“Friends” - Catching Up on the Past Half Year - Part 2

I am going to go a little outside my usual post “flavor” to address some things that have really been bothering me the past few months. I’ll preface all the entries with this disclaimer & that way it will be easy to differentiate for those who would rather not read negative things. Seriously, this post/entry has nothing to do with unschooling: it is part of a hashing-out on my part, a venting of my feelings on recent happenings, a “getting it out in full view” to avoid secret whisperings and wonderings about recent events. I've gone back-and-forth over whether to actually post these words or not, and usually when I do that, I get a definite feel for it (after sleeping on it) if it is certainly a bad idea. I haven't gotten that feel in over a month of pondering, so if it turns out to be a bad idea I figure I've a lesson to learn from it.

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Part 2

There are a few things I’d like to address in this post.

I think part of the reason why meanness bothers me (it always has, but even moreso, now – with a bit of shock/surprise that it still happens) is because of the people who have intersected in our lives the past 10-11 years. As I began researching homeschooling seriously and then even *more* as I delved into the principles of unschooling, I found kindness and generosity of spirit and love and gentleness. At first, it seemed “fake”. Surely, people weren’t *really* this cheery, this nice, this all-accepting… ?, I thought. As time passed and I got to know them more deeply, I realized that they were, indeed, “real”.

It seemed like a homecoming, like things I’d hardened my heart to long ago, *were* actually *right*! Some things were hard to accept or reassimilate, but I found new life in myself for these ideals. Accepting people for who they are, where they are. Understanding/accepting that people do the best they can with what they have. Relearning how to trust and love people freely – without grudgingness or a need to “earn” it – was tough, at first. But, it got easier. And with it came peace – a deep, soul-soothing peace. And quiet happiness. And a love of self I don’t think I ever had.

It has always bothered me far more to see others hurt than to be hurt, myself – I think that’s true for so many people. Maybe even most people. Injustice bothers me, deliberate meanness bothers me and enjoyment at another’s expense bothers me. I am a firm believer in people gravitating toward decency: if you are kind to people when others are around, they’ll pick up on that, and echo it, reflect it, absorb it into their own being. That is why I am so bewildered and shocked when, every once in a while, some piece of hidden meanness surfaces & is flung into the midst of the kindness.

Twice, within friends & acquaintances, I’ve had nastiness forced upon me. Maybe I should edit that to say “two people”. At any rate, one was more in the realm of acquaintance. The other was someone I’d thought was a dear & caring friend. One who, last time I’d been in contact, had said, “If you need help, just let me know! Whatever you need, whenever – I’ll be there for you!” and then the next, within a bunch of nastiness, “I can’t continue to be your friend”. Now, what, exactly happened in those 2 months I didn’t hear from her, I don’t know. My only communications were to ask if she was going to be at local homeschool events, as our kids were friends and an offer (from her) of a skirt for my mother’s celebration of life memorial. There was a mention of a public venting I’d put up on Facebook, but it was about how I was feeling, not about anyone else. The biggest part was that it was an unexpected attack and rather surprising, because it came from someone I’d considered an ally, even if it was not a “best friend” kind of situation.

Most people reading this will know, but for those who don’t: I am not a judgmental person. I have friends & acquaintances with quite varied beliefs & ideas – I believe uniqueness makes the world interesting & contributes to growth and learning; as long as you (general “you”) are not trying to force anyone to adopt your beliefs and/or ideals, we’ll get along just fine, most likely. Different religious beliefs? Different political stance/ideas? Different ideas on how to parent? No problem – as long as you’re not forcing them on others. Because our ideas on parenting aren’t the same do not mean one of us is “right” and the other is “wrong”, it only means they’re different, as are our families, as are our children. It is quite possible that my parenting ideals would not mesh with your children, anyhow; quite likely yours wouldn’t mesh with my own kids – in fact, I’ve tried out one or two I *know* do not suit my children at *all*!

At least as far back as jr. high school, I have said I wasn’t really a “girl”. The things I enjoy tend to be things that are correlated with “guys”, added with my body structure (for those who don’t know, I’ve shrunk to 5’ 10” and I have a body-frame structure like an American football linebacker), tends to make me feel out of place in especially “girly” situations/places/events. (Or did when I was younger.) I think a lot of that has to do with the different ways guys & gals interact – especially in school. I don’t think I was ever indoctrinated (or at least not “properly”, if I was) in “girl behavior”. I don’t understand the twisting and misrepresentation of words. I don’t “get” the two-faced thing. I don’t understand the point of, or how to “gossip”. I *really* don’t understand the “code”/game kind of thing: if you are upset with someone, why can’t you just say so? Why the need for posturing or symbolic representation rather than words? I don’t get it. There are a *lot* of gals who don’t get it – we share our bafflement with each other: not only do we not understand it, we don’t understand the point of it, nor the attraction. Just because someone doesn’t share gossip with you or react to *your* gossip in an appropriate way is not necessarily within that “girl code” of symbolism: sometimes, it’s just that it is a foreign language to some of us and we neither understand nor speak it. Seriously – I’d have a better chance of understanding you if you were a mime or spoke to me in Latin (and I’ve never studied Latin).

Another thing, along those lines is the sharing of intimate details. Just because my status updates don’t include the details & recipes of every meal I ate today, the tiny details of how I spent my day by the hour, what my kids studied (or didn’t study), how my family interacted with each other, several cute pictures of my pets & kids, the fight I had with my relative and/or the funny noise the van made today (not that anything is wrong with sharing those things, mind you!) does not mean I’m “lying” or “hiding something”. From as far back as at least jr. high, I have been rather close-to-the-vest about the details of my life (perhaps I was burned by gossip – I don’t remember). I would no more share intimate details of my life than I would ever have flashed my breasts at a rock concert (not that flashing some boob is *bad* - it just isn’t who I am) or dig a booger out of my nose and share it ‘round for all to see the shape of (again, not that I’d condemn anyone who does that… ). There are a tiny handful of people who mysteriously have the key to my reticence and I just spew loads at them – not sure why or how, but I know the number can be counted on one hand. Nor would I expect anyone who likes to share those details to clam up and act more reticent, because that isn’t who *they* are. I love to listen to people talk about themselves & their day & how they process things – I’m just more of a listener than a talker… at least when it comes to stuff I consider personal to me. I can talk like crazy about general stuff and unschooling and games and… ! :~)

Why can’t folks just be more accepting of others? Of differences? I can remember being very young and having a “better than you” attitude and judging people and it didn’t feel very nice. I know that people often gravitate to things that feel good (like acceptance and love and joy), but there’s also a lot of fear around over change and “standing out” from the crowd… It just seems the world would be a better place *and* the people in it would be happier, if there was just more acceptance of others & their ideas & ways… “Different” isn’t “wrong”, it just isn’t the same.

Ahh… One last thing before I quit for the day: a bit I’d written in my notes, but I’m rather tired to search through today’s post and make a place for it. It can stand on its own within this post, I think, so:

*just because I’m not gossiping about something or blaming someone behind their back doesn’t mean I’m clueless or damaged by it or too stupid to comprehend: it usually means I simply don’t care. Honestly, I rarely care what others think or say about me: I’ve said it to most of you. As long as someone I care about isn’t being hurt, I really don’t care what you say about *me*. I don’t care if you don’t like me. If you don’t have the fortitude to talk something out with me or ask me my side of something, I don’t care what kind of twisted/untrue opinion you have of me or what you say about me behind my back. That kind of behavior certainly doesn’t reflect badly on *me*. I and the people I love & who love me know who I am and that’s all that matters to me.

I’m wrapping up for the day. I’m still not ready to jump fully back into FB – probably most of what I’ll be doing is business-related. I’ll be on, sporadically, if folks want to message me there again, though.

“Friends” - Catching Up on the Past Half Year - Part I

I am going to go a little outside my usual post “flavor” to address some things that have really been bothering me the past few months. I’ll preface all the entries with this disclaimer & that way it will be easy to differentiate for those who would rather not read negative things. Seriously, this post/entry has nothing to do with unschooling: it is part of a hashing-out on my part, a venting of my feelings on recent happenings, a “getting it out in full view” to avoid secret whisperings and wonderings about recent events. I've gone back-and-forth over whether to actually post these words or not, and usually when I do that, I get a definite feel for it (after sleeping on it) if it is certainly a bad idea. I haven't gotten that feel in over a month of pondering, so if it turns out to be a bad idea I figure I've a lesson to learn from it. 
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Part I

First off, let me begin by going back… :~) Things have been less-than-stellar since Dave got laid off a few years back. The job market around here isn't the best and to top that off, employers are actively avoiding unemployed people – very weird, IMO, but that’s how things are. We made do, looking for work, fully expecting Dave to get another on-the-road job where he’d be away 5 days a week at the least, scrambling to make ends meet when the unemployment income made us ineligible for most programs & help… We figured it was a great time to try to work for ourselves, so we started Dave’s handyman business. Unfortunately, the economy made it tough for folks to hire a handyman, so we kept working at it, hoping things would pick up and continuing to look for work.

In January 2011, we attended our first anime convention, as guests of friends, and discovered Steampunk, which excited us and started our creative processes going. Dave dabbled around with creating necklaces & odds n’ ends, giving what he made to friends. Folks exclaimed over how “great” they were.

The third week in December, two years ago, Dave’s unemployment ran out. Fortunately, that meant we qualified for help and programs. *Un*fortunately, that meant no income to pay for utilities, toilet paper, soap, fuel for the van, clothes, etc. “Where are all the jobs?” we wondered, “Why are we getting so few interviews & no replies from the few we’re getting?” and we marched on.  Thankfully, all the jobs we'd worked 2 & 3 at a time over the years had us paying a whole lot into the system of benefits & help programs and we'd donated loads of time & "stuff" to charities over the years. Not really with this result in mind, but we're thankful, nonetheless.

Snow was scarce that winter, making the snow-removal aspect of the handyman business a flop. We started thinking more and more about Steampunk jewelry and how Etsy had been a jumping-off point for my mother & her jean purses. I researched. So, at the end of February 2012, we took the plunge and added to the job-hunt, handyman-business grind with our Steampunk jewelry (and other mish-mash) store, Smithfits Bazaare Emporium . Friends raved about how incredible Dave’s work was. Sales started happening. Then, as our customer/fan base grew, new people raved. Folks seem to think this was really going to go somewhere and so did we. It hasn't  yet, but we’re thinking it just hasn't been our time to take off, yet. And still, the handyman & job hunting continues. :~D

In April, Dave had some sort of injury to his neck that caused him great pain, numbness and tingling in his neck, shoulders, arms, hands and fingers. He started marching his parade of doctors and specialists after a couple visits to the ER couldn't resolve the problem.

In the last few days of September, Dave got a diagnosis for his injury - a devastating diagnosis: along with carpal tunnel syndrome, he has degenerative disc disease in his neck and osteoarthritis in vertebrae 5 - 7. This will worsen over time and eventually completely paralyze him.

We were trying to cope with this horrifying diagnosis, October 4^th a huge family crisis hit us. I’m still not ready to talk about details in public, but it involved city government and issues with housing code violations (stirred up by our persnickety neighbor) along with other things. Over the last few years, things have piled up inside our house with 2 – 3 packrats and I’ve always been forthright with people about how piled with clutter our house was. I’ve been honest with people that it was out of control. I asked for help a few times, early on, and got some kid-occupying help while cleaning got done without interference. As time went on, I asked for help from a few select, trusted folks and asked and it didn’t come. I got offers of help from a few more people that I didn’t know as well and considered, but had yet to bring myself to accept help from those people who *hadn’t* seen the inside of my house. I was getting close, though…

This situation in October had officials in our house and things came to a head. I explained the situation to a huge chunk of my extended friends and help was forthcoming. Dave looked over the list of folks who’d offered to help and said, “I don’t really want” and he named several names, “in here… “ with firmness threaded with dread in his voice. “*Why*?!?” I asked him. He said that he didn’t want those listed/named people to see our house because they would judge us and probably not have anything to do with us after. I knew that was a likely possibility, but told him that the kids were paramount in this situation and if they were going to react like that, then they weren’t really the best kind of friends to have, anyway. After a bit of thought, he agreed.

It was a very stressful time. There was a *lot* to be done, a lot to decide and where it was overwhelming me before, having people “invade” my private embarrassment and be fully aware of it added all that more stress. Dave and I both got very little sleep, ate very little and marshaled on, coping as well as we could – many people said we dealt with everything with dignity and strength and surprisingly well – that they wouldn’t have done as well if they were in our shoes. I disagree, as I think any one of our friends would power through just as well, but I hope they never have to find out.

At any rate, throughout the 2 weeks of in-depth, deep-clean, hard work, we kept having to deal with officials, spurred on to verify and check tiny details daily by the neighbor who kept calling repeatedly. It was quite clear that something was getting taken care of here and whatever his problem was with it, he was calling the city building department, city council, the mayor and on the weekends when they weren’t in, he’d repeatedly call the police until they got the head of the building department to come out here. The constant harassment made coping even more difficult. Our amazing crew of willing friends (Thank You again!! <3 font="" nbsp="">got an incredible amount of stuff done within those two weeks. We took another couple weeks regrouping and taking care of detail work & dealing with the final points the officials asked us to take care of. Somewhere in all this autumn stuff, we lost a very dear pet cat, Zack (http://and-the-kitchen-sink.blogspot.com/2012/09/our-zachary.html), we’d raised from birth. As we settled into November, things started to settle into place and by the end of November, we were starting to feel like maybe we could start to relax and get into a flow of “normal”, again – even if it was a new normal.

As November drew to a close, my dad started having troubles with his stomach. For a couple days, my parents thought it was probably the flu, but as it didn't improve and the pain got very bad, they started thinking it might be something else. Gallbladder was mentioned. On the 26th, it got really painful and late on the 27th, my mother got him to agree to go to the emergency room the next day if it wasn't better. Now, my dad has a very high tolerance for pain and isn't one to go to the doctor unless it is dire. The man even refuses Novocain for fillings! So, on the 28th, my mother ran an errand and then took my dad to a "stat care" place nearby. 

I’d been having issues sleeping (probably caused by all the upheaval & stress) and was trying to work my way around the clock by staying up to beyond tired, so I could get back to a semi-normal bedtime. On the 28^th, I’d figured on about 5pm to head to bed. At about 4:45, my phone rang. It was my dad; the man known for his pranks & jokes. He told me that my mother was having a heart attack and headed to City Hospital and could I go meet her there, since they wouldn’t release him to go. I asked if he was serious, because with *my* dad, you just never know. He sounded serious and I doubted he would joke about something like that, but it was so unexpected & unreal, I *had* to ask. 

Apparently, my mother had pulled up to the doors to drop Dad off so that he could start his paperwork and went to park the car. She started having chest pains and called inside the stat care place and an emergency team came right out to the car. They did an EKG & some tests and found she was having a heart attack and sent her via ambulance to City. Dad had some tests run, but the results hadn’t come back, yet, so they wouldn’t release him. I headed to the hospital.

I explained to the staff at the waiting room desk what was going on and they were stunned and surprised: both parents at the same time?! Apparently, even in a big hospital like City, that is pretty rare. I made some cursory calls to family, the staff having told me that she’d had surgery & we were waiting for her to come out of recovery & the doctors to come talk with me. Dad called. He told me he was going to be at City in a bit. I was going to argue that he should go home and rest and I could keep him updated, but he said they were bringing him in an ambulance to have emergency surgery because his appendix had burst. I haven’t had a lot of stress in my life the last 6 or 7 years – apparently, my life wants to get it all over with in spaced-out, intense doses.

So, my brother is disabled and not able to step in while I take a break, my grandparents have all passed away years ago, all of my parents’ siblings are dead but my dad’s younger brother, who is in West Virginia and has a wife with dementia/Alzheimer’s  in a home that needs looked after.

I got to go into the cardio ICU when my mom came out of recovery. She seemed to be good color and tired, and worried, of course. I talked with her and gave her cards the boys made for her as I was getting dressed to come to the hospital and talked with her about dad & his situation. She was throwing up a lot and I helped her clean up, since she was required to lay perfectly flat. She gave me a list of things to get for her and bring to the hospital and we talked a bit about her "living will" wishes. She understood that the doctors wanted to wait 3 days to do further surgery (bypass), to allow the blood thinners to leave her system. Just around midnight, test results came back & the doctor decided it was too risky to hold off surgery & that she would go in at 6 am. She had a moment of stark fear & worry as they were pre-prepping her for surgery... I decided to go home and get a few hours of sleep after I checked on Dad, but he wasn't out of recovery, yet, and by the time I got home, it was almost 3 am. I had to get up at 5:30 to make it to the hospital by 6... I got to hold her hand and tell her I would take care of dad as they wheeled her out of the room...

At that point, I spent most of a week running back and forth between 2 hospital rooms on opposite ends of a massive hospital complex, trying to do all I could for everyone. (Which suited me just fine, keeping me very busy with no time for "what if"s.) Thankfully, the staff allowed me to doze in a chair beside my dad’s hospital bed (the appendix had apparently burst long before the operation, spreading bacteria all over the inside of his abdomen & internal organs and had compromised some of his small intestine, which had to have a section removed). It was a very, very uncomfortable chair and I don’t think I got 8 hours of sleep the whole week (and I hadn’t even gone in with any rest to begin with… !). I am stunned I didn’t get sick, myself.

It was a very emotionally stressful time, not only for all the responsibilities that I had, but to see my strong, independent dad so weak physically and feeling so weak & helpless to *do* anything to help the love of his life was devastating. Dozens of times a day, he’d look into my eyes with that helpless, hopeless look of fear… Dozens of times a day, he’d desperately reach or grope for my hand and hold on like it was a lifeline… It kind of scared me a little and it broke my heart. Each and every time it broke my heart. It still does – tears run down my face as I remember and write this…

My dad was very sick and very weak – even weaker than both times he had cancer treatments. The man who won’t even take an aspirin or pain meds for surgery asked not only for pain meds but for morphine – which he made me *promise* I would not allow them to give to him. Later in the week, he also asked for a medication to help him cope with anxiety… I think he had more medication in those 7 days than he’d had in his entire previous 75 years. 

After one surgery to find a blocked artery, another surgery scheduled to do a single by-pass, then during the surgery finding out her aorta burst, things were very much in the air for my mother – a long waiting period after her second surgery, waiting for the drugs to clear out of her system to see if there was brain activity. This heart attack came as such a surprise – no symptoms, nothing to indicate it was coming, and my mother being such a Strong person, we really felt it was only a matter of time before she started the long road to recovery. On December 4^th, a huge amount of staff came in to talk to us and basically told us that she had likely never mentally survived the second surgery. We all went in to say our goodbyes. The most heart-wrenching thing I have ever experienced in my life was witnessing my dad say goodbye to his other half – the love of his life. *That* made me sob more and broke my heart more than any other thing I can ever remember.

After they gave us news that she had passed away, they released my dad from the hospital. He needed someone to help him physically, and I was sure he needed someone emotionally, too. So, I just moved the place I sleep from the hospital to his house. That was a rough time, because at first, he was too weak to do much of anything but sleep. Though they said he was on the road to recovery, in the face of all that happened, it was tough to believe. Especially since his partner of 50 years just died unexpectedly and who knows how anyone is going to react to that... ?

A few days after Dad settled in, my brother was due for what Mom had told us was hernia surgery. Two days after that, Dave's thrice-postponed shoulder surgery (rotator cuff) was scheduled. It turned out that my brother's appointment was a consult appointment to determine if surgery was necessary, so that was a bit of a relief, but it was very, very hard to have to leave my dad, who still needed lots of help (and who, frankly, I was scared to leave alone with his thoughts & funeral home plans & sympathy cards flooding in), to help Dave through his routine (3rd time) shoulder surgery. He'd *wanted* me to stay with Dad, but I couldn't do that, either. I hadn't been sure if I was going to stay at home that night or go back to Dad's, but Dave had a bad reaction with his asthma & the anesthetic and was having awful trouble breathing. He wouldn't go to the ER, and I didn't get much sleep again that night, but he was better in the morning, so I felt comfortable going back to my dad's house.

Being the person I am, I would not force my opinions on him and left so much of the decisions about the memorial service for my mother to him. I truly felt that it was mostly his choice, being her life partner, more than anyone else’s. I think he probably would have been more comfortable with me just taking charge, but I did not feel it was my place, nor is it who I am to tell someone else what they should think or how they should live. I’ve grown too accustomed to accepting people where they are and for who they are in the moment.

Things being what they were, I was quite prepared to stay there with dad for months, but a few days before December 25^th, he firmly asked me to go home. He felt guilty “taking” me “away from the boys” and no amount of explanation on my part would make him understand that he wasn’t “taking” me, so reluctantly I went. I *wish* I had the money to drive over there every day – or even every other day!! But, we do not. So, I rely on the phone. That’s also another source of stress, because I really want to be there for him…

And so, life was starting to balance again (even though I was still feeling terribly out of balance, stressed, confused, sad, badly imperfect, lonely for emotional care for my own self, one of our 2 remaining cats having died a few days before, still not quite caught up on sleep… ), not quite a full month since my mother had died unexpectedly, under 2 weeks since I’d moved out of my dad’s house & back into my own, about a week since a very emotional Christmas for my entire family, on January 3^rd, someone who’d I’d thought was a caring and supportive friend wrote me to unfriend me with a very negative, character-assassinating letter (privately on Facebook), leaving me feeling as if I’d been horribly verbally attacked. Even abused. Not only on behalf of herself, but on behalf of that list of folks Dave and I had talked about (in October, whom we’d likely never see again after coming to help us) plus one other person. All throughout this attack, claiming that I was very dear to them and that they cared about me so very much that it hurt. All I could think of, as I read through this handful of messages, was “kicking me while I’m down”… it truly felt as though I’d been punched – full force – in the gut. Why this person couldn’t just unfriend me, I don’t know… Why they felt the need to write something in such a way as to leave the recipient feeling attacked, I’m clueless… Why they chose such a horrible time to do so leaves me utterly baffled. Unless you (general you – not this person, specifically) purposely *trying* to hurt the recipient, what other reason would you have to say such hurtful things at such a critical time?

That final bit was that proverbial straw on the camel’s back that led to my avoiding Facebook for the past few weeks. I felt the need to curl up and heal for a while and getting “kicked while I’m down” would definitely not further my healing. With my Facebook friends, most of what I experience there are positive, uplifting, funny, fun, interesting, etc. – very little negativity. There *are* negative things to be found floating around Facebook in general without having to have mass amounts of negativity aimed at me directly, so I removed myself from that venue. And that wraps up the “getting the blog up to date.

Our Zachary

Warning: sad stuff contained herein. I don't usually write sad stuff, so I wanted to warn those who don't do sad, are not in the place today for sad or are strongly moved by sad things. Today might not be a good day to read, here.

Zachary was our cat who died, today, in the wee hours of the morning after a brief illness. Like most others who have loss, I want to talk about it and him and I figured this was the best place to do it. I can't find any good pictures of him without some serious digging, so I'll put those in later.

Poor Zachie (or Zachary Taylor Thomas, as I called him when I was frustrated with him - after all, you need 3 names to properly address the situation, right?) had a hard end. He was pretty miserable, unable to do more than crawl a few inches, crying out piteously, not clean, unable to blink, unable to be held because movement stirred his pain... So, we took turns sitting with him in the kitchen, talking to him and stroking him, even though for the last few hours, I don't think he was aware of us... He'd started out 2 or 3 days ago with some sniffles and watery eyes and we just figured he had a cold. By yesterday afternoon, it was looking like it was more serious than that and about 10 pm, we were really concerned. It was really hard to watch such a sweet guy suffer, so after the last bout of struggle and calling out, it was kind of a relief to me (I was the only one still up, at that point) that his suffering was over. We'll miss him, but watching such a laid-back, sweet, cheery guy suffer (without being able to do anything substantial to ease it) was torture.

Now that the hard stuff is over, let's get on to Zach's life.

Late in my pregnancy with Wyl, in the end of the winter of 1998/99, we had a small, thin, scraggly mama cat with tabby stripes and almost no white patches who found our porch very attractive. We had a lot of stray cats in our neighborhood at that time and with preparations and anticipations of our first child, we didn't pay much attention. She was so thin, her vertebrae were visible from a distance and her ribs stuck out, almost painfully. She was quite a bit smaller than your average cat, so her pregnancy was hugely obvious - she was almost entirely tummy!

At that time, we had some old, '80s furniture with the Early American designs on the cushions, wide wood frame with no springs - just a mat of S springs & nylon cords underneath and wooden button/stud things here and there on the wooden frame. There was a lot of it around in the '80s - it was cheap and it had been our first set of furniture, and as we'd acquired more pieces, they'd gotten shoved to the peripheral areas and finally out onto the porch. We'd had a whole set: chair, couch, end table, coffee table & 2 lamps - " 'Skitty", as we'd named her from a character from one of the stories in CatFantastic, preferred the chair.

Like I said, it was winter and cold. After she'd hung out on our front porch a few days, it was clear she wasn't passing through. Being a mama, myself, I believed she needed extra attention and care. So, Dave and I found a box, lined it with styrefoam pieces we had lying around, then put in old shirts & towels and if I remember correctly, we even did something to the front to keep the wind out. We tucked that box under "her" chair and she took right to it. We put food and water out for her regularly and when it wasn't too bitter, we'd pet her and chat with her. We already had 3 cats in our house and coming up on my due date with one cat who was *very* particular about who he shared his space with, *and* as scraggly and flea-ish as she looked, we just couldn't bring her in. 

My memory of those days right before Wyl was born is kind of foggy. I don't remember if she gave birth (SIX of them in that tiny little body!) shortly before I went into the hospital or while I was in the hospital, but I *do* remember missing our furkids terribly. We'd only left them before for our honeymoon and a trip to Atlantic City in the late '80s, so it had been a while *and* we were particularly attached to one: C.C., our "baby" before Wyl was born. Anyhow, I remember asking (pestering, really) Dave to care for them each time he left the hospital (don't forget to make sure they have extra food! "We don't know how long it will be until someone can get back to them! Extra water, too! Talk to them! Give them extra attention!" and on and on... I remember being concerned about 'Skitty and her kittens as my own baby was working on being born. All I could think was that it was *cold* - I completely disregarded our snug box and the fact they had fur (and it was late March, so not really all *that* cold). 

After we'd settled in with our new baby, I'd spend what time I could trying to play with the adorable kittens on the porch (at one time, she'd moved them to the big bush across the street - one of the busiest in town! - and I was frantic), but they were frightened of people. We had a very old (1940s?), big stove on the front porch, having 2 at the time and not wanting to throw it a way (I have a problem with not being able to toss out something functional or that might be appreciated by someone else). This became the kitten's play place & refuge. Whenever we'd appear on the porch unexpectedly, they'd scramble for the underside and back of that stove and climb up in the inner recesses of it! You could look and look and still never find them. I'd have Wyl in his versatile baby carrier and we'd sit on the porch, soaking in some sun and they'd slowly work their way out. It was rare if they'd come within petting reach, though sometimes I was able to take advantage of one's distraction and scoop it up to snuggle and pet. They'd not scratch or bite, though they would escape at first chance. Never, in those first months, did they ever show signs of warming to us. As much as 'Skitty would wind our ankles and purr like a can of shaken marbles when we petted her, those kittens did *not* like people. 

While they still resided on the front porch, 3 of them disappeared. They were too young to strike out on their own, so we can only assume that they died some how. Never saw any signs of how or where. Who was left were 2 black-and-white tuxedo and 1 beautifully vibrant tabby with pristine white chest, belly, mittens and tailtip. The 2 black-and-whites clearly had a father in the strays of the neighborhood. He had a white face with a little black Charlie Chaplin-type mustache, and so we called him Chaplin. His two girls who lived with us were Charlie and Little Tramp, whom we called L.T. for short. But the tabby just defied naming. We couldn't think of anything and his personality was so mild, he didn't name himself. And of all 6 originals, he was quite obviously the runt. So tiny, so behind his siblings in development, speed... it even seemed his brain was less developed. Not obviously, just hints here and there. Maybe we thought he wouldn't make it, since he was the runt, I don't know, but we had the hardest time coming up with a name for that guy.

Eventually, 'Skitty moved them to the back porch. I was relieved. That road we live on is highly trafficked and people very frequently do far more than the speed limit (25 mph at the time) and we'd had plenty of cats die on it. 'Skitty was an *awesome* hunter - probably the best I've seen. She thinned our bird population (as a non-morning person, I was grateful!) and harassed the squirrels who liked chewing their way into our attic. We have a peach tree right off the back porch that used to have a branch that went up over the roof and she'd *fly* right up that tree to the roof and catch squirrels. The only thing she left was the fuzzy tail. Oh! How we'd praise her for getting those nasty, wood-chewing house-invaders! I kept trying to win over those kittens, without much success.

Eventually, I hit on the idea of Reddi Whip. I shared it enough with our indoor cats that they *knew* the sound of the stuff coming out of the nozzle! That "ffsssshhhhhhtt" would be immediately followed by a sound of scrambling kittyfeet and pleading cries. So cute! So, I hit on the idea of using whipped cream to befriend the kittens. At first, I'd spray it when they were near and could see what I was doing. That sound is a lot like an angry cat hissing, so at first, they'd take off into the greenery of the back yard. Eventually, with their mama begging, they'd tentatively venture over and found that sound equaled a creamy treat! Over time, I had them licking it off of my fingers. I'd put a spotch on my pinky, my middle finger & my thumb, so each one had their own portion (teat?) and they'd lick away and then when it got thin or was gone, they'd bite with their sharp little kitten teeth. :~) I'd refill. Slowly (over days & weeks), I worked my way from the edge of the porch to the door, then left the door open during whipped cream time, then slowly into the house. I'd leave the door open so they didn't feel trapped and they could go out whenever they wanted. When they were comfortable with that, I started closing the door for a few moments and worked it up to longer periods. They'd stay inside for a bit, looking around, but when they asked to go back out, I'd let them out. The later it got in the year, the more they'd stay in the house. 'Skitty never did come in.

Then, sometime in September, the tabby disappeared. I think at that point, we were calling him "the boy" or something vague like that. The kittens had been spending an hour or two in the house at that point, and sometimes, I'd even have to insist they go back out. They always came when I sprayed the cream, though, and very often when I just called "kittykittykittykittykittykittykittykittykittykitty!!" I didn't think very much of it the first day, but we casually looked for him. The next day, I was pretty concerned. We looked and called and nothing. The third day, I was really upset. I asked Dave to go look in weird places we'd never think to look, to search very thoroughly. I don't remember, now, who thought to look under the car, but there he was. All curled up in a hollow in the dirt. He looked terrible. He was dirty and his whiskers were broken off, he had missing teeth and he was sickly looking and not very responsive. Poor little kitten! We'd had no idea what happened!! I tried to nurse him to health, myself, but he wouldn't take *water*! I had no idea what to do with him if I couldn't even get water into him, so we took him to the vet.

Well!! The vet pointed out that all his whiskers were the same length and not frayed at the ends. She said someone had *cut* all of his whiskers off!! Who would do such a horrible thing?! She examined him and I don't remember if she did an xray or not, but as she examined his mouth, we saw that *all* of his teeth between his canines *and* his two canines on the bottom were gone! She treated his dehydration with a shot of saline under the skin in the middle of his back and told us his little, baby lower jaw was *broken*!! Eventually, we put 2 and 2 together and realized that someone had abused this poor little sweet thing! They'd cut off his whiskers to disorient him, then either hit him with a bat or something *or* kicked him in the face!! We were horrified. And so sad. I was so grateful to the vet, Dr. Hanson, who was doing her residency at the Animal Hospital, I made her his namesake. If you'll remember, "Mmmmm Bop" was at its peak about then, and the band was Hanson, and Zach was my favorite, so that's how the nameless little kitten got his name - finally!

The vet had given us (expensive!!) medicated food and instructions to mix it 1/2 and 1/2 with water and put it in a syringe and squirt it into his mouth so many times a day (I forget, now). Since he hadn't met the indoor cats, yet (we always shooed them out of the kitchen when the kittens came in), we isolated him in the bathroom to keep him safe. We spent time in there keeping him company and using a damp wash cloth to keep him clean. The thing that amazed me the most is how attached he got to us. He trusted us from the moment we pulled him out from under the car like we were his mama and daddy. Like none of them had ever trusted us. He curled up and slept on us in the bathroom. He snuggled us and mewed so quietly and begged for our attention. Not only was it unusual for these 3 kittens, but after some human being had treated him like that?!??!! I was amazed. We fed him that special food and water mix and as he healed, he *grew*!! And grew, and grew and GREW!

Eventually, he outgrew his sisters. Goodness, he outgrew most other cats we'd ever known! (All but C.C.'s papa, who was a *huge* orange tomcat, the size of which I've never seen again.) His personality shown through, too. He was just the gentlest, sweetest thing. He often stumbled or lurched into things or had some other equilibrium mishap, but we chalked that up to his injury... Until it continued long after he was healed. Maybe there was permanent damage... Maybe that's just who he was. He loved to play - especially with feathered toys!! I think he got some hunting skill from his mama, because he caught anything that ventured into the house (birds, a couple times and mice a couple times - the disadvantages of an old house!!) and when he played with those feather-on-a-stick toys - !! Oh, *my* was he *fierce*! The intense concentration on his face and that killer look - he was just a different cat in hunter mode.

Yet, as big as he was, until the end, he never did have much of a voice. Thankfully, he only rarely got closed in a room, because you could stand right outside the solid wood door and not hear him unless his nose was under the crack of the door. He had the softest "mew" that always sounded pleading or apologetic. Sometimes, his mouth would open and he'd clearly be making his signature call, but you couldn't hear anything - inches from him and nothing! His purr was more substantial, though. He'd curl up on your feet or beside you or on your lap and just *touching* you was enough to set off that smooth, steady purr. His eyes would half-close in contentment and you'd *swear* a little smile would spread on his face... Eventually, he'd be so enthralled with your stroking him that he'd be unable to resist rolling over on his back so he could get a gentle belly rub. <3 font="font">

I don't remember him ever scratching or biting in play. He'd reach out a paw with sheathed claws and touch your hand, but he wouldn't bat at your or hit you with his claws. He was *so* gentle - with everyone, not just the kids! Though, for a long time, he was quite nervous and shy around Wyl. Wyl tended to move unexpectedly, lurch off in unexpected directions, yell, jump, run and just overwhelm the cats. But, as Wyl got older and came to understand this other beings in his home, he gentled and got more careful around them and he quite doted on Zachie. They were good buds.

After that, Zach was definitely an indoor cat. We wouldn't let him out and take a chance on something happening again. He was pretty content with that idea, himself. His sisters spent a good portion of their days indoors (it was pretty cold by the time he healed) and his mother had rejected him when he came home from the hospital, so he was a housecat after that. We had another incident a few months after that, when we lost L.T. and then Charlie became an indoor cat. She rather balked at that, and we still have a few times a year where she'll sneak outside for a day.

Zachie was always calm, always sweet, sometimes funny, always a good guy to share something with: whether it was a secret, a lap, a morsel, a snuggle, a nap or some play, he remained steady, calm, sweet, gentle, lovable *and* loving. His passing will leave a big hole in all our lives, but we are ever so grateful for the wonderful 13 years we got to share with him. <3 font="font">

Who knew?

I wanted to be a mommy from early on. There were many loves and desires wrapped up in that goal, but I always knew I'd be one. I spend more time planning my parenting skills and daydreaming about how I'd handle certain situations and what I'd name my kids and how many were enough than I spent planning careers - and there were *many* different hats I tried on in the career department!

It is so funny... I was *sure* I knew pretty much how parenting would go, how it would be... Almost all I imagined was so far from the truth as to be almost inconceivable. Then there are the things that never occurred to me...

I would have been the first to tell you, 13 or 14 years ago, that you were crazy, if you'd have told me what kind of parenting I'd be practicing today! I had my ideals and they were nowhere near then what they are today. I had planned out how I'd handle the "tough" stuff... never even dreaming that those things might never come up, and was totally blindsided by other things that I'd never considered: like my 5 year old being terrified of death and dying and his parents dying and not really being able to wave a magic wand to make that fear disappear in a motherly wave of compassion and gentleness.

I fully believed that a parent should not be a friend to their child, and today I am thrilled to count my kids as my friends; they are awesome people and I'm glad they consider me to be their friend, too.

I had no idea that my kids and I would enjoy the same kinds of music - even having the same favorite songs! It never entered my imagination that we would regularly ride along in the vehicle, singing happily together... Nor could I have imagined the peace, joy and contentment that would bring me. Tears-in-my-eyes happiness. Granted, they're often telling me to, "Turn it down, Mama!" - gee... who'd've thought?!

I couldn't have dreamed up a first-born kid that could catch me off guard with his quirky, smart humor - to the point that I spew laughter unexpectedly. :~D

I'd never have conceived that my almost-teen son would not only still want to hug me, but snuggle with me, want his head kissed, want me to tuck him in - prefer that I lay down with him for a while.

I still find it almost incomprehensible that I have a youngest kid who routinely, *daily*, runs around sing-songing, "This is the best day ever. This is the bestest day ever. This is the best day ever." It seems to be his mantra. How incredibly awesome that each subsequent day is the *best* day! And when I think about it, he's right! It really is!

I've been thinking about how I started learning about partnership parenting, lately. I know I've told the story so many times, but I still am kind of awed by it. Reading about unschooling on the radical unschooling boards elicited strong reactions from me. Things like,

"They're CRAZY!"
"Oh, that's just stupid."
"Well, that would never work *here*!"
Very strong, adamant responses - almost to the point of being shocking. But, the other things I read with those "crazy" ways of doing things was about results. About kids and parents who wanted to be together. Who shared with each other. Who *listened* to each other. Most amazingly, though, were the teens - teens who *wanted* to hang out with their parents, who were kind and thoughtful and open and *talked* with their parents openly, who came to their parents first and right away when there was a problem. Families who *trusted* each other. I knew teens. I'd been a teen. This concept was totally foreign to me. I wanted this - and the more I read about it, the more I wanted it. I was not easily convinced that being a partner to my child would end up with those results, but I grudgingly, slowly accepted that the alternative rarely got those results (and never the trust spoken of, that I knew of), and so I dove in.

At one point in my early struggles to grasp the concept, I "threw in the towel", thinking that it wasn't "working", and decided I was going back to traditional parenting! Within a day, I knew I could never be that parent, again - if I ever had totally been that parent. I found that once you learned how to respect someone, you couldn't ignore that and treat them with less value, with less honor just because you decided so. For a day or so, that had me desperate and flailing. Eventually, I found it strengthening - it backed up the ideas I so loved and wanted for my family.

When you find something that makes your heart sing with joy and makes you radiate sunshine and happiness, you want to share it. You wish everyone could be as happy as you are. As I look back on conversations that happened online this week, I see the enthusiasm with which people share these ideas of partnership... I can sometimes get a infintessimal glimpse at how some others might perceive the rush to share as intolerance for other ideas that don't mesh with partnership and respect. I still don't see the threat, though. Even though I experienced a little tiny bit of that when my ingrained ideas were challenged, I had no sort of "fight back" kind of reaction. Maybe I'm just tired, but even after all these years, I still am a bit baffled by the vehement reactions to unusual ideas - to ideas that challenge one's assumptions and ingrained societal "norms"... Is it because it is parenting? Is it because it is personal, rather than a difference in the workplace? When does something change from being two differing viewpoints to an "attack"?

I thought writing it out might help me process it, but at this point, it hasn't. I'll let it stew in my brain for a while.

Today has been music, games, movies, good food, hugs, laughter, learning, idea-bouncing, helping each other - the best day *ever*!

Milestones

I started discussing this on Facebook, then realized my kids both have accounts and could possibly run across what I was writing... ! If they know about my blog, they don't know how to get to it. I think.

Storm's tooth has been loose for a few weeks, now. We've been keeping an eye on it. Not very loose, but last week, it got a bit wigglier. Tuesday night, after his teeth were brushed, we noticed a big difference in the movement - it was really loose! Wednesday afternoon, he'd come to me occasionally with how wiggly it was, testing it, chatting casually about it and really just touching base with me about his tooth. Toward late afternoon, he was wiggling it a lot and I jokingly said something about him pulling it out. He immediately grabbed it with his index finger and thumb and... well, anyone who's ever tugged on a slippery, smooth tooth knows how well that works. I offered the information that he could use his shirt tail for better grip, if his fingers were slipping, if he wanted to. He had a hard time getting his shirt in his mouth and something caught his attention and he was off.

Now, mind you, in all these weeks - heck, all his life - we've not mentioned the Tooth Fairy. I had issues with TF (as I've been calling the Tooth Fairy this week) when Wyl was little, but overcame those with good advice and wonderful stories from other folks. Since we've come to a more balanced, trust-based relationship with our kids, I've also quit telling them all about things - especially legendary things like Santa, TF, Harry Potter and Hogwarts, Thor, etc. I like to answer questions they have with "What do you think?" And wait for more specific questions for which they don't have an answer or opinion before I give information. Even then, I like to give general information and include lots of different things I've heard, so they can decide what to think, what to believe.

Wednesday night, right before heading up to prep for bed and snuggle together for sleeping, Storm was coming in from the little pool we put up in the back yard, shivering, and talking about his tooth. He said something about wanting to pull it and I suggested his towel. I think the towel was too big. He couldn't seem to get a grip on it. He turned away and a moment later he was quietly saying with wonder, "My tooth is out!" (Again, SO different from Wyl - my oldest would have been shouting and yelling and giddy. :~D ) He had been wiggling it back and forth and it just popped loose! He inspected it. He gave it to me to inspect while he felt the hole in his mouth. He showed his brother his hole and his tooth. He showed Daddy his tooth. He brought it to me and said, "We need to put this under my pillow tonight for the tooth fairy!"

Uh... Okay... ! So, I'm scrambling to figure out how (since it has been a few years since I last had a tooth under a pillow to deal with) much the going rate is (posted to Facebook), trying to find the half dollars and silver dollars I had stashed for Wyl, while Wyl is kindly helping Storm get ready for bed. I'm thinking I *have* to do this right after he falls asleep, or I'll forget! Which means, I need to find the stuff and take it up with me, in moments...
In the middle of my scramble, Storm comes down and says he doesn't want to put the tooth under his pillow tonight, because he wants to keep it for a while more. While I'm relieved I have some extra time to work it out, I'm also intrigued. I don't think I would have thought of that, as a kid. Things were done by a certain structure and with specific rules and I learned to know those rules and follow them without question, so I didn't miss out on anything.

We talked today (thanks, Meredith!) about where he learned about the tooth fairy, what he knew (he thinks the tooth fairy "... brings random amounts like $20.58 or $50.10" I'm not sure if he thinks it is actually that *high* of an amount, or if he was just using nice, round numbers to clarify the change... We talked about what she wore, if she had a wand, if she had wings, if she glittered... I loved hearing his take on the TF! He told me he wanted to write a note to TF, telling her he wanted to keep the tooth for a while, and at first, I thought the note was a "substitute tooth", where he'd put that in place of the tooth and get his money. As I talked with him, though, I got this urgency feeling - like he felt he needed to let her know before it was "too late"... like there was a deadline. He also wanted to leave the tooth *in* the envelope with the note as "proof" that he'd lost it, and wasn't just writing a note to get money. I *really* don't know where he got that idea... I told him that he was an honest person and I'm sure the TF would believe him, but he could put the tooth in there, too, if he wanted.

So, tonight, when it came time to write the note, he told me he decided he wanted to keep it another day. (He loves that tooth! He loves the hole in it and the bloody stump and everything! He is amazed by it and really thinks it is cool... ) So, we wrote a note (he dictated, I just moved the pen):

"I lost a tooth but I have decided to keep it a day longer and I hope you trade it in for cash like you're supposed to , if you are real.

And I hope you get this.

FROM STORM

TO Toothfairy"

(The all caps are his writing) Then, he put "FS" on the envelope and told me, "That means 'from Storm'" and zipped upstairs to put it under his pillow.

I brought the note down with me, after he fell asleep, because my memory is pretty bad, and I wanted to answer it, but I left the envelope under his pillow, just in case he woke and felt for it. :~D I put together 2 brief rough drafts, trying to disguise my handwriting, then the one that was supposed to be the *actual* note, I wrote too big on and ran out of space, and then reverted to cursive on the last word, so I had to do it over. :~D I settled for plain, white paper with purple marker writing... but I REALLY wanted to go all out, with purple paper and glitter and stickers and beautifully printed font... Ahh, alas... the disappointments of a procrastinator.

Anyhow, I replied (in beautiful purple marker and handwriting from my teen years - minus the circle-dotted "i"s... ):

"Dear Storm,
Thank you *so* much for your note! I am happy you'd like to keep your tooth for a while longer. I like teeth, too!

If you ever decide you don't want your tooth any more, you can give it to your mama and she can figure out what to do with it.
From ToothFairy"

Then, on a different envelope (why don't I have purple envelopes?!), I put FTF. :~D We decided on one Susan B. Anthony silver dollar and one presidential gold dollar. Still coins, yet more than a quarter.

I really love doing little things like this for my kids. I don't really know if they enjoy it or not... I don't know if it will ever be one of those "keepsake memories" for them, as they get older... But, I enjoy it. Even if they don't enjoy these little things individually, specifically, they are all small ingredients in a happy childhood, a happy life. I like butter in my chocolate chip cookies and a bit of salt. I like to add coconut, chopped nuts and bourbon vanilla. I like to make sure there's a *wee* bit more chocolate chips than the recipe on the bag calls for. Some people notice, some don't. I do it because I like to, and because I like them that way. :~) You could probably leave that teaspoon of salt out of the chocolate chip cookies or use vanilla flavoring instead of extract or use shortening instead of butter and they'd still be good to eat. But, little snippets of this and that can make what would be a regular cookie into a wonderful, delicious experience that makes someone say, "Wow! I had a wonderful cookie! I don't know what was in it, but *man*, it was great!" My kids will know they had a great childhood. They may not be able to pick out the specific little tidbits or ingredients that made it so or they may; it doesn't matter. The "what" is vastly more important than the "why", for me.

Listening

Funny how ideas about parenting change after becoming a parent. I thought I would be teaching my children to listen to me... funny. Turns out, one of the most important things I could learn as a parent was how to listen. Sometimes, I still have occasions where I struggle to shut my mouth and listen, but I am always better off when I do.

I am naturally an impulsive person. I struggled long and hard to pause before jumping in with full gusto or speaking without considering my words first. In my eagerness to share my knowledge with people, especially my kids, sometimes I forget myself and jump right in with both feet. Knowledge is often a good stew: something that is better when bits and pieces are added as needed, and stirred and left to simmer and bubble for a long time.

I've learned to not answer a question immediately, to pause and let it hang in the air a bit, sometimes. I've learned to stop launching into an immediate instructional "rant", and offer small bits and wait for them to be incorporated before checking to see if more might be needed. One of the most valuable things I've learned is to ask, "What do you think?"

So often, when my kids ask me a question, it is their way of opening a dialogue, of getting something started so *they* can tell *me* what is on their mind. Questions like, "Do the people who work in the store stay there all day - do they sleep there?" and "Do bunnies brush their teeth", get amazing answers if I ask, "What do you think?", and I often learn a whole lot about the subject and my kids.

Last night, while lying down with Storm, we had the DS on for light. On the hour, it gives a little chime, which Storm really likes (I do, too!). After it chimed for 10:00, he sat up and looked over to it; the face of the DS was turned away from the bed, but the radio alarm clock was facing us. He laid back down and after a pause asked, "Why does the DS have a 12 when the chime happens, but the other one says ten oh oh?" (Storm can tell time on an analog clock, but has difficulty with a digital and Wyl can read a digital but not an analog)

I explained about how the "analog" face on the DS showed the hour by not having "minutes after", and that if we waited a minute and the hand clicked one dot, it would be a minute after, but the hand being straight up at the 12 meant that it was exactly 10, with no minutes after. He immediately chimed in with, "And when it is a minute after on the other clock, it will be ten oh one! -Look! It *is*!!"

So, I thought I'd go a little further with the time thing and said that there were 60 minutes in an hour and he seemed to have known that, but maybe forgotten it. I asked if he knew what half of 60 was. He thought, "Half of 6 is 3... so 30." Pretty good for a 6 year old, I thought. I said, "Some people, when it is 10:30 or 9:30 or 3:30 will say it is 'half past' or 'half past the hour', because 30 minutes is half of the 60 minutes in the hour."

He digested that for a bit and I asked, "Do you know what half of a half is?", trying to figure out how to get to "quarter after" in a way he'd understand. No pause, he *knew* that, "A quarter". Wow. I had no idea he knew that! I find it is way cooler to find out my kids know stuff this way, rather than being "instructional" and rattling off facts and information like an encyclopedia and having them huff at me and say, "I KNOW that, Mama!" and roll their eyes. Way cooler. So, I asked, "Can you figure out a quarter of 60? Half of the half?" while I'm digging around in my head, trying to figure out if I can relate that to him and how...

"Well, half of 3 is one and a half..." What?!! My six year old knows fractions?! Who the heck knew?! So, as one of us mumbled something about 30 and 15, I was trying to jump-start my stunned brain into function again as Storm said excitedly, "I'm going to count as high as I can in math!" And proceeded: "Two plus two is four. Four plus four is eight, eight plus eight..."

That is so often how discovery and learning happens in my own head: main question, supposition, smaller questions, ideas, more questions, "ah-ha!"... so I guess it really isn't that surprising that it works externally as well, and is very much more satisfying to have a back-and-forth dialogue with my kids, rather than me spouting off and them being quiet and *possibly* listening while I get on my soapbox and "generously" hand down my knowledge. I suspect it builds a better relationship, as well.

I'm THAT mom...

I am *loving* this impromptu blog carnival! Fun stuff - thanks, Ronnie!

I am that mom that gets the looks at the playgrounds & playplaces from other moms.

I am that mom who always seems to be smiling in the midst of mayhem and ruckus while other moms with leery looks guide their children wide around our "circle of influence".

I am that mom that sits in the restaurant making funny faces with her kids. The goofier, the better. Are there people watching? I have no idea - we're having too much fun!

I am that mom who buys her little boy Barbie-type & Bratz dolls.

I am that mom who sits with her wailing, screaming child in the middle of the dairy section of the superstore, rocking and mumbling sweet nothings while the storm runs its course.

I am that mom who has more than 2 boxes of collected "trash" in the form of snack & cereal boxes, supplement/vitamin bottle cotton, foam packing blocks, cardboard tubes and other scraps & bits for "just in case" art projects.

I am that mom that impresses her tween son's schooled friends with her hands-on-mouth fart noises.

I am that mom that shops for aluminum foil, PVC tubing & connectors, flour & sugar, and other odd items for her kids to experiment with, play with & build with.

I am that mom that sets up kickball for homeschoolers in our area, then plays with the kids, no matter how ridiculous I might look. :~D It's fun and I can't see how I might look, so I don't care. No matter *how* many times I fall. :~D

I am that mom that has a yard others must look at and think "garbage dump", but I see the result of hours of creativity.

I am that mom that defends her 6 year old's use of the F word to her mother, or any other word that doesn't hurt people, for pete's sake.

I am that mom that hopes that her kids will live with her or in the neighborhood for as long as possible, *but* is happy to help them and cheer them on if they decide otherwise.

I am (said with tongue in cheek and quite a large grin on my face) that mom who needs a long spot of quiet time to think when I write, to organize my thoughts, get that flow going from brain to "paper"to get a coherent result, but will happily take a break to read the "magazines" her youngest has just made, look at the creative mix-matching of pictures in a sales paper her oldest has created. Without once griping or yelling about "my time". Now, what was I saying?? :~)

Twenty, fifteen or even twelve years ago, I would never have imagined parenting the way Dave and I do today. Never. Much of the way we parent, I hadn't even imagined was possible! Funny, though, the relationship we have with our kids was also inconceivable to me even 10 years ago... Which is why it makes it *so* easy to smile and shrug off those glares in public places when I can imagine the thoughts going through those heads behind those glaring faces, "Look, it's one of *those* moms!" and consider myself in excellent company.

~*~*~*~*~

Some links to other entries in the carnival (at which other links are available!):

http://zombieprincess.blogspot.com/2010/07/im-that-mom.html

http://bearthmama.com/2010/07/that-kinda-mama/

http://piscesgrrrl.blogspot.com/2010/07/i-am-that-mom.html

http://justabaldman.blogspot.com/2010/07/impromptu-blog-carnival-i-am-that-dad.html

http://www.swissarmywife.net/2010/07/i-am-that-dad-my-column-at-enjoy-life/

http://www.frecklesfilledwithlove.blogspot.com/ part 1

http://www.frecklesfilledwithlove.blogspot.com/ part 2

A Reading Storm

"The master in the art of living makes little distinction between his work and his play, his labor and his leisure, his mind and his body, his information and his recreation, his love and his religion. He hardly knows which is which. He simply pursues his vision of excellence at whatever he does, leaving others to decide whether he is working or playing. To him he's always doing both." — James A. Michener

I never got to see the process of learning to read with Wyl. I know I tell this story all the time, but it is *so* important to our unschooling... I had grand plans of homeschooling Wyl's beginning reading... From the time we were considering homeschooling when he was 2-ish, I had visions of bright colored crayons, that manila paper with the red and blue dotted lines for beginning writers, letter charts, sitting with him at the kitchen table (yeah, I hear some of you laughing out there! It's all *true*!), working patiently, *teaching* him his letters, how to write, and eventually how to read. I had thoughts of Dick and Jane books, hours spent benevolently sharing my knowledge with my dear, firstborn son... just he and I... Well, of course, with my own schooling ideas having never been challenged, I figured those things would start in our homeschool Kindergarten year, which wouldn't start until September the year he turned 6, according to our state laws. Wyl wasn't having any of *that*.

I had loved (still do) reading to him... Dave started reading a little book to him every night when we found out I was pregnant. Every night, Dave would lie his head on my belly and read a little Dr. Seuss or some other children's book. Then, after the upheaval of new person in the house, we started reading again when he was several weeks old. Dave or I, every night, reading a little something. I think Dave felt it was more of an obligation, something that needed to be done like changing diapers. :~D So, as the books got longer and with less pictures, Dave read less and less. When Wyl was 5, I had been the only one reading for some time. We were still reading every night, and about the time he turned 5, we were on the Laura Ingalls series. I had always loved reading books about kids my age, and Little House in the Big Woods saw Laura at 4 & I think she had her 5th birthday in it as well. It's been a while. I forget. :~) So, one night, we're lying there in bed, reading and Wyl says, "Let me see that a minute", gesturing for the book. I hand it over to him and he proceeds to read several paragraphs, without stammering or struggling except on an extremely big word or two, then hands it back and says, "Okay, that's all I want to do. You read, now." Wow. I mean, I know he'd been reading "dairy" and "cheese" and things like that at the grocery store, and "stop" on the stopsigns and such, but it never happened how I had pictured: small, simple sentences at first, sounding out words, slowly getting longer and longer sentences, more complex and multi-syllable words... no. Wyl got a basic grasp, then he did some sort of processing in his head, and *boom*, he was *reading*. Fumbling blindly with my concepts and ideas for a bit after that, I bought him a Dick and Jane compilation book, which he enjoyed (I think he found it kind of weird and comic), but really, he pretty much went from 0 to 1st grade readers instantly. At least externally. I have no idea what went on *inside* his head. :~)

Which is why Storm's process is kind of a retro-thrill for me: I get to SEE it happening! Wyl knew his alphabet entirely (from the song and recitation) by the time he was 2. With Storm, I've gotten to see, "Hey! That's an 'H'!" and other letter recognition. Questions, too - Wyl
never asked much questions, but with Storm, the process has been a sharing of knowledge. Storm very clearly uses phonics. We never used any phonics books or games with him, though Sesame Street does use a bit of phonics, but Wyl watched *far* more Sesame Street than Storm ever did. It just is how he processes the information.

Storm went through a little disappointment period a while back: he was upset because he "couldn't read". He lives in a house with readers: 2 adults and a brother 5 1/2 years older who's reading at or near adult level. No wonder he felt "left out". I tried to assure him that he would read when his brain was ready, but that clearly wasn't what he needed to hear... he was still upset. He had already recognized word-symbols like Wal*Mart and Lego and Sesame Street, so I sat down and wrote some words I knew that he recognized and some I thought he did: Mama, Wyl, storm, WalMart, cat, etc. He did recognize one or two and I helped him figure out what the others were and that seemed to satisfy him. *I* believe(d) that his beginning reading process was already started, and that he was "reading" in a beginning fashion, so maybe that helped: because I believed.

I ran across that page in the notebook recently, and he knew more of those words, and the others he surprised me by sounding out! We'd not done any of the "S sounds like ssssss" kind of thing, so I thought it was really cool that he'd picked that up.

(Storm "reading" - sorry it's so dark!)Storm's not as fond of reading *every* night, and Wyl and I are kind of on a summer hiatus with reading: we have other things to do in the warm weather besides curling up with a good book, and we can't really decide what we want to read next. SkippyJohn Jones got Storm more interested in reading at night more often, but he's far from an "every night" kinda person. Bummer. Sometime in the last few weeks, I'd *finally* gotten him to okay me reading Dr. Seuss' ABCs: a book Wyl adored when he was younger; so much so, I have it memorized. :~D I'd been asking and asking Storm if I could read it to him and he kept saying no. So, one night I said I wanted to read it very bad, that I hadn't read it in a long time and I liked it: would he mind if I read it out loud to *myself*? Well, he was okay with that, and let me read it all the way through. I'm really glad, because now *he* likes it, and has requested it very often, since!

Tonight, Wyl was snuggling with Storm before we really got down to the sleeping part, and Wyl requested a book. There was some debate, because Wyl wanted to hear SkippyJohn Jones, but Storm was resisting. Dr. Seuss' ABCs was suggested by one of them and they were *both* happy to have that as the choice (just as I was about to offer to read 2! :~) ) and that *really* made me smile: my 11 year old still wants to hear me read Dr. Seuss. :~) So, somehow, in the last few readings, we've started naming our *own* things we think of that start with the letter we're on. Storm likes "apple" for A... not surprising, as he loves apple slices. He is amazing me with his grasp of "beginning letters"... last night, when we finished "ear, egg, elephant", he thought for a moment and said, eight. "Wow!" I said, "That's right! That's really good, because 'eight' sounds more like it starts with an 'A'!" I was really stunned that he knew that! I know, I shouldn't be, but like I said, this external process is new to me. :~) He really picked out some good ones in the last couple nights, amazing me with his grasp of "C" vs. "K" and "H" sounds, too. I even goofed on "N" and said "knee" and then realizing my mistake, switched to "knuckle". LOL

I'm so glad I was able to reassure Storm when he had concerns and he was able to go through his process in his time and his way. It still amazes me to see it: kind of like taking the back off of a winding-watch and seeing it move and work while you're watching. So fascinating and cool! Storm's always been a cautious, feeling-his-way kind of person, until he's comfortable with the parameters and knowing, from his own exploration, what can happen and how it works. So, I guess it really shouldn't surprise me that he tends in a phonics, sounding-out kind of direction. Seeing it all unfold sure is wonderful, though... It makes me excited to see what's coming next!

Ghosts of the Future

Time is free, but it's priceless. You can't own it, but you can use it. You can't keep it, but you can spend it. Once you've lost it you can never get it back. - unknown

Birthdays aren't a big deal to me, then again, they are. My own ceased to be much of an exciting thing after I hit 21... Ageism bugs me and I don't hang out with folks (or don't) because of their age, getting older isn't offputting to me-it just *is*. So, other than getting special treatment, my own birthday is rather irrelevant (I often forget how old I actually *am*, though I remember my actual birth *day*).


My children, on the other hand, have Very Important Birthdays. Not only do I love to get all excited and prepare fun stuff and wrap presents and bake cake, but I love to experience *their* enjoyment. On the other, other hand (how many are we up to, now??), my childrens' birthdays are huge milestone markers for me - moreso than my own age ever will be. When Wyl turned 5, it was "school age". When he turned 8, that was half way to driving age (thankfully, the teenage years are an odd number, so I didn't have a "half way" age for *that*). When he turned 9, that was half way to adulthood (as much as it is in this society). When he turned 10... well, that was a double-whammy: not only were we now in the double-digits, it was also half way to 20! It isn't "age" so much as time slipping away from me. Never again will I hold a little tiny spoon with a bite of rice cereal on it for him. Never again will I hold his wee chubby fingers as he takes some tremulous steps in his exploration of motivation. Never again will I toss him high over my head as he squeals with glee, joy radiating from his open, sweet face. Wait. This was supposed to be a happy post... change gears...
(Can you believe he was FOUR in this pic? It . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ..... was yet another of those ghosts-of-the-future
glimpses - this time caught in a snapshot.)


Eleven is firmly in the "tween" years - right smack in the middle. ::..Sigh.....::

Just over two weeks ago, a couple days before our birthday and Wyl's milestone Eleven birthday, we were driving home from a friend's house in the late afternoon, early evening. It was *just* that time of day when the sun is hovering low on the horizon, not *quite* into the orange of early sunset, but still golden yellow... a huge, warm glow out my passenger window, radiating life and warmth and celebration of early spring. It had been a lovely day with friends and the weather had been perfect: not too warm, not too chilly, dry and sunny with no wind. It was relatively quiet in the van - especially for *our* family - and I looked in the rear-view mirror... for what, I lost at that moment and I still don't remember. You know how sometimes, unexpectedly, you see something? Something startling that when you blink and look again or do a double-take, it isn't there any more?

That beautiful, golden sun was streaming through the windows and was striking Wyl's face in such a way that suddenly, he looked like a young adult. I could clearly see what he would look like in 7-8 years. It took my breath away and froze time for an eternity of a moment... He'll be a handsome man and have a strong jaw - there isn't anything horribly arresting about how he'll appear when he's grown. The heart-stopping shock is that he was JUST 3 a moment ago, wasn't he??

Time. Time went at such a leisurely, relaxed pace when Dave and I were just a couple. Since Wyl has come along, it has been a snowball on a steep hill, gaining speed every second. I'm not ready!! I want to cherish every moment, but there aren't enough. I want to lie with *both* boys and look at the stars right now, for decades. Can't tomorrow *wait*?? It isn't that I want to keep them little or a certain age, I just want to *savor* it. But like a 15 minute lunch break, there is barely time to chew and swallow, much less savor every tiny nuance... Shoot. Happy post. HAPPY post...

I am beyond thankful that we are who we are - I couldn't ask for better people to share my life with. We have shelter and health and food. I don't want *more*, I just want to hold what is zipping past for just a moment... to savor it... to cherish it the way it deserves to be cherished...

I have a favor to ask: stop reading my blog. Go spend some time with *your* favorite people - that's what I'm gonna do right... NOW!

Sorry, Folks!

While I figure out if I'm moving my blog or continuing here, I'm setting my comments to "approve" setting, since I am getting a hella lot of spammers here. Sorry about that! Hopefully, they'll go away and I can go back to business as usual soon.

Let the Healing Start?

To be nobody but myself -- in a world which is doing its best, night and day, to make you everybody else -- means to fight the hardest battle which any human being can fight, and never stop fighting. -E.E. Cummings, Poet (1894-1962)

It's good that tears can't be seen in the dark. It's also good that tired children aren't as perceptive in the dark when they're sleepy and thinking of other things... happy things.

Storm (who is eerily close to 5 years old, now) has amazed us with his physical abilities since... gosh, very early on. At least as far back as starting to walk, but probably further. His ability to know his body and its limits, to jump from so high with no fear and only get stinging feet... To throw a ball a surprising distance for his age (from very early on and continuing) and the accuracy he throws with.... The uncanny balance he's surprised us all with... His strength-that often rivals and sometimes overpowers Wyl, who is 5 1/2 years his senior...

His joy right now is gymnastic-type things. Jumping of all sorts; hanging, climbing and flipping over and under bars (or anything close enough to a bar to suit his need), that sort of stuff. He's been taking homeschool gymnastics classes for about a year and a half, now, at a local gym that Wyl took gymnastics at for a while. He had quit gymnastics before Storm was walking much (if at all) and was interested in trying again, but quickly lost interest. Storm loved it so much from the start that we went from one 45 minute class a week to two. And still he asked for more. When illness and travel had us missing several classes and to make them up, we ended up with *three* 45 minute classes a week, still, he asked for more. Every day he asked when he could go to gymnastics again. Sometimes, he wanted to go right back as soon as we got home. I wished I had the money to fulfill his need, but we did add some things at home (trampoline, loft bed-never would have considered *that* a climbing apparatus, but Storm saw it for that right away) that helped a wee bit.

This year, when the "school year" that the gymnastics schedule follows was over, his favorite coach, Steve, and I talked about where Storm might be placed for summer. There seems to be a big difference in class activity, skill level and length of class under 5 years and 5 years and up. Steve thought Storm could easily go to the 5 year old class, and maybe even into the 6 year olds-the big question was "listening" in the "paying attention" kind of way. I considered that he *may* be slightly bored and even that being in with older kids might help him focus better. We decided to give it a try for the summer. Private lessons were even suggested. *That* seemed like an interesting prospect, but I thought I remembered hearing they cost around $30/hour. Yikes.

With Wyl wanting to try gymnastics again, and 2 kids doing 2 classes a week, the owner gave me a break on the private lessons and kicked it down to a half hour, saving me a bit more. Storm was kind of excited about the extra time to work on more stuff that he was interested in.

Well, today was his first private lesson. There were a couple instances where his attention wandered (but really, he *is* 4! :~) ) and a few moments here and there that he fell into "play mode", but again, he amazed me with his strength. I didn't hear anything about it all day, so I asked at the end of the day as we were getting settled down for him to fall asleep.

I tried to keep it neutral, asking if he liked classes with the kids or by himself the same or if he liked one better than the other, but boy! "I like being by myself with Jake! I want to do gymnastics like that ALL the time!" :~) Oh, gosh, how I would love to do that for him, but the wallet says otherwise. I talked a bit about how Jake was trying to tell him how to hold his hands, but Storm was distracted and it was like the dawning of a Great Idea, "Ooooohhhh! Okay!!" he giggled. I suggested that he might learn more if he listened a bit closer to Jake instead of rolling around silly on the floor. He was quite excited about that and giggled again.

I started thinking about my love of singing and music and said, "Storm... Whenever you like something, I would love if you would tell me so I can help you do it as much as you want." He asked (at some point tonight) why he got those classes (or something to that effect). I told him I knew how much he liked gymnastics and that I thought he would like extra time and working on those skills he loves so much and that we'd talked about him learning more skills and being able to do more "big guy" kind of gymnastics (like we saw on the Olympics) and he *threw* himself on me and gave me a huge hug while he giggled with glee and said, "Mama I *love* you. I love you *sooooo* much!!!"

And I found out that I'm just not as big a person as all those Unschoolers I read who talk about healing by doing for their kids what they didn't get as kids. My very small self/mind/whatever immediately went to that little girl who wanted guitar lessons, piano lessons (asked for and denied, then my younger brother-who wasn't at *all* interested-got them instead), singing lessons, an electric guitar and was not only not facilitated, not supported, not helped, not given the opportunity to expand her joy, but was indeed *ridiculed* instead. And tears trickled down my face into my hair.

I kept thinking about the "healing" I've read folks talking about and I tried to turn my deep sadness into healing, but I failed. I kept thinking of what I might have done had I been supported, even who I might have been... I figure it is highly unlikely that I would be the person I am today, and I rather like who I am... but *still*... niggling doubts...

One of the most intensely "me" part of who I am is singing. I love to sing. I sing all the time. I sang to Wyl when he was a baby, a toddler, even older. I used to sing to Storm when he was a baby, but as he got into toddler-hood, he would tell me, "Stop singing, Mama." :~) I was not offended. :~) Just 2 weeks ago, he asked me to again sing, "That song about night.... with the shiny star?" And after I sang Twinkle Twinkle Little Star, he asked me to sing it again. And then, one more time. I was thrilled! And then,
"Don't sing it again, Mama." :~)
"Okay." :~)
And yet, as huge of a chunk of me as singing *is*, singing solo for people outside my immediate family (Dave, Wyl and Storm) is my biggest personal fear. Sometimes, I even fear singing where Dave can hear me. It is such a tug-of-war... this desire to share my love with everyone, and being terrified to. Terrified of rejection, of laughter, of judgement, of humiliation. Of *laughter*. Where did I ever get that idea? I can't *recall* ever having my singing laughed over. Me, yes, many times. I don't ever remember singing solo where anyone could hear me, actually. In choir, in an ensemble, yes, but of course, in group settings, one isn't singled out.

Okay. Maybe *this* is the healing part. My kids (hopefully!) will not feel that tearing of desire and fear tug-of-war. They will choose their interests based on what brings them satisfaction and happiness. Things will fall by the wayside by lack of further interest or another something that edges it out-*not* because they've been ridiculed or embarrassed into it.

Maybe. My heart *does* feel a wee less heavy. (pause, smile) Maybe I'll go sing some cheer into it. Too bad it's so late, or I could crank up the Cha-Cha Slide and dance *and* sing my heart into feather-lightness! Tomorrow, maybe... with my super-wonderful boys....