• Maybe Not A True Confession

    January 2, 2009

    What better way to start a new year than to bare my two-faced soul. I’ve thought about this a lot—about how I say one thing, and mean it, but yet I do something different, or think something different. I suppose you could say that means I’m a balanced person because I understand the other side, and maybe there’s some truth to that. It’s hard for me to say there is only one way. Actually, it’s easy for me to say there is only one way; it’s just hard to follow that one way. Actually, I’m not sure I believe there is only one way. But I have to give myself some limits, because if I didn’t, I would flounder about. And when I flounder I look very unladylike.

    Now. I will stop pontificating and just show you what I’m talking about. My mother always did say show, don’t tell, in regards to writing. (Come to think of it, lots of writers probably say that all the time, not only my mother. It’s just that my mother chanted that line to me, over and over again, as she tore my papers to shreds, I mean, edited my papers, so that in my mind that line is my mother’s.)

    *I am a die-hard homeschooler. But, just the other week when we were visiting my parents at their home and Mr. Handsome and I were out on a walk by our lonesomes, it occurred to me that if I sent my children to school then next year I would have only one child at home with me. And in two years I would have no children at home with me. I could have eight hours a day to spend as I please! Incredulous excitement welled up inside me. “Can you imagine!” I squealed to Mr. Handsome, as I bounced along on my toes for several steps. “No kids at home? Think of all the things I could do!” Of course I then realized that I would most likely promptly fill up that time with projects and work so that I would be just as busy and stressed as I am now, and sending my kids to school would open a whole new can of problematic worms, so I’m not going to do it. But that’s not the point. The point is that I can very clearly see why people do it. And I can see that I could do it, too.

    *As a homeschooler, I believe that kids learn best when they are interested in what they are learning, and I think a lot of (maybe all of) rote school work is unnecessary. In fact, I think curriculums aren’t really beneficial, and are quite possibly detrimental. But, despite my gut feelings and reading the works of good, well-founded research that supports my gut feelings, I still buy the occasional curriculum and have them do some workbook pages.

    *I am adamantly opposed to TV. I have lots of reasons, some of which I’m sure I’ll write about here (a whole chapter of our book is dedicated to anti-TV rants). However, and here I am ducking my head and mumbling, IlovetowatchTV.

    When Mr. Handsome and I lived in Nicaragua, we craved TV. We fantasized that the multicolored wall-hanging that was above our little makeshift sofa (a piece of bedsheet-wrapped foam on a board) hid a huge flatscreen TV. Occasionally we would travel and need to stay in a hotel, and then we made certain we picked out hotels that had cable TV. We would flop on the bed and watch TV for hours. The highspeed chitter-chatterings and the swirling colors numbed our minds. Granted, our little splurges into mainstream media did not restore our weary souls, but they did grant us a means of escape, and that was worth the extra twenty-five or fifty córdobas that we had paid for the higher-scale hotel room.

    Furthermore, I like to watch movies. And I like to watch movies with the kids. And sometimes Iusemoviesasababysitter.

    Whew, saying that was really hard.

    But now for the biggest confession, which isn’t really a confession of a hypocrisy—it’s more of a Laying-Bare-My-Soul type of thing. The first two items I listed are just revealing how I think. I mean, I’m still homeschooling my kids, and no one can really fault me for struggling to discern my way as I teach my children. Muddling through is a given.

    But that part about TV and movies, well. I have good reasons for hating the machine (maybe I should write about those next because otherwise you might be thinking that I’m a rebel without a cause), and here I am doing what I hate. Admitting that I like TV is really not all that difficult because all feeling are okay, and at least I’m practicing what I preach: we don’t have one (kind of). But watching movies? How different is that, really, from TV? They both involve staring at a little box.

    Oh, and this part is where things get muddy and murky and just plain unsettling. Because what am I doing right now? I’m staring at a little box as I type on this here computer.

    Is there really that much difference between TV and movies and the internet and the computer? There are obvious differences, yes, but I am fully (well, okay, at least partially) aware of how many hours of my week are directed at this little screen. How would I, my family, and my community be different if this little box were not a part of my life? Could I go for one week without emailing, blogging, typing, watching DVDs? What about six months?

    I could still write, of course. We do have pen and paper, after all.

    What would I gain if I gave up this little black (um, actually it’s gray) box? My mother used to say something like: “You must desire to do the right thing. If doing the right thing is your deepest desire, than giving up the bad stuff isn’t as hard.”

    I’m not ready to give it up (and one could argue that I shouldn’t, but let’s leave that argument alone for now), and I probably never will be ready. Not unless I can clearly see the benefits, which would involve drastically creative measures in which I would desperately seek out ways to entertain myself and stave off boredom, such as having people over for dinner, volunteering, or taking a class. I would go outside more (maybe). I would definitely read more.

    How much of my life am I missing out on because of this little box?

    This post has turned way more pensive than I had originally intended. I’m afraid I’m making myself a tad too vulnerable. Baring my inconsistencies is not all fun and games… Oh no! It just now occurred to me that I have royally floundered my way through this post—now I have done gone and proved that I am not a lady. Rats. My only comfort is that I know none of you can point fingers at me, in regards to the media, since—Ha! Gotcha’!—you are reading this post.

    I’m not deciding anything just yet, and I maybe never will. If I don’t, though, then this is not a true confession, since true confessions are supposed to lead to change.

    In the meantime, I’m gonna go check facebook and read some other blogs.

    Note: The list of things I am two-faced about is really much longer than those measely three points. But I’m pretty worn out after writing about those. I may add to the list at a later date, but please, please be ladylike and refrain from pointing out my hypocrisies for me. As my mother always says, “Remove the log from your own eye before trying to take the speck out of someone else’s eye.” Or did some other great person say that, like maybe Jesus?

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  • Nuggets From….

    December 31, 2008

    my Exceptionally Talented Therapist Friend:

    1. What everyone needs is to be delighted in.

    2. Each of your children has a specific emotional need that only you can meet. Remember, each child connects differently with each parent. Figure out what that emotional connecting point is for each of your children, and then refer back to it often—it will help you cut through all the extemporaneous crap and get to the core of what they really need.

    I’m still mulling over those gems, and I think I will be for a very long time.

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  • A Little Elaboration

    December 28, 2008

    So I didn’t get around to writing about all the Christmas cookies I made: the Cranberry-Orange Biscotti, or the Rosemary-Pine Nut Shortbread, or the Raspberry-Cream Cheese Brownies (chicken food—under-baked), or the Turtle Bars (more chicken food—overly-browned pecans), but I’m just going to forgive myself and move on. There’s always next year…

    I don’t even really know where to go with this post. I’m out of practice, writing-wise, and I don’t know how to say everything, or what to say of anything, so maybe I’ll say nothing. Nah, that’s too easy. How about a brief rundown of the past week, with a little elaboration on the points of interest?

    In regards to my mother’s Birthday Bash, you can read about it here. Let me just add that when Yo-Yo heard that his Grandmommy was now sixty, he said something like, “She doesn’t even look old!”

    That Sunday, after Mr. Handsome had walked around popping balloons and tearing down the paper chains, the Northern and Southern cousins descended upon us, and our house was immediately filled to the brim.


    It was freezing cold outside, but that didn’t stop the children, even the Southern ones, from periodically dashing outside to jump on the trampoline.


    And it didn’t stop me from frying donuts, outside on the porch.

    Niece Lauren

    When I set my mind on making donuts, there isn’t much that can stop me. Not even 15 degree weather. It was cold, people, cold! As in, leave a wet dishcloth on the picnic table and it promptly freezes solid. As in, take only one tray of the risen donuts outside at a time, plop them into the hot oil, and then rush the tray with its few remaining donuts back into the house before they turn into Dough Rocks.


    Little Niece Claire noticed that my hands were freezing so she thoughtfully brought me her Mama Kate’s big, red, warm mittens to wear. Bless her little heart.


    Here she is, chipmunking a donut while simultaneously glazing donuts and trying not to smile.


    I think homemade donuts taste better in freezing cold weather.


    Because trying to stay warm by jumping up and down and shivering violently does wonders for an appetite.


    Which is good when there are donuts around.


    That’s why it’s good to make donuts in cold weather.


    On Monday evening the Southern Cousins performed Lumbricus Terrestris, a play in six parts.


    It was The Real Thing—little neon wavy things distributed pre-show to the audience, props, memorized lines, songs, and even a game show complete with customized prizes for each mesmerized child.


    Then the cousins left, and we had Major Meltdown on Christmas Eve. Ho! Ho! Ho! Come bedtime, Mr. Handsome and I were so exhausted that we simply could not stay up to get the stockings filled, so we set our alarm for midnight and went to bed with the kids. In the wee hours of the morning we stuffed stockings, left a note from Santa, ate the plate of cookies for Santa, put Rudolph’s carrot back in the crisper, set out a basket of peanuts (from Santa), left another little note from Santa on the whiteboard in the hallway, and then stumbled back up to bed…


    Only to be awakened by Sweetsie at two o’clock—she was worried that Santa might get stuck in the chimney. For every hour or so, for the rest of the night, she would say, “Mama, mama, MAMA! Is it morning yet? Is it Christmas yet?”

    It was a rough night.

    (By the way, let me say here that we have always been very clear with our children that Santa is not real. However, back a couple years, despite our deliberate explanations, Yo-Yo insisted that Santa was indeed real. Mr. Handsome and I studied our options and then decided, What the heck, let’s have some fun with this.

    Now, Yo-Yo and Miss Becca Boo are fully aware that Santa is not real, but even so, after hearing me give Sweetsie a big lecture on the Santa Myth, Yo-Yo said, “Can’t we just pretend that Santa’s real? I like it better that way.” I told him that yes, we would do that, but I just needed to make sure that Sweetsie understood that we were playing a game.

    Apparently, if she’s up at night fretting over Santa getting his big rear jammed in our chimney, then she’s a little fuzzy as to the nature of this game. But at least I’m not lying.)

    Christmas Day was low-key. Well, as low-key as a day can be when your children are subsisting on a corn syrup-based diet. They did not have naps, and we put them to bed at a blessedly decent hour, after which we got to watch a movie, just the two of us, and then go to bed at a not-so decent hour.

    The next morning we were two hours late getting off for our trip to PA. Two hours! I think you can determine for yourselves, based on that information, on the texture (rough, smooth, satiny, coarse, prickly) of our morning.

    We visited the Great G’s, and then my girlfriend Amber, who has moved back into her growing-up home. (Remember that house, the one I raved about?) On the car ride there, I regaled my children with all sorts of stories, about how the little ditch at the edge of the yard turns into a stream after it rains, about the two sets of staircases, about the five-story barn and how Amber and I pretended to be vets with all the barn cats, about the two-seater outhouse, about the fabulous basement—one of the rooms of which sometimes gets several inches of water on the floor. About, about, about…

    By the time we turned into the mile-long driveway, my kids were psyched. They were pumped. They were twitching and chattering. We let them unbuckle their seatbelts (“Keep your butts on your seats!”) and perch on the edge of their seats, straining to be the first to see the bigger-than-life old stone house. Imagine their thrills (and mine) when we came to the little culvert-bridge and saw that the little gully was filled with water: “It’s a creek! It’s a creek!” We pulled up to the house, parked the van, and the kids jumped out and took off running. Before we could turn around and say “Hi, Amber, Merry Christmas”, they were the whole way down across the giant yard, on the other side of the creak, soaked and mud-spattered.

    After shucking shoes and changing only the most-soaked clothing items, I gave the children a tour of the house (Guess what! The floor of the basement’s Bread Room was covered in water!) and then settled down to visit with Amber in the kitchen. Later we learned that the kids went wading … in the basement. But of course. It was clear that the kids had caught my enthusiasm for the place.

    Then back into the van for a short little drive over to my Aunt Val’s where we met up with the rest of the family and for the next 24 hours we feasted and sang (fiddle, banjo, guitars, the spoons, a shaker, harmonica, a washtub bass), watched YouTube videos, played Take One, held the babies, congratulated the newly engaged couple, told stories and gossiped. Then last night after dark, we threw the melting down kids into the car and drove home through pea-soup fog, getting fabulously lost on I83 and having a crash-bang yelling fight, and then, upon finally getting home, falling into bed at midnight.

    Miss Becca Boo and Yo-Yo were Mary and Joseph at church this morning, and now we are home, home, home. We’re eating cereal, reading books, cleaning and unpacking, doing laundry, and now I am sitting in my bed, the computer propped up on the Usborne Time Traveler Book, listening to Becca Boo’s radio belt out fuzzily “What a Beautiful Mess I’m In” (aaah-ah, ah-aaah), blogging. It’s an Ah-Moment, most definitely.

    Aaaaah.

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