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.

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.

Bday Pics

Cora and a new buddy and some weird toddler we found.

                             A gift to hang on her bedroom wall, should she ever get a bedroom!

                         C and Great Gramma Nancy.  Can you see the Italian resemblance?

Party crasher.  We fed him cake and suckers and soda and then sent him home to his momma.                                            
                                                        Wait! That'd be me.  Sigh.

                                                                 C and her Papa.

Umm.  Yeah.  Party guests.  Never seen them before in my life.

Her.  Me.

Cora is eleven

My little babycakes is eleven today.  I will save you all the whining, sobbing, and melodramatic antics that I usually perform on these birthdays and just say,

Happy birthday, little girl of mine.


You're spunky, fearless, argumentative, ornery, smart, not graceful, sassy, snuggly, loyal, fierce, hungry, silly, funny, huggable, ridiculous, loving.


Give me back my shoes and stop getting taller immediately.


Thank you.


And have fun fishing today.  I wuv you. 

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.

It's Opening Day of Thrift Shop Hunting

It's Spring!  It's Spring!  No more Snow Days!  No more being cooped up in the house, forcing everyone to sew and bake and read!  No more Monopoly!  No more Poker!  No, wait.  We're Baptists...we wouldn't teach our kids to play poker.

*whistling casually*

Yesterday I went thrift store shopping, which I just have to say, makes this girl giddy with happiness.  Especially when it's 5 for $5 day at The Salvation Army.  Now I'm not braggin or anything (yes, I am) but not only did I stock the girl's dresser with cutie summer clothes, but it's even gotten to the point that my boys, all of whom are OBSESSED with fashion, look forward to seeing what I pick out for them.  They pounced on my pile of $1 shorts and shirts with glee.  Even He Who Has No Blog Name - who didn't get anything because the guy has more clothes than a department store - picked through the pile and then asked me,

"This Goodwill place...can I come next time?"

Patience, grasshopper, patience.  You're can't handle The Goodwill!  Train you, I will.

Speaking of new clothes though, my firstborn baby girl woke up the other morning and presto chango, her feet had grown 21/2 sizes.

I would blog more but I have to go sob myself into oblivion now.

The only thing that make me feel better is if someone bumps up my followers list to an even 80.  I'm just sayin'.

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, Miss Cora!

Ten years ago today I was having my first child.  And today, you get to listen to my birth story.  Cuz that's what moms do; force you to listen to their either beautiful and/or harrowing tale and then we all discuss who had it the worst/best.  And everyone tries to get the last word and everyone tries to one up the others.  That's how mommies roll.  No small wonder the dads just pass around the cigars; they're emotionally drained from the adventure their petite little woman just went through (and probably shocked at the words those little petite women used at around 8 centimeters).  The nine months hadn't exactly gone as planned;  my plans were a home birth with a fabulous midwife.  If you think home births and midwives NOW aren't the norm, they were even more looked down on a mere ten years ago.  None of my friends had done this way, nor would ever want to do it this way, and besides our families and a couple friends, people thought we had gone 'round the bend.  I even had an acquaintance from church tell me I would have to learn to live with myself when my baby died due to my negligence and stupidity.  That's a lovely thing to tell a pregnant woman, riddled with emotions and hormones.  But Mike and I felt strongly that we educated ourselves far more than the average American consumer and we really believed in this natural childbirth thing.  Of course, natural childbirth is a lot like parenting; man, we were GREAT at it before we actually had to do it.  I mean, experts! We didn't find out what gender of baby we were having, and so the names we had picked out were Cora Nycole or Ian Nathaneal.  Oddly enough, my sister ends marrying an Ian a few years later, so good thing we had a girl.  We got Cora's name from a tombstone, because we're morbid like that.  Also, our favorite movie is The Last of the Mohicans.  Gianni was almost an Alice.  We were concerned that we'd have to rename Anna to Chingachcook.  I should probably google the spelling on that, but I figure only 2 or 3 of you are actually with me right now anyway.  The rest are typing up their birth stories.  During the ninth month of pregnancy my midwife said she really felt that our baby was breech (upside down.  Or actually, NOT upside down) and that we should go get an ultrasound at the hospital to check the position.  We dutifully did so, and you know those sweet excerpts from all the movies where they have the ultrasound and it's so heart warming and the mom cries and the dad cries as they get to see their perfectly formed little person?  Yeah well, that was so not my experience.  They made me drink like a gallon of water - which is a horribly mean thing to do to someone whose bladder has an 8 pound human jumping on and down on it - and they won't let you go to the bathroom - which pregnant woman have to do like, every 10 minutes even if they haven't had a gallon of water to drink - and then they tell you get up on some freezing cold table in a tiny dark room where some intern who doesn't have the foggiest notion what he's doing squirts jelly all over your stretch marks and then presses down with his magic wand, making the bladder bursting sensation dangerously close to reality.  He can't figure out the head from the rump and I just want to go home.  My baby looks like a thumb print smudge.  I'm giving birth to a smudge-y alien baby?  Finally,  a real doctor comes in, who's a real peach by the way, and announces yep, this kid ain't turned the right way.  What they can do, he says, is an external version.  That's a really fancy term for 3-large-doctors-will-now-jump-up-and-down-on-your-stomach-pushing-as-hard-as-their-bulging-biceps-will-allow-and-try-to-physically-flip-that-baby-like-a-cheese-omelet.  I ended up with eyes red from crying and bruises all over my tummy.  For the next four weeks I tried lying upside down on a ironing board, drinking orange juice, eating spicy food, playing music to the baby, chiropractic adjustments and even acupuncture in my toes, all in an effort to make her somersault.  And that alien smudge baby stayed put.  So much for those child bearing hips I thought I had all those years standing next to size negative 2 ballerinas, I was having myself a C-section.  I did not relish the thought of the I told you so's.  I was emotionally, well, kind of devastated.  I had to say goodbye to my lovely midwife, who kindly refunded a chunk of our money, and went and found myself a new doctor - one who was about the size of Betty White (I thought if SHE tried something like an external version, I could take her).  If you've never scheduled a C-section, here's how it goes: early in the morning you arrive at the hospital.  This won't be hard because you won't have slept all night anyway.  They tell you not to eat, but I figured that was more of a guideline really, not a hard and fast rule.  They prep you.  I don't remember what the heck was involved in all of that, but I do know whatever dignity you may have had before the O.R. you will no longer have after.  Everything is poked and prodded and shaved and slapped with that sticky brown stuff, I don't remember what it's called, and all this happens while you're in your birthday suit and the room is stuffed full of all sorts of people you don't know but who will be happy to bill you as soon as you get home.  Your husband isn't allowed in yet.  When he does come in, he'll be in scrubs.  The doctors asks what side of the tent he wants to be on.  I don't know about your husband, but mine wants nothing to do with the sight of his wife's uterus on the outside of her body so he elects to stay by my head.  I remember being scared that I'd be the first person in history that major drugs wouldn't affect, and that they'd start operating on me when I could feel it.  I think I even lied a couple times when the doc poked my legs and stomach and asked if I could feel it.  I couldn't really, but I said yes, just to be sure to give me a little more time.  There's a sucking sound when they vacuum the blood.  Sorry, but it's true.  You can feel them slicing and pushing and pulling but it doesn't hurt.  Mike lifted up the camera over the tent to snap a picture when they pulled the baby out.  He said it was a boy.  We all know now that it wasn't.  But in fairness to him, it's a little hard to tell sometimes when they're brand new...everything is kind of, well, swollen and messy and weird looking.  Alien smudge like really.  The doctors laughed and said, 'Guess again, Dad!'  I don't really remember anything after that.  I think Mike put her up close to my head for a minute so we could meet properly, this little girl that had been inside me for so long.  He went back with her to our room and I had to be stitched up and sent alone to recovery.  That's the worst part about C-sections - being the tenth person who hold your child instead of the first.  And then being too drugged up to remember anything afterwards. But she gives me plenty of memories now.

Ten years ago.  Amazing.






































































































Oh, and when you take out a letter and combine two words, it's called a contraction.  After three birth stories, it's no bloomin' wonder I blocked out that word.

The next three posts are going to be dedicated to my little munchkins, and why I love them so. First up, of course, is the first born.

Cora Nycole is my little passionate, independent, free thinker. She was born independent and passionate, and along with those traits comes a quick temper. She is typical of the eldest child, I think, in that she is obsessed with justice for all (but firstly for her) and in leading the way in all things. She doesn't mind bending her will to accommodate an older friend perhaps, but in the pecking order of her siblings, she does the pecking. She is passionate about a lot of things: her sis, her daddy, animals, knowledge, and nature, to name a few that spring to mind. She's a deep, deep sleeper, and a good eater. Her metabolism is crazy. Her energy is boundless. She's a video game diva. She's a very advanced reader, but prefers the funny books. She knows her role as The Big Sister and although she sometimes get annoyed at all the responsibility that role brings, mostly she fulfills the duty all day long (possibly because she figures no one else would fulfill it correctly).

Her favorite movies are usually those involving animals as the heroes, and don't even suggest something starring a princess. Her sister's movies make her cringe.

She loves Rascal Flatts and Bryan Adams. Mike says his favorite part of going to church is listening to Cora sing off key and 3 octaves too high about Jesus.

She hasn't worn a dress since she was a flower girl in my cousin's wedding two years ago.

She has the boniest knees on the face of the planet as evidenced by the holes in every single pair of jeans I buy her.

Her favorite food is sushi, artichokes, and fish. One time she used her own money, all in coins, to buy an artichoke at a vegetable stand (the same one that has 2 pictures of her up on their Veggie Wall of Fame). The guy running it said, "This is so . . . weird."

Careers she is thinking of include: an Olympic swimmer, a bull rider (trying to discourage this one), a cowgirl, a food critic.

She gets woozy at the sight of blood.

She has the ability to laugh at herself. She doesn't mind being teased. I can tell her to take a weed wacker to her hair and she'll laugh with me. If I made that comment to her little sister, we would now be in therapy.

She always roots for the underdog. Sometimes she doesn't even know it's the underdog, but somehow she's attracted to the lonely, the young, the old, the pudgy, the weird, the poor. She thinks everyone is beautiful.

She has a problem with sarcasm. Gets it from her dad.

She is the least "girly" girl I know, but when she does get all emotional and girly and moody - watch out! Ok, that one she gets from me.

She uses old fashioned grammar sometimes. Like, using the words perhaps and the phrase as well. As in, "perhaps I'll have the ice cream as well as the cake." It makes me giggle and then she demands to know why I'm laughing.

She has the greatest imagination! She is nine years old but still plays. I love that about her. At any point throughout the day she is a dog, a panther, a horse, all with various story lines. She still likes toys and building forts.

She's my responsible child. She never lets me down in this area. If I tell her she can play in the neighborhood but she has to look out for her sister and be home at 6, I never worry that that won't happen. She helps in the grocery store, checks out her own books at the library, orders at restaurants, etc.

She's more apt to go out for football then take a ballet class. Although her energy and inability to sit still for 3 hours gets in the way of watching a football game at times.

That energy and inability to sit still! Sometimes I wonder if she were in public school if they'd sweetly suggest some meds. Or an IV drip. She doesn't talk through movies, but she makes noises and can't sit still. She does her math lying upside down in a chair. With pencils sticking out of her nose. "Focus, Cora," is a phrase we hear a lot around here.

She's a perfectionist. That one she gets from both her dad and I. She was potty trained in 3 days and never regressed, we're talking no accidents, zero, zip, nadda. But the only opinion she is trying to sway is her own. You can think her work isn't perfect and it won't bother her - she simply wants to impress herself.

She has an adventuresome spirit and has no problem trying new things. She doesn't mind failing at it either. I'd like to say she gets this from me, but I'd be lying. When she played soccer this summer, she jumped out of the car at the first practice - where she knew absolutely no one mind you - ran off to the field without me, and raised her hand and asked, "I've never played this before. Ok with you if I ask questions?"

She is super competitive with her sister, but not with anyone else. She's won every race she's ever swam in her meets, but if you asked her, she'd have to think about it. Mike and I had to actually tell her, "You do know that the point of this is to win, right? I mean, it's ok to pass the person next to you...you know that, right?" She didn't want to be rude or make the person feel bad about their progress.

She isn't a sheep. She would rather have one good friend then pretend to be someone she's not with a whole group. She'd rather play with the boys, and they'd rather play with her (this is going to get suspicious soon though, at least on the boy's part). Mike comes home from work and growls, "why are there two 11 year old boys in my yard?" She's going to be one of those naturally pretty girls who doesn't know it which only makes her prettier, but if the boys get all weird and romantic on her she'll probably knock their blocks off.

Just a few reasons why, around here, we love The Cora!