Visions of Tetherball

Gather round, my little chickens, so that I can tell you a story. 

What, you ask?  Another post so soon? Has someone replaced the procrastinating soul that runs this blog with someone with motivation? Indeed!  That’s right! Red toenails!

Anyway, on with our story, that we haven’t even started yet. 

Once upon a time (a few days ago), Ellie, Guy and I took a drive. Remember? 

You were there… in the last post.  Ah, yes, now you remember.

Wait.  Back up.  No, stay there, I will back up...

Lately, I’ve been looking into ways of getting the kids more physically active whilst

sequestered here in our mighty woods.  According to said children, "moving stacks 

of firewood isn’t fun.”  Big babies.

Tetherball seemed like a great fitness fix! The ball can’t bounce down to the creek, 

and it's not a team sport (There is no TEAM in HOMESCHOOL.  There's barely enough for checkers).  I did not however, consider how many times Jonah would be smacked upside the head by the ball in the first week.  Many tears were shed, and bruises were sustained. That kid seriously needs to develop some reflexes.

It just so happens that my kind friend Charrie (pronounced like Sorry, unless you are from Canada, in which case you are out of luck. Sooorry) was getting rid of a tetherball, stand and all! Yay for free! We headed out on a Saturday, and our drive there was uneventful (*cue suspenseful music..."bum bum bummmmmmmmm!")

The first task, Phase I, if you will, was to load the tetherball stand into the back of the minivan.
Charrie's diligent husband had made sure that the base would be tornado-proof by using all of the
cement in the greater Sacramento area with which to fill the tire base. Five people tried
lifting it into the van. Stitches were popped, toes were smashed, and obscenities were... thought of.
It wasn’t working.

(*Tangent that will make sense in a sec*)

There is a magical thing that sometimes happens in my head in the face of certain challenges. It’s really cool. When I look at the problem, a solution fills in the gaps visually. I just see it as a mental vision, as though the solution was already successfully in place. It doesn't happen all the time, but when it does, it kinda' rocks. Anyway, I suddenly envisioned tipping the pole, top-end-first, into the van and then elevating the tire base with a tire jack, and finally hoisting it carefully up to the level of the bumper.

We did it (well, I was at the pole end, so I mostly watched and tried to keep the pole from ripping a hole in the cloth ceiling). It worked perfectly! There was still the small matter of lifting 200+ pounds the eight or so inches into the van, but with much straining and grunting, it was accomplished. We joyfully congratulated ourselves, then said our hug-less thank-yous and goodbyes. Then, with Ellie in the captain's chair, we began our ascent up the steep driveway.

All was well, until we got to the top.

Pop Quiz: If a ten foot pole with a 2 inch interior diameter is left outdoors in the rain all winter, how much water will dump onto the front seats when the van reaches the top of the driveway?

Answer: Mathematically, 6.18 liters (there’s a formula)... which converts roughly to: one lap, one shoulder, a console, two cup holders, two floor mats, and 1.75 water-bottles full.

Oh, but numbers don't paint a picture! Come now, no more math. Let's paint. We'll use WATERcolors (waka-waka!).

As Ellie rolled to the top of the drive and got over the hump of sidewalk, the van-turned-teeter-totter brought the pole level with mother earth, and sweet, sweet gravity did what she does best baby.

Now children, it's time for a little science: What happens when a level pole full of cold water begins shooting said water out at a rate of approximately, say, a firehose, all over a console, a driver and a passenger? That's right, children, those individuals experience something known in scientific circles as the "What-the-heck phenomenon.” That is when the passenger (the more experienced driver) bellows "Stop!" between a series of "oh-my-gosh-es" and "holy craps.” The less experienced driver, either out of reflex or pure adrenaline, dutifully obeys the experienced driver and mashes down on the brake like she is smashing a rabid spider.

And what, my little ducklings, do we call it when an object in motion meets with no resistance while in motion? Well, to be honest, I had to look this one up, but it is called IN-ER-TIA. You get the gold star. Why, yes, little Sally, it does shoot out at what appears to be a greater rate of speed than the aforementioned firehose. This is called the "Gush Factor.” One might compare it to a large quantity of old water blasting out of a pipe in a minivan. Oh wait, that's what it was.

Well done, all! Gold stars for everyone!

I slapped my hand over the end of the pole like a mom covering the pie hole of a potty-mouthed four year old in the checkout line, a move enhanced by reflexes garnered over 23 years of snatching airborne babies from catapulting face-first off of sofas, and from catching projectile vomit in my bare hands. I called out orders, "Ellie, don't move! Guy, Blanket! Start emptying water bottles!"

My arms in synchronous motion, I staunched the flow with my right hand while crossing under with the blanket in my left to mop up the splash zone. I know you can't picture it, but believe me, it was multitasking at it's finest. Guy and I were like a fine-oiled machine, he passing empty water bottles to me, me passing full ones back to be dumped. Finally, the flow subsided, but we weren't fooled. We knew that at each downhill slant, the sluggish remnants would slop out like baby spit-up (wow, too many mommy metaphors. I really need to get out more).

It was then that I told new-driver Ellie that I wanted her to repeatedly accelerate and then mash on the brakes until our wonderful little friend Inertia was all out of liquid malice, followed by instruction NOT to employ this new skill during her driver’s test. It worked, and as the last trickle drained from the pipe, we smiled, propped it up on the sopped blanket for good measure, and headed home.

Upon arriving home, there was now just the small matter of removing the beast.

Oh, children, you thought you were done with math, didn't you? No, no. One more math problem, just for chuckles:

If it takes Susan and four of her friends to get a 200 lb tetherball pole into a van, what is the ratio of denial to gall that Susan must have to believe she and just two friends can take it back out?

Enter: Laine's cool vision thingy again. Phase II, The Unloading

I suddenly pictured the tire base sitting outside of the van on a large stump, almost level with the bumper. I then pictured it being held with the pole parallel to the ground, as the van was pulled away, unsheathing it like a really weird looking sword. It just so happens there are many giant, super heavy wooden stumps laying about the place, which was mighty handy. Ellie rolled one over, and Guy and Ellie began the process of rolling the base from side to side, in essence "walking" it up to the edge of the bumper, while I directed the pole end around headrests and light covers. Then came the last heave-ho! To be honest, I have no idea how they did it, but Guy and Ellie lifted that beast those few back-breaking inches out onto the stump.

"Okay," Guy said, "Drive away!"

"Me?" For some reason the part of "getaway-car-driver" had been played by Guy in my little mental movie. I hadn't gotten around to telling Guy the next segment of my cognitive cartoon, wherein we used boards to roll the base off the stump to the ground. I pulled the van away and it went perfectly. In the rear view mirror I could see the tire on the stump with Guy and Ellie supporting it. I hurried to put the van back into it's normal space so I could get back to help with lowering the base.

I got out to help with Phase III, The Lowering, just in time to see Ellie and Guy chasing the now very mobile tire doing what tires do best... rolling - yes ROLLING - toward the creek. Let me rephrase that; rolling to the drop off that goes down 30 feet to the creek.

There was screamy-yelling, and then it was over.

This was not in the vision!

*****

No. It didn't roll off the edge. That would have been epic though!

Did I get you?


No, no. Ellie, who is amazingly strong, had sprinted past the cement freight train and stopped the dang thing from rolling off the small cliff. Guy later informed us that if the beast had careened off the ledge, it would have stayed down there forever (not to worry, I’m sure I would have had a vision of exactly how to get it back out).





When interviewed by a perplexed wife later, the husband recounted that Ellie had inquired how they should go about getting the stand down from the stump.

"Just let it go, I guess." had been the answer.

Good advice for a Disney Princess, bad advice for 200 lb rubber coated cement projectiles.

****

In the end I got my tetherball, stand and all. I played it one time, just to show the kids how. And that was the last time.

Turns out, I forgot.

I don't really care for tetherball.

What makes me smile

This.

This makes me smile.

Every stinkin' time.

I don't get excited about a whole lot of technology.  Most of the stuff the kids use kinda' bugs me.  But this here weirdo filter smacks a smile on my pout almost as wide as, well, Ellie's.

It's on my phone's home screen.  

It makes me giggle right out loud sometimes. 

 Out of nowhere.  

I turn on my phone and just...

well...

 look at it! 

Tell me you're not smiling!

*****

Are you a naturally happy person?  I'm not.

  I guess there is fruit that is naturally sweet and other that is just super healthy.  And then there are lemons.  And bread fruit.  Oh, and durian.  I'm not that bad (If you've never had durian, just rub your hand in your armpit and then lick it.  That, my friends, just tasted better than durian).

I'm not sour, really, or nasty.  Bland, maybe.  

One day on my mission my companion and I were walking FOR-E-VAH on a long country road in the Costa Rica heat.  Our supposed destination was much further than we had been lead to believe, and this was back in the day before everyone carried a designer rain barrel full of water everywhere.  

We were parched!  No, way more dry than that.  Crazy dry.  Sahara-mirage-in-the-dessert dry.  Just before the hallucinations set in, we saw a grove of huge trees hanging with some sort of giant citrus fruit.  They were a glowing yellow, and as big as a grapefruit.  We didn't know what they were, and we didn't care.  We ran to the trees and grabbed a low-hanging potential-water-bomb.

I ripped into the flesh with my nails and was blasted by the most intense lemon smell I'd ever experienced.  My dry mouth pointlessly tried watering, but those weird "sour sensors" in the back of my jaw, you know, the ones that make you cringe when you see a baby suck on a pickle (the ones that are tingling right now as you read this), wouldn't give my throat the satisfaction.  I paused, wondering if I could possibly get through the face-punch of acid that was about to come, all for the sake of moisture.  My desperate fingers found the pith to be about an inch thick, and after a struggle, I finally held a much smaller orb of the palest yellow in my hand.  

My eyes watered at the Pledge-like aroma as I pulled off a translucent wedge, and both bravely and desperately, popped it into my mouth, bracing myself for the explosion of eye-squinting and shuddering.

Nothing.

Well, almost nothing.  The slightly dry membrane held what could be likened to very, very watered-down, warm lemonade.  It was so simple and bland that it was perplexing.  My sensory system felt lied to.  Either my nose was broken or my tongue was. 

But otherwise, it sort of did it's job.  Attacking the tree, we downed 3 or 4 apiece, and though we didn't feel quenched, we were held over till we finally reached the next house on the eternal road.  As still-thirsty young missionaries, we were bold, of course, and fearlessly knocked on the ancient wooden door. 

A squat little woman with a bowlegged walk and a dear smile met us at the door.  She wore a print skirt and a different print blouse.  A towel-turned-apron held on for dear life around her plump middle, and exhausted, dusty flats clung to her feet, her ashy, foot skin bulging in complaint. We skipped right over our usual introductions, and asked very frankly, "Pardon, Senora, could you please gift us some water?"  (Yes, that is how you say it in Costa Rica.  Isn't that lovely?).  Her surprise at seeing two American girls a foot taller than she on her porch, with no other motive but thirst, called out the old mother in her, and she did what all good mothers do; she took us to her kitchen.

We sat in a cool-ish, red tile-floored, whitewashed kitchen at a large, plank table, very unlike any place I had seen in my 5 months in the country.  We were presented with two mismatched glasses of, ironically, lemonade.  Sweet and tart, it teased us for having enjoyed the bland water balls in the orchard.  A painfully thin old fellow sat quietly on a chair near the stove, his sun-faded clothes drapped loosely on his leathered skin, and listened as we visited with the little old mother.

And that is all I remember.

All but one thing... we told her of our impromptu harvest (and apologized for taking fruit from what we learned were her trees), and shared our confusion over the strange fruit.

"Limon Dulce!" she told us... sweet lemon.  That's what we had eaten.

The name seemed oddly wrong, but yes, I guess they had been sweet... ever so slightly.  I was just glad I hadn't known the name before tasting them.

*****

So I guess bland isn't a terrible thing.  It's a beginning point, at least.  I'd love to be a cheery strawberry, bright and bold.  Who doesn't smile when they see a strawberry?  Or a peach, just pushing it's way to the front of the happy little fruit parade with is kitten fuzz and it's humorous booty.  You can't have a peach-juice-dripping chin and take yourself too seriously.  Even the banana, though bordering on silly, seems like the comedian of fruit.  It's even shaped like a smile.  But alas, though it will never shine from a well lit stack in a grocery store, a limon dulce will bring comfort in it's own weird, neither particularly spectacular nor disappointing way.  It does the job, though it might need encouragement to bring out a smile.

Encouragement... 

like that funny face

 at the top of the page.

Lovely Ladies

These two beauties,

with pale blue eyes,

and freckle kissed cheeks,

have a sweet and tender bond.

Everyone in our family has a special relationship with little Nano.  But that between she and Ellie is unique.  Ellie is Nano's other mama.  When I can't come, Ellie is always there to wipe a nose or bummy, to feed her and play with her. To be there for her.

But one thing they both love is bedtime.  They share a full sized bed in our crowded kid room.  After jammies and teeth are tended to, I snuggle little Nanobot (if I don't, she is sure to march back out of the room and laugh, "Mama!  You fohgot 'nuggle me!  Sihwey!")

(that means silly, Silly!).

And when we are done, she gives me a kiss with the tiniest, little wet pucker, beeps her nosie on mine; "Beep!", and says,

"Nah-night, Mama.  I wuv you!"

Then she trundles off down the hall to find Ellie.  She snuggles in close and is read to, then drifts of to sleep beside her big sissy.  

I know some folks would disapprove.  

Let them.

I used to state statistics, quote studies, and describe other cultures that embrace co-sleeping, listing at length the benefits both to the child and their community.  Not anymore.  I don't care what anyone thinks.

I know what I know.

I know that I love snuggling.

I sleep better when my sweetie is there to comfort me after a nightmare.

I feel safe on the long nights when I can't fall asleep, just listening to his humming breath sounds.  And if I, as a grown up (or one who pretends to be), benefit from a closeness to my loved one when the moon comes up, how much more so might a small person who only has made a few short trips around the sun so far?

At worst, I figure, Nano will have learned to rely on having someone she loves and trusts near by.  Yeah, that's probably terrible.  It'll ruin her for sure!

Yup.  It might turn her into a trusting, loving human being.

Disgraceful!

It may even teach her to nurture and tend to little people later on in her life.  

Seriously bad parenting move, here.

A cynic would declare that we don't all have someone later in life.  That training her up like this might make her dependent in a weak, can't-take-care-of-herself sort of way.

Ellie slept with me till she was about three, as did the others.  

Turns out that it did not damage her and make her crazy dependent on me.  And she's not alone in that.  Every one of our children had the same beginning, and I promise you not one of them crawls into bed with us now.  They're pretty independent kiddos.

I sincerely hope that each of the kids will maintain the sweet and tender relationship they have with Natalie as she grows into a more opinionated, certainly more rambunctious kiddo, but I think that her bond with Ellie will be the strongest.

And as I watch Ellie grow from child to woman, I am impressed to see how easily she slips into the role of caretaker.  It is nothing to her to take Nano potty, to dress and feed her, or to comfort her when she's sad, without even being asked.  She (usually) doesn't even complain about the added responsibility.  And it is teaching her so much about life and the world around her in a way that most young ladies simply wouldn't have the opportunity to experience.  I'm proud of her as I witness her growth.  Sure, she rolls her eyes once in a while, but more often she is just learning to be a good person as she bridges the gap between girlhood and the great beyond. 

And all the while, there are little people watching and learning from her example.

It's just lovely.

Pickle Girl

I am so far behind.  

I missed three birthdays in our family, and several other important events, like ground hog day (hey, it's an important day.  The whole meteorology world holds it's breath till they know what a large rodent thinks).

Guy's birthday was at the end of March, but he just went from old to older, according to him, so there is mot much new to report there.

But Ellie, on the other hand, hit a big milestone like a Mack truck.  She turned twelve.  I remember twelve.  I think that was the unfortunate year I began wearing a ribbon headband and knickers.  I had a super cool big sister and I wanted to be just like her.  The headband looked way cooler on her.

Ellie loves certain things... and when she loves something she really loves it.  She adores the color green.  She has monkeys everywhere.  She loves pickles.  Her favorite present was the giant jar of pickles we gave her.  When she's older I plan to tell her it was her only gift.

She had a fun birthday party with a monkey theme which she meticulously planned out, including a banana eating contest, swinging from vines, and "grooming", where party goers had to search through the grass, the "big hairy back", for candies (lice, apparently) and eat them.  Don't worry, they had wrappers.  I wouldn't let them eat little chocolate balls right off the grass.  Too risky; dogs, you know.

Coconut Alley... look for the prize!

Some of these girls have been friends since they were babies or toddlers.

Ellie also had her first real-life, paid-in-cash babysitting job.  I am told she did an amazing job and even did the dishes.  My favorite part of her retelling of her adventure was when she wasn't sure if she could leave the 3 year old alone so she could go pee.  She waited till she was dying to go, and in that 30 seconds when she stepped out of the room, the little girl she was watching peed her pants.  I think Ellie will never use the bathroom while on the job again!

We have been learning a lot about Ellie lately.  She's rather a late bloomer academically, and I have been requesting testing through the charter school for a year, but they only have very basic assessments.  I started to pay attention to the nature of the reading mistakes she makes and realized there are a lot of letter and sound reversals (like seeing the word "item" and saying "time"), and I began to suspect dyslexia.  Our Educational Supervisor got us some assessment materials (a program called Brain Integration Therapy by Dianne Craft) and I was able to run and interpret a few tests, learning that Ellie has what is called a blocked Auditory Processing Gate.  Now all those millions of times I have had to give her instructions over and over are beginning to make sense.  Interestingly, this dysfunction occurs often in children who didn't crawl long or at all.  Ellie crawled for two weeks at 8 months old, and then stood up off the middle of the floor and started walking.  The lack of practice her brain experienced working both sides in tandem left her with an underdeveloped ability to use both sides of her brain for the same activity, something very necessary in reading.  

We are beginning the retraining program now, and it will be at least a year of daily exercises.  She may begin to show improvement in about 8 weeks, but it will be a challenge to remember to do it everyday.  We are going to make it be one of her daily tasks, like brushing her teeth.  We'll let you know how it goes.

  

Little Lady

There have been days

when I swear

I am watching her grow

before my very eyes

 sprouting taller 

like waterlilies opening, reaching fast

 as the sun peeks over the edge 

of their little pond.

And flower she is

and flower she does

and though most days

she is still the girl that plays in the doll house

sometimes,

sometimes....

Sometimes I see wisdom open behind her eyes

as wings that unfold

not yet knowing the lift and soar

but soon to know that

and so much more

I hold her in my gaze

willing her to fix in time 

to stay...

stay in that place

that lets her measure her beauty in freckles.

I know better than to ask

that she stay

forever at the edge of womanhood

but, perhaps that those eyes

filled with possibility

never empty. 

A Mesozoic Birthday

 

Who: Miss Ellie and half a dozen prehistoric pals

What: Celebrating Nine Years since she hatched

Where: All the-heck over the house

When: From the dusk of the Late Triassic til the dawn of the Early Cretaceous

Why: Because I am daffy, that's why.

How: Sugar, movies, streamers and balloons, and then more sugar.  Dinosaur shaped sugar.

I think she must have asked me 

while I was on the phone or in a comma or something, because witnesses later told me I said yes to a sleepover birthday party for Ellie.  Somebody should protect me from myself.

I threw some tacos at the beasts and tucked them in on the hardwood floor for a dino-flick as soon as cake and presents had been adequately massacred.  At 1 AM I threatened them with extinction if they didn't settle down and go to sleep.  I put on a really boring nature program, and they turned into a herd of Slumbersaurs.  It looked like a bomb went off.  A big, pink, sleeping bag bomb.

By morning, excavation revealed several missing socks and shoes, but stealth archeologists located all missing parts, packed them in plaster and sent them off to their respective museums.

Tessa's already making plans for her b-day in April.  

Be assured, there will be no pillows involved.

Jurrasic House

I know you can't tell, but those used to be dinosaurs.  A T-Rex and  a "Long Neck", if you must know.  A pair of short necks after Jonah finds them.  It just stinkin' serves me right for trying to get all Martha Stewart up in here.  

I think next time I'll leave the candy making to Hershey's.

I don't know what it is, I just have this thing in me that tries to be a cool mom.  But being Cool-mom takes so much energy that Thinking-ahead-mom goes offline, leaving Cool-mom alone in the kitchen (play shrill stabbing music here...  "wrrre wrrre wrrre!").  Cool-mom tries to make a volcano birthday cake with pudding lava, while she is also making homemade tacos and dinosaur suckers in a lovely shade of old-chewing-gum-grey .  Had Thinking-ahead-mom been here, Jonah-saur would have found his cocoa-cranial rampage preempted.

Oh, the carnage!

***

Tune in next time, boys and girls, when Cool-mom says,

"Yes, Ellie, you may have a sleep-over for your birthday."

 

Thinking-ahead-mom has left the building.