I am not really a people person. I like my little bubble. There are very few people I'm willing to leave my bubble for, and even fewer who are allowed inside my bubble.
For some reason, people feel that keeping my kids inside this bubble is mean. I'm not sure why I should care what people think, since I don't even like many of them, but I suppose it's only fair to give the kids the chance to complain about people other than me. And each other. So I took them out to "socialize" today.
They sell lunch at the clubhouse in our development. I'm pretty sure "they" is the social committee. I can't say for certain, since I only work on a committee that people never want to deal with, which works out well for a non-people-person like myself. Anyway, we've never had lunch at the clubhouse in the 4 years we've lived here. The reason should be obvious. So I never knew that I could drive a mile down the road and feed 4 kids and myself for a grand total of $6.50, with no dishes to wash!
While we were there, I finally introduced myself and the kids to our development's homeschool group. Yup, we've been living here for 4 years, homeschooling for 2+, and I just introduced myself today. And guess what. I didn't immediately not like them. This is progress.
Perhaps my bubble is a bit too restrictive. I think I might be able to convince myself to leave it a little more often. Especially when cheap lunch is involved.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Sunday, August 23, 2009
What's fair is fair
The big kids have been off doing various wonderful things with different relatives while poor little C gets stuck with boring Mom and Dad. Our big trip today was going to be to a farmer's market we haven't checked out yet. Until we found out that it will be next week.
So I found myself suggesting we go to the fair.
I am officially old. A couple of hours at the fair has completely exhausted me. My feet hurt. My stomach hurts. And I loved the band that was playing. They're called Midlife Crisis. Sigh.
But C seemed to have a good time. We may need to cut back a bit on the cartoons though. While walking through the livestock exhibits, my darling 2yo looked at the animals and said "Hi! I'm C. How are you?", as though expecting a response.
To be fair, these animals were so purdy they were nearly cartoon-like!
I was hoping to accomplish so much more today, but there's just no energy left in me. We're starting back up with school work tomorrow. It would have been nice to have a fresh start in a clean, organized house. Maybe next year!
So I found myself suggesting we go to the fair.
I am officially old. A couple of hours at the fair has completely exhausted me. My feet hurt. My stomach hurts. And I loved the band that was playing. They're called Midlife Crisis. Sigh.
But C seemed to have a good time. We may need to cut back a bit on the cartoons though. While walking through the livestock exhibits, my darling 2yo looked at the animals and said "Hi! I'm C. How are you?", as though expecting a response.
To be fair, these animals were so purdy they were nearly cartoon-like!
I was hoping to accomplish so much more today, but there's just no energy left in me. We're starting back up with school work tomorrow. It would have been nice to have a fresh start in a clean, organized house. Maybe next year!
Thursday, August 6, 2009
Gaps
Many homeschoolers tend to fret about creating gaps in their child's education. What if we forget to teach the history of Denmark? Or if we accidentally skip the battery circuit experiment?
Blah. Public schooled kids have gaps. For instance, I was taught that the world began with Christopher Columbus and any war that America wasn't involved in had no relevance. I was also taught that french fries were part of a balanced meal, but we were never graded on Lunch, so I guess that's no big deal.
One of my goals as a homeschool parent (because I have like 214) is to give my kids an education that is as gap-free as reasonably possible. So we do things like compare the Old, Middle, and New Kingdoms of Egypt and recite poetry they don't understand. But something has to give. So here are the things I've forgotten to teach them.
1. The definition of "away" isn't "under your bed".
2. "Something smells" means "something smells BAD".
3. It's not okay to pee on the cat (even if it is funny).
4. Privates must be completely covered in public.
5. Bandaids are for boo-boos. They are not temporary tattoos.
6. 5 squares are plenty (most of the time). And an entire roll won't flush.
7. Strangers don't want to hear your life story. Especially the embarrasing parts about Mommy.
8. Shale driveways are not meant to be swept clear so you can dribble a basketball.
9. The "Look both ways before you cross the street. Use your eyes, ears, and then you use your feet" chant has motions to go along with it.
10.How to cover your tracks.
Number 10 is a good one though. Yes, I do recognize the handwriting on my Sharpie'd mattress. I do not know where they picked up the whole "X was here" idea. I'm too upset to care now that I know my child is stupid enough to use their own name.
Perhaps we should write a poem about it.
Blah. Public schooled kids have gaps. For instance, I was taught that the world began with Christopher Columbus and any war that America wasn't involved in had no relevance. I was also taught that french fries were part of a balanced meal, but we were never graded on Lunch, so I guess that's no big deal.
One of my goals as a homeschool parent (because I have like 214) is to give my kids an education that is as gap-free as reasonably possible. So we do things like compare the Old, Middle, and New Kingdoms of Egypt and recite poetry they don't understand. But something has to give. So here are the things I've forgotten to teach them.
1. The definition of "away" isn't "under your bed".
2. "Something smells" means "something smells BAD".
3. It's not okay to pee on the cat (even if it is funny).
4. Privates must be completely covered in public.
5. Bandaids are for boo-boos. They are not temporary tattoos.
6. 5 squares are plenty (most of the time). And an entire roll won't flush.
7. Strangers don't want to hear your life story. Especially the embarrasing parts about Mommy.
8. Shale driveways are not meant to be swept clear so you can dribble a basketball.
9. The "Look both ways before you cross the street. Use your eyes, ears, and then you use your feet" chant has motions to go along with it.
10.How to cover your tracks.
Number 10 is a good one though. Yes, I do recognize the handwriting on my Sharpie'd mattress. I do not know where they picked up the whole "X was here" idea. I'm too upset to care now that I know my child is stupid enough to use their own name.
Perhaps we should write a poem about it.
Sunday, August 2, 2009
Pleasant Acres
As J gets ready to turn the big 1-1, I find myself reminiscing. I gave my parents hell as a tween and young teen.
Fortunately, it wasn't a rehab/juvie/bootcamp/she-has-no-future-type hell. That would come later. But attitude and emotion wise? Hell.
And yet, despite the "I hate you"s and "You never let me do anything"s and "My life sucks so hard"s, my parents gave me an amazing childhood.
We were a camping family. Camping, as in flushing toilets, showers and electricity, for the most part. Something like this:
Of course, now the norm looks more like this:
For more than a dozen years, we would spend our weekends at "The Campground" from May to June and September to October, and the entire months of July and August.
My friends and I could navigate our way through thick woods by age 8 and build the perfect campfire before age 10. We could pitch a 3-person tent in 10 minutes and then squeeze 6 little girls in for a slumber party. My sisters and I could pack a station wagon with 2 months of supplies for a family of 5 in 30 minutes and do it RIGHT, so that all of the immediate-needs items could be unpacked in 10, and we could run off to find our Campground friends.
We knew how to bait a hook, fix a bike chain, cook over an open fire, walk a dead tree to cross a brook, tip a cow, sheer a sheep, make pancakes for 15, cook mountain pies for any meal AND dessert, carve initials in trees, smoke a cigarette without getting caught OR burning down the woods, and stretch an 11pm curfew to 11:35 without getting grounded.
This is where I met my best friends, got my first and worst skinned knees, my first kiss and my first broken heart, learned to appreciate the scent of moth balls, danced the Electric Slide and the Virginia Reel, played Rummikube with Grandma, and drove Grandpa's car.
The Campground was my life.
Last night, the husband and I took the maniacs out to see where Mommy grew up. I was a little nervous about taking them. They know nothing of campground etiquette, and they are definitely not accustomed to doing a lot of walking. Nor are they used to open fire pits or goats that "nibble". I was a bit of a nervous wreck, suddenly seeing danger everywhere.
They LOVED it!
In little more than 4 hours, we managed to squeeze in a tour of all the animal pens (goats, turkeys, geese, horses, cows, and sheep), time on the playground, dinner, a peek at my old campsite, a great big campfire, and way too many s'mores. And I forgot to bring a real camera.
It was so cool to see my kids being, well, ME!
All morning, they've been asking when we'll take them back. I think it's time to start shopping for a starter trailer.
Fortunately, it wasn't a rehab/juvie/bootcamp/she-has-no-future-type hell. That would come later. But attitude and emotion wise? Hell.
And yet, despite the "I hate you"s and "You never let me do anything"s and "My life sucks so hard"s, my parents gave me an amazing childhood.
We were a camping family. Camping, as in flushing toilets, showers and electricity, for the most part. Something like this:
Of course, now the norm looks more like this:
For more than a dozen years, we would spend our weekends at "The Campground" from May to June and September to October, and the entire months of July and August.
My friends and I could navigate our way through thick woods by age 8 and build the perfect campfire before age 10. We could pitch a 3-person tent in 10 minutes and then squeeze 6 little girls in for a slumber party. My sisters and I could pack a station wagon with 2 months of supplies for a family of 5 in 30 minutes and do it RIGHT, so that all of the immediate-needs items could be unpacked in 10, and we could run off to find our Campground friends.
We knew how to bait a hook, fix a bike chain, cook over an open fire, walk a dead tree to cross a brook, tip a cow, sheer a sheep, make pancakes for 15, cook mountain pies for any meal AND dessert, carve initials in trees, smoke a cigarette without getting caught OR burning down the woods, and stretch an 11pm curfew to 11:35 without getting grounded.
This is where I met my best friends, got my first and worst skinned knees, my first kiss and my first broken heart, learned to appreciate the scent of moth balls, danced the Electric Slide and the Virginia Reel, played Rummikube with Grandma, and drove Grandpa's car.
The Campground was my life.
Last night, the husband and I took the maniacs out to see where Mommy grew up. I was a little nervous about taking them. They know nothing of campground etiquette, and they are definitely not accustomed to doing a lot of walking. Nor are they used to open fire pits or goats that "nibble". I was a bit of a nervous wreck, suddenly seeing danger everywhere.
They LOVED it!
In little more than 4 hours, we managed to squeeze in a tour of all the animal pens (goats, turkeys, geese, horses, cows, and sheep), time on the playground, dinner, a peek at my old campsite, a great big campfire, and way too many s'mores. And I forgot to bring a real camera.
It was so cool to see my kids being, well, ME!
All morning, they've been asking when we'll take them back. I think it's time to start shopping for a starter trailer.
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
The little things
I've come to the conclusion that priorities are almost pointless.
I'm 32 years old. I've spent a decent amount of time figuring out what is most important to me, what my strengths are, and in which direction I want to head. Things are about as clear as one can reasonably hope for (which is to say, not exactly murky, but far from crystal).
But you know what? That doesn't mean anywhere near as much as I hoped it would. Because while one devotes a great deal of time and energy to the top priorities, the lower ones unionize. They gather with their bits and pieces, undetected until they form a giant wall that can completely separate you from your goals.
It's rather depressing.
And now I must go dust before the bunnies revolt.
I'm 32 years old. I've spent a decent amount of time figuring out what is most important to me, what my strengths are, and in which direction I want to head. Things are about as clear as one can reasonably hope for (which is to say, not exactly murky, but far from crystal).
But you know what? That doesn't mean anywhere near as much as I hoped it would. Because while one devotes a great deal of time and energy to the top priorities, the lower ones unionize. They gather with their bits and pieces, undetected until they form a giant wall that can completely separate you from your goals.
It's rather depressing.
And now I must go dust before the bunnies revolt.
Friday, July 24, 2009
My Achilles Heel
I'm a pretty confident person. Even when I'm self-conscious, I can usually will myself to appear ballsy enough to fake it. But there's one situation I've never been able to cope with: Court.
I've gone to court on a traffic violation, and I thought I was going to die.
In 10 years, I've gone to family court twice (and mediation twice) and thought I was going to puke all over myself.
Court terrifies me. Doesn't matter whether I'm obviously in the right or not, I have to choose my breakfast carefully because I may have to revisit it in reverse.
I'm waiting to find out if I'll have to go back to court. Just thinking about it, I'm shaky and nauseated and feeling a little faint. The caffeine probably isn't helping, but it's doing a good job of keeping the migraine at bay.
I've had bread and butter and a little bit of pasta today. Anything more would be reckless. Now you know my weakness.
I've gone to court on a traffic violation, and I thought I was going to die.
In 10 years, I've gone to family court twice (and mediation twice) and thought I was going to puke all over myself.
Court terrifies me. Doesn't matter whether I'm obviously in the right or not, I have to choose my breakfast carefully because I may have to revisit it in reverse.
I'm waiting to find out if I'll have to go back to court. Just thinking about it, I'm shaky and nauseated and feeling a little faint. The caffeine probably isn't helping, but it's doing a good job of keeping the migraine at bay.
I've had bread and butter and a little bit of pasta today. Anything more would be reckless. Now you know my weakness.
Monday, July 20, 2009
Food is ugly
I'm reading Food, Inc.
I wouldn't say that there are many surprises in the book. I already knew that I didn't like the idea of poisons on my kids' food (or in our air, soil and water). Genetically modified food already freaked me out. I was already convinced that feeding animals hormones and antibiotics is bad. And I've always had a problem with the issue of immigration and farming. But now I feel like I'm on some big crusade within my own home.
Have you ever seen battery cages?
Or a feedlot?
Did you ever wonder who is out there, hand-picking your strawberries? http://www.ers.usda.gov/publications/err60/err60.pdf
The USDA comes right out and tells us that about half are illegal (and almost all are foreign), and that 80% of them work 40+ hours/wk for an average of $318. In the sun. Immersed in pesticides. So we can have strawberry shortcake in February.
Basically, this book has taken all of my earlier concerns and made me realize that I'm not just paranoid. There are funky things going on in the food industry and I'm not being forced to participate. I'm being forced to work really hard in order to opt out.
I took my daughters to the local farm market this past weekend. They picked out half a dozen ears of corn (since we planted late). They were relatively short ears. The kernels varied in size and had some "interesting" patterns to them. No two looked alike. In other words, they were perfect! Grown from nature's seeds (not a lab's), in clean, local soil, recently harvested by the people who were paid for them.
We did pay slightly more than we would have for supermarket corn on sale. What we saved were the chemicals, the Frankenstein breeding, and the extra transportation. And my girls got to see that Amish people really do exist!
I can't completely change overnight. I managed to choke down some mass-produced chicken last night, and a Shop Rite cheeseburger the night before. I did talk to one of the farmers about getting half a cow and some chicken for our chest freezer. From a cow that lives in a field and chickens that have never seen a cage. Or been fed antibiotics. Or bred to grow at rates that would produce 300+lb human toddlers.
I know many people already think I'm weird with my slightly-crunchy take on the world, and a whole bunch are going to think I've really gone nuts now. But that's okay. If it's nuts to want to avoid buying a 10yo a bra or feminine hygiene products, or to contribute to a farmer's livelihood instead of a corporation's stock, or to eat real food and avoid poisons, than I'm happy to be nuts. Organic, locally grown, fair-wage nuts!
If you don't mind eating animals that were covered in feces before being cut up, eating species that have been spliced with other species and not knowing what species that might be, or getting your lettuce from China, that's your business. And I think you're nuts.
For the record, there are some points in the book I disagree with. But I do recommend everyone read it. Or see it, if you don't live in the boonies like me. If you can get through it without wanting to make a single change to your kitchen, I'll eat an unwashed supermarket strawberry.
I wouldn't say that there are many surprises in the book. I already knew that I didn't like the idea of poisons on my kids' food (or in our air, soil and water). Genetically modified food already freaked me out. I was already convinced that feeding animals hormones and antibiotics is bad. And I've always had a problem with the issue of immigration and farming. But now I feel like I'm on some big crusade within my own home.
Have you ever seen battery cages?
Or a feedlot?
Did you ever wonder who is out there, hand-picking your strawberries? http://www.ers.usda.gov/publications/err60/err60.pdf
The USDA comes right out and tells us that about half are illegal (and almost all are foreign), and that 80% of them work 40+ hours/wk for an average of $318. In the sun. Immersed in pesticides. So we can have strawberry shortcake in February.
Basically, this book has taken all of my earlier concerns and made me realize that I'm not just paranoid. There are funky things going on in the food industry and I'm not being forced to participate. I'm being forced to work really hard in order to opt out.
I took my daughters to the local farm market this past weekend. They picked out half a dozen ears of corn (since we planted late). They were relatively short ears. The kernels varied in size and had some "interesting" patterns to them. No two looked alike. In other words, they were perfect! Grown from nature's seeds (not a lab's), in clean, local soil, recently harvested by the people who were paid for them.
We did pay slightly more than we would have for supermarket corn on sale. What we saved were the chemicals, the Frankenstein breeding, and the extra transportation. And my girls got to see that Amish people really do exist!
I can't completely change overnight. I managed to choke down some mass-produced chicken last night, and a Shop Rite cheeseburger the night before. I did talk to one of the farmers about getting half a cow and some chicken for our chest freezer. From a cow that lives in a field and chickens that have never seen a cage. Or been fed antibiotics. Or bred to grow at rates that would produce 300+lb human toddlers.
I know many people already think I'm weird with my slightly-crunchy take on the world, and a whole bunch are going to think I've really gone nuts now. But that's okay. If it's nuts to want to avoid buying a 10yo a bra or feminine hygiene products, or to contribute to a farmer's livelihood instead of a corporation's stock, or to eat real food and avoid poisons, than I'm happy to be nuts. Organic, locally grown, fair-wage nuts!
If you don't mind eating animals that were covered in feces before being cut up, eating species that have been spliced with other species and not knowing what species that might be, or getting your lettuce from China, that's your business. And I think you're nuts.
For the record, there are some points in the book I disagree with. But I do recommend everyone read it. Or see it, if you don't live in the boonies like me. If you can get through it without wanting to make a single change to your kitchen, I'll eat an unwashed supermarket strawberry.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
