We started our book learning early this year. With no garden to obsess over, I honed in on the kids, poor dears.

It took us a couple weeks to get up to speed, and we’re still not quite there yet. Workbooks are arriving in the mail every other day, and I’m eagerly awaiting my one big splurge—three different magazines from Cobblestone. I know I could check them out of the library but don’t want to bother. I want to read these magazines out loud at our leisure. So there went nearly a hundred bucks, ouch.

Our schedule is pretty full. I’m sure I’ll relax as we get into the year, start cutting corners and all, but for now, we need the structure. I’m being all sorts of strict, operating under the mantra that declares new teachers should never smile at first. Or something.

I’m surprised by how much I’m enjoying myself. I get bored sometimes, but I’m figuring out how to balance the tedious with the games (this one’s the current favorite), videos, and fun read-alouds. At the end of the day I feel like I’ve accomplished something important. It’s a nice feeling.

But for the details! Oh, the details!

What’s it like to homeschool four high-energy children, you ask? How do I juggle different grade levels and abilities and curriculums and minuscule attention spans and bad attitudes? How do I work in meals and cleaning and puppy training and blogging and business phone calls and walks and movies and a newspaper column? It’s simple, really—

JUST KIDDING!

It’s not simple, not at all. Oftentimes, I’m like a not-funny clown in a really bad juggling act—the kind that drops balls and gets hit by balls and finally, in desperation, hurls balls against the wall. I get irritated and grumpy and then I bite my husband’s head off when it’s not even called for (sometimes it is), like yesterday morning when I came downstairs to discover that all the laundry he had folded was still sitting on the table in neat little stacks.

“How am I supposed to teach the kids when the table is covered in laundry?” I snapped. “If you’re going to do something, do it all the way. I’m sick of following through with the kids—don’t make me have to follow through with you, too!”

He, in turn, has been bemoaning the lack of anything edible in the house. The other morning, he asked, “Where’s all the food we canned this summer?” When I looked up from my writing, there he was, standing by the jelly cupboard, a confused, peeved look on his face.

“Um…in the basement?” My voice dripped sarcasm. “I haven’t had time to bring the jars up. Obviously.”

We’re not always at each other’s throats. Just sometimes. No need to stage an intervention. Yet.

Anyway, back to homeschooling. Where was I? Oh, right. The details.

They are as follows: studies all morning, lunch and rest time, a few more random studies, supper, reading, and bedtime, with play and chores scattered throughout.

I know, I know! That was entirely unsatisfactory. Maybe one of these days I’ll take minute-to-minutes notes of my day. It’d probably make me look ADD, though. Or schizoid.

But maybe I’ll see if I can work it in.

This same time, years previous: whole wheat jammies, coffee fix ice cream, ricotta cheese, and pesto torte

My newspaper column ran yesterday. It was about cinnamon sugar breadsticks.

I had to sit on the recipe for more than two whole weeks while I waited for it to be published. It was agony. I was all squealy-giddy over it and there I was, stuck. With no way to tell you. It was food blogger purgatory. I thought I’d die.

But I didn’t, and now I can finally share the recipe. Thank goodness.

I’ve made these breadsticks on three different occasions. First, I made them on the day that I invented them (duh). Second, I made a double batch when my husband’s sister and her five kids were visiting. Third, I made them this morning immediately after I brought in the paper. I had to push my husband aside while he was reading the column so I could see the ingredient list.

The kids weren’t thrilled that we were having oatmeal for breakfast, but when they heard that we’d have a mid-morning study break with fresh cinnamon sugar breadsticks and milk, they perked right up.

They devoured the whole pan in two shakes of a rat’s tail. I knew they would.

These remind me of cinnamon buns, fresh dinner rolls, and donuts, all rolled into one. They are so easy to make that they’re practically mindless. In fact, they’re almost perverse in their simplicity—no recipe this slapdash should ever be so rewarding.

But hey, I’m not complaining.

Cinnamon Sugar Breadsticks

2½ teaspoons yeast
1 cup warm water
3 cups bread flour
3 packed tablespoons brown sugar
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup oil
4 tablespoons butter, melted
½ cup white sugar
1 tablespoon cinnamon
1 cup confectioner’s sugar, sifted
½ teaspoon vanilla
milk or half-and-half

In a small bowl, combine the yeast and warm water. Set aside for five minutes.

In a large mixing bowl, combine flour, brown sugar, and salt. Stir in yeast and oil. Knead until satiny smooth. Flour the bowl. Return the dough to the bowl, cover with a cloth, and let rise until doubled.

Grease a large, sided baking tray. Roll/press the dough so that it covers the bottom of the pan. Cut the dough down the middle lengthwise and then crosswise about 11 times, aiming for about 24 sticks. Cover the dough and let rise for 30-60 minutes.

Bake the breadsticks at 375 degrees for about 12 minutes. Brush the hot breadsticks with the melted butter and sprinkle generously with the cinnamon sugar (you will have some leftover).

Combine the confectioner’s sugar, vanilla, and enough milk to make a runny icing. Drizzle it over the breadsticks. Serve warm.

Updated March 2014: 
The overnight version: mix up the dough at bedtime and put it straight into the refrigerator in an airtight container. At 3-4 am when you get up to go to the bathroom, put the container on the counter, remove the lid, and cover the dough with a cloth. When you get up for real, roll the dough into the baking tray and follow the recipe as specified.

This same time, years previous: camping, lemon butter pasta with zucchini

One afternoon, I decided I wanted some pictures of my kids jumping. Because the sun was shining and I was bored and I hadn’t played with my camera in a while and, well, just because.

Really, does there have to be a reason? I AM MOM (WITH A CAMERA)! HEAR ME CLICK!

We started out on the deck. Thataway, I could go down the steps and get a ground view of their airbornness.

They did pretty well, but I didn’t like the screen door backdrop.

Also, I wanted a picture of all four kids in a row and there just wasn’t room.

“Let’s go out to the barn,” I said.

“I don’t want to jump,” my younger daughter said.

“Oh, come on. It’ll be fun.”

“Jumping makes me hot,” she argued. “And you just get to sit there in the shade. It’s not fair.”

I hate it when my kids get all logical on me.

“I’ll give you some candy,” I wheedled. (Note to parents: when you can’t win, use sugar.)

Sugar works!

It wasn’t all fun and games, though. Even with a piece of candy dangling in front of them (figuratively speaking—I didn’t actually hang the candy from the edge of the barn roof), they still got balky. Like the infamous animal that shan’t be named but that is related to a horse.

They refused to jump in sync, and they kept shifting their assigned positions so I couldn’t see everyone.

Or they’d start jumping and refuse to stop, even when I was calling out orders.

I have a newfound respect for the people who coach synchronized diving. Or, rather, anyone who coaches anything synchronized.

A fist fight happened, of course. Because fists are how certain people in our family express themselves. And then there were tears and threats of “there won’t be any candy if you don’t get back out there and jump.”

I told some of the kids to look sulky while I ordered one to jump ecstatically.

The one kid couldn’t make herself look mad to save her life.

But then she stuck her tongue out.

That helped.

(Forgive the differently processed photos. I started playing around and then I didn’t feel like taking the time to make everything uniform. Sorry.)

The youngest went on a few solo flights. I call this one “A Study In Right Angles.”

In the end, the youngest fell over with his tongue hanging out.

“I was pretending to be dead,” he told me proudly.

The end.

This same time, years previous: a family photo shoot from 2008 (no jumping, but there was a strangulation)