we're getting up, swimming one last time, and hitting Ikea so I can pick out a Mother's Day present I'm sure to love ;) I can't wait!

What's left after that? Just one more week of dance classes. Then the week of Recital Mania.

Then the Slow Down will start. I have my sigh of relief ready and waiting. I'm ready to be free.

Free to swim.

Free to walk to a park.

Free to bike to the local frozen custard stand.

Free to just be. Free to let the kids run around the yard with glo-sticks while we drink margaritas under the twinkle lights on the deck gazebo.

Free.

The Long, Dragged-Out and Yet Still Unresolved Saga of Mr. Stinky Pants

2011-04-29T10:58:00.000-07:00

One of my dear Haitian Sensations--who for the sake of dignity and privacy I will hereby bestow the nickname Mr. Stinky Pants-- has had, since he came home, bowel movements which smell so horrific they can clear a house.

I don't mean like stinky boy poop. I mean his bowel movements are the Freddy Krueger/Norman Bates/Hannibal Lector of bowel movements.

Nasty. Stuff.

Anyways, coming home from Haiti, we had him tested for all the typical crud that these kids come home with. Everything was negative except for something I can't recall the name of and couldn't pronounce or hope to spell even if I could.

So we gave him a good dose of a strong parasiticide, and everything came back fine and dandy in the next two stool samples.

Although, the horror of the poop never went away.

For the past few months, it has been nagging at me that something just isn't right and healthy--physically speaking-- with my boy. Mr. Stinky Pants started developing knock-you-down breath, which, as gross as this sounds, smells like a less-intense bowel movement. Something just wasn't right, but in a major way.

So, I brought him back in for a check, and left with the beloved top-hat stool collection bowl, pooper scooper and specimen container.

I deposited the kit and child with the Mister, and hightailed it out of the house.

This morning, upon returning home after a visit at Jill's, I found 5 messages.

3 from the pediatrician's office.

2 from the Health Department.

F*ck-a-dilly-duckious.

Turns out, my dear Mr. Stinky Pants is suffering from:

Giardiasis and Cryptosporidiosis‏.

Ugh.

That's a pretty big 'ewwww' factor all on its own.

But wait!

It gets even grosser.

Not only does my boy have that, he also has--

wait for it---

TAPEWORM FROM RAT DUNG NOT FOUND IN THE U.S.

I am still trying hard not to puke.

Or get within 200 feet of his butt.

The game plan is for me to collect the pharmacological miracles from CVS this afternoon. Tomorrow morning, the big de-worming will begin.

Given the fact that I am squeamish and the Mister is already a pharmaceutical expert, he automatically wins the Parent in Charge spot with Mr. Stinky Pants.

I will be taking the other 4 children and running for dear life. Actually, we'll be running to a mall, a far, far away mall, to buy Mr. Stinky Pants a few treats/toys to help cheer him up. Because after 2 years of this, the kid needs a good cheering up.

Do you think Hallmark makes a "Congratulations on Being Parasite-Free" card? Hmmm. It's something for them to consider.

Growing and Changing

2011-04-26T15:44:00.000-07:00

These days, Unschooling is certainly a buzzword in the homeschooling circuit as a highly touted and regarded methodology of childhood learning. As is the Christ-centered homeschooling methodology we see heavily employed by a large number of families in our local (Christian) homeschooling association.

That being the case, I'm probably about to make what will NOT be a hugely popular homeschool mom admission, but the MAIN reason I homeschool my kids is from a purely academic standpoint.

I probably err on the hyper-obsessive side, but I care big time about the quality of my children's education. Yeah, you bet that I want them to learn about life and themselves and become good-hearted, God-loving people. Who doesn't want that for their kids? And yeah, I'll completely agree with the fact that a home school lifestyle certainly helps place the pursuit of those things into a high priority position in life.

But, for me, what my children learn, how they learn it, what skills they acquire, are HUGELY important to me. That my children will be ready, able and eligible to attend the college of their choice--should they choose to go to college--is my main goal as a homeschool mom.

What if any of one my children graduates from high school and wants to become an astrophysicist, but then finds out that they have to hit community college first before they can even get into a 4-year university-- not that there is anything wrong with community college! But what if that is their only option, and all because Mom didn't give them enough of a book education to start at university?

Well, that would make me feel like I, as a teacher, failed them. Because I think it's my duty as a parent, a teacher, as a member of society, at minimum, to be willing and able to give my kids the skill set to get into college (I like to think that I'll give them a much greater skill set with life skills, etc., but I'm talking basic education here.)

We started our homeschooling journey out of a realization that our daughter was receiving an education that was faulty at its foundation. I realized that I needed to pull Hatfield out of school and do it myself when she could ace every math test, but at the 'unit review' every 6 weeks, she'd be a puddle of tears, not having remembered/retained any of those skills.

The memorize/pass/forget format of school does not work when it comes to learning the concrete basics of life--addition, subtraction, phonics, reading. Either your children know them, or they don't.

If the 2-week unit on subtraction with regrouping isn't enough to cement it in a child's brain, then that child needs--and should be given--enough time until they can do so.

Because--news flash--if a child is struggling with a faulty understanding of the basics in elementary school, then they are being set up to fail through secondary school.

That shall be the end of my soapbox. :) Back to Hattie.

We use Sonlight for pre-elementary and elementary education. I love, love, LOVE our Sonlight. Great exposure to the world, to people, to viewpoints. Great exposure to excellent writing and literature. Great support in teaching your kids to be critical thinkers.

I'm personally of the belief that to succeed in life, we need to use elementary school to cement the basics of the 3 Rs and teach them to be critical thinkers. This takes time and cannot be rushed.

Sonlight honors those things.

Hatfield is now in 6th grade. Homeschooling through the elementary years has helped Hatfield

* become a critical thinker

* gain confidence as a young woman

* enjoy learning

* not be scared of "looking stupid" at giving wrong answers in the effort to search for the correct answer

While it has taken me nearly the entire academic year to put my finger on it, I realized about a month back that we needed to change things up. Whether I wanted to realize it or not, my "little" girl has been maturing into an intelligent, confident young woman. Hatfield has become ready to move forward and tackle bigger challenges.

Watching the movie Waiting for Superman was a huge catalyst for me in determining the next step in Hatfield's educational path. I realize that we now needed to broaden Hatfield's exposure in math, computers and sciences. We certainly need to intensify her math and science exposure, as those were her least favorites with home school.

After evaluating different programs, we decided to enroll Hatfield in a certified, online middle school. By holding her accountable to someone other than Mom, she has to face her fears, put the pedal to the floor and push through these subjects.

This is a purely egotistical confession: I was quite scared to put her in a 'real' school out of fear that she can't keep up or doesn't have the skills. I was scared that despite my best efforts, maybe I had failed her.

My ego and heart were relieved to see that she has been well-prepared. She is able to do the work. She's able to tackle these new tasks with poise and a good attitude. This new type of school is different, and challenging, but in the good way that true learning is supposed to be.

Surprisingly, but in such a good way, science is her new favorite subject. She is eating that course up, and she knows that if she finishes it early, I'll pay for her to take a summer science course, which is what my girl is aiming to do.

She's learning to use computer programs she has yet been exposed to. She's having to communicate via email and phone with several teachers. She is now accountable to adults other than Mom.

Hatfield hard at work, utilizing her Type-A mother's half of the computer desk.

The forefront is her father's half.

Thankfully, she is loving it. She seems to truly enjoy sitting down at the computer, with her books, notebooks, workbooks, binder and calendar. She must have inherited my type-A love of calendaring, because she has her own little "StudentBoard"--a smaller daughter to the MotherBoard-- and she has the remainder of her year mapped out. Skills which I think will aid her well when she goes off to college and has to self-manage her schooling.

Now if we can just pass her organizational skills onto her father. . . .

Damn Coffee

2011-04-25T06:29:00.000-07:00

I've long known that after my 2 morning cups of coffee, I experience about a 90-minute "Bulletproof" high where I feel freaking invincible. At this time, nearly everything sounds doable or like a great challenge.

This is my post-coffee Morning Theme Song.

I've brought myself a lot of headache in the past, volunteering for things at school, agreeing to coordinate things for church or the home school group, all under the delusions brought forth by caffeine coursing through my veins.

Now, I'm smart enough to have a "Home school Only" rule during that time. And, I turn the ringer off of my phone to further help me.

I slipped up about 2 weeks ago, when I decided to hit the 9 am workout at the gym, coinciding with the peak of my coffee high.

"Sign up for our Beach Body Bootcamp!" the instructor urged, handing me a brochure with the following description:

Extreme conditioning exercises for results beyond anything you’ve imagined possible. EDGE will chisel your body and your determination.

Extreme Conditioning at its finest!
Hard-core, functional training bootcamp combining strength and cardio to deliver ultimate results.
Heavy ropes, tires, suspension training, kettlebell drills, and incredible fat burning cardio will keep you challenged and your body responding.
40 minute class times challenge you to the max while still fitting into your busy schedule.
Convenient 6 week session.

Awesome! My drug-induced stupor thought. I'm feeling totally kick-ass lately! I can do this!

I wrote out the check, and didn't give it a second thought until I received this email:

Cadets,

We look forward to seeing you for the 7p boot camp starting this Monday, April 25th!

Please arrive to class 5-10 minutes early so we can get equipment ready before the start of class. This will allow us to hit it hard at 7pm sharp!

Rest up...we'll see you Monday night!

Did you see how that email starts with "Cadets?!?" And ends with "Rest up?!?" I read that and my knees felt weak and all I could think was FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY, WHAT DID I GET MYSELF INTO?!?!

I'm gonna go tonight, but I. Am. Scared. I don't know why, but I think it probably has something to do with the intense and humiliating physical beating I'm about to willingly submit to and pay for at 7 pm this evening.

So I've added another new rule for my Coffee-Induced Insanity each morning:

* Homeschool Only

* Ringer Off

* No Working Out

Slowly, I'm learning. Although this lesson may be my most painful one (literally) yet ;)

Happy Monday!
Sarah

Artistic Endeavors

2011-04-18T05:24:00.000-07:00

Dear Sweet, Adorable Child o' Mine,

Welcomed

--and encouraged--

forms of Artistic Self-Expression

at the 5FC abode:

* crayons

* markers

* watercolors

* oils/chalks

* knitting

* crochet

* corking (spool knitting)

* latch hook

* body piercing (of age)

* poetry

* pantomime

* government sit ins

* creative writing

* perler beads

* tattoing (of age)

* jewelry making

* sandbox art

As you can see, the list is quite extensive, from the conservative to the liberal. Need to express something artistically? Knock yourself out.

HOWEVER,

creative use of bodily fluids is NOT ON THE LIST!

I know, what a killjoy. I'm right up there with those horrible people trying to ban Tom Sawyer or Harry Potter.

I get the fact that you are highly creative and talented with your usage of bodily fluids.

HOWEVER,

this particular sort of creative endeavor

NOT ON THE DAMN LIST.

Maybe someday, you will find some free-thinking, funky, liberal College of Creative Arts that will welcome your preferred form of self-expression. Awesome. Heck, I will even help you fill out financial aid forms.

Maybe you and your art will become globally celebrated. Maybe people will weep at your brilliance and pay millions of dollars for your ur*ne art.

Maybe you'll show me and I'll eat my words.

Maybe.

But until then, please take note: this form of self-expression WILL NEVER BE on the damn list.

So, please, please, for the love of all things holy, knock. it. off.

When we're bored, we hit the boards. . .

2011-04-15T09:56:00.000-07:00

We love us some good Board Games. And I'm always on the lookout for a good recommendation or two.

Here are some of our absolute favorites:

The Magic Labyrinth

Who plays it: Everyone (5, 6, 6, 8, 12 and folks)

In essence, this is a memory sort of game, as players have to navigate their wizard through a labyrinth to earn tokens. Paloma is stellar at this game, but everyone in our family finds it challenging and fun.

How it's played: The apprentices to the Master Wizard have accidentally lost some objects in the The Magic Labyrinth. Now, they must try to collect them before the Master notices that they are missing. However, this magical maze has invisible walls that the little wizards keep bumping into, forcing them to start all over again. Become one of the wizard apprentices and make your way through the Magic Labyrinth to collect as many of the lost objects as you can. Sharpen your memory and show your skill as you navigate the maze and win the Master Wizard's favor.

1o Days in the USA

Who plays it: Atticus (8), Hatfield (12), The Mister and Me

This is one of my all-time favorite games.

How it's played: You have 10 Days in the USA – travel the country by jet, car, and on foot. Plan your trip from start to finish using destination and transportation tiles. The kids LOVE it. Plus, both kids now have a great sense of US state location & capitals.

Blokus

Who plays: Atticus, Hatfield, The Mister and Me

This game creates some heated fun when the 4 of us play. Yet it is so fun and addicting that the Mister and I have taken it out after the kids are in bed.

How it works: Blokus encourages creative thinking and has received a Mensa award for promoting healthy brain activity. The goal of this game is for players to fit all of their pieces onto the board. When placing a piece it may not lie adjacent to the player's other pieces, but must be placed touching at least one corner of their pieces already on the board. The player who gets rid of all of their tiles first is the winner and strategic thinking helps as you block moves from your opponent. Blokus sometimes comes to an end because there are no more possible moves.

You've Been Sentenced!

Who Plays It: Hatfield, The Mister and Me

We can--and have--played this for hours.

How it's played: With a hand of 10 cards, players try to score the most points per round by constructing the longest, grammatically correct, and sensible sentence. Any player can object to another players sentence, on either grammatical grounds, or the fact that the sentence just doesn¿t make sense. The defending player and the objecting player get to argue their points to the rest of the players, who form a jury. Half the fun is trying to defend, explain, and justify a completely ridiculous sentence to the other players.

How about your family? What are your favorite games? Do share!

20 Years Ago

2011-04-13T05:42:00.000-07:00

20 years ago today, my Dad died.

It was a warm, spring Sunday afternoon. He had gone out to mow the lawn and collapsed. He was 42 years old.

I had been in the basement, ironing and watching the movie The Burbs. I heard my mom call me up in an unfamiliar voice.

I ran outside to the side yard, and my Dad was on the ground, half down, half up. I remember seeing his mouth move and wave me away. I don't remember what he said.

I didn't know that I should have hugged him. Told him I loved him.

I didn't know that it would be my chance to say good-bye.

I ran to get some neighbors. The ambulance came. My mom went to the hospital. I don't remember who stayed with me and my brother and sister, although I had been babysitting them for several years by then.

Within 2 hours, my mom came home.

Alone.

Dad was gone.

Simply gone.

* * * * * * *

The hardest thing about having a parent die suddenly, traumatically, when you are young, is that you are never able to trust that people will be there every day.

You know that they can be there each day.

But you also intimately know that it is perfectly possible that tomorrow, they may not be here.

* * * * * * *

The day before my Dad died, I had an opportunity to golf with him.

I didn't.

That regret deepens with each passing year.

My greatest regret though, is that he died well before I had children. That my children do not have the benefit of knowing him and being loved by him. That he did not have the chance to know and love my children.

Lately I've been feeling a tremendous pull to slow down, be in the moment, and focus more on each day as it is happening.

Realizing how quickly 20 years can go by, I think slowing down is a good idea.

Cirque du Freak

2011-04-05T05:47:00.000-07:00

You know,

I probably shouldn't kill myself trying to homeschool this child

given she has "Carny" written all over her.

Mondays rock

2011-04-04T07:20:00.000-07:00

I love it when other larger family bloggers write posts about the items in their homes which break down quickly, due to the over" use a large brood creates. I laugh because I've been there/done that. I empathize because I've been there/done that. And then I knock on wood 3 times because I've been there/done that.

Knocking on wood be damned, because this week, it's my turn.

Welcome to Our Home!

As you go to pull up in our driveway, you realize an unfamiliar car is parked in the drive. Please, don't drive on, thinking that you would disrupt us with company.

Pull on in. There is no other company. It's just my mom's car, although she isn't here.

Why do we have her car? Because my van is sitting, lifeless, in the garage. Later this evening, the Mister needs to somehow breathe life into the (ad)Venture so that we can get it to the other side of town to the mechanic.

So come on now, get out of the car and walk on up to our front step.

Please don't take the missing doorknob as a sign that we really don't want you here. Just because you won't be able to physically open the door to gain entry doesn't mean we don't love you.

It just means that we are too tired/too lazy/too out of time to determine the best way to get a handle on our problem.

Whoohoo! I'm feeling pun-ny today!

Ring the bell. We promise to answer it.

Oh, and if the door bell doesn't ring, but instead emits a low, pulsating buzz that sounds JUST like it is about to electrocute you, Don't Worry!

It hasn't electrocuted anyone thus far. Plus, the dogs recognize the sound and will bark madly to let us know of your arrival.

Now that you've made it past the mind game of the unfamiliar car, and you circumnavigated the door without a handle (and electric current), and you have really, truly stepped foot into our abode, let me offer you a cool refreshment.

Provided that you request a non-perishable refreshment that does not come from the fresh food side of the refrigerator.

Because on Saturday, the freaking refrigerator door FELL OFF.

And being the handy dandy folk that we are, some old encyclopedias and small plastic wedges are holding the now defunct door in place.

However, if you promise not to touch the door, I promise that it will not fall on top of you.

So come on over! We'd love to have you. And while you are here, drinking water and noshing on non-perishable treats, I promise not to go off on a long, angry they-don't-'em-like-they-used-to tirade.

Because you know what they say! If life hands you lemons, make lemonade.

Provided that those lemons are on the counter, and not in the fresh food section of your fridge that you cannot open.

When fear begins to take over. . .

2011-03-28T12:00:00.000-07:00

Since Christmas break, Miles has, slowly but surely, become increasingly fearful and unhappy.

The shift is subtle, and sometimes I think I'm nuts, but it is definitely there.

The 'crazy' lying has become more consistent.

The dark, angry face is given to me each morning.

The just-under-the-radar disobeying/sneakiness is becoming a bit more blatant.

The "school honeymoon" is over. The teachers are no longer oozing affection over him, and Miles is upset.

Miles consistently challenges and disobeys all his female teachers. He feels angry with them and he doesn't want to listen. "I want to do what I want to do," he'll tell me. He wants his teacher to be his parent, and he's angry that the teacher doesn't want him to be his child.

Points for honesty. But what to do?

For months now, we've been going over 'Safety Dialogues' to help reinforce the notion that he is Safe here and does not need to be in Control. He can be a Kid (Kids Learn, Play, Obey and Have Fun) without having to be a boss. Mom is the Safe Boss.

I have been telling him that Mom would NEVER, NOT EVER send him to a place each day where he is not safe.

That's been a problem. Because, so much of school makes Miles feel afraid and in danger.

Recess at public elementary school is like scene out of Lord of the Flies.

Life in the orphanage is like real-life Lord of the Flies.

See the unhealthy connection?

Recess sparks a deep, dark fear in Miles. A fear to be In Control. A fear that if he is not In Control, he is In Danger.

At home, we'll talk about feelings, and he shares with me that it makes him "really angry" when his classmates won't listen to him, so he yells to make himself heard.

No one listened to him in Haiti. He was the quiet, sneaky child with an infamous pout.

He has a rep as a playground bully. He is constantly yelling at kids. Miles is a big little boy with an angry face and a BIG voice, so this does not go over well with the recess monitors. He yells at the kids to Shut Up. He yells at them that he Won't Be Their Friend. He yells at them You Baby! He yells at the recess monitors to Give Another Chance! He is constantly put in time-outs or in full-fledged lost recess.

He feels angry and rejected.

We talk a lot about the fact that kids don't like being yelled at. Miles himself doesn't feel good when someone yells at him. So if he wants to play with the other kids, and make friends, he has to be nice. The Golden Rule.

Well, the Golden Rule pisses this kid off. The Natural Consequence of not following the Golden Rule makes him feel like Nobody.

And feeling like Nobody makes him feel scared.

Which turns his Control switch to "On."

Which manifests itself at home in a litany of behaviors. Which interrupt healthy bonding.

I really am not sure what to do here. If anyone has any advice or feedback, book suggestions, etc. I'd greatly appreciate it. Because I'm in a trench here, and I'm looking for a way back to solid footing.

Dear My Lover, Do You Believe in Nature or Nurture?

2011-03-26T15:24:00.000-07:00

Many a parent has thought about the Nature vs. Nurture debate when looking at their own children.

The nature versus nurture debate concerns the relative importance of an individual's innate qualities ("nature," i.e. nativism, or innatism) versus personal experiences ("nurture," i.e. empiricism orbehaviorism) in determining or causing individual differences in physical and behavioral traits. (Wikipedia)

I'd like to think of myself as a loving, devoted parent who has worked hard to nurture her children from day 1. With a couple of my kids, I'd say you can see my nurturing influence.

Paloma is not one of these children.

This child falls fast and hard on the "Nature" side of the debate. Paloma is very much a Chamorrita (according to the Mister)-- she's loud, fierce, potty-mouthed, bossy, and when it suits her higher purpose, sneaky.

Mess with bull, you'll get the horns.

Which come in the form of an unblinking, stare-down pout.

Yikes.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The Mister's parents have been (but no longer are) living in Japan, for work purposes.

In Japan, clothing is inexpensive. So at the beginning of 2011, my very generous in-laws sent a HUGE box of new clothing and shoes for the children. And in the huge box were numerous vacuum packed bags of clothing, so when the we broke the vacuum seal, our kitchen looked like the inside of a Japanese clothing store.

Maybe. Truthfully, I have no idea what a store looks like in Japan. But my kitchen contained more clothing than any closet in our house at that particular moment in time.

It was pretty cool. We watched the kids go through their bags. Miss Paloma, the baby of the grandchildren, got a massive amount of clothing, so I ended up helping her since she insisted on trying on each item as it came out of the box

Eventually, I got to the last item in Paloma's bag, a sweet little striped dress/shirt. Unfolding it, I realized that there were words on this short.

So I hold it up to better read it.

I pause.

I squint.

I think, maybe I'm reading it incorrectly.

"Uh, Cliff," I say to the Mister. I flip the shirt around so he can see it.

"Does that say. . . ?" he asks.

"Yes, it does," I affirm. "It says: Dear My Lover."

Dear My Lover?!?

"Huh," he says. "Well, you see, in Japan, there's often a certain bastardization of language that occurs when they translate from Japanese into English. . ." he trails off.

Bastardization of language?

Really?

I nod. "I get that, but dude, your parents speak English."

We decide to place the shirt in the "to grow into" box.

Side note: "To Grow Into" is a bastardization of the English language that means: "I hid it in my summer clothing tub underneath my bed."

Fast forward to a several weeks ago, when I was beginning preparations for my trip to Orlando. Preparations which included the retrieval of said bin.

So one morning, in the middle of homeschool, Paloma calls to me from upstairs.

Actually, she calls to me from upstairs, but through the laundry chute. Because the laundry chute is across the hallway from her bedroom. And the laundry chute opens up into the top shelf of my kitchen pantry. Which is the liquor shelf. So the #1 rule is: Never put anything in the laundry chute, lest you should break a bottle of Mom's wine. Mess with da Mama's wine, you get the horns. Which come in the form of being removed from the will.

However, Paloma uses it to communicate more effectively with me when she's upstairs and I'm homeschooling in the kitchen.

"Uhh, Mom, I wanna snuggle wit' my Winne-da-Pooh bwankie, but the bwankie has twags on it, and dey are itchy, and dose twags are scwatching me. Can you cut off da twags wit' dissors?"

Winnie the Pooh blanket? With tags? What the heck? The only Winnie the Pooh blanket I knew of was one of Hatfield's baby blankets.

"Paloma, I have no idea what you are talking about," I respond, and go back to homeschool. All seasoned homeschool mothers have perfected the art of ignoring her children.

"But Mom! Dese twags are scwatchy. Cut dem off pwease!"

Thus was the message coming forth from the laundry chute every minute for the next 10 minutes.

Finally, exasperated, I went upstairs to check it out.

True to her word, there was Paloma, holding a perfectly folded Winnie the Pooh blanket.

And sure enough, sticking out of one corner, was a price tag.

A price tag with Japanese writing on it.

That little sh*t found the "Dear My Lover" shirt and folded the shirt up, ever so tiny and carefully. She then proceeded to fold a blanket around the shirt, taking care to stick the tags out in a life-like fashion.

This is all Nature, people!

Not Nurture.

I do not teach my children how to sneak

skanky clothing in with baby blankets!

I. Am. Doomed. With. This. Child.

"Nice try, baby doll," I said, trying not to laugh. I couldn't wait to get on the phone to share that one with the Mister.

Before I could even finish my phone call, Miss Po had conned Atticus into cutting the tags off. She then pleaded with Hatfield to fix her hair like "anime girls."

The result:

"What does my shirt say?" Paloma kept asking all day. "Dear my luvah? What does dat mean?"

"Well, it's like writing a letter to a boyfriend.. . "I'd stumble.

"Maybe I shouldn't wear dis," she reasoned.

I sigh a breath of relief. Okay, so maybe there is some "nature" that goes into play her.

"I'll only wear it to my Hip Hop Dance class." She announced. Because, oh yeah, that's an appropriate venue for it.

No wonder some believe the Nurture argument is bullcwap.

This child certainly supports that notion.

Lord help me.

Bit by bit

2011-03-23T13:18:00.000-07:00

Over a year ago, we left the Church we had been attending for the better part of 3 years.

Leaving a Church is rarely pretty. Especially if you are open about your reasons why.

The reasons were numerous: an loudly bigoted/intolerant youth pastor (REASON #1); the church was becoming more and more vocal about political candidates (everyone has a right to vote, but I go to church for reasons other than an education in modern day politics); we felt constant pressure to volunteer, and there was a LOT of gossip in the volunteer circles. Way too middle school, way too much of the time.

Despite those reasons, it was not an easy decision. These people had held our hands and prayed with us throughout our long and arduous adoption. They celebrated with us when we brought our sons home.

But as the months went by, and our boys began to show more and more "problems," we found less and less support. People either wanted to hear all happy glowing reports. By offering: well, it only took him 2 hours to clean up the fecal matter he smeared all over my van, that can kill a conversation in about 0.1 seconds flat. No one wanted to hear the truth.

Some people thought we should be able to pray RAD right out of our child.

You RAD Moms are probably peeing in your pants over that suggestion. But No Peeing! It's not allowed at your computer desk!

Seriously, though, we'd listen and think, uh, hello? If RAD was something that could be prayed out of a kid, don't you think we'd have eliminated RAD by now?

Well, then we weren't praying right. I even had someone go as far as insinuate that we did not know how to pray correctly. That there are healing and praying secrets in the Bible, but we'd need to sign up for a class taught by a heavily anointed member to learn them.

Silly me. If I only knew how to pray correctly, then I could heal my RAD kid.

That one still gets me feeling a bit riled up.

So, we left. And the moment we did, I felt a huge weight lifted from my chest.

I spent the better part of a year feeling greatly disenchanted by our entire church experience. The entire thing had left me really pissed. I spent a lot of time questioning whether or not it was even worth going out there to find something new.

I kind of came up with a list of 'musts' in my head. Things like:

* No pressure to join or volunteer

* Respect for privacy

* No one calls each other "You awesome Woman of God" or "You Godly Family Man" crap

* No constant, judgmental tsk-ing references to people who were "no longer on fire for God."

* A curricula-driven Youth Program with background checks

After several months of looking and attending several Churches in our area, I'm pretty sure we found our Church.

We've now attended for several months. So far, so good. I can't believe what a relief it is to go to church and feel renewed coming out of it.

The most recent sermon has had my wheels turning all week.

This past Sunday, the pastor opened by explaining that when a person falls in love, the body releases a cocktail of hormones which create that "falling in love" experience. You all know what these hormones do to a person; we've all watched someone in that glow-y, dreamlike trance of new love (or we've been that person ourselves.)

The hormone surges last 3-12 months. After which, the relationship likely be cemented enough to move past the hormone-induced love/lust to the point where a relationship matures and couple work to grow the relationship.

Joining a church/becoming an adult Christian, a person often experiences the very same rush of hormones. This is evident when someone sees a person and remarks: "that guy is on fire for the Lord!"

But, after a period, usually 3-12 months, that person may no longer seem "on fire." They've calmed down.

There is nothing wrong with this. Churches that preach that we should all be "on fire" are preaching a message that goes against the very human-ness that God made in us.

When, in actuality, it is okay that the embers have cooled. This is when our relationship with God can deepen. This is when we grow our spiritual faith.

Part of growing our spirituality, he offered, is realizing that at the very core, we are sinners.

Growing as a Christian, it means that we don't strive to be perfect. Because that will never happen. And pretending that we can be on-fire all the time is as unrealistic as expecting two spouses to always have the "butterfly in your stomach 'in love'" feeling 24/7.

What it means is that we strive to survive in a better fashion, bit by bit, throughout our life challenges.

Over the course of time, we grow. We face our daily challenges and obstacles and we try to be a little more patient, a little kinder, a little less judgmental, a better listener, etc.

It was weird, being in a church where the pastor is telling us: don't be perfect. Don't worry if you don't feel like you are "on fire." Just focus on growing, bit by bit.

I like that message.

I think about that a lot now when I look at my boys. Children with attachment and trauma issues may heal, and then grow, but it is done at such a slow pace. Sometimes so slow that you are standing still. Or moving back in time.

I don't have to be "on fire" in the way I parent them. Because let's face it: My "in love" hormones that propelled me through the adoption were extinguished shortly after their homecoming.

I don't have to be perfect in the way I parent them. I don't have to know how to pray the right way. I don't have to employ the latest catch phrases.

But I can grow bit by bit. More patience. More empathy. More grace. More kindness. More acceptance. I can work on offering it to them.

I can work on offering it to myself. Bit by bit.

Just Can't Get Enough

2011-03-21T11:25:00.000-07:00

This weekend, I had a major hankering for some very good Mexican food. From my own kitchen. So I set about looking through some cookbooks.

I know that the internet hosts a wonderful assortment of recipe sites, blogs, etc., but I look sitting at my kitchen table with a cup of tea, pen and paper and a pile of beloved cookbooks.

It's one of those special channeling-my-Polish-Grandmother moments which I cherish.

I LOVE Ree Drummond's cookbook. I adore her blog, but I LOVE her cookbook.

Yesterday, I found her Enchiladas Recipe, and Hark the Herald Angels did sing.

Why the woman just calls them "Enchiladas" is beyond me. Because they are WAY MORE than just enchiladas.

They are the food we Just Can't Get Enough of.

They are the Miracle Food That Pulled Miles Out of His Funk. Because seriously, my boy loves to eat good food, and he thought I was the Queen Bee Mamma Bomba for making this food of the Gods.

Disclaimer: Of course, Ree's recipe (don't you love that? I call her Ree, as if I know her or something. Which I don't. But a girl can pretend) calls for the use of ground beef.

Which, if you have read my blog for a while, you know, I don't use. For many, many reasons. Some of which are political. Some of which are health-related. Some of which are planet-related. I won't go off on my rant about ground beef, but I will just say that I believe that if you yourself are not willing to both slaughter and/or watch your food being slaughtered, you probably shouldn't be eating it.

And since I'm totally not willing to watch some cow be sent to its demise, I do not partake in the eating of beef. Just my opinion.

ANYWAYS. Instead of using ground beef (I throw up a little in my mouth every time I write that), I use:

* Black Beans

* Sweet potato, cut into very small cubes

* Cilantro

* Garlic

Sauteed in olive oil. Then I add in the onion and diced green chilis.

Here is what made the enchiladas SO HEAVENLY. I had NO IDEA that this was ever done in cooking. I have many recipe books, and this is the ONLY one that has this technique in it.

Take corn tortillas. LIGHTLY fry them in canola oil so they stay soft.

The Mister's Motto: Everything Tastes Better Fried. Even though the enchiladas were vegetarian, he was TOTALLY OKAY with them because the corn tortillas are fried.

After you fry the tortillas, you then DIP them in the sauce (you make a boatload of sauce!)

People, why did I not know about DIPPING the tortillas. Because Holy Hell, DIPPING is what makes ALL the difference in the world.

After The Dip, you stuff them with goodness and smack those daddies down in a pan.

The recipe calls for Sharp Cheddar Cheese. I am not a vegan, nor will I ever be a vegan, because I heart Cheese. I suppose I have to, being from Wisconsin.

And for the record, I'm okay with eating cheese, because I'm okay with milking a cow and turning it into cheese. In fact, this is something I have done before. Because I grew up in Wisconsin, and when you grow up in Wisconsin, you do that milking cow-cheese making kind of stuff on school field trips.

Because that's just how we do it here.

If you think of being wussy and using mild Cheddar in this recipe, smack yourself upside the head.

Don't be afraid of Sharp Cheddar! It is not a deadly ninja sword. It will not kill you.

I doubled the recipe and made TWO HUGE PANS of awesomeness. I have enough sauce leftover for a third pan, but I didn't have enough bean/sweet potato mix so I froze the sauce for another day (like tomorrow.) Here is a picture of the second pan I made, although it's cold from the fridge. Once I re-heated it for lunch, it was all golden and bubbly. But I was too hungry and impatient to try and take a pic then.

Because holy moly, never again will I ever make my white-washed, wimpy enchiladas that I used to think weren't all that bad. Because you know what?

Compared to this, they REALLY SUCKED.

If you love someone,

you should make them these enchiladas.

If you don't love someone,

you should make these enchiladas for yourself.

If you don't love yourself,

you should make these enchiladas for yourself

because you'll then love yourself

for giving yourself such a delectable gift of food.

Since I cannot blog you a pan of enchiladas, I shall do the next best thing and give you the Gift of A Song You Won't Be Able To Get Out of Your Head, courtesy of one of my all-time faves, Douche Mode.

Returning to Our Regularly Scheduled Programming

2011-03-20T11:17:00.000-07:00

My poor blog has been badly neglected thus far this March. Back-to-back trips, first Orlando and then Madison, tied up the schedule big time.

Then there was the typical, post-vacation suck-the-nothing out of your time things. Two trillion loads of laundry, kids who wanted to be fed homemade food not made by their Dad ;) , a house that needed to be cleaned to avoid being placed on the condemned list. Yadee yadee.

And I wouldn't be an honest blogger without mentioning that Miles nutted up this past week. Big. Time. Like, he was drafted up into the Big Leagues of Nutting Up. Awesome.

The best I can figure is a toxic coctail reaction to the following situations:

* First, my leaving created some big "unsafe," "angry" and "fear" fear. When Miles feels unsafe and fearful, he feels a desperate need to be "Boss" of everything in his life.

Unfortunately, when Miles is angry and feeling unsafe, his need to be "Boss" usually manifests itself into dreadfully unhealthy and unsafe behavior.

* The second factor: The Mister did a great job of being a fun, Disneyland Dad when I was gone. This may sound like an insulting statement, but please believe it is anything BUT that. Typically I'll leave and he becomes cross and militant towards errant children. Seeing their Dad cross and militant creates huge anxiety in Atticus, and Hatfield finds the environment to be highly unpleasant.

So, the Mister was able to really focus on being emotionally available and level for the neuro-typical kids. WHICH IS AWESOME! I am really proud of him, because it is NOT an easy thing to do with a life-sucking child in the house.

However, the only way he could be Disneyland Dad is to include all the kids and ignore any behavior of Miles.

That seems to trigger an interesting reaction in Miles. On one hand, Miles loves the treats and extras. But, the treats and extras lead him to feeling like He's the one in charge. Kind of like an ego thing, maybe? But when he feels in charge, it seems to trigger those subconscious "I'm in charge, so I must be in danger, or else I wouldn't be in charge. So I BETTER be in charge to stop the danger" sort of feelings.

Thus, the situation creates a Double Whammy "I need to be Boss" effect.

Ugh. But whatever. Whachyagonnado?

I'll tell you what I'm gonna do!

I'm gonna get together with my girls. My lovely G.B. Knitting Ninja's.

Having a loving, local and constant support group has made my life so much better. Like To Infinity and Beyond better.

When I was in Orlando, my heart ached realizing how many women out there have No One in their physical, daily lives.

Seeing people connect and now have support is amazing.

But in Orlando, I truly realized--I mean, I always knew-- but being reminded of what my life was like before I met these two women, and now knowing how much better my life is now-- I realized just how invaluable they are to me. How much better my life is.

I am SO GRATEFUL to have this.

This week is Spring Break week for us. No dance, no music, no kindergarten. Knitting, OF COURSE. We shall never take a Spring Break from Knitting.

Although, maybe we should take a Spring Break FOR Knitting.

That would be totally kick-ass.

Either way, I have a lot of plans for catching up. I have a lot of thoughts and posts I want to write. So hang on! More programming is coming your way shortly :)

Why yes, they all can hear you, Paloma

2011-03-12T15:25:00.000-08:00

I have some

Serious.

Lash.

Bling.

Envy.

I may not be the "Clueless Dance Mom" that I was last year, but I still have yet to get out my bedazzler & make a tight shirt that sparkly proclaims "Dance Mom" over my assets.

Maybe that comes with time? Or not.

The kids are rocking their dance competition.

This is year Atticus shares the Petite Troupe with a fellow male dancer, his buddy Lucas.

How cute are they? Yet despite the fact that it is 2011, the Mister and I still continue to field dipsh*t questions about having our son in dance:

How did you convince your spouse to let your son dance?

Does he actually like to dance?

Aren't you afraid he's going to get beat up?
Wow, I'd love for my boy to dance, but I'm kind of scared it will make him . . (gasp). . .gay.

Really. Really?

For the record, we're not worried about him getting beat up. He actually LOVES to dance. He doesn't feel that hanging out with 17 adorable girls to be a hardship. AND, we really don't give a flying f*ck about our childrens' sexual orientations, because we love them for whom they are.

Plus, the dance teams with boys on them tend to score significantly higher than all-girl teams.

I feel like I should maybe hand out business cards stating our Core Beliefs About Boys in Dance.

Hatfield moved up to Teen Line this year. I can't stand how old they look!

These girls have mad. Mad.MAD tap skills. Their routine this year is to the song Stomp, and it is crazy good. I had tears in my eyes because I could NOT BELIEVE that my girl was on the stage.

And then there's Paloma.

Paloma dances, but not competitively. However, as Paloma will tell you, she likes to watch kids dance.

Additionally, as Po will tell you, all the dancers at BCFD (their studio) know who she is. And she's not kidding. We go to these competitions and kids I've never seen before come up and high five her. Many of the high school girls pick her up and carry her around. Every girl on Atticus' troupe knows her and would like to adopt her. Call her Galinda, 'cuz this girl is Popular.

So I take her along. Paloma handles the dance competition with aplomb.

Sometimes a bit too much aplomb. It's more like she's a bomb, rather than she handles it with aplomb.

At one point this morning, a beautiful lyrical group was on stage, performing to the soft, haunting song "Do You Hear Me."

As you might have guessed, the singer asks, "Do you hear me?" in the lovely, hushed song.

Paloma took the opportunity to answer, in her loudest, most severe and slightly irritated voice:

"YES I CAN HEAR YOU!"

It was met with chuckles and snickers throughout our section. I wanted to die.

"Po, be quiet!" I hissed at her.

She looked at me incredulously. "What? They kept on asking."

She continued to look at me like there was something wrong with me.

Good lord. I am so doomed with this child.

Fortunately, we are allowed to come back and watch Hatfield tomorrow morning. I'm thinking Paloma might need a dose of Benadryl to reign in her Po-ness prior to the show.

Home again, but not for long

2011-03-10T10:07:00.001-08:00

* I am home from Orlando. Orlando was so incredible that I can't even begin to find adequate words. So for now, I'm not going to. EXCEPT to say that I met an absolutely amazing group of women were there. And I'm now honored to be friends with some of the most incredible women in the world. And now I know, without a doubt, that no matter what curve balls life throws at me, I Am Not Alone.

That is priceless.

* Corey Waters, the mastermind and lead planner of this event, is the bomb. There are no words I can offer to adequately reflect the complete adoration, respect and gratitude I feel towards Corey. Laura M. is a goddess who put together the most amazing food/menus imaginable. I mean, not in a thousand years could I have even imagined how good it would be. Angie B. hosted a Heartline Purse Party to benefit Haitian Women. Betsy & Barbara & Carrie put together a kick-ass 5K. The behind-the-scenes work and dedication these women put into the event was mind-boggling. Many women donated prizes, brought gifts for everyone, or baked food and sent it to us! The love was overflowing.

They are priceless.

* Back in January, I made a New Year's Resolution to take care of myself. Orlando was my #1 way of honoring that resolution. I have come home feeling like I found myself again. I don't feel alone anymore in the trials of my life. And I can't think of the last time when I had hours---HOURS-- of time to think and reflect on my life without the interruption of family-induced stress. AND, I found my brain again! I feel refreshed and re-energized. When my mom called me this afternoon, she said: "I feel like I have my old Sarah back again!"

And she's right.

It's a great feeling. It's a great feeling to feel like I'm gonna kick some ass in this lifetime, instead of feeling like life is kicking my ass. Hoo-rah!

* The Mister and children did very well without me. I am very proud of them. So far, I haven't been able to find too many "My mom went away without me!" behaviors, with the exception of Keenan, who suddenly "didn't know how to put diaper on good" anymore at bedtime.

What Keenan didn't plan on was the fact that the Mister has zero sense of smell and couldn't sniff the knock-you-out *pea* odor in the room. So my boy slept on some absolutely rank sheets until Manmi came home and nearly vomited the moment she walked in the house. Natural consequences suck (for him! for me, I love them!), and maybe someday he'll catch on. Oh well.

But you know, if that was the worst of the "my mom went away without me!" behaviors, I'll take it.

* Prior to my plane landing, the Mister warned me MANY times over that the house was in really, really, REALLY bad shape.

This is his usual strategy, completely over-exaggerating just how filthy the house is, so that when I come home I'm like, "Seriously? This is nothing! It looks great!"

This time, however, he was not lying. The house truly is filthy. Like filthy on a cellular level.

But you know what? I don't give a flying fig. Because I went to Orlando. And I had a fabulous time. And I Am Not Alone.

He could have let the kids watch the 8 season box sets of Beverly Hills 90210 and Melrose Place and fed the kids nothing but Twinkies, and still, I would not care. Because I WENT TO ORLANDO!

* Tomorrow I take Hatfield, Atticus and Paloma out of town for a dance competition. I am really looking forward to spending some trauma-drama-free time with these kids.

When I'm gone, Hatfield and Atticus really step up to help keep things moving along in a calm fashion. Which is not always fun, nor is it always easy. So as a reward, I'm going to keep things really fun for them this weekend. I was able to snag a free room upgrade to a whirlpool suite. We're going to eat pizza in the room, swim until we're pruned, and then watch a movie in our room. We'll go to a restaurant on Saturday night for dinner with a bunch of other families, and on Sunday we'll stop at Trader Joe's before we head home.

I look forward to the day when I can take all of my children away to events like this. Yet, at this moment, my other 2 little guys can't handle the schedule changes, noise and chaos. Someday they might be able to, but for now, it would do them more harm and instigate more setbacks than anything good.

* Sometimes it is hard to see just how far our kids have come when there are still so many limitations that exist in their day-to-day lives, but yesterday I had a great opportunity to see just how far my Miles has come along. Last night, he attended a birthday party. By himself, sans siblings. He did wonderfully. He was polite. He was well-behaved. He left with grace and dignity. He came home and was polite. He went to bed with grace and dignity. He woke up in a great mood.

Holy Moly. It is an awesome thing to see.