Sunday Best -

What A Poet Will Tell You

Our middle son, Xavier, at SeaWorld, age four.

 
I hear his coaches shout "get in the game" and "go after the ball"

I cringe knowing the shouts are directed at him

And I sit in silent anger at myself for putting him here

Giving into the pressure of "you've got to push him"

He'd rather show them there's no reason to

"Hustle" and shove, and yell so loud

When there are so many other ways to be

That are easier to be.

When told "get in there and win" he'll ask if it

Matters who wins, if everyone gets a chance to play?

Too soon, he tires of the ball being kicked, and the legs that fly at

You with no warning

Of the elbow that pushes to get at the ball they all want, with shouts of "over here!"

He'll hear someone call his name, barely, but he can't pull away from where his

Attention is drawn

His face looks up to the dandelion wishes that are floating in the morning's soft wind

In scattered circles

Spinning seeds away from the field where they play

He wants them to see what he now sees, how the wisps shimmer in the sunlight, but they won't want to hear, or look. he's learned that slowly,

By trying before

He stands by himself at the end of the field,

And I watch

As they all run past him, in the opposite direction

Away from the weightless feathery puffs that enchant him

My heart aches as I see in his face that he is beginning to know the truth

Already and that

It will be me that has to tell him, year by year,

That he will have to wait for the time when people will want to hear the words that the poet's

Heart want to shout.

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I wrote this many years ago, as I sat and watched our now thirteen year old naturalist son, Xavier, play his first season of soccer when he was four.

I'm happy to tell you that since this was written, he has gone on to discover his true gifts: writing poetry on nature, a piece that went on to win Grand Prize in our regional area Nature Poetry Contest.

He's also received numerous blue ribbons for placing First with his art entries at our local County Fair. Xavier submitted an original design Christmas tree ornament that was accepted as the official Governor's  Christmas Tree Ornament at the Wisconsin state capitol. He also designed the Christmas Card that was selected as our School District's official Holiday Card.

And the list goes on..... 
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I am working HARD and conscientiously to have Xavier see himself as enough. And for me, also, to see him as enough when the world seems to be telling me he has to be MORE.

Sunday Best - Funny Papers Hero

Bil Keane Had It Goin' On

Many of you will immediately recognize the above cartoon, Family Circus, and think of its creator, Bil Keane. Do you remember the ghost pictured here, named "Not Me"? "Not Me" was often accompanied by his partners, "I Don't Know," and "Nobody." One of these three ghosts were always present at the site of broken vases, spilled juice, or alongside footprints of mud that had been tracked into the house.

As a child, around the age of eight,  I'd read Family Circus in the comic section of the Sunday paper. The bright colors of the strip, along with the guaranteed quick read in a few sentences always caught my eye, but each time I'd read it, I'd think, "Lame. lame lame lame lame. Lame." I'd then announce to the closest person, sometimes just to the air, "Family Circus is so dumb." Heavy emphasis on the last letter "m," followed by an eye roll.

Ah, Life.

Last week, while on our weekly trip to the library, our youngest son came across the Family Circus Treasury, what you could call the bible of Bil Keane's work. He had found the book on the shelf, while looking for the cooler, hipper comics, like Foxtrot, and Calvin and Hobbes. The cool hip stuff was out, like much of the rest of cool hip stuff in life usually is. In their stead, our son picked up the Family Circus, drawn to it by its' simple glossy white cover and  large bold sketches outlined in black. He had never heard of it. We took it home.

Feet up on the coffee table, relaxed on the sofa, he flipped through the large volume quickly. At book's end,  he pronounced it, "lame-o, lame-o, lame-o." It fell to the side of the coffee table.

Later that day, I picked the heavy book up from the floor while cleaning. I leafed through it. I began laughing. Like hard laughing. It had been at least ten years since I had looked at Bil Keane. I called to my husband, "you have to see this, remember?" He recognized the trademark "family in a circle," and reminisced, "Oh, yeah, him. I always thought that cartoon was so dumb."

We sat together and read. We sat together and read in a new light, no longer as little children. And we laughed. Family Circus was wasted on the foolish youth we were. Oh, you sophisticated wit, Bil Keane. We have matured into an appreciation for Family Circus. How we now hang our heads in shame --  you were light years ahead of us, Bil, you wrote your comics in preparation for the parents we have now become.

While cleaning up the kitchen tonight, my bare feet landed on sticky ketchup that had been left on the floor, right in front of the refrigerator, the red splotch visible to anyone. Anyone. "Who spilled ketchup all over the floor?!," I shouted, expecting no answer back. I had become the crop cut dark- haired Mom on Family Circus. All three of our boys came running, and right on cue, they began down the line, from tallest to shortest. "Not me," said the oldest, blaming Not Me, straight out of one of Bil Keane's panels. '"I Don't Know," is who middlest placed the blame with. "Nobody," was accused by the youngest.

Bil Keane, consider this my public apology here to you, today, in front of all who read this. Bil Keane, you were not lame! As a matter of fact, you rocked at this parenting gig. You handled it with humor, grace, and joy.

And to Family Circus, to quote the Na'vi in Avatar, "I see you! I see you!"

*Bill Keane is now 87 years old, and happily living in Arizona, enjoying the heck out of the children of his five children. I emailed him a copy of this post, and his family graciously accepted my humble apology, on his behalf.
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This blast from the past originally ran here May 2010. I should check up on Bil, see how he's doing.

You might also like:

Sunday Best - I'm a Celebrity Look-A-Like Link-Up

If you have a celebrity look alike, click and hop on over to the "I'm a Celebrity Look-Alike" link up, hosted by The Little Hen House.

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 Lifetime Movie Network Originals Present: Celine!!!

A Lifetime Movie Network Original

The Empress, as played by Celine!!!

                                                                       

Stephanie, of DramaMama, asks: "If there was a movie made of your life, what would be the movie, and who would play you and why?"

The answer is the 2008 Lifetime Original Movie, "Through the Eyes of the World: The Greatest Singer in the World: Celine Dion!!!" (and you do need the 3 exclamation marks when speaking of Celine!!!)

Sad to say, as much as I'd like/beg for it to be Sophia Loren to play my life, as Nives Mongolini, in The River Girl, 1955, where she was the steamy hot sultry temptress of a small Italian village, I couldn't give that answer -- not with a clear conscience.
Nope. All evidence points to me having to be played by Celine Dion, and end that sentence complete with a deep hand flourishing gravity defying bow, beginning at the forehead and ending at the knees.

I have been told more times than I can possibly recount, from strangers in the check out line at supermarkets to my son's open jawed science teacher, "do you now you look EXACTLY like Celine Dion ??"  And not as in, "wow, you are so beautiful, you look just like Celine",  nor as in "oh, you are so tall, you look like Celine," but as in "wow...your face is so long, you look like Celine," and "your mouth and chin and lips are really weird, like Celine Dion."

The eery similarities between us, continue:

We begin with the uncanny similar facial structure that Celine and I both share: looooong faces, generous chins, and a pretty good jawline for a woman. We move on to both Celine and I, at age 12, when we'd both stand in front of any mirror, holding a hairbrush for a microphone, pretending to sing, and calling out,"maman! It's me...on the radio!"  ala Celine, and  commence to belt out a haunting, long, drawn out dramatic dirge.  I was forever holding diva concerts in the bathroom, the more heartwrenching and painful the song, the better I felt.

Celine's life and mine paralleled each other's throughout high school, also. Like Celine, I was often "without the shoes and always losing the boyfriends."  The boys would tell me, as they told her, "but you are too skinny, and flat," but I, like her, knew I was beautiful. I, like her, "felt the beauty I had ...here...inside..." And we'd both beat our chests with our fists whilst we stared out into the distance, slightly focused to the left, with a ferocity in this declaration (not to be confused with delusion).

Like Celine, you can make me cry -- like that! Snap! "And the tears...they come to my eyes."  Just to hear my son say, "maman! and I am in tears."  It is too hauntingly beautiful, the name...the name! of maman!

I conclude, with these undeniable identical occurrences in Celine's, and my, life:

*Celine's husband paid for her braces, mine paid for my retainers

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*Celine often publicly states that her life, her life, it is like a dream!! I often find myself feeling the same way:  walking through my life in a foggy dreamlike state.


*In the 80's, I had been known to wear my tuxedo dress backwards.


*My eggs are old enough to be in wheelchairs, too. I think my last one dropped sometime last summer.

*I am really skinny and look like stretched out Silly Putty.

* I want to be Canadian, please.

*Celine has hit the longest, highest note on record. My neighborhood has heard me hit some pretty good ones over here, too, when the windows are open for the summer.

*Celine has been known to burst into tears, at the thought of the happiness that surrounds her.  I, too, have been known to burst into tears when I look around and see what surrounds me.

And, finally, like Celine, my children will tell you that I am "here, there, wherEVERRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRR they are...I, will be there with them, too................" --  seeing what they're up to, what mess has to be swept up, finding out who is eating in their bedrooms....

Because, I.Am. Celine Dion, ! the greatest mother! in the world!

I rest my case.

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Sunday Best - I Just Want To Touch Someone....

I have worked since I was 15 years old, at so many kinds of jobs. One  of the part time jobs I had when I was a teenager, was as an aide in  nursing homes. A resident named Mary lived in one of these nursing homes. I still remember her.  That was over 30 years ago, but I can still see Mary with the long, single silver braid down her back. Sometimes it doesn't  seem that far away in time. This post is for Mary.


I woke up this morning to Baby E's arms tangled up in my hair. He is in our bed. I  remember falling asleep to a thunderstorm last night, nothing too noticeable for me, but it must've been for him. Whenever I wake up to his warm body so close to mine, I am grateful for his human touch. Mary often comes to my mind in moments like these--a vision from my past. I hear her voice, "Please? I just want to touch someone! Will you come in here? Please?"

I usually began my shift at the nursing home by catching up on what the last shift had not been able to finish.  On this particular day, I had so much work to do that I was starting to feel a little panicked. I had tried to sneak past Mary's room--as I always did when I was rushed-- but it was too late. She had caught sight of my white uniform running past her door. Mary would sit right at the threshold of her room, with the door wide open, in hopes of catching someone to just hug. They didn't even have to hug her back, she'd do it all.

"Be right there, Mary, here I come, just let me put this down," I called out to her. I set down the laundry I had been carrying, and leaned down into her bent form, molded into her chair. She'd hold me in her bird like frame. I could feel her sigh so deeply, with such relief, it would shake her small body. "Bless you, bless you, bless you!" she'd whisper to my cheek. "My pleasure, Mary, you know I love your hugs," I'd smile and gently try to pull away. I'd always try to not look straight into her eyes. I was always caught off guard by the quick way they'd  fill with tears.

I think of Mary on this morning, as my youngest lays so close to me. His skin is as smooth as cool water. I think of how she needed touch as much as she needed to eat, be taken care of, be covered with an extra blanket at night. I remember the Sociology 101 Experiment we all read about as freshmen in college. The experiment where infants were separated from their mothers to see if a reduction in human contact stopped the spread of disease. It did, and it did much more than that, too. 75% of the infants separated from their mothers died. This was the beginning of what we now call, "failure to thrive."

There is a pastor in our small town, who stands outside of his church every Sunday morning, giving out hugs to every single person who walks into his service that day. After months of driving past there on a Sunday morning, and seeing this, I decided to call him. Could I come in, I wondered, and ask him why he was so intent on giving everyone who walked past him, a hug? Did he know the entire town called him "the hugging pastor"? I was curious, how did it start?

I told him I'd see some people laugh and try to outmaneuver his hugs. I'd also see see the elderly, or the lonely, just melt into his  arms. When I spoke with him, and asked about the reason for his determination to give his hugs out like chocolate kisses, he answered me, "I began doing this on an occasional basis, then one day, an older woman said to me, "you know, pastor, this is the first time someone has touched me all week." My heart went back to "Mary" when he told me this, "just like Mary," I thought.

I remember how my grandmother would comb my curls, singing to me while she took her time curling each strand around her finger, slowly, as if I was the only thing that mattered in her world at that moment. I can still feel her soft hands smoothing my hair, and hear her soft voice singing me her song. The gift of human touch.

To my child that allows me quick grabs of hugs, I take them, to the other two that still bless me with longer, more luxurious basking in their arms, I do. When I run into a friend, or someone from work, I will try to work in a shoulder touch, or a quick rub on the back, or place my hand to rest on their arm for a second. It all matters.

I think of how very fortunate I am, that in my life, in my house, I can hug and be hugged at any time. I have but to step just a few feet in any direction, and I am able to find the human contact I need. I can barely stand the thought of ever reaching a point in my life, where I haven't been touched in a week, haven't felt a soft warm little body on my lap, or had no one in their too quickly growing body laugh and try to out dodge one of my hugs. I cannot imagine a life like that, I am so incredibly lucky to have the life I have now. I welcome every hug, the stickier, the better. I am not one to say, "your hands are dirty, and you might get a spot on my white shirt ," or "I just fixed my hair and you might mess it up."

I remember sitting on a blanket at a soccer game, and my then 3 year old son reaching up to hug me with his blue cotton candy hands, a friend sitting with us cautioned him, "you'll get your mommy's shirt all sticky!" The confident answer that flew out of his mouth made my heart swell,  "she loves my hugs, especially when they're blue and sticky!"

Finding Baby E in our bed this morning takes my thoughts back to Mary. I hear her voice, "Please? I just want to touch someone."    "Yes, Mary, I'm right here. Let me have one of your hugs, Mary."

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On Sundays, I've been running old posts from the first months of my blogging here. This one ran early April 2010. I still think of Mary, and how lucky I am to have more hugs than I can count in a day.

Happy Sunday!

Sunday Best - Love in the Chaos

If you ever need a cure for house envy, come to our house. You'll leave feeling that your house is the best organized, most tightly run ship on the planet. A visit here is good for that. With 4 males in the house, the level of noise is beyond what some would find comfortable. The same can be said for the level of activity, as in indoor soccer games, and football tossing.

There is someone always either playing the piano, shooting the Nerf gunS (yes--S-- as in PLURAL, as in MANY to choose from), or seeing how many paper airplanes can be flown off the upstairs balcony at once. [Hmmmm....maybe they'll fly better if we tape pennies to them!]

Snacking is always going on, there is PlayStation being played, more boys from the neighborhood, a Wii game started upstairs. The lemonade pitcher will be spilled, and someone will leave their unfinished popsicle to melt on the kitchen island. There are shoes to be tripped over, and Lego pieces that will spike the tender arch of your foot.

This is our home, with love in the chaos. 

I grew up in a silent home. My mother didn't like noise, and didn't encourage interaction. She preferred quiet solitude. This was a good thing, in part, it turned me into an insatiable reader. But, my memories of what it was like growing up are often accompanied by the sound of the quiet ticking of the clock in the dining room that I would hear daily.

I knew, that when I had my own family, that I wanted our home to be a boisterous home, bursting at the seams with family life, much like my  grade school friend, Stephanie, had. That's what I wanted.

Life is so good--I am now blessed with exactly that. I am the mother of three sons.

And, within the sound of yet another vase breaking, a dish being dropped, or the sound of experimental aircraft being thrown off the upstairs balcony, you will hear love among the chaos. The sounds of a full house, and my own full, satisfied heart.

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This post originally appeared at Stephanie's,  The Drama Mama, Scoop on Poop. Click over and meet her, she is a lovely woman.

Sunday Best - Blessedness

Beethoven Lives Upstairs

A little background info. about me: I grew up with no music lessons, piano, dance, art, etc., or any enrichment otherwise.  This next posting is, to me, evidence of the surprising beauty that one gets gifted with in life. Just as there are many downs in our lives, there are also tremendous ups. Given my childhood environment, it is amazing to me--beyond my imagination amazing -- that I am able to post something such as this. Please, I hope you don't see it as bragging as much as it is -- for me-- awe coupled with sheer grateful disbelief, though it stares me right in the eyes. Yes, parts of my life have been very, very hard: but I have emerged with such blessings.

The sounds reach me upstairs, but I still can't believe it. My brain tries to talk me out of my reality, though I am hearing it through my own ears, in my own home. The sounds are real, but the stories in my soul tell me it can't be so.

As I lay half awake in my bed on an early Sunday morning, I hear our 14 year old son playing the piano that is in our front room. I know it is him, and that it has to be him, he is the only one who plays in our family. My eyes have seen him sit in front of the keys daily. Five years ago a friend of mine had to find a home for her old piano, which turned out to be here. Now, our son plays, and plays. All his favorites: Journey, ColdPlay, Linkin Park, Green Day. I've seen his fingers touch those keys so many times. 

But my life's stories tell me this can't be my life. I'm not to be in a life with a home that has a beautiful child playing a piano in it.  This is not my life. How does a woman like me, get blessed with a child, a life, like this? A musical child, a musical home, how does it happen? I've never dared to let my dreams get this impossible. Yet, here it is. The wish in me to have the greeting on our answering machine just be him playing is so strong, and I know I can't. We don't brag about our blessings, no matter how unbelievably bursting with pride and joy we are. I'd love to tell everyone, from the bagger at the store, to the stranger at the park,  "My son plays piano, I mean, he plays so beautifully!" I know I can't. I know society would not find that acceptable.

Instead, I find myself having to close my eyes, so I can hear every sweet second as clearly as I can, with tears of pride and disbelief springing to my eyes too quickly for me stop them. I don't move, I want him to keep playing. I don't want to walk downstairs just yet.

I might break the spell.
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This is the first guest post I ever submitted. It ran early March, last year. It was to a wonderful blog called Four Perspectives.  Their  Guest Post page is here, if you feel you have something that would fit in with their beautiful collaborative blog. Good Luck!

Blast From The Past - Finding Your Blogging Voice

Finding your blog's "voice" is a concept that I've struggled with. It means a commitment to what your readers can come to expect of you. It's why they come to you, what they hope to always find.

A focus or a voice is your blog persona, it's who you are on your site.

I think of the famous Pioneer Woman's blog. When I click on to her website, I am hoping to find the fantasy of what a cowboy life would be like. I click over  to read the humor and sweet charm I count on her delivering every day. I visit to see what a life different from mine would be like. I know she'll deliver with exquisite photos, short and sappy text, and always a bite of humor. I love the way she loves her children.  That is her focus: it's what keeps me loyal - and she is consistent with it.

Finding an area of focus, of style, isn't necessary, of course. But, I think it will increase your readership loyalty.  Readership will build through viral word of mouth. Your readers will come to know who you are, and will feel as if they truly would recognize you the instant they met you, in real life.  A reader can tell another blog reader, "I know you like beautiful photography, you should go here," or "You really enjoy homeschooling blogs, hop over here."  That's the handle of a focus, it's a grip that allows someone to identify who you are, and who would be attracted to your blog. It makes explaining who you are, possible.

I look back at my first week of blogging, and think of how I wanted to be all things. I have many, many interests, and I wanted to write on all of them. What I found, through all my assorted beginning postings, is how much easier it is to maintain a blog and commit to good content, if you have a focus of who you are, and what you want to sound like.

My first week's posts were: a book review, an exercise routine, the neighbor who was unkind, karate classes for boys, a homeschooling field trip to a pizza factory, and I topped the week off with a poem. I wanted to throw a recipe in there, too, but ran out of days. I still wanted to do more: I wanted to review a play that was in our town, a live music show I had gone to, and also to have a Wordless Wednesday with my son's artwork. I  wanted to do a weekly "fashion" post. And beauty products that I really loved, I wanted to highlight those. I wanted to do gardening tips, cooking tips, and homeschooling tips.  And, this was at the time of Vienna Sausage with Jake, the Bachelor, so I did a quick post on that, too. 

But it all felt so disjointed to me. I wanted to talk about all of these things, but the thought of so many subjects, made me feel scattered. I knew I had to limit and determine a focus. But, I didn't want to. But, not having my subjects limited was stressing me out, I felt it. Why did I feel this way? I wanted to blog about all those things. I wanted to be all things to all people. My thinking? Well, I find it interesting, others will, too, right? Well, then, why did it make me feel so anxious and like I had just had a Costco tub sized amount of coffee? I think I felt the lack of a focus at my website. What was I about?

Finding a focus can be determined by sitting down and analyzing your blog. Look at your tags: what type of posts do you have the most of? What type of posts do you enjoy writing the most? What types of posts show your passion? Are they cooking, photos, parenting, humor, your struggles, music, TV show reviews, current events, politics, Hollywood gossip, relationship tips, crafts? Do you write mostly on overcoming struggles? Are your posts on family life? Do you really enjoy writing fiction?

I enjoy writing about all things: I truly do. However, I recognized that first week, that my blog posts looked unfocused. I could tell that, and I could really feel that.

I sat down and looked at what I enjoyed writing about the most: it was my children, the adventures of a stay-at-home homeschooling mother to 3 boys in a small town. I enjoyed the humorous posts the most. My passion? I love to make people laugh. I also love to teach and help and share resources. I like to talk about a life lesson I learned the hard way, in hopes that sharing it may save someone some pain. It's also important to me to lighten someone's burden, and help them feel understood, and less lonely. I like to do what I would like to have done for me.  I always hope to post with a voice that is transparent, and sincere. And welcoming.

From that first month, I realized that I felt most settled and at peace with a focus that was primarily parent centered, humorous, and introspective. It's what came naturally. How did I know I was finally successful in getting my focus across? When I began receiving comments that began with "I can always count on coming here for a quick laugh," and "you always seem to understand me." Good things like that.

And, there it is: the beauty of your voice, your gift. Loyal readers, who return, to get what they expect. You can continue to write for just yourself, by all means, yes. For me, however, I needed to decide on a direction, and what felt most at home, for me. You don't have to give up all your other interests at all; you can continue to post the occasional lovestruck posts about your children, a difficult time if you're struggling, a travel week while you drive cross country, a childhood memory. All these side road meanderings are acceptable, but, I find, that even with posts like those, my "voice" continues to poke it's head in, through the words.

With the majority of my posts being about my family, my honesty about my life's struggles, the life lessons I've gone through, information that I've found and want to share, and some funny thrown in here and there, it has made blogging a much happier, more simple, experience for me.

It's also made me recognizable to my audience. They know my voice in a minute. 

I love that.

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I like running these old posts. This blast from the past was an original post prepared for Lady Blogger's Society. I still agree with what I felt I needed to do, for me: to limit my subjects. I felt so out of breath with 30 different kinds of posts that first month.  Whew. 

Happy Sunday!

Sunday Best - How Do You Decide To Homeschool?

If someone had told me 15 years ago, that one day we would be a homeschooling family, I would have stared at them bug-eyed and insisted that they had the wrong crystal ball.

I had firm ideas and opinions about homeschooling, the foremost being that it was not for me. I'll be honest, I couldn't understand why someone would decide to homeschool.

That was, until our family became a family of homeschoolers. How does such a change in personal conviction take place? What is it that found us arriving at this lifestyle choice for our family?

My husband and I have always been book a week heavy readers. Our home, from the beginning, has had piles of books bedside, sofaside, coffee table piled up to here, with books.We are a family of readers.In a very unromantic, yet  prescient act, we had both packed books for our honeymoon. Without consulting each other: we just assumed that we'd find time to read. Leisure time meant reading time.

After our children were born, within the first twenty-four hours of bringing each of our 3 newborn boys home, we held a book in front of their little faces, and read to them. There were as many books scattered in the toy room as toys themselves.

At three months old, our children were grabbing for books, and chewing on the covers. Nine months old found them crawling over to their own low level bookcase that we kept for them, and pulling out a book of their own.Yes, it was only to chew, but the recognition of what a book was, and where it was kept, was there.

At fifteen months old, they would open the book, look at the pictures, then make their way to our laps, handing us the books they wanted  read to them. As time went on, and we began our weekly trips to the library, we had already begun what we didn't recognize then, as informal homeschooling.

Our children would excitedly choose books of their interest, and we would sit at the library, criss cross applesauce, amidst piles of books, and read, point, look. They’d become immersed in a certain topic, say, anything bulldozers--and we’d delve further. They would ask questions, and we’d go find out more together. Soon, our reading together at the library about bulldozers evolved into a field trip to a quarry, and then a hands on activity of making a bulldozer out of torn construction paper bits, renting a DVD on construction site equipment, and then a discussion at dinner on all the different types of bulldozers we had learned about.

Time marched on and our oldest had reached the age where we began to look at preschools. As the majority of families do, we made appointments to see several sites. We'd visit a few schools, but our oldest son would always comment at the end of our stay,  that he felt as if he never had the chance to do any of the things he had wanted to. And so it continued, the same reaction, at all the other appointments, too.

The preschool teachers we consulted felt that it might be a good idea and appropriate for him, if we were to wait another year before starting him in a formal education setting. One year soon became two years. We were now at the kindergarten stage. We had scheduled three visits for him to sit in a kindergarten classroom. With each visit, I’d pick him up, and he’d confess that he really wanted to be home, learning what he wanted to learn more about.

After much discussion and research and meeting with other homeschooling families, we decided to take the plunge and begin kindergarten at home. We would see how it would go. No firm time commitments were made. We would just see and test it out for one year. I remember the happiness on my son's face when we told him of our decision.

There was such excitement in my heart as we began our first day of learning at home. And familiarity. It was what we had been doing all along.

Is this a permanent commitment for us? We decide year by year.

Is this just for the time being? Perhaps.

Have we decided to homeschool every year? We will decide this on an annual basis.

The liberating thing about homeschooling is that it is up to you and your family to determine for how long, and for what grade levels you will homeschool. If we had decided to do this for only one year, it would’ve been wonderful. If it had only turned out to be for six months, that would have been a blessed time in which I truly got to know my children, and their learning style. It was, and is, win win for me.

We are a homeschooling family--it's right for us. And we decide year by year, whether we will be a homeschooling family in the year to come.

There is no perfect answer, no perfect environment, no black and white. We don't homeschool because we are pro anything or anti anything. To me, this lifestyle we’ve chosen has brought our family a deeper level of happiness,closeness, and knowledge of each other that I don't think we would have known otherwise. We began homeschooling in 2005, and we are still homeschooling in 2010. This works for us now and we will decide whether or not to continue as long as all of us feel happy and satisfied with the style of learning we’ve chosen.
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This post was originally prepared for mamapedia. I was so thrilled when they decided to publish it.  If you have a subject you'd like to write about for mamapedia, you can submit it for review.  Good luck!

Sunday Best - Peer Pressure 101

 

Peer Pressure 101:

We hear a lot about children and peer pressure.

An awful lot.

But -- if we listen to ourselves as we speak to our children on resisting the urge to give in to what their friends are doing and what their friends have -- what we'll hear is that resisting peer pressure applies to us, as parents, as well. Just listen.

Resisting Peer Pressure 101

1. "But all the other kids are wearing this!"

Do you, as a parent, fall into this category? Really think about that before you answer. Do you spend money your family can't afford, to have the current hot mama status symbol uniform? Trends pass...do we have to buy what the mom down the street is wearing? Either to belong, or to impress? Why not save our money, instead: spend the dimes and pennies that add up with wise accumulation on something for our family, right?

2.  "But if you let me do this, then all the kids will like me!" 

Really? Everyone will like you? As in, if you sign up for every single expensive baby and you class out there because all the other mommies go, will you have any more friends than you do now?  I made this mistake, with my first: instead of staying home? I had us billed with frantic activity. Now, I wish I would've taken a sweet walk to the park, chatting all the way with my baby. But what did I do? I threw him in the car seat every day of the week, thinking I had to...because all the moms I knew were in every class there was. Had to be the right thing to do, right? I wish I knew then, that I didn't have to do all the mommy and me classes just because all the other moms were going.

3.  "If you let me get this new haircut, then I'll fit in with the other kids."

Fitting in. What is wrong with being different? Unique? Special? Variety is what makes the world so beautiful. Be who you are. If you like your hair long, and others say you need to cut it short because no one wears their hair long past a certain age-- then keep it long. You are who you beautifully were made to be, mom in her 40's with long hair, or not. I actually tried to do the haircut thing...even though I didn't want to. I know now, I can have long hair at my age, if I want to. I so can.

4.  "I wish I had a nicer car, like the other kids." 

A nicer car, a nicer house, a nicer vacation, it never will stop.  Never. We need to want what we have, not have what we want. Do you envy the beautiful car parked in the driveway across the street from your house?  Do you say this out loud to your children? Do you let them hear you mention how nice it would be to live in the Jones' house-- with the All-Season porch, instead of your porchless house? They hear you.

5.  "If I can just get into the A group at school, then I'll be happy." 

The Queen Bees, wanting them to like you, trying so hard to become like what you think they would want you to be.  It's friendship built on the sand of a false you. If someone is going to like you, they will. If they're not going to, you have to make yourself accept that. Begin with rock, the foundation of who you really are. Those who want to be with you, will be with you. In the meantime, you don't have to pretend to be someone else and live an untrue version of yourself, just to fit into a prized group.  Be patient, you'll find your own people, ones that know you and LIKE you, from the beginning.

6.  "I wish I weren't so fat/flat/disgusting."

Sigh. Women and body image, women and esteem tied to body image. If only I were skinny, all my problems would disappear. If only I had great legs then I could wear shorts, and I'd have a more fun summer. If only, if only...meantime, life is passing by.  Live your life, the way you are. Be healthy, get exercise, eat the right things, and feel free to enjoy everything that the day has for you. You have a fine, capable body that works and is able, feel grateful for the blessing of movement. Think about this one.

Your children are watching you, and listening to you. They will see you model acceptance and approval for yourself, and if we're lucky --- they'll form this trait into a value of their own.

They see how you compare, or don't compare yourself to others

They listen if you express disappointment in who you are, what you look like, your home, the state of your old car.

They see if you enviously eye someone and what they have.

They take their cues from you. They hear you say, "I wish we could take nice vacations, like the Smith's do."

Teach your children to withstand peer pressure now, teach them the lesson to not look to others for acceptance. They don't have to be part of the popular group, or look perfect, or have what others have. They just need to like themselves, and be true to who they are. Hear what you're saying with your actions, are you trying to impress? Do they see you dissatisfied and envious?

The next time the opportunity to talk to your children about peer pressure arrives, think about living the message that you are delivering out loud. We all know what they say about actions: they speak louder than words. 

How can we ask our children to resist peer pressure -- how can we say to them, "be happy with who you are" -- how can we ask them to do something, that we ourselves can't do?    

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I love running these old posts. This post was originally prepared for the amazing Naomi of Organic Motherhood With CoolWhip. I was crowned a "Cool Whip Queen," with this post. Thank you, Naomi.

Sunday Best - Commisery Loves Company

 

Commiseration. Yes, sometimes commiseration can be the best solution.

I have been thinking about the blogs I frequent often, the ones I jump up to check on each day.

What keeps me returning there?

Why do I like them and look forward to their posting?

It’s what I find there: moods that match my own on some days. Other days it’s a place where “they get it.” Pretty often, I don’t want answers to my problems, I just want to be somewhere where it’s OK to be who I am. With no feelings of needing to impress, or pretend to be something I’m really not.

I’ve read that “water seeks its own level” and “ seeks the path of least resistance.” That is what a “blogfriend” does for me.

A blogging friend is easy, they get you, they know what you're like--without you having to be alike.

When we find ourselves needing to vent, talk it out, work it out, feeling short ended on this life gig sometimes (we’re only human, right?) it’s strangely and curiously uplifting to find someone muddling through, too.

There is something about the “safety” you feel at a favorite blog.

You can be comfortable in your reaction and your response, and in what you say in the little square comment box, because you know that there can be a difference in opinion, and you and your girl are still good.


Sometimes, we just want to be understood.

Sometimes, we don’t want a solution.

We just want to nod “yes, yes, yes” to what we read, and let that be all there is to it. And laughing along in recognition of it all lightens the load.

Instantly.

One minute, you can be crying as you look around at the Hoarder's episode your house is becoming...and then, you hit the right blog at the right time, where there's a post on how the blogger sprained her ankle tripping over a mountain of toy trucks...perfect. Just what the Dr. ordered. You're now laughing at the sisterhood of it all, and no longer feeling like the messiest mom in town.

If you're feeling as if you're the only mother around who tears up as you watch your oldest be able to do so many things for himself now, and why can other moms embrace the independence of these teen years so well...and you? You just can't seem to stop pouring his orange juice for him in the morning. You sit in front of the computer, all misty eyed over this fleeing of childhood, and then you find just the right post, where another blogger is able to put words to what you feel in your heart. 

You can’t really describe chemistry, or put a formula as to why you feel drawn to a specific blogger and their site. If we could, we would all write the book and begin blogs and sell them later for thousands.

You can’t really figure out how you find your “tribe,” your group of women that make up your daily life as much as your family and co workers, and physical friends do.

You begin blogging one day, and then little by little, and one by one, you meet people that bring joy to your life, people who make you smile excitedly when you see it’s them on comments, or in an email, or a tweet, or a sweet: “a direct message to you from…” on twitter. People online who make your heart skip a little when you see it's them.

I think we all just want to belong to a part of something larger than what we have only physically around us. We want to be accepted, and part of a larger collective of who we are, what is reflected back to us, of us.  Sharing what is dear to us, tethers and binds us to others. We no longer feel alone, and misunderstood, isolated-- a stranger in a strange land.

There are times in our lives, when--yes, we truly want a fix, a solution, resources, help, ideas…but there are, more often than not, times when we only want to hear, “me, too!”

Times when we want to know that someone misses our presence in their life that day.

We want to know that we matter, and that someone likes us being part of their world.

It’s nice to know that we came to mind, when someone prepared a post. It’s nice to know that we, also, have somewhere to go with feelings we have inside,  news we want to share, a memory we need to give life to. Or when we need someone to listen to us at 1:00 a.m.

Commiseration. Sometimes just the sweet balm we need, and no more.

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This post was originally prepared for the amazing  Erin Margolin, at her original website, The Mother Load.

I still like what it says.

Happy Sunday!

Sunday Best - Guaranteed: Ten Faithful Readers

Since beginning blogging, I've taken an interest in this whole new world of the blogosphere that didn't exist for me before. It's such a new world, and feels so strange to know that this hidden world  had been going on and I knew only snippets about it. There has been a lot to learn; technically, aesthetically, new jargon, time budgeting, blogiquette, so much.

From what I've read about blogs, a main division arises when the talk goes to people's reasons for blogging. From there, it seems to become an issue of purpose. There is the side of those who blog for love of the written word, and there is the side of those who blog with an interest in numbers, counts, audience, exposure. Some with earnest hopes of making money.

At last count, there were 15 million active blogs worldwide. This number still does nothing to deter the daily addition of new blogs entering this realm of blogging. With this number, it is estimated that there are 10 faithful readers for every active blog. Faithful being defined as readers returning daily to your blog. Surveys have estimated that obtaining this level of LOYAL readership may take at least 9 months to develop. 

On the opposite end of this incredible 15 million number of worldwide blogs, there is the fact that if a blogger is going to quit blogging, it'll occur at the 3 month mark.

3 months.

At 3 months, those that quit blogging and close up shop, have decided that having a blog is beginning to feel like a chore, that there is no longer a passion to have their voice out there, and it has begun to make them feel trapped--even dreading post time. I'm at the 2 month mark, and I still look forward to posting time.

The genesis of a blog can come in 2 forms: those that began blogging first, and then those that began to blog after following, and being loyal, to a specific blog. What seems to have caught the ones who began to blog first- by surprise- is that they then became blog readers. Many are simply astounded by the amount of time that they now spend reading other blogs, when they initially set out to be the author of a blog, only, and not a  reader.

What I've learned about blogging on my own, are the reasons that I have become one of someone's "faithful ten."

The Faithful Ten that return on a daily basis to a blog.

I know my reason for returning to a blog, and that is quality of content. If I see that the author has written something that I feel they have sincerely developed and thought of, then I return.  I return because I feel that they have a respect for the reader. Whether it is one paragraph long or an entire page with text, it can be humorous, poignant, or a sweet memory, even just a carefully chosen picture. But if I can feel that it's been put out there with me in mind, and for me, because they know I'll be back for the next post, then I return.

I return, with no expectation of a comment back, or a visit back. Their words and the experience there enrich me, and that is enough for me to be a "Loyal Ten" at their place.

I began blogging as a way to see my printed words in front of me. Something I could keep, and go back to. There is also the thrill, for me, of pushing "Publish Post" and seeing my story right there, in front of me. That is something I haven't grown tired of yet.

I began to blog because I have always wanted to write, and notebooks just weren't enough anymore. What has absolutely become the icing on a delicious cake for me, which was a place to write publicly,  is the fantastic, interesting, generous, talented people I've met because of blogging. That, that right there, I never saw coming. Talk about sweet. The connections.

With that feeling, of blogging for the pure love of writing, I figure you'd have a guaranteed audience size of one: the one you write for, yourself. Anything beyond that? A gift.

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This guest post was originally written last April, after I had been blogging for only 2 months, for Not To Brag, a very, very lovely blogger. I hope you click over and check her out. She was so kind to accept my guest post at her place, when I was such a newbie-it was exciting for me. Thanks, MEP!

I Am Not The Pioneer Woman, And That's OK

Dang this woman messes with my mind

Maybe I'm Unique In This, But I Highly Doubt It.

Let's talk about All Things Comparing. For some reason this week, there has been so much circulating in the blogosphere (our alternate reality) on bloggers feeling "bloggy despair." The feeling of where you don't fit in,  in the blogosphere, that you don't make the cut, that your blog isn't good enough. The feeling of others doing it better, having more readers, more commenters, more visitors, more pageviews, more beautiful blogs, better graphics skills, better photography.

Comparing ourselves to other bloggers, other blogs, other posts.

It's natural ---- we can't help it, and nothing will kill and shoot your blogging mojo down faster than looking at someone else's blog and then saying, "I've got nothin'. I'm just pushing the chair away, turning off the computer, and it was nice while it lasted and whooohooo I sure had some good times, but I got nothin'."

The thing is, we are all different. We bring something new and unique to someone's world, and those we strike a chord with, will return. The readers that like us, will come back. We can't be all things to everyone. I mean, yes, some can, like The Pioneer Woman...who, holy hell, just go look over there: what CAN'T she show you is more like it.

But, for the rest of the human blogging race, we can only offer who we are, and our own special experiences and style.

We can always improve, learn new things, take on a technical bit of new knowledge, improve stick figuring, and photography know how. We can tighten up the writing a bit. A little bit of angst about our site can be a good thing:  it can be the push we need to try a new prompt, or a different type of style that we usually don't have on our blog. Maybe we'll think of hosting a guest series, or creating a blog hop. All those things are ways we can get better, or offer more, and meet a new group of people. But, for the most part, we can only give what we know.

What I've learned, is that I have to believe. I have to believe that there is something in my writing and my blog, that feeds someone out there what they like.

If I go to a blog, and see all sorts of stupendousness there, and then I head back home with my head hanging, well, I can barely lift my shoulders off my knees high enough to hit the keys on the keyboard.

What I have learned to make myself do is this:

1. Straighten up that spine.

2. Take a deep, deep breath.

3. Put on a smile, literally.

4. Put the fingers on the keys.

5. Tell myself I am who I am. And only I can do that best. Only me.

6. Just do it. Type away. Smile. Check for typos. Check once more. Then Post.

If you love blogging, and love to connect and find people who get you, then keep doing it. Don't look at what someone else can do that you can't. Don't tell yourself that someone is so much better than you, they know more than you, their blog is so much cooler than yours.

Just don't.

Your love for what you do, and for who stops to check on you daily, will cross over into those fingertips that tap the keys, and put words out there that will speak to someone.

In other words, only listen to what the good voices in your head tell you to do. The bad voices?  pfffffffffft....shove them out the door. But, still, dang,  Pioneer Woman, 22,639 comments on one post? Really, woman?

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Just When I Was Beginning To Like You

Life is a funny thing. Life is a funny thing, Mama.

Look at any random magazine cover, and the headlines all scream “Like yourself better!” and “Be awesome in 10 days or less!”

Self help and self improvement books threaten to burst the shelves at any book store from the weight of all the titles. All screaming for you! you! to buy and become a better you. A you that is different from what you are.

It is a good thing to take stock, yes, and to set your sights on honing a skill,  learning a new hobby,  trying something new, or improving on something you’ve let fall to the wayside.

But to become a different, improved, better, more likable you?

Why?

Since I can remember, I have sadly been loyal to the screaming headlines of how to be prettier, have a better body, make more friends, get a new personality, become more alluring and magnetic and irresistible to man, woman, and all things living and breathing.

And, now, in this last half of my life, I have turned off the noise. I have become tired of it. What is wrong with being who I am?

I no longer want to fight what is natural and what is me.

Since the 8th grade, I have been stretching and pulling and snatching myself bald headed in pathetic attempts to give myself straight, swingy hair. The kind of hair that I see girls toss across their shoulder and hold in one hand while they lean in and delicately take a drink from the water fountain. I want the hair from the Long and Silky shampoo commercials. What I have instead is short, coarse, and nappy--and I don’t want to fight my hair anymore.

I have spent my entire life wishing for the small, pert nose that is everywhere. What is on my face instead? A nose strong enough to hold a 2 inch thick eyeglass prescription, were I ever to need that.

And, I am flat chested. I am as small breasted as is humanly possible. I remember hunting for a bra at Victoria’s Secret in my size. The perfect Barbie came over and asked how she could help. I told her I couldn’t find 28AAA, to which she laughed and said, “no one makes that size. The smallest we have is 32B.” That would be a bigger cup size than I’d ever need. In 3 lifetimes.

I’m tired of it. This year, I began letting my hair curl and go. I turn sideways now and let my European profile stunningly cut a picture, and the bra? I just wear double layered T shirts.

But the thing is, now that I am Okay with what I am--my body is giving out.

I have to hobble for a few seconds when I first stand up from a cross legged position.  When I bend over, you hear more crackles and pops than a bowl of Rice Krispies, and my energy? Am I the only one that loves red lights because they allow mini naps?

Why now, Body? Why now when I just have decided that you are the one for me? The only one? That I love you--curly haired, flat chested, big nosed and all? Why?

It is such an irony… I’ve had the love of my life here all along, I could have been enjoying it, not cursing it. And now, sigh, it’s starting to go.

Just when I began to see its beauty.

I hope it forgives me and allows me at least ten more years, to treat it right, and appreciate it for the glorious uniquene miracle that it is.

Why I Love Getting Older

 

"Why is it that we have to wait until we are 50 years old, before we see just how beautiful a red pepper is?," Sandy Dennis laments in Alan Alda's mid-life themed movie, The Four Seasons.

That clarity of appreciation that she speaks of, that wonder of our world, is one of the things I've grown into since getting older. It is a new way of living for me, and I love it.

I wasn't always this way. I lived life in a blur, crossing things off my list of what needed to be done, and diving into the next project. As I've gotten older, I have found a wonderful place to be in my life--that of gratitude for what is around me. At this age, I've come to realize what is important, and--not to be morbid--but I also know that I have already spent half of the life I've been given.

I want to spend the life ahead of me in happiness. I don't want to waste any more time with sadness, miscommunication, or missed opportunities, as I have done. I know each day is gone at sunset, and, like currency, spent forever.

I want to revel in my world, with all of my senses, fully aware. 

 

My husband and I are blessed with three beautiful sons, and being an older mother, our young sons are with me on this new found place in my life. What I now feel is a sense of extraordinary in all that once was ordinary to me. This new perception mimics the wonder of our youngest son.

My son and I walk hand in hand, and I marvel at the softness of his skin in my palm. We walk without needing to take a watch along, we find earthworms, and squat down to see how they squirm their way back to where they came from. We look at the vast possibilities of flowers, stopping to admire and count how many petals in each, and talk about which colors look best next to each other. He sees nothing unusual in soaking in the world with his whole being. As for me, this is a new way to see things. I used to run on all cylinders, like a machine, multitasking through my day. Efficiency! Efficiency! was my mantra.

 

But now, something about being my age is so real and visible to me: it is a marker on the half way point of my life gauge, a road sign on the highway, a mile marker. It's a second chance to get things right, and not long make the mistakes I've made, such as living life as a to-do list.

My age feels like a golden ticket allowing me to change the way I've been doing things. I have the okay to get rid of all the anger over petty things, to let things slide, to make allowances for people, consider differences in opinions and lifestyles. It is a more loving volume in this book of my life.

 

Getting older can conjure up different feelings and attitudes in people. I never thought about what it would feel like to be getting older. I had no apprehension, and I only had what my older sisters had been telling me would be a "new and improved me" with age.

My older sisters would so often tell me how much I would enjoy getting older. They may not have realized that they were doing that at the time, but with their comments of, "oh, that won't bother you when you're older," led me to look forward to growing older.

I feel unbound from all these heavy thoughts, the thoughts I used to have that took up so much of my mental and physical energy. Worries of someone disagreeing with my opinion at our town meeting, or of how the neighbors would think of us if they saw weeds in our lawn. Yes, these things are important, to keep your home and appearance up... but to let it become a source of daily concern? Not so very healthy for the mind and soul. I looked forward to the days my sisters spoke of, when I'd no longer be tied down to things that I somehow felt in my gut--things that were a waste of what could be spent in positive thoughts.

My sisters are right. I do love being older. I am more secure in myself when I express an opinion, I think twice, no—three times before I speak, so that the words I choose are gentle. I try to see why someone would say some of the things that they do, and examine all the possibilities that would bring them to that opinion. While I don't make allowances for bad behavior, I try to understand the root cause.

I feel freer, happier, and more accepting and understanding of myself and with what I am able to do. I no longer feel that I need to be all things and do all things, or that I have to keep up with what everyone else is doing and is able to do. I recognize my limitations, and frankly, my shortcomings. I may not do all things well, but I'll try my best.

What I have is valuable enough for me, and my family. I don't need more to show what I am, or who I am. 

 

This new me finds joy and blessings in what used to be everyday and expected.

Our weekly Farmer's Market has become just such a new source of this beauty for me. I walk past the vendors with my children, stopping at each stand. I linger at the farmer who seems to have the largest peppers each time. I pick up a red pepper, turning it over in my hand. My children watch me and say, "yes, yes, we know what you're going to say; 'kids! just look at how beautiful this red pepper is... isn't it glorious?"

My children are right. I do ask them that. Every single time, because red peppers have become more beautiful to me, with each year.

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