On why I'm quitting homeschooling

The past couple of years have been hard on our family; those of you who have known us longer than ten minutes know this. One constant for us has been our homeschooling, and for the most part, we've loved it.

We've loved:
the freedom
the flexibility
the choices
the one-size-doesn't-fit-all way of life

What we haven't loved:
the pressure
the cabin fever
the lack of opportunity to ever "miss" each other (haha!)
the academics

I don't feel like I necessarily need to shout to the rooftops the benefits of homeschooling; those stats are easy to find, and you can look up the tags labeled "homeschooling" here on my blog if you want my outlook. Nor do I need to give a lot of reasons for why we are done with it (for now), besides the fact that I'm tired and I need something to give (at the moment, I'm teaching 11 dance classes a week, and have writing deadlines). Suffice to say, we are all cheerful and happy and nervous and excited and anxious about our decision to put the girls in a Waldorf charter school. 

Batman Jr. won't start kindergarten until next year, at which time we'll decide what to do with him. The biggest decision that led me to homeschooling in the first place was the time spent at home with Mom: that foundation that gave them the courage and the guts and the growth to become who they were going to be. And who they are is pretty cool. They are independent young ladies, full of passion and with a special kind of education not everyone has (from country life to city life, from sheltered kids to taking in seven inner city big brothers). They are more than halfway to who they're going to be as adults. Homeschooling gave them that security, and I won't take that from Gianni if he needs it just as much. However, it's easier to save the world and take on the bad guys if you occasionally get out of your underoos and leave your own living room, so school might be a good idea for him... So, I dunno. We'll re-evaluate in September 2013. 

If you've never looked into Waldorf Education, start! It's very interesting! I looked into it years and years ago and still have the book I saved up my pennies for as a young wife and mommy. I have always tried to incorporate their philosophy into our homeschool. They're very nature focused, which will be nice for my goonies, who spend entirely too much time "plugged" in to various electronics. They are firm believers in "better late than early," when it comes to academics, which I completely agree with. Forcing children to read before they're ready is detrimental. In Scandinavia, they don't begin school until age 8, and guess what? Much higher test scores. 

All that being said, yes, I will still be writing and endorsing and applauding homeschooling! After all, I write about, endorse and applaud home births too, but I sure as heck ain't gonna have any anytime soon! My place with Home Educating Family Magazine is still solid, and I have an article in Homeschooling Today coming out this winter as well. There are plenty of stories and advice I can pull from from our 12 years of homeschooling. And really, education has always started at home, whether your kids are by your side 24/7 or not. 

The girls are mostly excited to own backpacks.

Yuuuup. As you can see, they haven't gotten out much...

Soon, I expect the guilt to start. The guilt that I've quit. That I'm not SuperMom, like all the other SuperMoms out there. That something was too hard for me. Ironically, the reason my own mother pulled me OUT of public school all those years ago (like, 15 - HA!) was due to my perfectionism tendencies. And now, lo and behold, I am putting my children IN public school to help curb my perfectionism tendencies! How ironic is that? 

It's like a black fly in my chardonnay. Yes, sir. 

Anyhow, that's our news for the winter. If they hate it and I hate it, I will soon be writing a post entitled On Why I'm Quitting Charter School.  So stay tuned, dear readers, and in the meantime, give me some lovin'.

The Great Pumpkin

Holy grownin' kids, Batman, I just realized that those photos on my sidebar of those three adorable gremlins ARE A YEAR OLD!

Here lies my children's childhood.
R.I.P.

Why don't you just grow up and run away and leave me to become the crazy cat lady, who pushes baby dolls around in a stroller, why don't you, children of mine?

Holy cow.
They're getting older.

Somebody make it stop!

Also, somebody make Genesis return from Ireland - the land of death and pestilence and horror and lack of Melyssas - so she can carve punkins and take photos, like last year and every last year for the past 12 years.

In the Great Pumpkin's Name,
Amen.

Lions, Tigers, and Socks, oh my!

This is me, entering my daughter's room.

They are not home.

Thus, I clean.

I purge.

It's a good feeling when I'm not screaming like a little girl at the things I find.

Socks.

I quit counting at four trillion.

They are everywhere.

E

V

E

R

Y

W

H

E

R

E

It is not normal.

Are they sneaking out at night, accosting socked people?

I have never seen half of these socks.

The dishes I was missing.

They have come home to roost in mommy's kitchen where they belong.

After I scraped out the molded broccoli. 

And I thought I had nothing to take to the Homeschool Science Fair.

Ha!

My daughters are nasty, dirty, hoarders.

I don't think it's fair.

I'm tidy and organized.

Heck, check out my Pinterest wall if you don't believe me.

I may not hang my blouses according to color, but they are hung, by gum! And all facing the same way on the hangers, too.

Why was I cursed with two stinky, smelly, teenage boys, hiding in the bodies of innocent looking girls?

I stepped on a doll house chair and nearly died.

Anna's American Girl knock-off doll was at my eye level when I straightened up from a particularly back breaking job of under the bed sweeping, and I lost three years of my life.

I started out kind, not throwing too much away, but two hours later I became a sniveling wretch, mind bent on revenge, and I even threw away the only money I found: one quarter.

I now feel as though I have been camping in the wilderness for a week, covered in grime and stickiness, hungry, deranged, mildly hallucinatory. 

Thus the Doctor Who humor.

Here's another to leave you with as I go scrape the dirt, residue, stickers, and four pounds of sock fuzz off of my offending body.

Crap. I'm out of soap.

HAHAHAHAHA!!!
Seriously.
Slays me.

Love, your favorite nerd.

Donna Reed and Anna

Little Rooski is trying these days to become more independent.  Typically, she likes independence about as much as she likes mushrooms, which is about as much as her Aunt Laryssa likes mushrooms, which is about as much as you could fit inside a pixie's thimble.  If ever you wanted to.  Rooski doesn't like mushrooms, independence, responsibility, school, cleanliness, finishing a book, finishing a book report, finishing anything, or squash.  She does like hot wings, shopping, quality time, graciously allowing her mother to read to her, creepy things, doll houses, bohemian hippy skirts, tie-dye, and accessories.  But this story is about her growing up just a little.

When you're a mom you no longer get to do anything by yourself.  You're never ever EVER lonely.  So that's a good thing.  But when you're trying to do alone type things, this can actually be a detriment.  Apparently I've really been a bear lately when it comes to having five seconds per day alone in the bathroom because suddenly at least one out of three of my gremlins have been attempting to not establish contact with me during those five seconds.  This is unusual and makes me alternate between giddiness and suspicion.

Giddy, as in:  wahooo!  there's soap in my eyes and no one is hollering bloody murder!  I feel giddy!

Suspicious, as in:  hang on a second...why is it so quiet?  have my gremlins been kidnapped by ax murderers or are they just eating a bag of sugar?

But this morning as I was enjoying my five seconds, Anna decides she has a hankering for a strawberry smoothie.  Now normally she'd hint around, cajole, wheedle, and then hand me the blender.  Or her sister.  Then she'd skip merrily off to climb a tree or paint a picture or lovingly rearrange her collections of rocks and used gift tags, only to come back when her frosty beverage is ready for sipping.

But this particular morning her big sis wasn't home and I was attempting a shower.  (Most people actually take showers, mommies just attempt them most of the time).  My super deluxe 'Spidy Sense ears could hear the conversation going on between her and her brother (because I'm listening for ax murderers and the rustling of a bag of sugar).  It went like this.

"Okay, okay...blender...blender...where do we keep the blender?  Here's the top...bottom, bottom, oh here it is!  Okay...okay...ice...ice is - right! Ice in the freezer.  Okay.  Strawberry stuff.  Here it goes...Gianni!  Back up!  Back up, G!  You're making me spill!  Don't lick it!  Oooo, you are so gross!  No!  Give it back!  Make your own smoothie!  This is hard!  Okay...okay...why won't it turn on?  Gianni!  Come back!  Do you know how to work the blender?


Yup, the ten year old is asking the four year old for help with small appliances.  This runs in the family.  I ask the eleven year old for help with the printer on a daily basis.

Why won't it work??  No, don't get Mommy!  We're gonna figure this out, Batman.  We can do this.  I think my ice is melting.  Stop licking the floor!  Sheesh.  You're so weird.  Help me!  Ack!  Okay, it's working but it's really loud.  Why is it so loud?  Is it broken?  It's not crushing the ice.  It's so loud but it's still not blending it up right.  Is it?  I don't know.  This is hard.  No, don't get Mommy!  K, I'm gonna turn it on again.  Stop licking that!  It doesn't look right...does it look right?  Here.  You taste it!  Good?  Oh man, you spilled again!  It was too you!  You got in my way and made me spill!  For crying out loud, Gianni.  Fine.  Lick it up.  Now I have to start over.  This is so bad.  Aagh.  I don't want a smoothie anymore.


She's so cute.  I love her.  I hope her husband will love her.  And bring her smoothies and buys her silent blenders and doesn't lick the floor.  Her standards are very high thanks to her little brother and the bar he's set.  As an example, Rooski would prefer her suitors do not streak through the house and if they do streak through the house, she would prefer that they don't clench toy trucks between their cheeks.  Yes, those cheeks.  It's really not too much to ask.

double digits

Today my little Roo turns ten.

TEN!

Ack!

I remember turning ten. I think.

I got black high-tops with velcro.  They went well with my layered pairs of rolled down socks and pegged jeans.

But this isn't about me.

She was a bald, chubby little pufalump.  Good natured and goofy. 

Still is.

Had a tendency to get dirty and was very accident prone.  Usually those two qualities went hand in hand.

But always photogenic.

How much did I love this dress?  Quite a lot.  Please mail me one baby so I can dress her, STAT.  I do still have this dress.  I have a compulsion to get rid of things, but I do still have this dress.  I think.  Maybe I don't.  Maybe my sister has it.  No matter, keep the babies coming please.

Sometimes when you're the Middler, you have to put the kabosh on the Elder.  You know, by sitting on her after you fold her like a cheese sandwich in a small baby doll crib.

Now she looks like this, which is extremely odd because those other photos were taken last month.  I am sure of it.

Pardon me while I go sing "Sunrise, Sunset" and cry.

Please pray for me.  I may end up one of those scary old ladies who carry around a Cabbage Patch doll and think it's real.  I already have the dress, for the love of Pete.  It's not looking good for me.

Happy birthday, Annalise Rose!

Beelzebub crafts and so do I

The only time of year I do crafty type things is December, zero hour, right before Christmas.  


And by crafty I mean hot glue, glitter, needles and thread kind of crafty, not rub my crone hands together and stir my cauldron kind of crafty.  I don't even own a cauldron.  


So here's what Miss Anna and I have been working on lately:

The lotions are a fun recipe that should have been a piece of cake but actually involved me searching for three weeks for a food processor, finding said food processor on craigslist, picking it up, searching high and low for beeswax, discovering it costs four jillion smillion dollars, frantically texting my crafty queen, Genesis, for alternate ideas, promising to kiss her feet when she told me to go to a health food store and buy a beeswax candle ($4, not four jillion smillion dollars), go to said health food store, learn to work food processor (which I love almost as much as I love Genesis), and then making five times as many batches as I thought I would have to because the amount was very small.

Whew.

We call it Vanilla Pudding Lotion because it looks like vanilla pudding.  There isn't any vanilla in it though.  I should have called it Honey Pudding Lotion but I didn't think of it until now and I used a sharpie to make my tags.

Cause sharpies are where it's at.  Booyah.

These are batches of my favorite facial wash.  I've been using this and nothing else for three years now and I love, love, love it.  You will love it too if you jump feet first into the Oil Cleanse Method, promise.  All it is is extra virgin olive oil (I use 3/4 of the bottle) and castor oil (1/4) and a couple drops of tea tree oil.  It takes off make up like a dream and leaves your skin softer than a baby's bum.  Plus, it's cheap.  And it doesn't sting your eyes when you accidentally buy water proof mascara.  So, anyway, you just massage it in and take it off with a very hot cloth.  Voila!  Dewy skin that is free of chemicals and animal byproducts and questionable things.

More lotions.  I hope my little sister, niece, and mom in law aren't reading this.  If you are, girls, please practice your surprised/delighted faces when you open these.

Thanks.

These are headbands I made for my wittle bunheads at the ballet studio.

All thirty something of them.

I may or may not have hot glued my fingers together at some point.   Hey, look!  I do have crone's hands.  

And of course, there are the obligatory batches of homemade deliciousness.  My favorite is the toffee in the christmas tree jar.  That's for my soon-to-be brother in law.  


Please ignore the crumbs and sequins in the crevices of my table.  Thanks for averting your eyes.


Oh, and I also made a scrapbook!!!!  That's a four exclamation point sentence right there.  I hate scrapbooking.  It's from the devil.  My personal hell will be a never ending scrapbooking party, complete with frightening paper cutting devices and endless stickers, with Lucifer barking orders at me about crooked borders and embellishments.  But I do love Anna and I do love how much she loved Nutcracker and how many photos she took, so I whipped em all up at Walgreens, scotch taped em all onto fancy paper, stuck em in an album, and wrapped it up under the tree.


The things I do for love.


Merry Christmas and may all your crafting be pain free, sparkly, and merry!

Sibling Rivalry: A Love Story

The following is a piece I wrote for publication.  It was rejected.  I rewrote it.  Again, rejected.  A different publication showed a brief and momentary interest in it.  But again, rejected.  Then I thought to myself, 'Hey, Self!  I have a blog where no one rejects me!  Well, if they do I don't hear about it.'  So, here you go.  Please don't reject me.  


                                                    *****************************
                                                 SIBLING RIVALRY: A LOVE STORY

It snowed last year:  I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea.  –Dylan Thomas.

Is there a relationship so exasperating, exhilarating, angst-ridden, hilarious, bonding, mortifying, constant, giggle inducing, and annoying as that of siblings?  If there is, I have yet to see it.  Although we may love our friends, think we’ve told our girlfriends everything there is to know about us, lean on our spouses, have deep talks with our parents, adore our grandmas, and even sometimes befriend our own offspring, only our siblings knew us from the time of the younger’s birth and will be there when the last one breathes their last.  The language between brothers and sisters is even without words at times; a nod, a shrug, a snort, a shake of the head, a wave of the hand, and they instantly know what the other is communicating.  They interject your childhood tale with a well place eye roll, because after all, they were there too and know when you’re exaggerating.   

My sister – homeschooled beside me during the 1980s - is someone who, even when she struggles to understand me, is the type of fiercely loyal sibling who would drive the get-away car for me after I’ve knocked over the Piggly Wiggly.  If someone dared to suggest I should rethink my life of crime, she’d defend me.  This I know.  And I would do the same for her, although me being the elder I would probably smack her upside the head at the same time.  We’ve gone to bat for each other more times than I even remember.  I recently found my old diary and it was sprinkled throughout with all sorts of references to my sister; a few complimentary, some angry and critical, most ridiculous (I was eleven).  All of the mean parts were crossed through as though in remorse I had seen fit to undo what I had done to her by describing her character so unjustly.  Nowadays, she would still drive the get-away car for me, although in these later years it would be a van full of children, sometimes quarreling siblings themselves.  In fact, we’d be sure to be caught by the police as we pulled over to the side of the road to lecture them about the importance of being kind to your brothers and sisters.            

A sister is someone who will be brutally honest, snuggle under the covers during thunder storms, huddle with you during fearful times, loan you her clothes, steal your clothes, bully you herself but stand up for you with anyone else, braid your hair and pop your pimples.  She has heard you cry yourself to sleep, seen you in your birthday suit, was there when your first crush broke your teenage heart, conspired against your mutual parents with you, did your homework for you, solved mysteries and fought crime with you as her sidekick, learned to drive with you, and either did everything first or everything last, depending on birth order.  My sister is the first person to know when something is wrong with me and the last person I would want to hurt, although ironically she’s usually the first despite my good intentions.  She’s the finisher of all my good quotes and the only one who understands why I think they’re so funny.  We have numerous one liners that crack us up even though neither one of us could tell you why anymore; somewhere through thirty years we’ve forgotten the source.  Why would the declaration that the mashed potatoes are creamy be so hilarious, especially when there are no mashed potatoes to be had?  We’re not quite sure anymore…but we will always bring it up and then laugh together as everyone else in the room raise their eyebrows and back away slowly.  She’s the borrower of all my cute shoes, the thief behind most of my lost earrings, and in a way that only makes sense:  as a chubby little black haired babe perched precariously for a Kodak moment in my three year old arms, she stole my heart long ago.

  

If you don’t understand how a woman could both love her sister dearly and want to wring her neck at the same time, then you were probably an only child.  –Linda Sunshine.

Sibling rivalry began in the garden of Eden and will continue as long as we call our fallen world our home.  Imagine how different the road trips in Heaven will be!  Why, I don’t know about you, but I plan on driving from one galaxy to another with nothing but peace in the backseat!

The lines of distinction are blurred when you have a sibling that is the same gender and close to the same age.  Their lives are conjoined and entirely fluid, even more so when they’re homeschooled.   Four and five year old sisters are almost one whole person.  This was evident one day as I asked my daughters what they wanted to be when they grew up.  Five year old Cora responded, ‘A cowgirl.’  Anna scowled and crossed her little arms over her chest.  ‘Fine,’ she muttered, unhappily, ‘I guess I’ll be the horse.’  Two separate identities and directions would have been unfathomable, unthinkable, and probably unexplainable to them.  If one is a cowgirl, then it only stands to reason that the other has to be the horse.  Poor little whippersnapper had to retire her dreams of being a doctor at an early age and learn instead to gallop properly.  Lucky for her, or unluckily, Cora at the ripe old age of eleven has changed her career path to Marine Biology.  Let us hope Anna swims well and can speak dolphin.

I’m sure the rivalry in our house will only escalate in the teen years, as much as I fight the idea.  There will be arguments over lip gloss and shoes, homework and drivers’ permits, chalk lines drawn down the middle of the bedroom, missing jewelry and clothes, more eye rolls than I care to think about, crossed out diary entries, hung up phone conversations, accusations, competition, drama and tears.  There will also be laughter, giggle fits, toe nail painting, hair braiding, shared jokes and quotes that no one else will understand or remember, late night cups of tea, whispered dreams, a whole lot of secrets, pinky swears, and hugs.  If I’m blessed enough, it will last until they wish the same things for their granddaughters and grandsons:  a rivalry that was really a love story.




This particular post is linked up at

Family Bonding is Distressing

They're so cute...

...like baby piranhas...

They're so dang lovable.

How can I possibly want to hide from them in the bathroom and eat pasta until I melt into a puddle of Melyssa and Gorgonzola?

That one at the top?  He is a puppy in striped pajamas.  He is wearing a leash.  He is eating cereal out of a bowl on the floor.  He just told me he's "Mindy from the network."  (Bolt).  He has all fifty states memorized.  This is not due to my spectacular parenting as I had to stop and think if there were indeed, fifty states.

The one in the middle photo keeps getting disqualified from her heats at swim meets.  She is rebellious and won't follow the rules.  I blame her dad.  She wouldn't sit still and listen to our family reading of The Hobbit.  She made dinner so we forgive her lack of family spirit.

The last one up there gives me anxiety attacks for the teenage years to come.  Her future husband must enjoy  being the steak to her mushrooms, for he will be smothered until he surrenders.  She insisted on unbuttered popcorn...yet will not learn to pop it...so she sits, dejected...like a wounded small elf...on the corner of the couch while we read The Hobbit...until she melts down the side of the couch like so much unwanted butter...and she pouts some more on the floor.

Excerpts of The Hobbit were peppered with the neurotic dog pacing...back and forth...back and forth...doggy toenails on a hardwood floor under vaulted ceilings...Mommy interrupting to say things like

Move that glass, it's going to get spilled.


Don't sit on the couch like that, it's not good for it.


Get your face out of the popcorn bowl.  Yes, I know you're a puppy but you can't put your face in the popcorn bowl.


I know he put his face in, I'm sitting right here!


Be careful of Daddy's stomach, he just had surgery.


Let go.


Be nice.


Shh.


Starving kids in China would LOVE to have Daddy read to them!!


The dishes are piling up...the laundry is too...we lost the car keys for Mike's car...I will have to drive him to work at zero-dark-thirty...bedtime can't come soon enough...

I am blessed.

R.I.P. my jolly old elf

Two days ago came the sudden death of a beloved one in our home.

His death was, as I said, sudden.  
Anna was helping me unpack like the good little slave labor she is.
A few minutes later, she disappeared.
Then, she came back.
Handed me a pile of letters.  Eight years or so of Santa letters.   Unopened.  Suspicious indeed.
Since she had left to go get reinforcements (Cora) I was really up a creek without a paddle.  Or a life jacket.  Or a granola bar.
We had to have The Talk.  Not That Talk.  The Other Talk.
I was sad.
I am still sad.


At least I have Gianni.


Is it wrong to keep having babies just to keep the magic of Santa Claus alive and well in my house?


The girls weren't angry.  Cora actually seemed very nonplussed, but now that she has her own room (Roo and Moose are sharing) she has become very teen-like.  Anna cried a little.  But then I started telling her funny stories about Daddy and I being Santa and how much fun we have and how one year, etc, etc.  Now she's excited to keep it up for the little ones in her life.


Then I stuck my foot farther up my mouth. 


They have never really believed in the Easter Bunny.  I always thought that was a dorky one and I just can't figure out a way not only to make it likable and believable but a way to tie it into Jesus' resurrection.  


So, little kids, after Jesus had been dead for three days, the Easter Bunny rolled away the stone from the tomb!  Jesus climbed on his back and together they hopped through the town leaving chocolate eggs to all the good little boys and girls.  


It doesn't have a good ring to it, never mind that it smacks of sacrilege. 


So, anyhoo, as we were talking of Santa, the subject of the Tooth Fairy came up.  I also think the Tooth Fairy is a bit weird and faintly creepy, but whatever, we've always done it.  Of course I am the world's worst tooth fairy stand-in and the fact that these poor offspring of mine haven't figured out the truth sooner is a miracle since I forget at least 3/4 of the time.  But anyway, Anna said something about the Tooth Fairy and I said something about her not being real of course, but I was so shaken up about the whole Santa thing that I wasn't really thinking straight or listening properly and I THOUGHT we were talking about the Easter Bunny.  Which they already know isn't real.  Not the Tooth Fairy.  Which was what we were really conversing about now.  Which they didn't know wasn't real.


Silence fell as I realized what I had done.


Anna squeaks,
'You mean the Tooth Fairy isn't real EITHER?'


I have to stop blogging now so that I can go buy my traumatized daughters a pony.

Williams chitlins

This is my first born...

she's spunky.

Fearless.

Tough.  Except when she's not, and those times I don't know what to do with her.  I'm frightened for the teen years because she may throw me for a loop once those hormones kick in.

She borrows my shoes.

She reads incredibly fast.  Like her mama, and her mama before her.  Her favorite books are by Jonathan Rand who is from Michigan and writes the Michigan Chiller books (they're like R.L. Stein for those of us '80s children).  She wrote to him and he wrote back and now the letter (a personal one no less; you rock, Mr Rand!) is on her bedroom wall.

Also on her wall:  swimming ribbons.

She refuses to admit she's best friends with Schroeder because after all, he's a boy, and boys have cooties and all that jazz.  But when they forget that and just have fun together and she manages to go ten minutes without smacking him upside the head, it's sweet.

She gets embarrassed but she doesn't let that stop her from doing anything.  I love that about her the most.


This is my middler:

She's ridiculously photogenic.  She could make the silliest face and the camera still loves her.


She is messy.


Goofy.


Well mannered.  Most of the time.


Doesn't like trying new things, especially of the edible type.


Likes me to read aloud to her.  We've been on an Avi phase.


She means a lot to a lot of people.  I love how she's so many girls best friend.


She wants a camera.  And a cat.


Please do not mail her a cat.


She is very vertically challenged.  




This is my baby:

He told me just this morning, hey, lady, wanna buy two tickets to the gun shoe?  And then he showed off his muscles.


He's ridiculous.


He also asked me this morning, how are your feelings, Mom?


I don't know exactly what he meant by that.  But my feelings are mooshy and full of wuv, little man, thank you for asking.


He likes football and basketball and soccer and all things involving a ball.  But he'd prefer a gun. 


He wears a Lone Ranger mask frequently.


He doesn't like to bathe.  He prefers to be covered in a thin layer of grime, dirt, dust, sand, rocks, stickiness, and frog juice.


He has no fear.




Photos courtesy of my sis' pal, Kim.  If you need a photographer in the Idaho area, let me know, I'll hook you up.  She is talented and full of creative ideas.  She also took the one of my hunk and I smooching on my little profile area to your right.   And yes, Gramma, these particular ones are coming in your birthday box I mailed just today.

My sweet pea angel hooligans and their shennanigans

Conversations with Moose can be strange and wonderful and awful and strangely, wonderfully awful.  Here are a couple recent ones:

While reading The Princess Who Never Laughed, Goofy trips over a "large stone."

'No, no, NOOOOO!'  Gianni waves his hands frantically and practically rips the offensive book out of his mommy's paws, 'It's a ROCK, not a STONE!'

Me:  OK, but a stone is the same thing.

Stares at me sadly and speaks very slowly so that I can understand:  No, Mommy, a STONE is bad.  A STONE is a very...bad...deal.  OK?  So, you say ROCK.'

So, evidently STONES are in the same terrifying group as flashing blue lights, they must be avoided and eliminated at all costs.

Weirdo.

Another thing he's been doing lately is informing me when he wants something or doesn't want something, that his doctor said so.  As in, Gianni, eat your peas.

Looking regal and pious indeed, he answers,

'No, I can't.  The doctor said so.'

Also, he has an imaginary friend.  Her name is Molly, she is three years old and she lives in Idaho.

Not twenty seconds ago, he informed me that he is picking his nose with his hammer.

Also, I am a teensy bit concerned that he may grow up to be a sociopathic serial killer.  Know why?  Cuz those sociopathic serial killers always seem to start out with killing small animals, and my little guy is determined to rid the world of insects.  This may seem small to you, but I always hated it when kids stomped on ants when I was small, and honestly it still bothers me!  I know, call me a pansy then, whatever.  I just think it's mean, and his murderous tendencies worry me to no end.  I mean, is it normal to find a bug, name it Buggy, pet it lovingly and then smoosh it to smithereens, scoop the pieces of it's lifeless, bloody body together, for the express purpose of smooshing it to smithereens again?  Is it a boy thing?  Cuz my sweet angel girls used to collect bugs too, but they would give them rides on their trikes and name them Buggy and knit them sweaters and legwarmers and cry when they ran away or expired from too much lovin'.  Not the same thing.

As far as his big sissy goes, Cora just read a 507 page book in four days.  I kind of heart her very much.

She just climbed her first tree of the season and was for the first time, a little nervous about the height.  Either she's growing up and fearing death, dismemberment, and broken limbs more as a result, or as she told me,
she just doesn't have her tree legs on yet.

Roosky continues to shrink at the same rate all her friends grow.  She is now gnome-like.  She wouldn't find that funny.  She is still looking for someone to purchase her tickets to see Les Miserables, so if you'd like to donate to the Anna Get Thee To Broadway Fund, she'd kiss your knees (as she's too short to kiss your cheek).

It was Schroeder's twelfth birthday yesterday and we bought the city boy a tent, sleeping bag and flashlight.  He was jumping up and down with excitement.

On the inside.

On the outside he was wondering if this was a sick redneck form of joking.  If you'd like to donate to the Schroeder Get Thee To Therapy Because I Live With Hillybillies Fund, he'd kiss your cheek (he's tall).

The Teen Queen is sixteen now and is looking for employment.  She won't do dishes, serve food, interact with the public, be around animals, wash toilets, drive, wash windows, take out trash, make change, or even show up, but if you hear of an opening for Ruler of a Small Country, do I have a girl for you!

As far as updating yours truly goes, nothing much happening in this here brain.  I dreamed last night that my sister gave birth to a boy and she named him Mitchum Channing.  Yeah.  I don't have the foggiest where my subconscience got that, so don't ask.  I just know I shall call him Baby Mitch all my life and he shall be surrounded by baby girls in red Baywatch onesies.  Lifestyles of the rich and famous, my nephew shall live. Sweeeeeeeeeet.

Happy birthday, Anna Rose

Turning the big 0 - 1...

I loved this leopard print outfit...she wore it like, once.  Which is odd, because it would've fit the shrimp for probably another year.

She was such a coiffure challenged little girl.

Oh my heart, that little belly!

Dirt seemed to find her wherever she went...

Finally!  Enough hair for pigtails!  Eureka and pass the rubberbands!

This was number two birthday.  Note the tutu over the sweat pants.  This was the year of the princess dresses and moon boots and the year she rocked the mullet.

She doesn't wear tutus anymore (sigh). Or moon boots (sigh...of relief).  

She is still a shrimp.

Still has big brown eyes.

Still gets dirty.

Still is her own person.

But now she's nine.

I don't understand how that happened.

Please mail any spare, big eyed, no haired, chubby little elf babies to me soon.  I will take very good care of them, and I won't let these ones grow up.  Cross my heart and hope to die, stick a needle in my eye if I lie. 

Anna

Annalise Rose is our bohemian, dramatic, hippy, little pint-sized actress. She's a mama's girl, and even at the age of almost 8, gets teary if I so much as go to the grocery store without her. She used to be the most antisocial little critter you ever saw; she was famous for her "stink eye" which she would turn on people at the drop of a hat. Now she's the most gregarious and social thing in our house (and don't forget, Mike lives here too). Here is Anna in a nutshell:

She loves old movies and musicals. If it's got songs, pretty dresses, a Jane Austen plot, or stars Shirley Temple, she's all over it. She was the only 3 year old I knew who would play Christine and Raul from The Phantom of the Opera, instead of something more child friendly, like Barbi and the magical singing unicorn.

She spent approximately one year of her life in fluffy costume dresses and a pair of moon boots.

She is the Queen of Random Thoughts and will share them frequently throughout the day. All our best and funniest kid stories are based on the things Anna says. A particular favorite: Anna at swim lessons at the age of 4, surfacing with a plastic ring on her head and announcing solemnly to everyone, "I am the angel of fear...!" Random and quite frankly, bizarre.

She is my picky eater. There are healthy options she likes - meatloaf, salsa, chili, spaghetti, a handful of veg - but her tastes change as quickly as the Wyoming weather. She is allowed 3 foods that I won't make her eat (and no, she doesn't get to change them daily).

She is extremely talkative. Especially if there are no other children to interrupt her, that kid can chat for days without coming up for air. She even talks in her sleep.

You cannot make her do anything she doesn't want to do. End of story. Period. The end. You could threaten her with a good tar and feathering and even follow through, but she still isn't going to eat that mushroom.

She has a totally goofy and screwball sense of humor. She also likes the creepy side of life, like Harry Potter and/or Nightmare Before Christmas and things of that nature. It's cute until she's standing over your bed like a vulture in the dead of the night because she can't sleep for fear of ghosts/monsters/spooktacular things.

She loves Taylor Swift and the soundtracks to Mamma Mia, Phantom, and Hairspray, and sings along loudly to them (but only when she doesn't know you're listening).

She is easily embarrassed and doesn't like trying anything new for fear of failing or being teased.

She likes to sew and paint and create. And everything she does she finds perfectly beautiful. She is also easily awed by anyone elses creations. And I don't think she is just being polite - she just sees things through artistic eyes.

She spent the first five years of life refusing to participate in story times, ballet classes, birthday parties, Sunday school, and now we can't get her out of those things.

She likes her role as Little Sister to Cora and never tries to usurp her. She's not a fan of responsibility. In fact, she'd probably like to hire someone to have responsibility for her.

She spoke in full sentences at 15 months old. She had no hair and was quite undersized for her age, so she used to terrify strangers by what came out of her mouth. She was like the feminine version of that talking baby on the E-trade commercials. I think it's E-trade. You know the ones.

She is very messy, klutzy, and has a tendency to walk into walls and furniture. Or fall off things. Or trip. Or suddenly fall over. Most of the time she shakes it off, but if she really does get hurt and there's blood involved, she'll start running around in frantic circles and it is REALLY hard to catch her. She's built low to the ground for speed.

In spite of being the girly one, we have a surprising amount of photos like the one above of her covered in dirt.

She has a blanket named Buttery. It used to be named Butterfly Blanket, but it got shortened over the years. Once I took it away as a punishment and she sat sobbing on her bed calling it, "Buttery! Come to me, Buttery!" She fully expected it to come flying through the air like Aladdin's magic carpet.

She is highly sentimental. She loves photos and photo albums and reminiscing. She saves everything because everything is "special" to her. This is why I periodically have to clean out her room when she's not at home, in order to rid it of gift bags, tags, envelopes, papers, rocks, feathers, and other treasures she can't part with. "But Mom, this was given to me by that one friend I had that one time in that one place, and it will always and forever remind me of that!"

Another Anna-ism for you: Cora informed her that she couldn't "grow up to be a princess." "Fine," she answered crossly, "Then I'll go with my other choice. I'll be a monkey."

She is highly suspicious. Unless you're a kid, you're going to have to prove yourself to her. Even then, she'll take everything you say with a grain of salt. And she can hold a grudge. Case in point; she once told her Papa (Grandpa Dave) that she "would ignore him forever!!!!" Most children would have forgotten the promise in a mere few moments, but not Anna. It was quite a long time before she spoke to him again (several months).

And that's why life with the Roosky is never dull!

Parenting by The Clash

Anna learned how to use the sewing machine yesterday, and made, all by her lonesome, two pillowcases and one skirt (modeled in the center picture). She struggles in her academics, especially with reading still, so we took a break and did a whole afternoon of Home Ec. just me and her. It was a nice bonding time with Roosky and she is still talking about it and dreaming of fashion design...

This post is going to be interactive, folks. I want opinions about a pressing matter. Here it is:

To leave the cart behind, or stick it out?

If you're parents you already know what I'm speaking of. When a toddler has a freak out in the middle of Walmart, what do you do? There are two schools of thought here. Leave or stay. Now most books/experts/mommies will tell you that you leave the cart right there and hightail it home pronto. This tells the child that his behavior is not acceptable and will not be tolerated, and it has the added perk of rescuing fellow shopper's ears from ringing and their mouths from saying under their breath, 'Why won't she just take that little spawn home?' Now this is a good method, tried and true, but it comes with problems of it's own, not the least among them the fact that your cart is filled with perishables that took you the better part of an hour to pick out lovingly and who wants to just destroy all that hard work and just leave it with the strawberry ice cream melting slowly all over the chicken breasts (the ones that are on sale and won't be when you return). Some underpaid bag boy is going to have to put all that stuff away, you know. And really, when are you going to find the time and energy to come back and shop anew, much less desire to show your face there again anyway? Here's my other issue with this method: that little angel didn't want to be there in the first place (it's hardly Lego StarWars Skittles Palace that you're shopping at) and if you leave aren't you in fact, giving in to what he/she wants? Yes, of course, when you go home you aren't going to cheerfully dole out a months supplies of Chips Ahoy and give them a pony ride and that could disappoint them a bit, but all in all, most of them are just going to be glad to be out of that god foresaken market and home, even if it does mean a severe tongue lashing from Mom. And now that you're home and little Jr. is all settled down for the nap that was overdue, you have no groceries, or possibly toilet paper, and no foreseeable future date to go get those again. Dinner consists of bean casserole surprise with a M&M reduction and a hamburger helper risotto, with a lovely souffle of canned peaches sliced 5 ways with a cheerio crunch topping. So, readers mine, do you stay or do you go (now...if you go there could be trouble...if you stay it could be double...sorry, couldn't resist and now you know what those lyrics mean).

Scenario number two: Staying to fight it out. This is not for the faint of heart. Although you may be tempted to swat a backside, this is not advisable for lots of reasons we won't go into, but mostly because I don't want to turn on the evening news and see you on it. And as much as I would like to become a foster parent, receiving your kids would be awkward and uncomfortable. So, you give the monster a firm talking to usually while gripping his shoulder in a vulcan hold, and threaten terrible things in a hiss that you will never follow through on. Also not the best, we all know you have to follow through. It's also not advisable to tease your children as my husband used to that he 'drop the hammer!' That's just asking for little Susie to shout at the top of her lungs in a public place, 'No, Daddy! Don't hit us with the hammer!' Also a great way to get yourself on the evening news. If the child has superhuman strength like the Williams' children, attempting to fold their little 30 pound bodies in half so as to place them in that dratted cart, is a little like nailing jello to the wall. Pointless, insane, and impossible. It's like trying to fold a two-by-four in half. You can reason with Susie. You can bribe Susie. But reasoning with a two year old is laughable, at least at this point, and bribing brings consequences all it's own (like being forced to buy your 16 old a car just because he didn't steal Gramma's silver that week). If you can finish your shopping in peace, kudos to you, oh parenting God or Goddess, because usually mine is finished by dangling a wriggling, snot faced, toddler under my armpit, while fishing out the debit card and shouting, 'No, it's ok, don't bag that one, just toss it the cart, and I am so sorry, and he's never really like this, and -'

Incidentally, the first time I knew I was really and truly a parent was not when they laid my little bundle of joy in my arms or the first diaper I changed or the first time they said, 'mama,' it was when I called Mike in tears and sobbed over the phone,

'You know THAT mom in Walmart? Today...I WAS THAT MOM.'

Seriously, everyone of you, this is for posterity so be honest. Do you stay or do you go? And if you have no offspring, would you rather see a mom leave or struggle through? Leave a comment, an email if you can't figure out the comment thing, a phone call, a carrier pigeon, etc. I really want to know.