The County Fair

We went twice. Once with our little family, and once with Clint's dad.

Both times we put Grant on this merry-go-car ride and teased him silly. We shouted, "Hi Grant! Woo-woo, look at Grant! He's so cute!" Every time he passed us, he tried to contain his smile ...
but then a little corner would sneak out ...
until finally the whole darn thing surfaced.
Nicole spent her tickets on a fun house/obstacle course that ended with a slide.
We also went to the compact car demolition derby. Clint was the only one who was country enough to have been to a demolition derby before, but we all had a grand time. Nicole ate popcorn, Grant ate cotton candy, and Scotty ate french fries and red licorice. Clint and Carl found hamburgers somewhere and I held out for decent food at home (after I ate half of the cotton candy -- hey, it's once a year; but oh, how I wish it were every weekend).
Scotty went on no rides because he was too short. Actually, Grant was too short, too, but we found a ride operator who was willing to overlook it. Scotty didn't mind watching, though. Just take a look for yourself.

The Case for Homeschooling

Or rather, the case against public school. I have already had several people ask me why we're homeschooling. While the decision may have appeared hasty, the logic behind it had been gathering momentum for years. Here's how my mind works.

1. Public school teaches all students at the same pace, which by default, is the pace of the slowest student. When I was in public school, and this is why I say the system failed me, I wanted to move faster than the class and my teachers had no way to make that possible. Some tried (bless their hearts) and some couldn't have cared less. The fact is, all students progress at a different pace, and it is not necessarily according to their age. Public school does not account for this. One person recently said to me, "It's a conveyor belt education."
2. Speaking of conveyor belt education, all students must learn the same topics. I don't mean subjects, such as math, reading, science. I mean topics, such as dissecting a frog instead of a human (you never know who's going to want to be a medical examiner), or reading about dinosaurs when a story about castles would do the trick as well. At home, Nicole and I can select her favorite topics (and when we're ready to switch, we can do that, too), and incorporate all of the subjects into those topics. As a bonus, we have more freedom to go on as many field trips as we can find to bring all of these topics to life.
3. Too much time in the public school classroom is devoted to children with behavioral problems. Some kids cannot sit still for five minutes of instruction. They roll on the ground, talk to others, hit the child next to them, or raise their hand to ask for a hall pass. Meanwhile, the children who can control themselves better sit patiently waiting for the rowdy ones to get their act together. It never fails that these behaviorally-challenged children also happen to have parents who couldn't care less about how they behave at school. (They're just thankful to finally have a place to shove the brats for most of their waking hours.) Clint asked me to add that it's unfortunate that teachers are not allowed to slap delinquents across the knuckles with a ruler. Whereas at home, we can do that all we want. Just kidding. Mostly. *Chuckle.* It's possible, that if Grant ends up in public school in the future, he might be one of the kids that falls into this category. Now that would be ironic. Ha, ha.
4. Something that is unique to public schools is the mistreatment some see fit to bestow upon innocent children. Every school has adults who deeply resent children and who treat them accordingly. They look upon children as a scourge. Since public schools are run by the government, and since the government can't fire someone until they've molested a child, stolen a million and a half dollars from the school district (true story), or hung themselves, these rotten people who should never be allowed to interact with children are permitted to stay in the schools and continue punishing the kids just for showing up. It reminds me slightly of the VA hospitals, which are as close to socialized medicine as I ever hope to see in the United States (Heaven help us). If you are unfamiliar with the VA hospital system, you can read a small blurb of my opinion on it here. It's brief, but you get the point.
5. But even some adults in the schools who aren't mean per se have a way of not being exactly nice. They don't help the down trodden or fight for the kids' rights to have a little more freedom or individuality. They all have to do everything the same robotic way. I realize this is mostly intended as a form of damage control (they are kids, after all), but it's still sad to see a group of kids walking single file down the hallway with exactly one book each just like a bunch of clones. Clint used to call groups of people sheep. You could call them lemmings, too.
6. Nasty words and actions that you don't want your kid to learn, are going to be learned by other kids in public school. That's a fact, and it's been a fact since the beginning of public school. It's also a fact that some school districts bus in "less fortunate" kids to the "more fortunate" areas so that they can all mingle and sing Kumbaya together. It's akin to setting a dinner table and inviting a drug addict, a sanitation engineer (that's what they're calling the garbage man these days), and the governor. No matter how much you force it, these three are not going to become bosom buddies -- so why make them sit through an awkward dinner?
   
7. The school day is too long. Children should not have to be gone for eight hours to learn one-half hour worth of material. By the time they come home, they barely have enough energy to plump themselves at the counter for a snack and then begin their hour-long homework (all of the busy work that they should have had time for at school).
   

You start adding these things up and pretty soon, learning isn't so fun anymore. And above all, learning should be fun -- or at least enjoyable.

Clint and I know Nicole better than any teacher ever will (and, by the way, I hate having to make an appointment to learn about my daughter's scholastic progress; I want to be up-to-date every day, not every semester). And besides, who better to teach Nicole than her parents who have, between the two of them, sixteen years of college and thousands of hours in foreign lands? This reminds me of when my sister was in seventh grade and she stayed with a family in Germany for a month. Her teachers told my mom that she didn't need to do any homework while she was away because being in Germany would teach her more than she could learn in their classrooms. I agree that she probably would have forgotten by now the lessons she would have learned in those twenty or so school days, but she has indelible memories of places she visited and learned about in Europe. We take our kids nearly everywhere we go, and I believe those trips are some of their greatest lessons. For example, the first time I ever heard about Crater Lake was when I was 15 years old taking my first geology class. The first time I saw Crater Lake was when I was 23 years old; Nicole was two years old (probably doesn't remember it now, but we have the pictures to show her) learning about Crater Lake and seeing it for the first time simultaneously. Those are the kinds of lessons you don't forget.

In summary, public school is a fight for survival of the fittest. Who's tough? Who's resilient? Who can endure mass amounts of conformity and hopefully smaller amounts of cruelty? Who can learn despite all of the obstacles placed before them?

Not us, I guess. But I think we'll be all the better because of it.

A Big Boy Came to Primary

We've had the nephew of one of our church members in Primary for the past two weeks. He's 23 years old, but has the mentality of a seven-year-old (at best). He looks completely normal, so it isn't until he speaks that you learn that something isn't right with him. He is so sweet, and he sits in the back for the whole two hours of singing time and sharing time (he never goes to a class with a lesson). Back at home, his job at church is to help the other children (he considers himself a child) learn the words to the songs. Sometimes he even leads the music.

Today a Primary leader asked for a volunteer to say the prayer. Ten hands shot into the air, including the big boy's. She picked the big boy, citing that this was his last Sunday with us. He was so excited and jumped out of his seat. As he walked to the podium up front he mumbled, "That's right, it's my last Sunday. I'm going home and I'm going to get my Halloween bag ready. And of course next week is Conference, so this is my last Sunday here." He reached the podium, stepped onto the stool, which made him a foot taller than the microphone, folded his arms and closed his eyes. We all sat in silence for about fifteen seconds before the Primary leader leaned over and whispered to him (which was overheard through the microphone), "Do you need some help?"

"Yes," he answered in a normal volume. And so she whispered into his ear and he faithfully repeated her every word. When he finished, he was so proud of himself. I love working in the Primary with all of the children, and having this big boy visit was a special treat for all of us.

Fairchild Airshow

Clint and I love airshows. This is the only one we've been to where the temperature could have been described as "cool," even on the blacktop.

The website said to wear sunscreen and sunglasses. So on the way there, the kids and I stopped to get sunglasses. Clint was already at the show and said he didn't need any. The kids and I were running late, as usual, so in three minutes' time, we picked out three pair of sunglasses, three treats, and a checkout line. My fastest trip to Wal-Mart ever (and to think I did it with kids ... barely conceivable).

Anyway, it wasn't until after I saw this picture (below) that I realized how stupid these sunglasses looked on me. I've seen tons of people pull them off, even with a sense of fun, trendy, Hollywood. I haven't worn them since, nor have I worn any other pair because I'm shameful when it comes to picking sunglasses.
We were surrounded by jets (both on the ground and in the air), but the kids found alternate entertainment within a millisecond of entering the grounds. It was almost like going to a fair. For some reason, I don't quite remember this aspect of airshows from my childhood. Nonetheless, here is Nicole, just after she said, "Moooom," (please don't take a picture of me buying tickets -- you're so embarrassing sometimes).
She eventually had to look at the guy instead of me if she was going to be courteous, so I snapped another picture just as she was saying, "Thank you." Actually, there were about five pictures in between those two, but for the sake of Nicole's reputation, I have narrowed this post down to only two ticket-purchasing photos.
The tickets were for a jumbo slide, which Grant went down first. (You can see Nicole waiting at the top behind him.)
I took a whole bunch more pictures of the succession of Nicole waiting for Grant to get all the way to the bottom, then slide down rapidly ($2 for 2 seconds of fun -- parents are such suckers), and hop over the top of Grant who was still trying to find his bearings. I laugh ever time I see this picture. It's so typical of siblings.
Here is Scotty de-Shrekified. We didn't think to bring earplugs, and the people sitting behind us disgustedly tapped me on the shoulder and said, "Put these in that baby's ears!" and handed me a pair of earplugs for Scotty. It really did make him look like Shrek, and he didn't mind them at all. Actually, he was probably relieved for some quiet.
As could have been predicted, the tired kids and I left early and missed the last half of the show. Clint video recorded the Blue Angels for me (which I still haven't watched), but who goes for the jets anyway?

He said, "Yes!"

I love how Clint lets me do what I want to do. Even when it's something crazy like homeschool our kids. So we're signing the homeschooling papers today!

I couldn't sleep last night because I was so excited. A million ideas (that we'll never have enough time for) swept through my head and kept me tossing and turning. I'm keeping a notebook by my bed tonight.

As I walked past Nicole's backpack this morning, I thought, "That was a whole lot of pain for nothing!" My mom's always telling me to make things easier because in the end, the thing I'm so concerned about will probably end up to not be such a big deal. Case in point.

We'll still use it. We'll fill it with books at the library (where we'll now be visiting weekly). Or we'll stuff it full of kite materials to take to the park for a science experiment. Or we'll pack our lunch for our field trip. Or, who cares, we'll just look at it lying on the floor and be glad it's not hanging on a hook next to 18 other backpacks.

Call Me Crazy

Have you ever had a moment when you realized you weren't doing something that you always thought you would? And you could do it, but you're not? And you're not exactly sure why you're not doing it?

That was me today ... and last week, but especially today. The more I think about it, the stronger my conviction grows that now is the time to begin homeschooling. I'm taking the plunge, after I check with my recently absentee husband, of course -- I mean, my smart husband who, if he knows what's best for him, will agree with me completely ("What a brilliant idea, sweetheart! If anyone can do it, you can!").

In reflection, I decided that the main reason I shuffled Nicole off to school was so that she could gain friends and have fun (let's face it, she's not going to learn brain surgery there). But sad report after another, and I just can't take it any longer. Some (many?) of the children there are so ill-behaved as to inflict bloody wounds on Nicole, tell her she can't play with them/sit by them on the bus, spit at her ... you name it, in the three weeks since school has started, Nicole has seen or fallen victim to it all. And it hasn't helped her gain friends or have fun. And, truth be told, I wouldn't want her to make friends with that sort anyhow. Not that I'm snooty, it's just that she doesn't fit in there, plain and simple.

I have many more reasons than a lack of friends. But I'm not going to bore you with all of them right now. Suffice it to say that my mind's made up. (And if anyone is considering commenting on "socialization," save yourself the trouble. Didn't the unibomber go to public school? That's all I'm going to say about that.)

I'm educated, I've done my homework (since before Nicole was born I've been reading homeschooling books and talking to parents), and now I'm ready. And Nicole's ready, too. She's actually very excited about it. Tonight before going to sleep, she said, "Mom, I'll keep going to school for a few more days, OK? That will give you enough time to get the papers done, won't it? Just tell me when you're ready, OK?"

I'm volunteering at Nicole's school tomorrow and Monday because I committed to her teacher a week ago, but I'm filing the paperwork tomorrow, and when I leave Nicole's school on Monday morning, I'm taking her with me.

And we're going to learn all about goldfish. I think we'll have a delightful time. She just bought three with some of her birthday money and they're a great substitute for a dog -- sorta. She told me, not too long ago, "Mom, when I grow up and have my own house, I'm going to buy my kids a dog." *Stab. Ouch.* Maybe one day I'll do that, too. Perhaps if Nicole sprinkles a little salt over that wound.

Mothers From All Generations Have Loved Their Babies

When I was born, I was blessed with a desire to learn about my predecessors. It's a bit surreal to imagine someone who lived two hundred years ago, but whose blood runs through my veins. I wish I knew all of my ancestors better so that I could pinpoint which traits/traditions/quirks came from who and so that I could pass their stories and jokes onto my children.

When I learn of a mother who lost a baby, I feel sorrow with her. Or when I read about a marriage, I feel the happiness that the new couple must have felt. At times, I almost feel like I was there with them through their life events.

This picture is my dad's mom (i.e., my grandma) being held by her mother, whose parents immigrated from Sweden. When I look at this picture, these people become real to me, even though I have never met either one of them, and even though the quality makes it difficult to see the details. When I look at this picture, I remember how it feels to hold my own babies, and how much I love them; and therefore, how much this mother (my great grandmother) must have loved her baby.

And what about all of the other babies who were born somewhere in my family tree -- the ones that I haven't seen in photographs? Surely their mothers did not love them any less. One day I hope to find all of the children who grow up to have their own children and grandchildren and great grandchildren ... and eventually offspring that they never meet because they run out of years. This is why I do family history.

Kindred Spirits

Scotty and I visited a care center with a group of young girls from church. We sang them songs, but I think the residents really gathered around for the post-concert activities. The girls made cards ahead of time (some of which, I noticed, said, "Get well soon," and, "I love you") and distributed them with a hug to members of the audience.

Since Scotty and I were standing next to the door, Scotty made friends with the ladies in the hallway while everyone else was busy singing. Afterward, since I didn't have a card to share, I shared my baby. The lady in the picture was named Norma, and when Scotty and I approached, she held out her arms to hold him. I placed him in her lap, and she squeezed him tight and rubbed his head. She nearly cried when she told me how much she loved children, and that due to an accident when she was young, she was never able to have any children. Then she kissed Scotty and said how precious he was. Other women also held him and shared similar feelings.

There's something special about a baby ... so recently from Heaven. I don't know why it is that the old people love them so much. Perhaps because it's been so long since they've held one? Perhaps it reminds them of when they were young? Or maybe it's because they know they don't have much time left on Earth, and they feel a connection with the babies?

Norma didn't believe me when I told her I had two more "babies" (they're all babies, aren't they?) at home. I told her that I would bring all of them back for another visit. Being there brought back all of the old memories I have of visiting the care center near my home when I was little. I used to pick flowers (and sometimes buy fake ones so that they wouldn't die) and take them to the old ladies. I'm sure I made them cards, too. I had certain people that I visited each time, but I also remember people not on my watch who would call to me so that I would visit with them, too. They were so lonely. I can't wait to take all of the kids in for a visit.

He Might Just Grow Up to Be A Mechanic

Puppeteering

While checking out at JoAnn's a month ago, I saw a magazine with patterns for puppets. For some reason, I'm a sucker for the homemade dolls/puppets/stuffed animals. I just love how they look. And I think it's so sweet to watch children play with hand-made toys.

So here's how the puppets turned out. They're supposed to be monkeys (that's what the magazine said, but we ended up calling them Kermit and Miss Piggy).They're in "marrying clothes," as Nicole calls them, because Nicole's always pretending that her Barbies are getting married. The magazine didn't have a pattern for these clothes, so they took a lot longer than I would have liked to spend on them. I'm happy with the way they turned out, though.

The magazine also featured a pattern for a puppet theater, which really made me so happy. I've wanted to build Nicole a puppet theater for the longest time, but always imagined one made of wood. A wooden theater wouldn't be able to be hidden or tucked away very easily, so I pushed that thought away. Here's the fabric version:Both kids loved it, and after I saw them play around with it, I decided that it could double as a store front or drive-through window. When they're done playing, we roll it up like a scroll and store it under the bed.

The puppet theater in her element:
Nicole backstage:

A Whole Lot of Party for One Little Girl

Party Preparations

Every birthday, every holiday, we try out different traditions, in hopes that one of them will eventually stick. This year, I had both boys give Nicole a present. Scotty was too little to wrap his present to Nicole, but Grant wasn't. We spent a half hour wrapping the present and making the card. Grant really went all out.

Less Cute, More Dangerous

Not so long ago, Scotty would stay standing up in his crib, after I stood him up first.

Now he stands himself up. Three hundred times before going to bed. I wouldn't care how many times he stood himself up in his crib if he would peacefully sit himself back down. He reminds me of a dog we used to have. It was a sharpe that climbed our wood fence. He jumped into the boat, which was parked next to the fence, and then from there, he jumped onto a 2x4 ledge on the fence (chasing a cat) and yelped like a baby until we rescued him. Over and over and over. Well, that's Scotty. Stands up and yelps until he's rescued.He quits the yelping when I enter the room because he knows that deliverance is nigh. I got to him too late one time today, and it resulted in Scotty's first bloody nose. He never lets go on purpose, but sometimes he loses his balance and crashes into the bars, or if he's lucky, the mattress.

More on the naughty/dangerous list (I hope he's not the Harley type), Scotty has begun to venture wherever his heart pleases ...
Onto the bottom stair, for example.
... and up a little higher ...... where he decides to press forward without fear of painful consequences ...
... because he's counting on Mommy to catch him if he falls.

I fear more bloody noses and bruises lie in wait for Scott. (If we can just stay out of the E.R., I'll count us blessed. Oh, and also if we can keep him off motorcycles. Is that too much to ask? Pretty please?)

PS: For the record, that's three stairs and zero teeth.

Scaredy Cat

One sign that your baby is growing up is that he is scared of things lurking ... in the dark, in the bushes, in the whatever.

The other night, I had the kids out past dark and Nicole spotted a fluorescent light. It reminded her of the scene on Finding Nemo (which movie I really despise thanks to a very obnoxious Ellen DeGeneres) where Dory and Marlin find the bright light deep in the ocean and it turns out to be a scary fish. So she told Grant the light they were looking at was a monster fish. They were standing about twenty feet away from me while I visited with some friends. Scotty was on one hip and Grant came running full speed at me with his arms in the air and screaming at the top of his lungs. He was so frightened that he wouldn't quit screaming and pointing until I picked him up (Scotty under one arm, Grant under the other).

Now every time he walks past a dark window in the house, he points outside and makes a monster noise and adds, "Oooh, yeah."

Monster fish isn't all Grant's afraid of. When walking out of church last Sunday, Grant didn't want to comply with social norms and walk on the sidewalk. Oh no, he had to walk on top of the juniper plants. I was just about to scold him when Nicole passed him and nonchalantly said, "There are snakes in there." I've never seen Grant jump so quickly. Next thing I knew he was holding my hand and walking on the sidewalk, like little boys should when they're leaving church. Glad to know what works (finally).

My Epiphany

I was reflecting on my post about Grant's naughty behavior in the store the other day (and for the record, the word naughty doesn't even do his crimes any justice whatsoever), and the lights turned on.

You know those people who say, "Once you have three kids, it doesn't matter how many more you have ... it doesn't get any harder." I've always thought that was such a pile of cockaninny.

But now I know how that's possible. You see, having three kids is so much more difficult than two that you have to alter your lifestyle considerably and cut out certain activities, such as going to the bathroom by yourself, emailing friends and family instead of calling on the phone (because if you call, there's no way you'd be able to talk for one uninterrupted minute), and going out in public. Once you've adjusted to that, what's having one more rugrat running around? Nothin'. Piece o' cake.

This coming from one not-expecting, got-it-all-figured-out (*wink, cough, choke*) mother of three. If I'm ever so lucky, I'll let you know for real about that "after three" rumor floating around. You know me, always disseminating truth. No cockaninny here, no siree.

Grant's Fix-It Work

One morning, at an hour too early to awake, Grant waltzed into my room (Clint was working the night shift), and showed me the broken binding on his book. I told him to go back to bed and that I would fix it later (but I didn't know exactly how I would do it).

He left, but he didn't go to bed. I begrudgingly walked downstairs to find out what Grant was getting into:He was actually satisfied with this result. I give him an "A" for ... what's the word when people do things without being asked? Yeah, "A" for that. Workmanship, well, that'll come with time.

Pool Party

We're not lucky enough (yet) to live in a city where it's warm enough to swim outside. Although that didn't stop the kids from trying. After playing for 15 minutes in the ice-cold, freshly drawn house water in 55 degree air, I forced the kids to our indoor "pool." Don't ask me what's so funny except the whole time they were in the tub, Grant kept saying, "Pool. Mom, pool!" I know if he could talk better, he'd brag to strangers that we have an indoor pool. As good as, I suppose.

Standing (and otherwise mobile) Scotty

He may not have any teeth, but he's got a lot of muscle. Scotty is standing up everywhere he can get leverage. Just all of a sudden, he likes us to hold his hands and help him walk. You'll see in the video, though, that when walking doesn't pan out, speed crawling is a solid second choice.

A Good Enough Reason for Food Storage

Around these Mormon parts, we like to collect food. Our church leaders tell us to stock up, and we pretty much do whatever they say. So, say Hurricane Ike skips over the southern half of the U.S. and strikes Spokane instead of Houston, we could sit on our rooftop and eat out of our pantry storage for three months while awaiting rescue helicopters.

But supposing that never happens, I've found a more immediate (and legitimate) reason to stock pile.

My most recent trip to the store with the boys was one of the most humiliating ever. No, Grant didn't slap me across the face or throw a glass bottle of teriyaki sauce on the floor during checkout. Instead, he and Scotty both staged a coup and screamed for twenty minutes in a volume so loud that everyone in the entire store was privy to our plight. I didn't want to leave half-way through my list because then I would have to go back later. So I just kept pushing the cart along, with the kids shrieking. Normally I don't care at all. But people would not quit staring, which made me think that maybe this was worse than normal (as if you could classify any of this as some sort of normal). Plus, on two separate occasions, store employees tried to force Grant to get back into the shopping cart (he had one leg hanging over the side). One very large man came running toward me, grabbed Grant (who started screaming louder and then kicked like a maniac), put his hand on his out-of-breath chest and said, "Oh, you (deep breath) don't know (deep breath) how many kids (deep breath) I have seen fall. Oh! (deep breath) I was so scared!"

After that, we proceeded to the checkout, where our clerk was twenty years past retirement and fifty years past patience with children. Apart from the open-mouth gawking, she made the following comments:

"I hope this is just a bad day for them." (No, my kids are rotten every day. Oh, and in case you were wondering, this lasts all day long. Yep, just keep on staring, if you please.)

"What's wrong with them? Are they hungry or tired?" (Both, but it's really none of your business.)

"Little Boy, sit in that cart. Little Boy!" (Then she looked at me with disgust and asked me for I.D. to my credit card. She looked at my picture, then at me, then at my picture, then at me, then at my picture ... no joke! Finally she reluctantly handed my card back to me, as if she had no other option. Maybe she was trying to memorize it so she could call Child Protective Services when I left. That's OK with me, though, because I was memorizing her name tag, too, so I could call the store manager and tell him how rude she was. But of course I never called because I rarely do that. Takes a lot more than some evil eyes and pointed remarks.)

I suppose this store reserves the right to refuse service to people whose children are misbehaving. At least my fellow customers felt sorry for me. Three different people offered to help me to the car, unload my groceries, carry one of the babies or push the cart.

Now, let me show you how this relates to food storage, because it most certainly does. You see, since Clint isn't home very often, and since going to the store with the kids in tow isn't in my immediate future, our little family will live off our food storage until such a time as when Clint can keep the screaming babies home while I shop in peace and browse the aisles whilst glaring at other mothers of naughty two-year-olds and pretending that I have no idea what they're going through. Just kidding, I wouldn't do that, but I must admit that every time I see a child throw a tantrum at the store, I can't help but giggle inside. And sometimes a little smirk escapes my lips, too. Oops.

The end of the story is that Grant and Scotty were both asleep in their seats before the car pulled out of the parking lot. Thank goodness for happy endings. And food storage.

I Missed My Grandma Today

A month before my grandma passed away, Clint and I took the kids over for a weekend visit. She was a little sick with a cough, so she didn't want any of us to get too close to her. I told her that I didn't care if we got sick -- we wanted to be with her.

She held my babies, each one, and told me how beautiful they were. She kissed little Scotty, and I knew that she knew he had come straight from Heaven. I told her that I loved her, and I hugged her as tight as I dared.

I've thought about her every day since her funeral, but today I missed her so much that I couldn't stop myself from crying. I just wanted to call her on the phone and hear her voice.

My Lucky Break

It's no secret that Nicole and I have gone the rounds when it comes to food. I am happy to report, however, that at nearly six years of age, we are making HUGE progress. Progress means I can tell her to eat something, and she does -- whether it's new or something she "doesn't like." Our recent list has included lettuce ("from a salad," she adds), apples with the skin on, carrot sticks and milk (gasp!). I'm not asking her to eat anything I myself wouldn't eat, and often, we eat it together.

But I'm writing about Grant today. I bought Nicole a can of Spaghettios as a treat for hard day endured (details at the end). Grant saw the can of Spaghettios on the counter, pointed to it and said, "Yuck!" Then he repeated himself 20 times. Then he found an apple, also on the counter, asked for it to be sliced, and ate the whole thing. On the same day, he also ate a bowl of shredded wheat and plain Cheerios with milk. (*No sugar added.*) It's a miracle. I never thought I could be so lucky!

*****

Nicole's Bad Day

Nicole's bad day was all my fault. I don't mean that in a sarcastic way like how rebellious teenagers say everything bad is their parents' fault. It's in a true way. I didn't get her to bed until 9:30 p.m. on a school night, and she was sooo tired when I had to wake her up at 7:00 the next morning. As we walked to the bus stop, Nicole stopped walking, started crying and latched onto me tight with both hands. "I don't want to go to school, Mom. I don't like school."

I knew that wasn't true. She loves school. She loves her teacher, and she's already made some great friends. After a fashion, she confided that it's P.E. she doesn't like. They played "the noodle game" last week, and she was afraid they'd have to play the noodle game again. I gathered that the noodle game is where each child runs around with a swimming noodle chasing other kids. If you're tagged, then you're out. Well, Nicole doesn't like competition, unless she's guaranteed to be the winner (we're going to have to devote some serious time to this issue; I'm blaming it on her oldest-child status), so she asked the teacher if she could sit out for Round 2 (which was permitted).

Long story shortened, I drove Nicole to school, sat in the back of her classroom for 4o minutes, and tried to get away at least eight times before actually doing so. I peeked around the corner a few minutes after I told Nicole I was leaving, and she had her head down on her desk crying, with her sweet teacher sitting next to her on a kid chair, trying to console Nicole.

I would have stayed all day if I didn't have to get back home to the boys. In fact, I would go to school with her everyday if I could and if it wouldn't look ridiculous. (Can you imagine what the other kids would say? "Hey, Nicole, how come your mom comes to school every day?" Funny story about what kids say about their parents ... One girl arrived late while I was sitting there, and a boy from across the room shouted, "Why are you late? Did your dad sleep in again?" She giggled and answered, "No, this time it was my mom. She wouldn't get off the computer." Then all of the kids started talking about their parents. I heard, "My mom loves the computer, too." And, "My mom is on the computer all day." I'm currently conducting and introspective analysis of myself and how my kids view me. Just kidding. I have better things to worry about ... like whether or not to cave in and pack Nicole a home lunch.) For the next few hours, I thought about taking her out of school and homeschooling her. Maybe I shouldn't force her to go to school if she'd prefer to learn at home. "I'll quit my blog," I thought, "and buy a whole bunch of books, and convert our TV room into a library/learning room. I'll even let the kids tack up their posters on the wall and we'll get a white board. Oh, and I'm going to need a billion dollars to get started, but after that, we'll be OK."

Then I called my mom who told me that I was overreacting and that Nicole would never be happy to sit at home with me -- day in and day out -- when she could be with other kids instead. I knew my mom was right, and that Nicole needed to be right where she is ... the spot that I had so carefully selected for her before moving here. You have no idea -- so much research went into Nicole's school options. In the end, we picked this house so Nicole could attend this school in particular. And her teacher ... oh my heck ... we didn't request anyone, but we ended up with Miss Honey from Matilda.

By the time Nicole came home on the bus, I was all settled down and relieved to hear her say, "I had a good day, Mom." Then I took her home, and she ate her Spaghettios.

As my mom always says, "Most days that start bad turn out good." It's a good motto, and it's more reliable than the weather forecast.

"Stinkin' Cute"

That's what Scotty is going to think his name is. Ten million times a day, I look at him, he gives me a giant grin back, and I say, "Baby, you're stinkin' cute!"

I can think of worse things to call him. Scottie Pippen, for example. Just kidding. That's what my sister-in-law calls him, and if it weren't for Clint (he's not too keen on it), I might consider calling him that myself; beats his other nickname: Big Fatso. We're all about honesty around here.

2,974 Unnecessary Fatalities

246 airline passengers and crew
2603 citizens in New York City in the Twin Towers and on the ground (411 were emergency workers trying to implement rescue and fire suppression efforts)
125 Pentagon employees

I remember the 9/11 disaster very vividly. I was working as a radio producer at KSL 24-hour NewsRadio. I arrived at work late that day and didn't even turn the radio on in the car on the way there. My mom called my cell phone a few minutes before I pulled into the parking garage at work, and I couldn't believe what she was telling me. I ran through four secure-access doors and found every employee (except those who were on the air) planted in front of eight TVs, all broadcasting different news stations. We watched in horror for hours. We stayed late. Way late. There were all of the What If's? What the Heck's? and Who in the World's?! It was awful.

Then I remember how President Bush's approval rating (which had begun spiraling down, and hence the anti-Bushers rumoring conspiracy) soared to the highest of any American president in history at 89%. (Unheard of! I think it's currently sitting at 3.25%.) I also remember how nearly every American went to church for two months straight. It was a serene sort of feeling. I also remember flying commercially to Portugal with Clint and my parents only a few months later. Our pricey plane tickets were purchased in advance of 9/11, and all of the analysts were saying it was probably safer than pre-9/11. Comforting. Probably. We went ahead with it, and it was one of my favorite vacations ever. But I digress.

I wanted to tell you that I remember talk about making 9/11 a holiday. I didn't think that felt quite right seeing as Americans would have turned it into another 4-day weekend one week after Labor Day. I guess the politicians agreed with me since it was never passed in congress. But oddly enough, having it not a holiday doesn't feel right either. Whenever I see the date written, especially for announcing an event, it feels slightly disrespectful, like walking on top of a headstone in a cemetery.

I suppose 9/11 isn't all that different from 12/7. And maybe 67 years from now, 9/11 won't mean anything to those still living. My own kids don't even know the meaning of it. But I do. And every time I hear/see/live another 9/11, I pause. And when I pause, I remember the fear, the loss of innocent life, the utter despair, the horrifying stories of airline passengers and trapped corporate workers phoning home and leaving departing messages for their families, and movies that I couldn't bring myself to watch (the French documentary simply entitled 9/11, for example).

Then we saw pictures of the flag emerge at "Ground Zero." And gradually, the shock of the attack wore off and falsified/comedic photographs began circulating in the email system, and Nashville penned songs of vengeance. Hope prevailed, and America got tough.

I can't believe it's been seven years. The wound feels so raw, even though it's all scarred over and ugly now. No, 9/11 shouldn't be a holiday. But it, at least, deserves a moment or two -- or ten -- of reflection every year.

25% Down and Sadness Already Approaching

Before Clint and I finalized our match list, we strongly considered advice and recommendations from friends regarding the different programs and cities. We had only heard very positive remarks about Spokane.

"I'd do it again!" "It's worth moving twice." "We don't want to leave."

One of the residents last year moved here from FLORIDA, stayed for his intern year, and then moved all the way BACK to Florida. We spoke with him and his wife at the graduation dinner and they said they wouldn't have traded their year here for anything -- long-distance move notwithstanding.

After we matched and moved here, I hoped that Clint and I would feel the same way about Spokane. But we didn't. Both of us mentioned that we felt like we were "camping out" for the year. It didn't feel like home at all.

Until now.

It's not about the city, though, because honestly, Spokane's not that great of a city. In fact, it's a very small city with crazy one-way roads packed with continuous traffic. The shopping is lame and it snows in June.

It's about the people. They are so warm and welcoming and loving and caring and giving. And they make us happy when we don't have our family around. Oh, and they're far right conservatives. (Who knew?!)

I'm afraid we've fallen into the same trap as residents before. It will be bittersweet to leave in nine short months.

If You Like Other People's Children ...

... then you might be entertained by a clip of Scotty eating Cheerios for the first time. I gave him a Cheerio a few weeks ago, but he gagged on it before spitting it out. And that was the end of solid foods -- until today.

I'm hoping that Scotty will just skip the whole mushy baby food stage and head right on into real people food. I mean, dogs can do it, why not Scotty? I suppose it would help if he had some teeth. I don't think he cares about the teeth, though. He just smashes the Cheerios with his gums. So cute. I don't care if he never gets teeth. Just kidding. If he didn't have teeth, then he couldn't talk properly, of course! And we all know how important it is to be able to speak in a manner that will be understandable to others. Speaking of speaking -- and this is a huge deviation from this post -- Grant has suddenly developed a broad vocabulary. He uses the words he knows, and often I can get him to copy me. I think we'll be caught up to those show-off eighteen-month-olds in no time!

Now for the clip of Scotty porking out. I would expect nothing less.

Not Making Do

I realize I said we wouldn't be buying any more toys. We have enough toys, no doubt.

I also realize that if we were in the year 1932, Grant would be lucky to have a set of Dominoes, and it realistically may have been his only toy -- or perhaps even the only toy for the whole family to share.

But it's not 1932, and still Grant sets up Dominoes as his train tracks and drives his trains "round and round and round" while making choo-choo noises. He distributes trains to the rest of the family so that we can all play along with him. We have to play gently, though, because if any part of the track comes out of place, we all have to stop for maintenance.

I've been known to recant quite a few of my words, and I just have to preface this one with, "I can't help myself." Now that we're all clear, I feel justified in announcing that we will be adding another toy to our collection: a real set of train tracks. (Obviously not real, as in for the Union Pacific to roll down, but a real set of toy train tracks.)

This is due mostly in part to ... (1) Grant refraining from whining about not having better equipment; (2) Grant's humility; and (3) Grant looking so cute while "playing train" with pretend tracks that fall apart every other Domino.

Don't think I could have raised kids 76 years ago.

Something's New

Can you figure it out?

I'll give you a hint. It's not teeth. It's ...... shoes!

Scotty also has a new-found balance. (And quite possibly an alternative activity to sleeping in the crib.)

Political Correctness is Ruining Country Humor

I wish I had penned that phrase, but credit is owed to an Appalachian scholar named Loyal Jones. He was referring to the following embellished, nevertheless, true story.

A wannabe Kentucky politician/self-acclaimed comedian said to a woman with two teenage girls in the grocery store, "I'll trade you a fattening hog for both of those girls."

OK, so it's possible this is a creepy, old man that likes to tell young girls they're pretty (I've known a few and I shudder and get a weak stomach every time I think of them ... out there ... haunting other young girls. Ugh!). But isn't it also possible that he's just a cheapskate? I mean, if you remember that Mahana-You-Ugly alone was worth EIGHT COWS, then how does he figure getting two girls for one fat pig/hog/it's all the same to this city girl?

The man intended his comment as a compliment, and I, for one, really believe him. But the grown woman (who happened to be the girls' aunt) had the guy arrested for "attempting to entice the children into illegal *** activity." That's not just a little overboard, that's coo-coo. And I don't know how the small town sheriff even got away with keeping this guy in jail for THREE DAYS. (Don't trust your soul to some back-woods county lawyer ... thanks for the tip, Reba.)

The moral of the story: Not only can some people not take a joke, but apparently they can't take a compliment either.

Secondary moral of the story: Some people still want to trade animals for humans ... and at ridiculous prices.

Tertiary moral of the story: Don't get arrested in Kentucky. They might hang you before your unfair trial.

What Nicole Loves about School

When Nicole got off the bus on her first day of school, she came running to me (and I to her) with her arms out, jumped in my arms and excitedly proclaimed, "Mom, today was a great day!" (Mom sighs relief.)

In Nicole's backpack was a folder containing her first homework assignment: tell someone in your family two things that you liked about school today. Nicole gave me four.

1. Lunch! (It was chicken nuggets, of course she loved it.)
2. Playing with my teacher. (Puzzles, games, more puzzles ...)
3. Also, I love my bus.
4. But I love my teacher more than my bus.

What Nicole Doesn't Love about School

Lunch.

I know, it was #1 on the like-list, but I think lunch is going to bounce around from list to list depending on what is served each day.

I read Nicole the menu before she went to school:

Mini Cheeseburgers
Baked Tater Tots
Chilled Pears
Ice Cream Bar

I knew the only thing on that list that would appeal to Nicole would be the ice cream, so I told her to request the "quick pick" lunch, which was a roast beef sandwich with some other items in a brown paper bag. She doesn't eat roast beef sandwiches either, but she does eat plain bread and plain roast beef, so I told her to separate them.

On the way home from the bus stop, Nicole told Clint and me that she was hungry. (Mom not surprised.) "Well, Nicole, what did you eat for lunch?"

"I ate a little bit of ice cream because that was all that looked good," she told us.

Clint and I snickered at her matter-of-fact way of presenting unpleasant news. A little later she offered me more information, as if little bits from the lunch horror film kept replaying through her mind. "Mom, my tray kind of had ice cream melted all over it."

"Why didn't you eat your ice cream before it melted?"

"Because my teacher said, 'Uh-uh-uh ... You have to eat good food first.'"

Turns out, Nicole ended up with the cheeseburgers. She was going to take the meat off and eat the bun, except the cheese was all "grossly rotted onto the bun." So she sat there, watching all of the other kids eat and watching her ice cream slowly melt. She finally got to eat some of her ice cream, even though she had not eaten anything else because "it's an emergency when your ice cream melts all over the place, Mom, and then you have to eat it no matter what."

Tomorrow they're serving "teriyaki dippers." (What the heck is that?! I don't even know if I would eat that.) If she doesn't order the brown paper bag sandwich, there's no chance she's eating tomorrow either.

We're both stubborn. I won't pack her a lunch because she needs to learn to eat, even if it's something she doesn't like. And she won't eat anything new, so she's just going to starve her little skinny self to death. On the bright side, they serve grilled cheese sandwiches with no crust every Friday. At least that's one day I won't have to worry about her eating.

Not Exactly What I Imagined

When you're married to a doctor, it is reasonable to assume that any plans you make (especially the important ones) may, and likely will, fall through.

For example, we had planned to make a family walk to Nicole's bus stop for Nicole's first day of school. But instead, Clint got off work later than he ever has during this rotation, thereby completely missing the send-off and all of its accompanying chaos.

And since Clint wasn't home (as planned) to help with the boys while I got Nicole ready to go, Scotty was left in his crib babbling nonsense, and Grant was ordered to stay in the house (watch his movie, whatever, I didn't care) in his PJs while I walked Nicole to the corner.

So Nicole and I started out ...
(Notice she sneaked her new Webkin pet in her backpack. She didn't ask, but I would have let her take it because her stuffed animals are almost real to her. I think they bring her a lot of comfort at scary times. This one is new and she's a white terrier named Lucy.)

But Grant didn't want to miss the bus, so he came running after us in the middle of the street ...
(If I weren't me, I'd like to be one of my neighbors. Then I could just sit in my living room, look out my front window and laugh at the poor woman across the street running the circus.)

Nicole and I heard some buses driving around, and we weren't sure if it was hers. So I told Nicole to run ahead while I fetched Grant. (Thank Heaven for Go-gurt. Smart person who came up with that one.)

Turns out the one we heard wasn't Nicole's bus (good thing because she would have been sprinting the length of three houses to catch it). But hers was only a minute behind, and the three of us reached the corner just in time.
Grant and I watched Nicole get on (she asked the bus driver where to sit), I waved wildly to her (but she didn't see me because she was on the second row on the opposite side -- possibly on purpose so as not to be associated with the nutty mom on the sidewalk), and then Grant and I walked home. I mean I walked, and Grant kicked and screamed as I carried him home (so what else is new?) because he wanted to get on the bus, too.(Grant's kicking and screaming lasted for twenty minutes after the bus left, and only ended when a really good distraction came along -- Daddy in Douglas's truck.)

Nicole asked me to meet her at school, which I did about a half hour after it started. I just wanted to peek through the glass and make sure she was happy, but as I poked my head around the corner, I saw Nicole's class all lined up, with Nicole at the head. Just then, leaving me no time to flee or otherwise hide, all of the kids filed out and Nicole was shocked to see me standing there. The students stood in formation in the hall as each of them took turns going to the bathroom. While Nicole was waiting for the other students, her teacher whispered to Nicole to "give her mom a hug." Nicole came running toward me and jumped in my arms. So much fun. Then Nicole asked me to put her backpack in her cubby because she hadn't done it yet.

We parted, and I walked back to her classroom and easily spotted her desk (all pink plastic container) with her backpack underneath. This is when reality hit ... Nicole's a big girl now. She has her own desk with her own book and folders and ... holy cow! I almost cried. Not bawled uncontrollably. It was just another one of those "please don't grow up" moments.I can't wait for the Room Mother volunteer sheet. I'm going to be the first one to sign-up so I can spend as much time as possible with Nicole at school, watching her NOT grow up before my very eyes.

Today I Did Something I Thought I'd Never Do

... send my child to public school. I went to public school, and while I think I turned out relatively OK, I still think the system failed me, and I vowed to never put my kids through it. Yet here I am, eating my foul-tasting words.

There are no private schools in our small city/town/unincorporated county, and homeschooling is not an option for Miss Social. Homeschooling -- that's what I always wanted to do. Teach your kids what's important to them, and at a pace that is appropriate for them. I've been to a couple homeschool meetings (usually held at libraries) and I've spoken with many homeschooling parents. It works for all of them. But I know it couldn't possibly work for us. Not right now anyway; that is, if I could even convince Nicole that it's so much more fun to stay home with Mom and her two baby brothers than it is to sit at her study table with friends her age, have story time with her cute teacher (she really is), or run around the playground at recess. I can't compete. Even if I pulled out all the stops -- paint sets, baking bread, reading Jack and Annie books, gardening ... There really are many learning activities to do at home, if only I had the discipline and energy to do them all every day. Oh yeah, and if I didn't have any other kids.

I find consolation in knowing that Nicole is at a very good school this year. It's not too large, making it possible for all of the teachers line up to greet the children each morning as they enter the school (this is until the end of the year -- not just for the first week of school). And her teacher, well, I think she's going to be magical. She's young, so she's not all calloused and ornery with the kids.

I hate rescinding my words, but here's another "I never ..." down the tubes. This might be one of my most difficult yet because she's going to be gone for so long each day. And I'm going to miss her, and I'm going to worry terribly about her tummy rumbling if she doesn't each her lunch. And I'm going to wonder if she's making friends alright. And I'm going to find one million new things to worry about each day because she won't be next to my side to protect. There's something that feels awfully unnatural about sending your little one on a bus far, far away (OK, it's not that far, but to a panicked mom, any distance is too far) to get educated every day. That should never happen. Not even in college. Nope, children should live with their mommies and daddies forever and ever and ever and never leave.

I've got to get a grip. And no more renegotiating my "I nevers."

The Innocence of Youth

Dear Reader,

We've had our differences regarding what constitutes a "normal" childhood. (For example, a great many of you have chastised me about my stance on Santa, the Tooth Fairy, and other mythical creatures.) But let's put that behind us. We have more important things to discuss today, like how our kids are getting the raw end of the deal when it comes to growing up.

I'll tell you what's normal. Normal is a kid who can ride her bike a mile away without any adult watching. Normal is a kid who can walk herself to a friend's house and play for hours without phoning home once. Normal is a kid who says to her mama, "I'll be home at dinnertime." (Also normal, but slightly unrelated is a kid who eats dinner.)

What's not normal is while giving your almost first-grader a pep talk about school, having to also include an explanation of drugs and inappropriate ways in which no one should look at or touch her body. That's just not fair.

Since the time I grew up (which, by the way, wasn't that long ago since I didn't know what "the real world" was until I was, like, 25), the span of childhood has shortened considerably (say, by 20 years or so). It's sad to watch a part of their innocence leap out the window, especially at such a young age. It's disheartening to have to explain terrible things to a child (like why people do bad things and how long they have to stay in jail for each of those crimes ... oh, and which crimes are least likely to require jail time ... oh, and how much fines are for different offenses).

Kids should go to school and play at recess for half the time. First graders should have no homework. And when kids get home from school, the only thing they should ever have to worry about is which friend to play with that day (and perhaps which type of cookies Mom will have waiting for them in the kitchen).

Please tell me we've found something to agree on.

Sincerely,

Lorena