Tidbits

I miss writing.  I am not sure how on earth I can fit it in.  Days blur by.  We homeschool.  We cook and clean.  We tend Grandpa.  We deal with the forest and it's surprises.  I try "to Art" (as my secret brain calls it), but am usually too tired.  So, blog-schmog.

But there are a few things happening that should really be recorded.

Jonah has begun reading.  Really, really reading.  Last year at this time he was agonizing through, "Pat can tap the map.  Tap, Pat, tap!"  One year later, and he is reading a 5th grade chapter book called  Because of Winn-Dixie (which he prounounces WINN-dixie, like Windex).  It is still a struggle.  He still gets stuck on words with b's and d's (bdbdbdbdbdb...wouldn't you?), and we bumble along together slowly, but HE chose the book, and he chooses it again and again every day at reading time.  And he choses every day to try, very, very hard.  I am in awe of him.  And because he loves being read to, he pays me for “extra chapters” in the books I read aloud to him, by reading TO ME for five extra minutes per mom-read chapter.  Deliciously, the author we are currently reading is the master of chapter cliff hangers, always leaving him wanting.

Tessa has begun high school.  It has been a brutal transition.  Tessa was a "casual" student in middle school, not worried or terribly serious.  Very chill.  But she is our first child to hold any interest in College, with its high degree of scholarly expectation.  Her online high school is full of teachers to hold her accountable that don't share her DNA.  She is newly motivated to succeed, and has already been heard to say, "But I'm ALMOST down to a B!!!"  It's uncharted territory for me as a parent.

Ellie is transitioning.  Adulthood is around the very near corner, and she is making plans.  She talks about moving out, and job plans.  She got her covid-belated driver's license today. She suddenly cares about school.  I hear the rustling from within her cocoon.

Adam is thriving in Utah.  He is learning to balance life.  Adam never learned to "hang out with friends" until the last two months of his senior year.  While the sudden joy of that discovery was really a relief to me (isolated and introverted teenagers worry mamas), there was a learning curve that took it's toll on his savings.  He has struck a lovely balance now between work and play, and is expanding his social circle, which was tiny for too long.  He has found a real  love-of-learning about all things Viking, which has expanded to history, archeology, ancient languages and even his own genealogy.  It's a glorious thing to watch, and I have been learning along side him so that I can understand all that he is absorbing.  This week I found myself touring an online Norwegian Viking museum, and attempting tablet weaving.  I failed, but I will keep trying.  I have a goal to make Adam a gift for Christmas; a woven Viking belt, a replica of the one found on the Oseberg Burial Ship.  Yep, I'm geeking out.

Ethan's not very vocal about his world, but work seems good, and he is coping well with lame car disappointments.  Between work and his own personal study, he has piled more skills onto his already broad knowledge of all things mechanical and electrical.  I'm so proud of him.

The sea-sickness Guy was suffering from the wildly rolling waves of his new principal job seems to be subsiding.  He is learning which wheels are truly in need of aid, and which will continue to squeak unappreciative to any amount of oil given.  We are finding a rhythm, which includes some later nights, and my learning an all-new jargon.  There should be an "Orientation for Spouses of New Admins", including a dictionary, program flow charts, and a little training on grief counseling.  The first two months were very hard.  Hard, plus covid.  Everybody is mad at school administrators, as though they knew this was coming and hadn't bothered to plan for it.  "Fair" has lost all meaning in a world where there simply are not answers, where need and demand outnumber available manhours threefold, and where people are screaming to get their never-again "normal" back, and they are screaming it at YOU.  Try stepping into that chaos on your first day.  Hard.  Really hard.

One more thing... I found a new doctor.  It's just the very beginning of what will likely become a long and difficult process.  But I am hopeful that by this time next year, I will show as much improvement in my health as Jonah has in his reading. 

Oh!  And Natalie lost her first two teeth, and one more is starting the dangle-dance.  There is a comfortable, if not slightly sad, predictability in that little detail.  I don't know what the future holds, but I do know that tooth isn't going to be there come Thanksgiving.  

A Bottle of Mud

See, Jonah-boy likes to make potions.  

Well, sometimes they're science experiments.

He calls it school.  

There is always water,  

There are usually a variety of botanicals;

 leaves, grass clippings, flower petals. 

Far too often,

  illicit food coloring is involved.

  Always, the concoction is carefully brewed in a plastic water bottle.

When it's a science experiment, I'll often find it on a table top, a bookshelf, or in a cupboard.   Now, potions on the other hand, they might be in a drawer, a treasure chest... under a pillow. 

Cuz, you know, 

mysterious.

This time it involved a boy's best friend; dirt.

(you do the math: dirt + water = ____ )  

I don't know if it was molecular or mystical, because I never saw it this particular fusion first hand.

 I only saw the aftermath...

A seriously clogged drain. 

 I called Jonah in and showed him the cistern of slop.  

His mouth dropped open when he realized the mechanics of mud in pipes. 

 "Oh, Mom, I'm so sorry."

And he really was.

And he figured that was the end of it, 

so he turned to walk away.

"Hey, buddy, guess what?

"What?"

"Today, you get to learn how to unclog a drain."

Talk about natural consequences, baby!

(fast forward past the extraction of the six inch girl-hair plug that turned out to be the real problem, cuz' EWW!  I gotta say, though, Jonah was really proud of how he wrangled the tangled tresses out of the drain with a shish-kebab skewer. 

Re-spect.)

But, as any home-plumber knows, the end of the clog does not mean the end of the job.  As I was putting the plug assembly back together, the tired old plastic pivot nut snapped.

Hence, on to...

...the internet (to learn that it's called a pivot nut, because the guys at Lowe's look at me funny when I call things Doo-Hickies).

...the hardware store (to learn that they don't sell pivot nuts by themselves.  Of course. Because that would be too simple).

...home, with my new drain assembly (to learn that the new pipe is an inch too short).

...the hardware store (sigh.  Seriously.  It's a conspiracy)

....home and under the sink...

with another little helper.

So Jonah learned how to unstop a drain, and also that the magic leaks out of the potion once you dump it in the sink.  I learned that Guy is right.  Plumbing is stupid.  And expensive.  And a conspiracy.  And, I hope, Nano learned somewhere in her little brain that girls can fix things.

All that learning from one little bottle of mud.

Not bad.

I guess Jonah-boy is right.  It really was school.

Math and Mercy

All year we have been looking forward to the last day of school.  Yah, 'cuz duh, it's the last day, but also, because of the ice cream.

The kids worked this year on memorizing times tables, and as incentive, the moms (Kathy and I) dangled a banana-split flavored carrot - first kid to memorize all of their times tables got to have a banana split party, hosted by the other family.  Each item in the sundae was connected to a number... 0's = Dish, 1's = spoon, 2's = banana - you get the idea.

Of course, Owen won the honor of not hosting the party by finishing first.  He knocked it out of the park, as usual.  The rest of the kids dragged along learning just the easy ones, or the ones that were coupled with their favorite items.  Tessa realized she had only earned a banana and sprinkles, and moved ahead to earn some ice cream before bothering with toppings (6-9) or a cherry (12).  Ellie puttered along, not trying too hard, and not making much progress.  She figured she had time to spare. 

The day arrived for the party.  I told my girls they had to actually know the tables, not just have checked them off weeks ago, only to have forgotten them.  It was then they realized that they hadn't earned much.  Time was almost up.  There ensued a mad rush to learn and earn toppings.  But it was too late, and Ellie found herself with only a banana and two scoops of ice cream earned.  Tessa had a banana, one scoop and sprinkles, but seemed to take it in stride, knowing that this would not be the last banana split she would ever eat in her life.  But as we were dishing up the fancy treats into fancy boats, I noticed we were one child short.  Ellie had gone missing.

I wandered the house and found her under her quilt, tear streaked and tragic.  She was sad to be missing out on all of the choices, she was miffed that there had not been more time (only 4 months!), and she was embarrassed, first that her sundae would show to everyone in the room how little she had earned, and also that she had been, as she put it, "a cry baby".

I tried to comfort and encourage, but the bottom line was this: she had made her choice when there was time to choose, and now, in fairness to everyone, she must live with her choice.  But it broke my heart.  I remember missing out on a party that my 5th grade teacher offered each Friday to kids who had gotten all of their homework in.  I had cried, and the teacher wanted to just let me come to the party, but I knew I didn't belong there.  That almost felt worse.

As Kathy and I tried to coax Ellie out to enjoy what she had earned, we exchanged troubled expressions with each other.  We knew how much this hurt her on the pain-scale of an eleven year old girl.  We knew we had to be fair to the kids who had worked hard for their reward.  As Kathy and I scooped ice cream for Ellie, we found ourselves being a bit generous with the size of scoops we gave her, somehow compensating a little for what would not be there.  We wanted badly to show her Mercy.  It was so tempting to just give her a full sundae, but it wouldn't be fair to the rest.  I think "fair" was redefined for me that day in some subtle ways.

I have always told my kids, "Fair is not 'everyone gets the same'.  Fair is 'everyone gets what they need.'  It would be fair if we all got wheelchairs, but we don't all need them."  The lecture resolves with me explaining how the perceived injustice they are whining about now isn't what they need, necessarily.

I am learning that just as the reward was tailored to the effort of the individual, in the future I need to consider the requirement.  We had not required Jonah to do any of the math memorization.  He's three.  Lauren had memorized a few addition and subtraction facts, but earned her whole sundae, not for what she retained, but for how hard she tried.  But we had clumped all of the other kids together just because of their ages, neglecting to consider temperament and attention levels.  Maybe that wasn't quite fair.

I think in the future I would have a different set of expectations for each child.  One might be based on effort, another, quantity... speed, scholarship, time spent; possibly as many ways as there are children.  It would seem that in this way both Justice and Mercy may be served.

Ellie didn't eat her ice cream until the Jensen's had gone home that day.  By then she had been able to enjoy it a little.  She came to me later and asked if we could try again, feeling that next time she knows she would work harder.  I told her that sounded like a great idea.  Second chances and Mercy go hand in hand.

Landing the Big Promotion

Back in the early 1700's when I was a kid, our parents threw us out of the door in the morning after a hearty bowl of oatmeal, and let us back in if we could show them a decent report card at the end of the day.  Those were simpler times, when your teacher could snitch on you for rotten behavior and not worry that they would get sued.  When you took your lunch to school in a metal lunch box, and only graduated once, not every time you moved up a school.  Ah, the good old days.

I wasn't a terrific student.  Maybe okay, but I was no award winner.  So I am all the more impressed when one of my spring-offs makes happy ripples in the pond of his or her life.  

We got an invitation to the Middle School awards ceremony for Adam.  It didn't say what he would be getting, so the event held a little mystery for us all, even Adam.

At the ceremony he was called up early in the program to stand with the other Honor Students in recognition of a GPA over 3.0.  Not bad for a kid who jumped over from homeschool in January.  I thought it might take him a while longer to get his bearings in public school, but he seemed to have no trouble at all.  He had come home each day, done his homework without being asked (I know, cool, huh?), and generally made pretty good choices.  Honor student material for sure.

Then came the rest of the program with high honors and uber-high honors, and "I-will-be-performing-brain-surgery-in-10-years" honors. There were a few kids that were up 5, maybe even 8 times.  I became one of their fans just listening to all the things at which they excelled, and feeling glad to know that my kid was brushing shoulders with them. 

Then Adam's favorite teacher got up to read out his award winners.  He paired each with a quote, and toward the end of his list, he said, " "With great power comes great responsibility." In a really difficult 7th and 8th grade class, this guy always chose to do the right thing!"

I knew what name he would read next.

Adam.

My eyes were already filled with tears because I knew this about Adam.  His teacher had sent an email early in the semester saying the same thing; that no matter what the rest of the class was doing, Adam could be counted on to be doing the right thing.  Always.  Of course, I hadn't needed to be told.  We know this about Adam.  I mean, sure, he's not perfect, in fact, about two months ago he may have rolled his eyes at me, and his room has the funk of death, but his moral compass is always pointed in the right direction.  I have actually seen Adam abruptly walk away from a situation that seemed to be heading for trouble.  He's a good kid.

Later in the week there was a promotion ceremony.  I'm not sure why.  They are all heading off for High School whether they like it or not.  500 people crammed a quad in 90+ degree heat with camping chairs and strained to hear their special kid's name called on the crackly and muffled loud speakers.  

But though all of the hoopla seemed unnecessary, I still got excited when Adam's name was called.  I got on tip toes to see over the heads of the crowd that now crammed the quad shoulder to shoulder, and yelled a little "Yay!" in the .04 second pause between his name and the next.  It's easy for my mind to rush ahead to the real graduation we will attend in four short years.  I suppose it was good to have this dry run as a reminder to enjoy these last few years with him in our nest.

*****

I am very proud of you Adam.  I imagine you may not read my blog posts until you are a grown up, but I know you will have always known how proud we are of you.  You are sensitive and kind hearted.  You will be a great man, and I know, because you are a great young man.  You are a hard worker, an honest person, and a youth with integrity.  I love you.

Adam and Jessica went to kindergarten together
and remain supportive friends

Quite the little crowd.  Jonah refused to be in the picture.

First Day (of school) or (the rest of your life)

I get a little fixated 

on beginnings and endings.  I see them so symbolically that I can hardly function within them on a literal level.  I mean, who can enjoy birthday cake when you know this will be the last ever second birthday 

you will ever, ever, ever celebrate with your child!?!?

So my current fixation plays out thusly 

(I know, not a word, at least not in this century):

Last year was my year to "get it all figured out" (homeschool, that is.  I have allotted an entire decade to figure out LIFE.  Wish me luck).  So, this year I should be prefect at it.  OK, not perfect, but totally cool-calm-and-relaxed, man.  

I should have no more doubts, fears or hang-ups.  Smooth sailing.

Ha. 

I have been the one feeling a bit nervous.

We did OK today staying on our routine; exercise, chores, reading, science...

and at some point during the day, somewhere between learning how to fix the electrical system on the doll house (thank you Gatlin, for the lesson and help!) and teaching Ellie how to make chicken noodle soup from scratch, I began to think about "the first day of school".  

For me, as a child, that meant the excitement of new clothes, new shoes, and hair ribbons- those chunky yarn ones.  By the sixth grade it meant a daily stomach ache and throwing up every morning for the first two weeks of school.  At first school was fun, but soon enough it had become terrifying and dreaded.

Even around here it used to mean new backpacks, new lunch boxes, and a picture taken on the front walk as we headed to the car.  Today was different.  Today school meant getting up much earlier than our lazy summer routine, but other than that, there were no jitters, no new clothes, no huge change. 

But by the end of the day something had changed for me.  My neighbor was showing me, with disgust, the assignment her 6th grader had been given.  Her son stated "They are totally giving me college work!" with a head shake and an eye roll.  Mom mentioned she might complain, holding it out to me for my commiseration

 (that IS a real word.  Look it up.).

I read the work.  It was pretty detailed reading, I will admit.  But what I really thought inside my head was, "Well, yes it's challenging.  Isn't it supposed to be?",  realizing that I wouldn't mind reading that text to all three of my home-educated kiddos.  The difference being, we would read it, discuss it, look up words we didn't know, and maybe even go find some follow up information online to learn more.  We would do it together, and each kid would work at their own level of capability.  There would be no test, because I would be able to tell if they understood.  It would never have occurred to me that it might be too difficult, because we work on difficult lessons all the time, and I know that if I take care to explain, even little Tessa gets a lot of the concepts.  

And if she doesn't, I am so OK with that.  

She has the rest of her life to learn.

I began to feel sorry for kids who are isolated in public school,

 expected to do so much learning alone.

This evening as I coached Ellie through making her first pot of homemade chicken noodle soup for her daddy who lay sick in bed, our brains were wrapped up in the science of it.  Interesting how the carrots took a little longer to soften than the potatoes, how the pasta swelled, the way the broth boiled, the movement of the steam.  We talked about our use of leftover chicken with new ingredients, and how that can be done with a lot of things, and not just with cooking.  We talked about time management, how each item is added in a certain order, and how we can take advantage of our waiting time by tidying up the kitchen.  

By the time dinner was served, I had:

- a healthy meal for my sick honey

- several grateful and complimentary soup-lovers around the table

- fewer left-overs in my fridge

- an opportunity to teach my daughter cooking and science 

and planning and re-purposing

and 

- a confident and proud 9 year old

who can now make soup

(and hook lights up to a circuit!)

(I wonder which skill she will use more in her life?)

It was a good first day, 

if you can even call it that.

The River Goes By

 

"Me" - Jonah says when he sees this picture.

"It's the perfect time of day

to throw all your cares away.

Put the sprinkler on the lawn,

and run through with my gym shorts on.

Take a drink right from the hose,

and change into some drier clothes.

Climb the stairs up to my room

and sleep away the afternoon."

-Bare Naked Ladies 

(for my slightly more "mature" readers 

(Hi Aunt June and Sandy!), 

that's a band from the 90's)

(song here)

***

The lyrics from this song 

 have been playing in my mind lately like a soundtrack to my days.  

They seem to epitomize summer.  

Long sticky days, breezy nights with their hot breath 

that starts to cool as the last glow fades from the sky.  

Rainbows of fruit that I can't keep stocked in the bowl on my table, 

and the sticky little fingers and chins of those who devour them.  

Wet swimsuits on the garage floor (though I scold, of course), 

and dirty, bare feet.  

Late mornings and late evenings, and long visits from friends.  

Sprinklers and hoses and grass clippings.  

Firelight and candle light and barbeque plumes.

Though most of the schools in California have made the freaky leap to school starting as soon as the beginning of August, Ethan's school starts (ahhhh!) the day after Labor day (Thank you, whoever you are, that knows that no child can learn anything before the tomatoes are even coming ripe on the vine!).  And because we homeschool,  

AND BECAUSE I CAN,

 I am starting the littler kids back to school the same day.  

But strangely, as the summer days blur into each other, and the windows darken sooner and sooner at the end of each day, the feeling of school is coming upon is.  The other morning, as I read the last few chapters of Jane Eyre (even though dishes and laundry sat competing with the gathering drifts of dust), I became aware of a quiet that had settled over the house.  Jonah played a softly as the girls sat together pouring over workbooks I had brought home.  Adam hung spellbound over his new-found novel.

It felt like we were in school.

And for the first time in my life,
- in my life as a student and as the mother of students-

I felt excited about school starting.

The summer has passed by us like a lazy river that has now picked up speed. 

Ours has been a summer of play and some work,
and of late nights outdoors by the fire.

I can't think of a Summer in years that I have enjoyed more.

And yet I don't think I'll mind so much 

to see it go.

His Way

I didn't expect much. 

 I have learned not to.  When Ethan left this morning, his kiss barely

hit my cheek before he was out the door. 

"Have a great first day of High School!"  I called. 

"Uhhh."  he faintly replied before the front door slammed.

I couldn't help letting my mind trip back over the years. 

When I picked Ethan up from his first day of kindergarten and enthusiastically asked,

"How was your day, son?!?" 

he had frowned and barked, "I ain't tellin' you." 

Emphasis on you.

So when Ethan trudged up the walk late this afternoon, black pants, black shirt with the Jolly Rodger on it, black back pack dangling, I didn't expect much. 

 Nonetheless, I still asked, with all the enthusiasm of 9 years ago,

and none of the expectations.

"How was your first day?"

"Alright I guess.  I'm tired.  I don't feel good."

It all tumbled out of his mouth in one continuous stream, and before I could say anything he was through the screen door and into the house.  Guy came up the walk then as I called behind Ethan with a tease,

"Nice to see you too, son!  Thanks for the kiss hello!" 

"I'll kiss ya!"  Guy smiled. 

 He told me fragments of what he had been able to wrestle from Ethan

on the way home from school in the car. 

I finished up my yard work and headed inside. 

I found Ethan curled up on the love seat in the den trying to fall asleep before we could make him do anything, like chores or homework, or - heaven forbid-  talk.  I plopped Jonah onto his back (he never gets mad at Jonah for waking him).  He rolled over and told me he thought it would be cool to "sleep forever".  I asked about first period, then second, and so on.  Each time he started with, "I don't remember", but eventually a little of his day leaked out between quips of sarcasm and exaggeration.  No, he hadn't made any friends.  Yes, a lot of other kids brought lunch from home.  And surprisingly, when asked if he had any lame teachers, the answer was a simple, "no".  He had overheard a senior talk about him to a friend, "That kid looks mad", and thought it was funny.  He did his best scowly face at me and  grrr-ed like a pirate, then laughed.

I will hear more about his day over the coming hours. 

The big picture will take shape slowly over days. 

It's not the easiest way to communicate, but it's Ethan's way.