Not Number 2

He's never done anything first.

He was middle born. Second child. Number 2 of 3. He walked second, talked second, grew up second. Then came "the new baby" and he wasn't even the littlest anymore. He was stuck between a louder, older child and a needier, younger child.



Until now.

Sweet Picasso is the first one to get big boy teeth. When he complained his middle teeth were hurting, imagine my surprise to find this.



I'm sure my mother is laughing now. You know how grown-ups always say, "Just wait 'til you have kids of your own...!". Picasso is all those things I was told as a child to 'wait for'. He is my motion sick child - my karma for being just like that as a child. He has my mouth - teeth that don't fall out on their own. He will soon be costing his daddy a bundle in dentist bills and orthodontics.

But gracious... isn't he cute? Just wait 'til he has his own kids!

Interview with a Boybarian

Q: What do you want to be when you grow up?

Einstein: I really don't know. I mean, there are a LOT of choices, Mom. And I'm seven. Seven! How in the world is a seven-year old supposed to know what he wants to do for-EVER?! Well, I am almost eight. Perhaps an astronaut like Mars Mission? Maybe I could build houses like Dad. I just really don't know... (he keeps talking and talking and talking... so I go on to the next kid.)

Picasso: I like farms, Mom. I think I'll be a farmer! (as he stares longingly out the window at a HUGE tractor in a field.)

Me: That's great, Picasso. Farmers are out-standing in their field. Get it? Outstanding? Out standing?

He doesn't get it.

Einstein is still rambling on about the 33rd career choice he is considering, and is oblivious that everyone else has stopped listening somewhere around his 9th consideration.

Me: Trouble? What about you? What do you want to be when you grow up?

Trouble: Indiana Jones!

Do We Really Ever Outgrow Our Moms?

I never will.

My Little Bag Man - A Reveal into Picasso

When I posted the Easter pics, I posted this one of Picasso hunting for eggs.



This picture of my sweet 6 year old soooo cracks me up. Look at what all he is carrying...



And this picture... oh my!... it is such a great capture of his personality. He collects and stores everything and carries it all around with him. That lock box is filled with Legos. He keeps an actual padlock on it! He is so concerned that his little destructo-brother is going to tamper, touch or just *look at* his Legos in the wrong way. He also carries a backpack - yes, in the house, and yes, at most times! In his backpack are other 6-year-old treasures: Star Wars guys, Lego mini-figs, Star Wars ships, and often his special blanket, "New Blue".

On this day, Picasso also carried a plastic bag and his Easter basket. He insisted on egg hunting with both, because he wanted to separate the eggs in "their right piles". Nevermind that this slowed the search immeasurably... it mattered to him that everything was placed into the right pile. Eggs containing chocolate belong in different pile than the ones with jelly beans or lego candies. Within the plastic bag is yet another bag... a ziploc bag meant to store the money he found.

And already I can imagine his future wife seeing this picture someday and agreeing, "Ahhhh... so he's always been like this!" Perhaps it's a middle child thing??? So few things are "just his"; he so often is bossed around by big brother or commandoed by baby brother. He is very serious about his things. He insists on carrying everything that belongs to him on his person at all times, even while he sleeps.

I think he gets his OCD organizational tendencies from his dad. I'm certainly not that particular about ordering everything. I would never insist that things be done that anal-retentively, even if it makes no sense time-wise. Right, Handy Man??? ;)

I Drink Lukewarm Coffee

Handy Man made me coffee this morning. I love when he does this - so thoughtful. And it dawned on me as I took my first sip of steaming hot coffee and the sweet, warm relief soothed my aching cough box err, throat... that I drink lukewarm coffee.

I don't particularly like lukewarm coffee.

And I became cognizant that this is a Stages of Life thing. The temperature of my coffee indicates the sheer number of times I am interrupted mid-cup. And while my boys are growing and reaching stages of independence and maturity I only dreamed about a year or two ago, they are still very much needy little boys.

And boy oh boy (oh boy!)... the loving neediness of those amazing little boys sure does make every lukewarm sip worth it.

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It's a Marathon

I imagine even the most experienced teacher has doubts at one time or another. I am nowhere near what I would called experienced, and I have them all the time. But unlike a school teacher who can blame the parents, the system, the curriculum choices made for them, the requirements to prepare for standardize testing... if my students fail I have only myself to blame.

I am not uncertain about the choice to homeschool; that one I feel pretty confident about. It's the multitude of decisions within the decision to homeschool that make me doubt, question, hope, and wonder...

But, boy oh boy (oh boy!), I certainly go around in circles about my homeschooling choices. Laps. Think of your high school track. I do those in my head all the time. I visit and revisit choices. Then, I visit them once more to make sure I made the right choice.

Do I push too hard? Do I not push hard enough? Did I choose the best curricula, program, even style of books?
Will they learn enough? What is extracurricular? What will matter the most when they are 18 and fly from the nest?
Why does my 6-year-old not like school? He doesn't like anything... is it his personality or is it my approach?

Should I finish phonics before starting Latin, or would Latin boost phonics? Should I be alarmed that my 7-year-old, math-loving child hit a brick wall about long division and "hates division"? Why does a 7 year old need to know long division? Why am I questioning the well-proven track of a recognized math program? Why wouldn't I question it?

There is a line in one of my favorite movies, The Devil Wears Prada, in which Emily says to Andrea, "I rarely say this to anyone other than myself, but you have GOT to calm down."

I think it's easy for me to forget that learning is marathon, not a race. It's okay to hit learning blocks like long division (by the way, I am so with him on the long division woes. Blah.). Homeschool is not "school at home"; unlike an institution balancing hoards of children, I need only assure my own three of success - however that may be defined for them. I need only account for the well-being and growth of three students. Three students in whose success I am extremely invested.

Educating one's own children can be daunting for Type As like myself. I want so badly for my children to love learning that it's a constant inner struggle with myself to make sure my ambitions don't suck the life out of the journey. And just when I think I've ruined their love of learning... I catch Einstein curled up with Ralph S. Mouse. He was reading of his own volition, a book he choose for himself, not prompted by me, not "part of school" because.... he wanted to. I turn around to catch Picasso reading a Froggy book to Trouble and laughing about flies in cake. It's not The Iliad, but it is a 6 year old reading independently for pleasure. On his own volition.

And like food for my soul, it is just the thing this mother's heart needed.

I am finding that, as I find my own path on this journey, it is much more important to me the time we spend with books, great stories, engaging authors, beautiful illustrations, and lots and lots of WORDS. I find I am starting to care less and less about workbooks, worksheets, and things that school teachers need to measure their students' understanding of material. I am growing more confident in oral narrations, and being able to gage for myself their comprehension and appreciation for books. It isn't school at home. The tools teachers need for 25 students aren't the tools I need for 3. As a product of traditionals schools myself, it is hard to unlearn the typical evaluation metrics.

Man, I am getting so stinkin' smart now that I'm about done with second grade. ;)

Happy Mardi Gras and Thoughtful Lenten Season

Today is Mardi Gras, or Martedì Grasso, as it's called in the Roman Catholic Church.

For those of you who have spent your lives in a cave, this is also the last day before the Lenten Season, which starts tomorrow with Ash Wednesday and ends with Easter.

As a child in Catholic school, we were reminded of the 40 days and 40 nights of "sacrifice" by Jesus and encouraged to think of things we could sacrifice. Being a silly willy nilly of a child, I always wanted to sacrifice things like brussel sprouts or my mom's stuffed peppers (Sorry, Mom. You really are a magician in the kitchen, but despite your promises I would someday love them... that someday hasn't arrived.) As I got older and wiser (*coughhackcough*) I jumped on the bandwagon of giving up things like chocolate and soda. But really? How much of a sacrifice is soda when Christ had nails driven through his body, carried a cross, was insulted and shamed and then died, quite likely asphixiating? No Diet Cokes felt... so... trivial.

Eventually I realized there really was nothing I could "give up" that didn't sound silly even to my own rationalizing.

I still understand that Lent is supposed to be a reflection on that time. I also realize that my contributions to humanity will never be as great as sacrificing myself for all human-kind. Or at least, no one's asked me to yet.

So, what can I do for the next 46 days?

Today, on this pancake-eating, Fat-Tuesday of a day... an elliptical machine is suppose to be delivered out here in the Arctic Tundra. It's 5 pm, and the freight company said between 11 am and 3 pm. Ha! I hope that a commitment to better health is a wiser investment of my 'Lenten sacrifice' than giving up chocolate or soda. But... as an out-of-shape, 30something mom who has endured 3 c-sections... don't be surprised if you hear me screaming from Iowa,

"My God, my God, why have You forsaken me?!"

Wordless Wordy Wednesday

"Who ya gonna call?"



So this was going to be my Wordless Wednesday, but now I've laughed so hard I wet my pants twice, almost called my sister, June-Bug, at midnight to laugh some more.




"Back off Man. I'm a Ghostbuster. "

ahoahehoohaoheaoheheaheaoheoahea oh. my. tummy. hurts. My vanity-o-meter is totally depleted. I can never show my face again in public.

Up he grows.

He's four. He's gorgeous. And now, he can reach the light switch.



It may seem like a small milestone - reaching the light switch. Ah... but the independence of this is huge. No more nearly peeing his pants because he's afraid to go potty in the dark. No more screaming out at night because the darkness of the country is darkness like no other.

It does mean that the lights went on in his room more than a dozen times last night. Just when I thought he was asleep, I would hear, "Mom?" and the light would flip on. This went on until midnight. Every 5 to 10 minutes, just to "see". Then he'd switch it back off and scuttle back to bed.

Makes me wonder how he was coping when he was too short to reach. In the meantime, poor poor Picasso, who shares a room with Trouble.

I'm Just "Mom"

I think sometimes we move from one chapter in our lives into another often without being fully cognizant of it. I stood at our kitchen island today, sipping my hot coffee and looking at my boybarians and it dawned on me - I am not the mom of babies anymore. I have not even one diaper in my house. There is no crib set up in the corner of a nursery. We don't even own a sippy cup anymore. Since 1999, it seems my life has revolved around pregnancy, nursing, babies, diapers, sick babies, potty training, bottles, sippy cups and diaper bags. And now, none of that exists here anymore.

I'm strangely not regretful. Yes, I miss little socks and tiny onesies. I miss the smell of freshly bathed babies' heads. But I really feel like this stage is such a good one for us. Everyone in the family is healthy, our doctor appointments are fewer and farther between. My children are getting independent, more self-reliant and need "Mommy" less often.

In fact, a couple days ago my 7-year-old called me "Mommy" and was quickly chastised by his 5-year-old brother.

"Mommy?! You call her 'Mommy'? Only babies say 'Mommy'."

And just like that, I was demoted. I could see the wheels turning in Trouble's little noggin. He is certainly not a baby. I tried to quickly protest, "No... babies don't say anything at all. Older babies sometimes say 'Mama'. I think Big Boys can say 'Mommy'!"

But it was too late. The damage had been done. There are no babies in my house, no one has called me Mommy since that discussion - and now I'm just "Mom".

Oh, Give me a Home...

Apparently those who celebrate a 'Day of Rest' on this holiday don't have three small children. ;)



To celebrate the holiday weekend anyway, the boys requested a trip to see some of the wild animals at a park near our home. We saw elk and buffalo (bison? anyone know the difference?). Einstein sketched what he saw. Check out Daddy Elk's rack - my neck hurt just looking at him.





In other menial news, our Einstein has outgrown his current booster chair. And while that hardly seems news-worthy, I can't believe he is big enough for this step. His new seat has only a place for his bottom. Nothing behind his back; just enough of a boost to allow the seat belt to lay across his chest. I felt so much safer when my babies were strapped in their 5-point-harnesses. =?

We are back-to-school this week! Week 9 for us and our first week at folding in the new language arts plan. Einstein will also be finishing up one level of math and moving into the next (Singapore 3a). History this week is learning about Buddha and Islam, with our project being about the 5 pillars. We actually have 2 chapters planned for 7 days, because my small rural-Iowa library doesn't carry many age-appropriate books on world religion. We'll be relying on Google to help us.

Once there was a Little Girl...

When you were growing up, did you think you'd be where you are now?

At 7, I wanted to be Mary Lou Retton. Or Madonna. Or a veterinarian. Or my 2nd grade teacher. By 17, I think had outgrown most of those fantasies... the uneven bars ripped quarter-sized bloody holes in my hands, I didn't even love my high school's A Capella group; puppies and kitties (even very cute ones) poop a lot. I really hate poop. At 17, I also had a very good science teacher and decided perhaps science was in my future. I would come to later regret that decision, and the fact that I never had any career counseling worth a hoot. I sucked at science. It took only 6 weeks of Organic Chem in college to make me realize that. By that point I was 30-some hours into a science major and unless I was willing to commit to another year of undergrad, I had to suck it up and keep going. I switched, at 19, to Speech Pathology and Audiology. I knew even then that my real love was language. Speech Path was as close of a science major to my love of language as I could get and still graduate. I ultimately also earned enough credits in my second language, Italian, to qualify for a major, too.

By the time I graduated from college, I realized I had no definite employable skills. So I up and moved to Europe. It sounds really hippie dippy, but there was logic in there somewhere. It was the best choice I've ever made. I didn't stay there as long as I would have liked. I ran out of money and was forced to come back to the States to pay off college loans. But while living in Italy, I became fluent, got a job, enrolled in Italian college classes (and somehow finagled American credits for them). I met some dear friends, traveled, saw some of the most beautiful cities on the planet and grew up. A lot. It's a pretty cool feeling to be in strange countries, to be young, independent, and brave. There were times when no one else on the planet knew where I was on the globe except me. The now me, in the age of terrorism, war abroad and anti-American propaganda, mom of 3 boys... this me... finds that terribly reckless and scary. But the 22-year-old me loved it.

It was an age of self-discovery, making choices because I wanted them instead of needing them for a college application, or because someone else thought I should. I went where I wanted to go, saw what I wanted to see, ate when I was hungry, slept when I was tired, and moved on to the next country when I had seen enough.

I'm not exactly sure how I got from globe-trotting to living a fairly homebody existence in a forest in rural Iowa, but it's not a transition I regret. At 23, I met a boy. The boy. And I would have followed him anywhere. Lucky for me, he's only moved about 150 miles in his whole life. So I didn't have much following to do. And while globe-trotting around the world may sound exotic and exciting, nothing fills up a person like creating a home with the one person who makes you truly happy, then filling that home with little boybarians, and making a life that suits you all.

Did I ever think I'd be a 30-something wife, stay-at-home-mom-type who homeschools in Iowa? I promise the 17-year-old version of myself would have found that hysterical.