MoFiN and SooP

Saturday was the 17th anniversary of marriage to my dear, integrous, handsome, and highly talented husband, Martin.  We enjoyed a fabulous day trip to central Arizona, where we enjoyed wine tastings at Javelina Leap Vineyard & Winery and Page Springs Cellars.  Javelina Leap was more instructional and intimate.  Page Springs was more impressive, large, and put-together.  Page Springs had WAY more wines, but I think I enjoyed the experience at Javelina Leap better.

There are other wineries in the area, but we thought we’d better halt it at two. 

We also very much enjoyed an hour or more meandering around the Page Springs Fish Hatchery nature area walking on the close, wooded trails, and watching the birds in and around the ponds.  We saw a Black Phoebe, six or so Great Blue Herons, dozens of American Coots and American Widgeons, many Mallards, several White-Crowned Sparrows, and perhaps hundreds of Ruby-Crowned Kinglets, which were a new add to my life birding list.  We likely would have ID’ed more birds had we given it more time.

We spent the late afternoon and evening in old town Cottonwood, where there was a festival of some sort with a variety of interesting people, booths, music, art, and general funky, small-town atmosphere.  We bought some Peruvian wool yarn for my sister, who was staying with my girls, and had dinner at the Tavern Grille.

It was a great day.

On the drive home, we stopped for Starbuck’s and watched the moon rise over the bare hills of central Arizona.  Perfect.

When we got home, we discovered that my sister nearly died watching my girls.  Not really, but she was in tears.  Of course, she never let on about any of this while we were gone.    She requested that she never watch the girls again without the help of at least two of my boys.  We then sort of laughed over the apparent oxymoron of how it’s easier to care for five children than two.  Plus her own 15 month old daughter.  My sister Robin has a bad back, and she said that she realized that, most of the time she watches my children, she stays on the couch and gives orders to the older children, intervening when necessary.    Much easier than chasing around one-, three-, and five-year-olds, nonstop, for about twelve hours.  She was in pain and a little horrified how Audrey in particular took advantage of Robin’s less-than-availability, instead of sympathizing and helping more, especially in light of how Robin had carted Audrey around to all sorts of special things that day — a birthday party, a paint-your-own-pottery place, the park…

I felt badly for Robin, and badly about raising a daughter who isn’t appreciative of the good things provided for her.  I’m still sorting that out in my mind, and in a couple of conversations with my sister regarding parenting…

This provided a giggle, though:

When my sister was preparing dinner (“soop”), Audrey — who had attended a birthday party earlier that day with her own gluten-free cupcakes in hand — decided to petition Robin for a better dinner.  “Mofin?  Yes!  Soop?  NO!“  It’s a “sparkle muffin” with frosting and sprinkles (a.k.a. a cupcake).  Note the appropriately-placed smiley face and frowny face.

Overall, a good day.

Next time, I’ll definitely have mercy on my sister by leaving behind some helpers for her. 

Spin

I am a firm believer in NOT manipulating one’s children.  Someone I know used to tell his daughter, when she was much younger, that everything was “chicken,” because the girl refused to eat anything except for chicken.  So, rather than telling her it was, say, watermelon she was eating, or a hot dog, he’d say it was “chicken.”  Hm.  Not into that.

To this day, years later, he laughs over that season in his little girl’s life.  But to me?  That’s too close to lying.  And, too high-maintenance.  My style is more along the lines of, “Eat it or go to bed hungry.”  And, well… I guess both sides have merit, though mine is particularly less merciful, so perhaps I shouldn’t be patting myself too hard on the back for my honesty.

There is certainly a fine line there, I’m discovering, especially for little ones for whom appearance and perception truly matters.  In our home, that would be Audrey.  She’s almost five (gasp!), and this has been the case since she was very young.  I have to be careful not to wield unwisely my power to get her to do what I want her to do.

For instance:

• She used to fight me tooth and nail when it was time to wash her face.  I had a little revelation, and, appealing to her vanity, I solemnly explained that she had so much muck on her face that I couldn’t see her “pretties”.  As I gently rubbed her cheek, nose, and chin, I started to exclaim that, bit by bit, her pretties were shining through!!  Audrey was genuinely excited.  After I washed her, she insisted on looking at her glowing face in the mirror, happily admiring her pink, clean little self…  It stuck.  We’ve been uncovering her pretties, after mealtimes, for years now.  It works with Fiala, too.  Fi is not quite 2½, and has never been quite as enamored with the idea of beauty as Audrey.  So, getting her pretties to shine through isn’t quite as effective, but nearly so.
• About a year ago, I bought a pair of brown jeans for Audrey.  I couldn’t pass up the deal — the cost was less than $2 for them, brand-new!  I anticipated a bit of a struggle, though, with Audrey.  Brown, according to very small girls who have a very persistent “girlie” streak, is not a very feminine color.  She looked very dubiously at them, and proclaimed brown to be a “boy” color, because it is the same color as dirt.  “Oooh,” I cooed conspiratorially, smoothing the rich brown fabric, “These aren’t dirt-colored.  They’re chocolate-colored.  These are chocolate jeans!”  Instantly, Audrey’s face was all delight;  she changed her tune completely.  “Oooooh!  Chocolate jeans!  I looove chocolate jeans!”  And, she’s loved them ever since, calling them “chocolate jeans” every time she wears them.
• I bought Audrey a pack of undies, not too long ago.  There was an assortment of patterns and colors, most a variety of pinks and purples.  One, though, was not to her taste:  The pair featured a number of different sizes of elephants, colored various shades of blues and reddish-pinks.  Elephants, I could hear her thinking, are boy animals.  And, to make matters worse, some of them are blue.  Blue is a boy color.  Everyone knows that.  Disdain clouded her face, and she opened her mouth to protest.  Preempting her, I pointed out, “These aren’t just elephants.  They’re elephant families.  Look.  The larger blue ones are the daddy elephants.  The lighter blue ones are the brother elephants.  The bigger pink elephants are the mommies, and the littler ones are the sisters.  And, look!” I continued with a tiny, tender gasp, “There are itty-bitty elephants, too!  Those are the babies!!”  I do know my daughter.  “Ooooh!” she squealed, eyes open wide, anticipation filling her whole self, “Baby elephants!  Elephant families!  Oh, I want to wear them right now!”  And the pair of underpants which, at first blush, she would have gladly chucked into the trash, unworn, became her favorite in an instant.  They are, still.
• Audrey takes a nap on my bed.  The two girls share a room, and while that works fine for night time, when they both sleep, room-sharing during naptime is not nearly as successful, especially since Audrey actually sleeps only once out of every three or four days.  Normally, I time it so that I’m not doing laundry when she goes down for a nap;  somehow, I knew it would bother her if the sheets were missing.  But, on a recent Saturday, it just happened that the linens were in the wash when it was time for Audrey’s nap.  She walked into my room and balked.  “I can’t sleep on that bed.  It has no sheets.”  Now, I could have put on an old set of sheets just for her nap, but I balked at the extra work.  Instead, looking at the mattress pad — a new one, bright white, soft and puffy — I whispered conspiratorially to Audrey, “Look!”  I patted the bed.  “You get to sleep on a cloud!”  Instantly, her eyes lit up, and I knew I had sold her.  “A cloud?!?” she asked, dreamily.  “Oooh, it’s so soft.  Just like real clouds.  Do you think real clouds are soft like this?”  She napped, like a dream, on a cloud…

Manipulation?  Yes, a bit.  Spin?  Definitely.  Lying?  I hope not.

Have you ever dissuaded someone from homeschooling?

I built up a head of steam yesterday.

Perhaps it was a bit misplaced.

I still haven’t decided.

The shortish version is that I read a blog post from someone — we’ll call her Rosie — who was “inspired” by the blog post of another blogger — we’ll call her Patience.  Patience’s post had sung the praises of the benefits of homeschooling, and had said, in essence, that every family would benefit from it.  In Rosie’s response, she took each of Patience’s numbered points, and rewrote and dismantled them, supplying her own life as a better example, which was, in short, homeschooling for the younger years, and public/charter schooling for the older years.

I didn’t entirely disagree with most of Rosie’s suggestions.  I was, though, aghast that she would publicly take a specific blogger — a friend, no less — to task.  And, that she would say, in essence, “I have learned much better, grasshopper.  Mine is the more excellent way.”  Though Patience responded and didn’t seem miffed, I couldn’t help but feel for her.  I would be horrified if someone I had known personally had done that to me.

One thing, though, about which I did completely agree with Rosie, was that homeschooling is not for everyone.  I have steered an inquiring mother in another direction, on more than one occasion.  One, which made me giggle at the memory, was from a mother who

• said she had zero budget for homeschooling
• balked at my suggestion that she go to a library:  “I don’t think I’ve ever been to a library.”
• didn’t have a clear reason about why she wanted to homeschool
• did not have the support of her husband
• did not research or follow up on any of the material I gave her, over a couple months’ period

What it came down to was that this mother wanted:

• ME or some government entity to supply her with an entire curriculum (she didn’t want to participate with one of the assorted charter “homeschooling” programs, where the school provides the curriculum, and often a computer, and then checks up on the student, like Arizona Virtual Academy or Connections Academy).
• ME to tell her husband that she should homeschool.  She figured that, as I have a (small) leadership role in the church, I’d outweigh his authority on the matter.

Her audacity made my jaw drop.  I declined to help on either count, and never heard from her again.

Now, the story makes me giggle.

Do you have any similar stories??   Or, do you, too think that homeschooling is for everyone?  (I won’t rip you apart if you do!)

EDITED TO ADD: Names have been changed to protect the parties involved, of course.  “Rosie” has only very rarely ever been to my blog, and I don’t believe “Patience” ever has.  I don’t think it likely that either will ever see this post.  And, even if they do, no one would ever know it’s them, unless they out themselves in a comment, or something like that.  So, I think the dignity of the bloggers is protected.

Kitten balls, and a peek into parenting an Aspie child.

A few minutes ago, getting Fiala ready for a nap, she spied some white fluff on the bathroom sink.  “Mama, may I have a sof’, sof’ kitten ball?”

I hand one to her, correcting with a hearty laugh, “They’re cotton balls, not kitten balls.”

She gives me a mischievous look, grinning while stroking her cheek with the “kitten” ball, “Mee-ow, mee-ow.”

And this is awesome.  I could easily see myself having a very similar conversation with Grant.  (My son Grant has a learning disorder that is very much akin to Asperger’s Syndrome.  It’s called Nonverbal Learning Disorder, and it’s like Asperger’s MINUS obsessions, but with the ADDITION of fine and gross motor skill issues.  He was diagnosed when he was four, and is now 11.)

Sweet/Sad

I keep telling Fiala that she’s a genius.  She’s smart, but I am more impressed by her… emotional intelligence.  She’s two years old — just barely — and often more perceptive than any of us.  She is the sweetest member of our family, deeply concerned when someone gets a boo boo, or gets in trouble, or has a hard time with something, ready to give hugs and words of consolation, celebrating — with visible relief and joy — when the difficulty has passed.  Likewise, she notices and files away into her memory things that make people happy, and will frequently say something like, “Great dinner, Mama!” simply because she knows it brings a smile to my face, and she’ll receive sincere thanks and some lovin’ in reply.  She acts with similar kindness and encouragement to everyone.  Recently, she has started asking just about everyone, “Hi!  How are you doing?” because she has noticed how happily everyone responds to a two-year-old who is sincerely concerned with their well-being.  She is simply a gift of God to our family;  I become more and more convinced that God knows we need. 

Her restricted diet gets more and more difficult to manage as she gets older.  If you’re 12 months old, and you’re eating something different than the rest of the family, you’re not that likely to notice.  But, if you’re 24 months old, and you really like eating, it becomes a source of frustration and sadness that you can’t eat what everyone else is enjoying.

Countless times, Fi has asked for a food item, only to have me respond, “Oh, Fi… I’m so sorry, but you can’t have that.  It will hurt your skin!”  or, “It will hurt your tummy!”

At lunch on Thursday, we had a similar exchange.  Fiala had her Fi-safe lunchmeat, carrots, and farinata.  She was particularly desirous of the pepperoni and cheese that others were having.  I sometimes give her a bit of sheep’s milk romano, but she really wanted a whole slice of provolone.  “No, Fi.  I’m so sorry.  This cheese will hurt your skin, honey.  And your tummy.  I can’t give it to you.”

Fiala was quiet for a while, thinking.

Then, she piped up, in a heart-achingly hopeful voice, “Cheese makes me better, Mama!”

I about laughed and wept at the same time.

Precious child.

Wes Gems

Wesley will be nine years old, later this month.

He’s an interesting little cookie, that boy, and if there is one of my children who I’m afraid I just don’t “get” well enough, it’s Wes.

Three things have tickled me in the last couple of days about Wesley:

1. Last night, as I was making dinner, Wesley asked if he could help.  “Sure!” I said, handing him the veggie peeler and a pound of carrots.  After that task was completed, I asked him if he wanted to learn how to use the knife to slice about 8 oz of mushrooms.  His face lit up.  Mistakenly, I thought it was because of the knife.  He set me straight, saying with enthusiasm, “Girls like boys who can cook!”  Um, yes, Wes.  Yes, they do.
2. Wesley’s Teaching Textbooks Math 5 arrived in the mail, late Tuesday afternoon.  I loaded it onto the computer yesterday morning, and by the end of the day, Wes had cranked out four lessons.  Today, he has already done an additional four lessons, plus a quiz.  He has spent virtually all of his spare time doing math and, in two days, he has accomplished about two weeks of math.
3. On Monday night, I took Grant to a baseball game (he had won a free ticket in the summer reading program).  During the game, I took a few pictures of Grant with my phone.  Upon reviewing the snaps, I saw that Wesley had confiscated my phone and taken about 15 photos of himself, his sisters, and at least ten of various Lego men.  I laughed hard.

(For those of you who didn’t catch the title’s reference…)

Insincerity

I had Fiala on my lap.  I was sitting on the (closed) toilet, washing her face, applying medicine to it, and doing her hair.  I looked across the bathroom floor, and on the other side of the small room were the tell-tale signs of small pieces of ripped cardstock and, sprinkled liberally on the floor, an assortment of colorful elastics used for ponytails.  (We call them “sprouts”, in honor of the teensy girl ponytails which sprout out of the top of my baby daughters’ heads.)

To Fiala, “Hm.  Do you see all those sprouts on the floor, Fi?”

Fiala’s hand flew to her mouth, in shock.  With a high, breathy voice and apparent deep concern, she gasped, and asked, “Happened??“

I wonder.

The Magic Mother

Note to self:  The bedroom walls should probably be washed more often than once every five years.

As I took a Magic Eraser to some errant pencil remarks this morning, my mind strayed…

I had the best conversation I have ever had with my mother on Friday night.  It was bittersweet, because most of what she talked about were the sort of things that one reflects upon, when confronted with one’s mortality.  I didn’t say much, other than a question here or there to request clarity or expansion, or just to keep her train of thought going.

I felt particularly at a loss for words, due to my many thoughts and feelings, and the tears that would well up and sometimes fall.  I felt like I should be more supportive, somehow, or more assuring, or with the right words that would put her heart at ease.  I had nothing.  I prayed, asking the Holy Spirit for insight.  Nothing.

Afterwards, she thanked me for just listening, and that she was glad that I hadn’t tried to offer her any solutions, or tell her how she could have avoided X, Y, or Z, but that I just heard her out so that she could unload some burdens.

I guess silence is the right thing to “say”, sometimes.

A friend, whose mother recently died, recommended to me that, next time I talk with my mom, I bring along a hand-held recorder.  I think I have one around here somewhere.  She’d feel weird about being recorded, I think.  But, I’d feel weird about recording her on the sly.  So, we’ll see.  But, after he suggested that, I realized that my siblings would probably want to hear what she has to say, too…

Anyways.

One of the things we talked about — and I don’t know how the conversation took this turn — was about how, as a child, I thought my mom had the most magnificent and magical powers of Finding Things Out.  She just seemed to know everything, discerning most of it before I even did the deed I was considering.  This was incomprehensible to me.  At some point, I just chalked up any attempt at secrecy as a total lost cause.

I think I have inherited my mother’s powers. 

There I was, with the Magic Eraser, thinking back a few weeks to when I first discovered them.  (I did give a previous attempt to cleaning them off, but it didn’t do much.  I don’t know why I didn’t think of Mr. Clean.)

I visited Audrey, who was supposed to be napping on my bed.  Obviously, she hadn’t been asleep.  When she doesn’t nap, which is about every other day, she bounces around, finding anything that might be of interest in my bedroom, which she then snatches, scurries back to the bed, and amuses herself with.  That day, she had found a pencil.  I looked at the artwork, then looked sharply at her.  She attempted to suggest that one of her siblings might have done it, and in fact, implicated Grant.  Or Wesley.  You know, someone else — not her.

I would have none of it, and she just could NOT figure out how I was so certain that it was she who had done the deed.

Amid the bold, sweeping, random strokes of pencil were rudimentary attempts at the letters “A-U-D-R-E-Y” and another of her favorites:  stick figures who sport long hair.  Girl stick figures.

Her protests of innocence were for naught.  I, quite unreasonably, would hear no argument of how, perhaps, someone else might be to blame for the drawings on the wall.

~sigh~

When I was a child, was I really that obtuse???

Probably.

My mom is still magic, though.

Out of the mouths of ba… almost-4yo girls

This morning, Audrey balked when I announced what was for breakfast.  I must admit, I pretty much ignored her, as she protests anything that isn’t lollipops or smothered in jam.  “I don’t want that!” she wailed, “I can’t eat it!”

When I put the plate of skillet-grilled toast, in which I had cut a hole and cooked an egg, in front of her, she looked puzzled.  Then, with visible relief and a nervous giggle, she explained, “Oh!  I thought it was a real toad!”

Wesley, age 8, sagely told her that “Toad in a Hole” was just a name.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Later, as I was braiding her hair, in order to win her cooperation, I said, “It would really help if you could be as still as a statue.”

Sweetly, she protested, “But, Mom, I can’t, because you’re wobbling my head.”

I burst out laughing.  “You’re right.  I am wobbling your head.”

“Repeat!” she exclaimed.  (Lately, when someone does or says something that she particularly likes, she hollers, “Repeat!” makes a squeaky rewind sound, and tries to immediately re-create the situation.  I have tried to explain that it never has quite the same effect, the second time around.)  Mimicking herself, “But, Mom, I can’t because you’re wobbling my head.”  — pause — “OK, now, Mom, you start laughing again really hard.”

~*~*~*~*~*~

Another gem:  “I sure am happy it’s almost my birthday, because on birthdays, I can get everything I ever wanted.”    This, she says to the mother who gave her for Christmas:

1. An upcycled doll high chair and crib.  I literally got it for FREE from Freecycle, repainted it, washed the crib’s canopy, and sewed new ribbons on it.
2. A pair of $25 Skechers (very expensive for us), to which I hot-glue-gunned rhinestones, because I wouldn’t pay the $40 for real Twinkle Toes.
3. Nothing else.

I do not know where she has gotten this “everything I ever wanted” idea.  When I tried to dissuade her, she protested, “But you’re just joking.”  Part of me is delighted in her faith in birthdays and in her parents’ provision, part of me is dreading her potential heartbreak when reality does not match the dream, and part of me balks at her sense of entitlement.  I’m not sure which sentiment is winning, at the moment.

Four scarves, three tiaras, my heels, and a "ballet" dress from Grandma. All at once. With a spontaneous catwalk pose.

Christmas, clothes, and too many “Bud Vase”s, year-end video

• I recently was going to post about how dearly I love wee flowers, brought to me by my kids, cheering my world in the bud vase on my counter top.  This sweet image, though, has been overridden by my husband overhearing my 3yo daughter saying, “Bud vase,” and thinking she was saying something naughty… then, him laughing hysterically about it, the all the boys catching on, and now, days later, my husband and me up to our EARS with the boys calling each other, “Bud Vase.”  (Say it aloud.)
• 

  The five best kids ever (and the doggie), Christmas morning

  Christmas!  I have only a few grainy pics from my phone.  Ugh.  However, my Dad tells me that, rather than repairing my camera (which he’s had since… June?  July?), that he’s going to buy me a new one!  That’s fabulous.  We’ve been essentially camera-less since April, and that’s a long time.  Anyways.  Christmas was great — lovely, happy, full of family warmth.  On The Day, we had my Mom & Stepdad, Martin’s Dad & Stepmom, my brother, his wife, and two of their three boys (the other in California with my SIL’s parents) over for the afternoon and evening, eating a non-traditional dinner of Thai omelette soup (I should post a recipe!).  Our home was full, loud, and happy.  And, GOD PROVIDES.  If I went into detail, I’d be typing forever.  So, suffice it to say that our Christmas, which we all thought would be spare and lacking in provision, was overflowing.  Overflowing.  God is so good;  He’s amazing.

• I am now a size 6.  I haven’t been a size 6 since before I had kids.  I now weigh less than I did before I got pregnant with my oldest, who is now 12½.  But, even there, God provides!!  Slacks on clearance at Macy’s for about $10 each, plus some borrowed jeans from a sweet friend who also has recently, unintentionally lost weight and is now a size 4!  So, I have four pairs of jeans on loan from her, two sixes, and two eights.
• 

  The little rosette, the heel height & shape, the rounded toe... perfect

  Not really size-related, but I also found a FABULOUS pair of black pumps on the 26th.  I haven’t been this excited about shoes in a long time… mostly because we just don’t have the money to get as many shoes as I would LIKE, so I typically purchase shoes that are sensible and long-lasting, rather than cute… Then I admire the shoes of my pastor’s wife, Nancy.  However, I found these for $6.99 on clearance at Ross, so I figured I could spend seven bucks on some totally insensible shoes.  I’m so excited about them, I wore them to the grocery store last night.  Hahahahaha!  I have huge feet — size 10.  But, as I’ve lost those nearly-30 pounds, I have discovered that my feet have shrunk a bit.  Who knew?  I had fat feet.  So now, I can wear a 9½ again — and these shoes are even 9W!  They’d be better in a slightly larger size, but this was the only pair Ross had. 

• Our church’s year end video…  FANTASTIC.  Many on here have commented about my church’s dynamics.  If you would like to see it in action, there’s a nearly-34 minute video here.  In a way it’s a best-of-the-year video, and in a way, it’s just really typical as to what takes place.  My whole fam is mixed in there…  Some personal highlights are:  My older two boys quoting Psalm 102 at 1:22;  My hubby leading worship at 5:07 (he’s in LOTS of other places, too); Me leading worship at 5:20;  Audrey being a “PUWH-son” at 12:36… And my son Ethan at the soundboard at the very end.