It’s Friday, whew. This past week was spent in doctors’ offices, as was the week before. I’m sick of doctor’s offices, but the good news is, there should be no more appointments till next Friday. However, seeing as I’ve gotten rather accustomed to watching professionals poke my progeny, there’s a small chance that a string of seven doctorless days might leave me feeling directionless and adrift.

Nah, there’s really no chance of that. I’m stoked to have my life back.

Actually, all those appointments weren’t really that big of a deal—

Wait. I take that back. Last week was a big deal since there were so many unknowns and we kept getting bounced around from place to place. But this week was easier since I kind of knew what to expect and could schedule some Regular Life around appointments. Regular Life is awesome. Regular Life is wonderful. (Even though I do it all the time) Regular Life ought never be taken for granted.

The smartest planning move—the move that made all the difference in the world—was that I picked up some books on tape from the library last Saturday. In the midst of appointment overload, those tapes saved my butt, my eardrums, and my sanity. Like, totally, dude. Every morning when I’d pull out of the driveway on our way to the psychiatrist, ENT, family doctor, or dentist, I’d pop in a tape and a magical hush would descend on the car—until a minute down the road when I’d let out a yell, whip the car around (“kids, tell me if any cars are coming!”), and zip back to the house to get my sunglasses or medical forms or whatever it was I had forgotten.

(At the tail end of the longest trip, a three-hour one, a bit of squabbling broke out. Now, it just so happened that I had been reflecting how easy the trip had been and how wonderful it was that all four kids could enjoy the same book on tape. As I pondered the relaxing car trip we were all enjoying together, it slowly dawned on me that this new turn of events meant the kids might be ready to go on some cool outings—perhaps we could take a trip to the zoo or hit up some DC museums! So when the bickering started up, I launched into a detailed account of my most recent epiphany. I ended with, “But now you’re fighting so maybe you aren’t really ready to do fun stuff like that. Maybe you’re not mature enough to go on longer car rides. Maybe we’ll have to wait till your older till we can do fun stuff.” They shut right up.)

It’s because of the whomping shovel that we’re in this doctoring marathon. While I’m not glad the shovel whomped, nor am I glad it whomped my kid (heavens no), I must admit that if the shovel had to whomp, I’m glad it whomped my little boy and not my little girl.

My little boy is a real champ when it comes to doctors. He follows every instruction, grinning mutely and hugely, and never complains. He is the complete opposite of his sister (thank goodness), his sister who is otherwise known as the Doctor-Kicking, Curtain-Climbing, Fire-Spitting Wild Cat.

I find it interesting that two of my children can be so completely different. But instead of perplexing me, tying me up in knots (what did I do wrong?), their oppositeness soothe me. Kids are different. It’s them, not me. I can no more blame myself for my daughter’s horrible behavior than I can pat myself on the back for my son’s stellar patient performance. It’s just the way it is (or, they’re just they way they are), no mother guilt necessary (though a hefty dose of forbearance is all-important).

Next Friday my baby’s toughness gets put to the test. That’s the day I get to take him to the hospital where he’ll be put under (I keep saying, “he’ll be put down,” much to my husband’s consternation) so they can cap his tooth with some shiny stainless steel. I’m not too worried about the surgery (I get to take my computer along and drink coffee so I’m kind of excited), but I’ll be very glad when it’s all over and we can spend our mornings in our house instead of our car.

This same time, years previous: sky-high biscuits, fire-safe

My son got struck with the notion to build himself another fort—we already have this one and this one—so he claimed a spot down below the chicken coop (yet another one of the outbuildings that pockmarks our land) and got busy.

At first he was so consumed with his work that I could hardly get him to come inside to eat his supper and at night he didn’t come in till it was dark dark.

My husband’s workday is punctuated with pressing phone calls from my son.

Hi Papa. Can you pick me up ten pounds of nails?

Hi Papa. Do you have a battery-powered jig saw I can use?

Hi Papa. Do you think you could buy me a handsaw? The one I’m using doesn’t work too well.

Hi Papa. You don’t need those old stairs on the burn pile, do you?

Hi Papa. The house wrap that’s in the barn? Can I have it?

My husband comes home after work and stares down into the field at the growing monstrosity, and then he sighs, “It’s so ugly. And all those nails—I just know the field will be full of them.”

“Hon!” I chide. “They’re having fun! Who cares what it looks like! Relax.”

“Yeah, yeah, you’re right. And it is right next to the burn pile. We can just torch it when they’re done.”

Don’t worry. It won’t get torched for quite some time. I, for one, will flaunt it while it lasts. It’s a Monument To Childhood and I’m rather fond of it.

The other day I read some blog post in which a homeschooling mother admitted that she, out of deference to the public school system, doesn’t let her kids play outside till three o’clock in the afternoon. She’s afraid of what people will think if they see her kids running around during school hours.

When I read that, my jaw dropped. I don’t believe that thought—to restrict my kids to the regular school schedule—has ever crossed my mind, at least not recently enough that I can remember. I mean, the whole point of homeschooling is so that my kids DON’T have to be restricted to that unnatural schedule!

Yesterday, that blog post still fresh in my mind, I stood at the window watching and thought, Just let someone try to tell me my kids aren’t learning! Ha! Of COURSE they’re learning! It’s called math! Wha—? You don’t see a measuring tape anywhere? OPEN YOUR EYES, Doofus! Do you see the triangle? The cube? The parallel lines? They’ve done gone and BUILT themselves a freakin’ GEOMETRY lesson, for crying out loud!

Not that I normally look at my kids zipping around the back forty on their bikes and think physics, see them collecting the eggs and deheading bugs and think biology, or watch them pull each other’s hair out and think social skills. No, no, no, not at all. I’m too busy being happy that they’re out of my house to bother with all that educational lingo-schmingo.

Already, my kids’ fort has far surpassed the forts of my childhood, the little nooks we made in the freshly dumped truckload of firewood, the shady hollows tucked down under the tall evergreens. And their skill with power drills and knowledge of building procedure—the actual application of it, plus the love of it—puts them in an altogether different league than I ever was, or will be, in. I suspect that eventually less nails will be wasted, measuring tapes will actually get used, and their works of art won’t make my husband cringe and duck.

Until then, he can cringe till he has a crick in his neck, say I. The kids are playing their hearts out and there is no way I’m going to stop them.

They have no plans to stop, either. I’ve heard rumors that once the second story gets under roof, a porch is next. My daughter has already dug up some ground for a flowerbed. Perhaps my husband and I will be experiencing an empty nest earlier than we anticipated? If that happens, I think a tin can telephone might be in order.

P.S. Don’t be fooled by my husband’s fussing and whining. He’s actually pleased as punch that the kids are taking such an interest in all things tool belt.

This same time, years previous: soda crackers and Sweetsie’s birth story

I think of so many little things to tell you off and on throughout the day, but then I sit down to write them out and am brought up short by the disturbing realization that either all my great thoughts were really half-baked bits of crazy or they’re all insufferably mundane, and then I’m left slouching here on the green couch, my sliver of cake eaten, my cup of coffee only just barely sipped at, and with no idea how to get you to the point where I want to take you which is, in today’s case, these potatoes and onions.

Ha! I did it! I got you passed the car wreck on 64E, the birthday evening, a sappy tirade about belly dance and how it’s changed my self-image (kind of), me screaming PIANO IS A BYPRODUCT at my 11-year-old son, the extensive fort construction that’s going on down in the field, my profound thoughts on eternity and clean rooms, a cute sock monkey, my monumental paradigm shifts about money, and brought you skidding—uuuurch!—to a halt right where I wanted you to be. Aren’t I amazing?

Nah, I’m really not that great. But these potatoes? Oh my. They smote me over the head with their luscious deliciousness, so much so that I couldn’t even gather my wits enough to write about them. Until now, that is. Now I’m setting to, organizing my priorities, writing out the facts so that all may partake in the experience of being smitten.

I write about these potatoes not only because they are delicious (are they ever) but also because they are so so easy to prepare. It’s not even really a recipe, more of a technique, but boy, is it ever one heck of a technique! I’m keeping this Tater Technique stuck in my belt so it’ll always be right on hand, ready to be whipped out at the least provocation.

So, what you do is this. Wash a bunch of potatoes and peel a couple onions—about four parts potato to one part onion. Thinly slice the potatoes (I used my mandoline), and even thinlier slice the onions. In a greased baking dish, make a layer of potatoes followed by a layer of onions, a hearty grind of pepper, a flurry of salt, and some thin slivers of butter. Repeat till there are no more onions and potatoes left. Cover the pan with foil and bake in a hot oven until the potatoes are fork-tender. Remove the foil and sprinkle some freshly grated Parmesan cheese over top. Bake for another 10 minutes or so.

While the pan is in the oven, this is what happens: the butter and salt soak into the potatoes, the onions soften and sweeten, the cheese bubbles and browns, and the house smells like someone cares. It’s really quite the transformation. (Especially after living on pancakes, eggs, granola and oatmeal for three days.)

For a quick Saturday night supper, serve the potatoes and onions as the main dish with green beans and applesauce. And jealously guard the leftovers—they’ll go mighty fine with your breakfast eggs.

Potatoes and Onions
Adapted from Mama Pea over at A Home Grown Journal

The proportions are just guesstimates. I never bothered to measure.

8-10 cups of potatoes, washed, unpeeled, and thinly sliced
2-3 cups onions, peeled, halved, and very thinly sliced
6-8 tablespoons cold butter, cut into thin slices
salt and pepper
½ – 1 cup freshly grated Parmesan cheese

Place a layer of potatoes in the bottom of a greased 9 x 13-inch baking dish. Layer on some onions. Dot with butter and sprinkle with salt and pepper. Repeat layers till all the potatoes and onions are used up. Finish with a final dotting of butter and sprinkling of S&P. Cover the potatoes with foil and bake at 400 degrees for 45 minutes, or until the potatoes are fork-tender. Remove the foil and sprinkle the potatoes with the cheese. Bake for another 10 minutes or so. Serve hot.

This same time, years previous: red raspberry-rhubarb pie