A Spider's Tale

Yesterday I gave my 13-year-old son, T-Rex, a writing assignment. He was to write a story about the adventure of a spider. The resulting tale amused me this morning as I read it and I've instructed him to share it with you here. With no further ado: A Spider's Tale, by T-Rex!

We'd been sitting there for the last hour-and-a-half, watching and waiting. My troops were growing restless. That annoying drainage tube had foiled our plans once again. Well, I'd better start from the beginning.

I am a white spotted, black spider and I used to live in a village just above a gutter on Lynn Blvd. During my childhood I'd learned the ins and outs of gutter travel. I'd recently left home to join the Arachnial Guard at the prime age of 12 days. My regiment was sent to camp right below the spout of an especially troublesome gutter. Our primary objective was to scale the inside and reach the top. What we would find, or why we would attempt this nearly impossible trip, I'm unsure. But orders are orders.

Finally the rain had stopped. The camp was rushing about, as usual. The final preparations were being made. As not sure to when the rain would start again after it stopped, we had to be ready to move at a moment's notice. The camp was now silent, again, watching and waiting. Then the water stopped.

Immediately, group after group shot up the spout. Being an itsy, bitsy spider,one wasted no time, for the journey was long.

Past the three quarter check mark, we heard a faint rumble. Where I stood there was a pin-prick hole in the spout. With my far left eye I noticed a dark shape rolling in from the sky. With the hair on each of my eight legs, I sensed a sudden increase of humidity. Then a brief light filled the sky. But what caught my attention most was a single drop of rain, slowly falling to the ground in a tidal wave. All who didn't want to risk a high speed, watery descent, with a back-breaking halt as they hit the ground, then darted back down the spout.

I got out just before the raging river of water shot past me. Humiliated and cold,I stared defiantly at the top of the huge spout. "One day," I thought, waving three angry fists in the air, "we will find a way, have no doubt." We took our usual places, and once more, we watched and waited.

Three cheers for the literary stylings of T-Rex! I love it.

...and that's my $0.02!

To All My Co-Conspirators

Although I'd like nothing more at this time than to bury myself beneath a mound of comforters I now sit myself down (at 12:45am) to liberate this blog post which has been clanging at the bars of my mind, begging for the freedom of electronic publishing. Perhaps even before my Thanksgiving turkey was fully digested the ideas for this post began running laps in my head. It has been at the hands of Christmas parties, cookie baking, gift shopping, family get-togethers, holiday performances, and the like that it has remained imprisoned... postponed, but not forgotten! (It may not be my best work. I'm exhausted! But it's worth writing about.)

I LOVE this Christmasy time of year! In fact, as soon as the masses (but not the retailers) politely let Thanksgiving pass and began to make their Christmas preparations and decorations, I once again began to be in awe of the Yuletide.

What amazes me most?

I am joyfully astonished at how this celebration of Christ's birth inspires so many to conspiracy. It's true! At Christmastime we largely conspire to bring happiness to others. Lay down your pessimistic jargon about commercialization, and whatnot, for a moment and I'll show you what I mean.

Now I'll be the first to admit that I'm the emotional, deeply romantic kind of person who yet clings to belief in fairy-tales but still... how can anyone not be moved to see dads and husbands perched precariously atop ladders hanging Christmas lights if they ask themselves, "Why would they do that?" Is it not it to coax "oohs & ahhs" from my children and yours, as we make, what would otherwise be, all-to-routine evening runs hither & thither? I love they way my children are captured by beautiful light displays, nativities, and decorations. I adore the way ordinary days are transformed by hopeful anticipation and the fact that strangers eagerly assist in my plot to delight my children!

I've heard all the arguments about how Christmas has lost its true meaning and yet I still love that so many of us try so hard to find (or make) gifts to make our loved ones smile (or scream)! We search high and low to find that one thing, for that one person, so that we may be the cause, and the beneficiaries, of their smiles, laughs, and grateful tears. Personally, I don't call that commercialism. I call it LOVE!

I love that we've come together and agreed on this one thing: Life can still be fun and beautiful and exciting! Practicality really isn't everything! We choose to make fun... of life!

Although my children have never been taught to believe in Santa, I am truly tickled by the fact that countless "grown-ups" around the world conspire together to enchant the children that do! My family has fun with the legend, too. I am warmed as I hear tell of the story said to have begotten the fantastical tales.

I love that we choose to crowd our lives with family and social get-togethers. Yes, it makes the season hectic but it speaks, so sweetly, that we've decided to inconvenience ourselves for the ones we love.

I believe that at Christmastime we reach back through the past to grasp meaning from the things of days gone by. We enjoy many of the same songs our great-grandparents sang, tell the same stories, and keep the same traditions.

Mostly, at Christmas we love in a visible way. We conspire to make love seen. And none of us, not one, could do it without the rest of us. It's a grand conspiracy!

So... "Thank you" to the family about six miles south of my home with the animated music & light display. "Thank you" to the cities workers who tie ribbons around street poles. "Thank you" to the news channels for reporting on Santa's midnight run. "Thank you" to the radio stations for the Christmas music. "Thank you" to the churches who keep us grounded in the beautiful reality that is Christmas...

...and, more personally...

"Thank you" to our mothers (Ron's & mine) for the gifts that have brought our children smiles and laughs and fun! "Thank you" to our fathers (Ron's & mine) for the gifts cards and cash! "Thank you" to my aunts who've conspired to delight our daughters! "Thank you" to our family members who've blessed us with a little quality time and hospitality! "Thank you" to our friends for your cards and hospitality!

"Thank you" to all who share in the celebration and love of this season!

And lastly, most importantly, "Thank you" God for your gift of Christ!

...and once again... that's my $0.02!

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!

Somebody's Mother

I did not write this poem but it moves me and I want to share it with you... It is in my son's 7th-grade A Beka reader. He read it to me aloud and my eyes watered from emotion. The author is unknown. Enjoy...

The woman was old and ragged and gray
And bent with the chill of the winter's day.

She stood at the crossing, and waited long,
Alone, uncared for, amid the throng

Of human beings who passed her by
Nor heeded the glance of her anxious eye.

Down the street with laughter and shout,
Glad in the freedom of school let out,

Came the boys like a flock of sheep,
Hailing the snow piled white and deep.

Past the woman so old and gray,
Hastened the children on their way,

Nor offered a helping hand to her,
So meek, so timid, afraid to stir,

Lest the carriage wheels or the horses' feet
Should crowd her down in the slippery street.

At last came one of the merry troop-
The finest laddie of all the group.

He paused beside her, and whispered low,
"I'll help you across, if you wish to go."

He guided the trembling feet along;
Proud that his own were firm and strong.

Then back again to his friends he went,
His young heart happy and well content.

"She's somebody's mother, boys, you know,
For all she's aged and poor and slow;

"And I hope some fellow will lend a hand
To help my mother, you understand,

"If ever she's poor and old and gray,
When her own dear boy is far away."

And "somebody's mother" bowed low her head
In her home that night, and the prayer she said

Was, "God be kind to the noble boy
Who is somebody's son and pride and joy!"

My $0.02?

Beautiful!!!

In Defense of "Hands Off" Learning

I do not love science projects. In most instances I do not even particularly like science projects.

I realize this is both shocking and offensive to the majority of homeschooling, and for that matter, non-homeschooling parents. That's exactly why I want to get it into the open from the outset. This has been my invisible "elephant in the room" that the rest of you can't see and don't notice, but that follows me around to every homeschool gathering trumpeting obnoxiously in my ear.

Maybe it's the rebellious teenager in me insisting on having a say, or perhaps it's the overworked, overtired mom who just wants to read in peace for whole minutes on end, but, either way, I am about to commit homeschool blasphemy.

I do not like this idea of "hands-on" learning.

Okay, okay... before you click your browser window shut and label me an ignorant fool let me at least explain my position.

I am not necessarily proud of my stance and neither is it based on sound research nor deep conviction... so you can relax. This little article does not seek to sway you from your allegiance to beaker, abacus, and modeling clay.

I seek only to unburden my humble bookworm of a soul.

Please notice that I did not write, "I do not believe in the benefits of 'hands-on' learning," but only that I, personally, don't care for the practice.

Before beginning to write this article I ran a Google search on the phrase "hands on l..." No sooner had I typed the "l" than a list of suggested searches appeared before me. Allow me to recreate it for you here:

hands on learning.....7,980,000 search results
hands on learner.....2,370,000
hands on learners.....2,880,000
hands on learning style.....698,000
hands on learning activities.....920,000
hands on learning program.....498,000
hands on learning games.....541,000

All this before I even hit the "Enter" key to begin my search.

"Very interesting," I thought to myself, "but not everyone is a hands-on learner." So I ran another Google search, this time using the phrase "hands off l..." The list of suggested searches was quite different:

There were 1,290 results for lyrics to a song entitled "Hands Off," and 356,000 results for "hands of love affair," whatever that is! And when I fully typed out the phrase "hands off learning," nothing jumped onto my screen to guide my search.

Needless to say I feel both unrepresented and overlooked and that the need for this article is paramount. The un-kinesthetic teachers/learners of the world must be given voice!

I do not dispute that many valuable lessons are learned by "doing" in school and, especially, in real life. I just don't see the point in "reinventing the wheel," by artificially recreating experiments that have already been performed, from which information has already been obtained, and about which many interesting and helpful things have already been written. Why should we do these experiments when we can just read about them? After going over these kinds of science lessons in our science readers I never feel the urge to gather the supplies, perform the experiment and then clean the mess, all for the sake of finding out the science text writers were right. What they said would happen, happened.

Please don't misunderstand me. When I hear of the exploits of all of you kinesthetic teachers/learners I am always inspired. It's true! I am inspired to hunt down my children's safety goggles, pack them a nutritious lunch and send them straight over to your house for science class! I would so much rather curl up with them in front of the fireplace on a gray, wintry day and read about God's wonders in the earth, the sea, the universe.

Do I ever perform science experiments with my children? Yes, I do. With all those search results eagerly waiting to proclaim the superiority of hands on learning I have to err on the side of caution. Maybe you "doers" are onto something and, if so, I want my kids in on it. So, from time to time, for the purpose of modeling the scientific method, we dig out supplies and perform an experiment about the laws of motion, the water cycle, photosynthesis, etc.

Similarly, in math, if my children are not grasping a concept after reading about it and having it explained, I will pull out a visual of some sort and demonstrate the concept physically. For instance, I have found it necessary to demonstrate the "why" of borrowing in subtraction with groups of 10 cotton swabs bundled with bread ties for all of my children in the 1st or 2nd grade. As you can now see, I do make use of hands on learning techniques, but generally, as a last resort.

I love to read. I love to write. I love to talk. I love words. I absolutely love how they come together to teach, to inspire, to encourage, to express. It's not that I think other methods of teaching/learning are inferior, it's just that I find I have a bent toward my passion... and it comes out in my teaching.

So judge me now. And, if you find that I have committed a heinous heresy in my diatribe against hands on learning, sentence me as well. Only allow me a good book to read, a note pad and a pencil. Else I will beautify your prison floors with scratches of words to reveal my thoughts and romanticize my imprisonment!

...and, as usual, that's my $0.02!

Angels Unaware

"Keep on loving each other as brothers. Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing some people have entertained angels without knowing it." Heb 13:1-2 NIV



Last week, while reading a blog post of a new friend, I was escorted, by way of memory, to a past event in my life. As the bittersweet memory formed itself on the horizon of my mind I was filled with awe and reminded of the goodness of our God; the absolute goodness that can encompass and indwell our lives even in the midst of terrible pain.

It was mid-to-late March of 2004 and I stood at my closet door, tears streaming down my cheeks, eyes searching, heart breaking. I had to find something I could squeeze into. I would find something, somehow and I would gather my three children and I would get out of our house. I had to. I needed to feel the sunshine on my face. I desperately needed to know that the world was still revolving, that people were still smiling... and living.

I would not wear anything maternity. I wasn't pregnant... not anymore. I'd seen it myself on the ultrasound a few days earlier.

I'd hurried in to my doctor's office clinging wildly to the hope that the bleeding was just another inexplicable pregnancy nuisance and that I was, indeed, entering into my second trimester.

I'd left her office cloaked in an ominous, dark cloud of pain tinged with disbelief. That dream, the one I thought I'd carried safely and warmly inside of me, had died.

And then, after days of phone calls and tears, prayers and more tears, I had to step back into the daylight... but not in maternity clothes. Although I'd not lost a single ounce of the new pregnancy weight I'd acquired I had to walk out of my door in my regular jeans. Better to appear to be poured into them than to be reduced to tears at an innocent inquiry about my baby; my baby who'd flown home even while I stood as the Matron of Honor at my sister's wedding the weekend before; my baby who'd had to leave without saying goodbye while I stood smiling, laughing, happy.

All the cards, all the condolences, all the shared tears with friends and family fell short of comforting me. Nothing made it alright. I understood and appreciated all the well-meant, although sometimes trivializing, comments and I accepted them eagerly hoping they would serve as a kind of heart-balm. But my grief went untouched by them, defiantly standing its ground.

My determination drove me as I readied myself and my children for a trip to the shoe store. It was such a major undertaking. It was so much more than a short drive to buy the children the shoes they needed. It was an attempt to stand again in spite of the weight of my loss. I couldn't shake the burden off... not yet. I still needed time to wade through it, to make sense of it, to sort the hay from the stubble. But I could stuff it into a duffel bag, load it onto my back, and, like an encumbered soldier of war, wearily, yet courageously, put one foot in front of the other.

And so I did.

I arrived at the store with my three children aged eight, three and a half, and two years old. It was difficult. My mind wanted to be singular in its focus. It wanted to measure little feet, find shoes to fit them, and block out everything else. It wanted to ignore the noise of my little ones playing and straying from me. It hardly cared how many shoes they pulled off shelves and left in isles. It craved only full and simplistic absorption in the task at hand.

Nevertheless, I had to take hold of myself every few minutes and rein in my thoughts and my children. Even if I didn't feel strong enough I had to be the responsible adult. I had to be the Mom. I'd been given no leave of absence from my post, and my youngsters, the precious ones that still surrounded me, needed me fully present. I was not off duty. I would have to be among those who were healed as they went (Luke 17:14).

As I once again roused myself from my introspection I looked up to see my two-year-old round a corner and disappear from my sight followed by her sister and brother. So playful. A slight smile touched my lips as I set down a shoe box and started after them. For a moment the part of me that still recognized the blessings in my life had gotten a welcome upper-hand and longed to be as carefree as they were.

I followed them to an isle where a middle-aged woman shopped with a two-year-old little girl. The woman smiled down at my three for a moment and then looked up at me. She was asking if they were all mine. I was nodding yes and was having the impulse to happily inform her that I was expecting my fourth... but I wasn't, was I? Not anymore.

I felt the heat in my cheeks. I felt the tears coming. Just that fast the pain was fresh again. My thoughts began to shout at me. "Breathe deeply, don't cry. Not here, not now." And conversely, "Tell her everything. Let it out. Why should things go on as normal?"

Whether my conflicting thoughts and emotions played out on my face in that moment I do not know. This stranger smiled sweetly at me and began to say how blessed I'd been to have three such lovely children. That was a sentiment I'd heard repeatedly since my miscarriage from people who wanted me to focus on the "bright side" of things. They were comments that I'd known were true but that hadn't relieved my suffering.

But this was different. She didn't know. She wasn't attempting to redirect my thinking. There was real conviction behind her words. She meant what she was saying so strongly that I could feel it and I had to pay attention to it.

She had a gaze that was strangely warm and penetrating and I was drawn in. It was quite unusual. I actually felt hungry for whatever she might say next. She looked down at the child who'd come with her and explained that this little one was her daughter. She told me she and her husband had one other daughter who was an adult. They'd tried for years to have a second child but had not been able. They thought they'd never have another baby. But, amazingly, two years prior to our conversation, when their first child was grown, she'd given birth to this beautiful little girl.

She spoke about her children, and mine, with a depth that moved me. She spoke from the perspective of one who'd ventured across a painful wilderness and had, at last, arrived at a long awaited oasis. You might imagine that I'm referring to her second child as this "oasis." Not exactly, but close. Of course each child is a wondrous gift but the "oasis" she helped me find that afternoon was the recognition of each child as God's gift of love to a parent... His gift of love to me.

Though my love for my children is so great I can scarcely put it into words, in that moment God's love for me became so clear I could sense it towering above any emotion I could ever hope to experience. I suddenly understood that each of my three children was an expression of that love.

I was unable to receive comfort from the people in my life who suggested, in varying ways, that I forget about the child I lost and instead focus on the three I got to keep. In my heart it just didn't add up right. But I received tremendous comfort from a stranger who just saw my three children for the gifts of Love they are, apart from all else.

I'm sure I will never see that woman from the store again and she may never know how her kind words touched my life that day.

I never did tell her that I'd just lost a baby. I don't know why she opened up and shared with me like she did. I only know that I heard God's voice through her story, and His was the voice I needed to hear.

I will always think back on her as an angel sent by God to deliver His message to me.

...and that's my $0.02!

The Unexpected Outcome

Never once had it traipsed across the landscape of my consciousness, this outlandish idea that I could educate my children at home... myself.

Why would I do that? How could I do that? Where would I start? What would it require? And, again, why would I do that?

Assuredly, those would have been the questions I would have hurled at you had you asked me, only eight short years ago, if I'd considered homeschooling.

After accepting the gift of a Christian life and lifestyle around the time of my first child's birth the only sensible option, in my mind, was private, Christian schooling. The fact that my church of the time had (and still has) a very well respected and well established Christian school only helped cement this notion in my mind.

I didn't actually disagree with homeschooling. I had just never ventured that far away from mainstream thinking regarding childhood education. I grew up in public school and had never in my youth even considered that, under different circumstances, I might have been educated differently. That's just the way things were. That being the case, I felt my aspirations to give my children private, Christian educations were lofty, indeed!

Never mind giving them private, Christian educations MYSELF! And,
truly, it never came to mind.

That was, until three-quarters of the way through T-Rex's Kindergarten year, when Ron was unexpectedly let out of an agreement by the small, struggling company for which he worked at the time... two-weeks before the birth of Butterfly. We were paying for that pricey, kindergarten-sized, private, Christian education month-to-month as it was. And, though the school offered to defer our payments temporarily, until we were once again employed, we opted to take T-Rex out of the school. Being in debt to our church was not a prospect that appealed to either one of us!

It was a difficult decision.

T-Rex would finish out the month of February, which we'd already paid for, and then, with my 22-month-old and two-week-old daughters in my arms, I would begin to... homeschool???

Neither Ron or I was sure this was a good idea but we'd already ruled out public school after our experience with T-Rex's public K4 "education," and had no other options (aside from renting T-Rex to a circus).

So... with a Boppy pillow, a potty chair, a box of kleenex (for wiping away my cascade of tears), and my three "oh-so-dependant" children always within arms-reach I began to homeschool.

I could detail here for you some of the ins and outs of teaching beginning reading, writing, and arithmetic with one baby at my breast and another wrapped around my ankle, but that will have to be another blog post for another day.

The objective of this article is to tell you about the miracle that somehow weaved itself into the fabric of our lives despite the mounting diapers, the un-synchronized nap schedules, the potty accidents, the repeatedly interrupted homeschool lessons, and the constant company of all my young ones.

Somehow, unbelievably I discovered I still liked my oldest child... a lot!

You're shocked, I'm sure, that I would make such a candid statement but it's, nonetheless, the truth. At some point along the time-line of T-Rex's young life I'd unknowingly bought into the idea that I was supposed to eagerly await the onset of his daily departure; that sending a child off to school would mark the beginning of a lighter, easier SAHM-life for me.

But what I'd failed to notice was that between the rigid schedule, the washing and re-washing of school uniforms, the drop-offs and pick-ups, the push to sell the fund-raisers, the field-trip chaperoning, monthly snack obligation, the difficulty getting him moving in the morning, the grumpy-sleepy, fussy boy that came home to me, and the money it cost us for these privileges, my life had become more complicated... so much less enjoyable. And, worse than all else, the emotional connection I held with my sweet, darling boy had waned.

I never knew it until I got it back.

Once again he could sleep until his precious, growing body awakened naturally, pleasantly. Once again he was my lovely, eager, bright-eyed boy. Once again I was happy to spend my days snuggling, reading, learning, (and, okay... nursing, potty-training, and cooking) with all of my children "at my heels."

And he thrived!

I thrived!

Our family thrived!

If I had ever thought I was the involved parent during those first three-quarters of his kindergarten year (and I did) then I was mistaken. I had, very briefly and very unknowingly, taken a huge step towards uninvolvement. It was revealed by, among other things, the depth of search required in every K5 subject to find exactly what he'd learned, what he'd completely not understood, and where to start teaching him.

So... as I reflect on what have I gained as this same child of mine prepares to begin his eighth year of homeschooling and the 7th grade... I'd have to say I gained him... and Seashell... and Butterfly... and L'il Bear!

My husband and I, for this all-too-short stretch of time, hold our children's hearts and minds,

and as for them... they hold ours!

...and that's just my $0.02!

Back Talk!

Back talk. Talking back. Getting smart. Smart mouthing. Contradicting. Mouthing off. Answering back. Giving lip.

It really doesn't matter what you call it. All moms know what it is... and all moms (I suspect)have a distaste for it. But I, being but one mom of sound mind and body (mostly), believe I have had a brain hurricane (really big brainstorm) this afternoon regarding this problem!

Let me start by explaining. With my oldest child quickly approaching the milestone of his thirteenth birthday I have run head-first into this brick wall repeatedly. Whether it should be attributed to newly awakened hormones, temporary childhood insanity, or the idea that my son believes I have done an excellent job with his home education, I cannot say. What I can say is that the dear boy has happened upon a tendency to think he knows just a wee bit more than I do in several areas and sometimes unwisely chooses to vocalize this belief.

This, coupled with the fact that he occasionally feels he should point out areas where I have been "unfair" (code-word for not allowing his will to prevail), has created quite the dilemma for me.

I wish it were as easy as saying, "Never back-talk me. Never! End of discussion." But, truly, it isn't so simple.

I hold to the idea that children need to learn to properly and respectfully articulate dissenting opinions. I believe it is an invaluable skill that must be first nurtured at home. But, for the love of sanity, NOT every time I issue any sort of directive!

I also hold strongly to my commitment to listen to what my children want or need to say to me. I want them completely settled in the knowledge that I (and their father) will hear them out. But again, appropriate lines MUST be drawn!

As a result of my mindset on these issues I have had the unfortunate experience of being sucked into long and exhausting debates over issues that should have been settled with a simple "No, you may not," or "Yes, I still want you to do that."

So... how do you handle these situations? How do you respect your child's need to further explain a situation you may not fully understand and allow him or her to point out factors you may not have considered? And how do you teach when to, and when not to, employ these techniques of respectful rebuttal? Those have been my ongoing questions.

And, alas, I have stumbled upon at least one answer to these problems quite accidentally. No doubt it was Our Father who placed this little rock of revelation directly in my path where I'd be sure to trip over it. :-)

This morning I took a half-hour to myself to read the second chapter of a little gem of a book called "Any Child Can Write," by Harvey S. Wiener. I had had this book on my wish list for quite some time as it was highly recommended by someone whose opinion I value. Finally I purchased it. So far it has lived up to my expectations.

In the second chapter the author explains many practical, easy, and fun ideas for getting young children writing and reading painlessly. After reading it I left a message on the chalkboard for my six-year-old to decipher. On Fridays she is my "dinner helper" and she is always excited about it. I wrote, "Today Butterfly is my dinner helper! Yay! for Butterfly! Yay! for me!" (For those of you who don't already know, I use fictitious names for my children in this blog.)

She sounded out the words with enthusiasm because she recognized her name and knew it was a mystical message just for her! But I digress...

As I showered later, I thought about all of the author's suggestions and my mind began churning fueled by thoughts of writing practice that wouldn't even seem like "school work" to my children. Then I thought about my oldest. How could I tailor this to fit him? What could he write? About what does he have plenty to say?

And then it hit me! As memories of journaling about my own mother's "unfairness" came rushing out of the shower head, I had an epiphany. T-Rex (my oldest's blogname) could write about all of my unfairness! In those moments when I feel any further discussion on his part is bordering on disrespectful, redundant, or unnecessary I will instruct him to write down every point that he feels warrants my attention and to say no more about it verbally. He will be motivated to write (most likely quite a bit) because of his desire to be heard out.

The next day I will instruct him to read what he has written and decide to 1) throw the whole thing away, or keep it for his own private journal, because he no longer feels he should press the issue, 2) cross out all the points he feels are disrespectful or no longer of concern and present a revised version or 3) give it to me "as is" with the understanding that any perceived disrespect will be dealt with.

This kills so many birds with one stone it should be illegal! He will have to organize his thoughts into sensible sentences and (dare I say) whole paragraphs. He will have an appropriate outlet for his angry feelings. And, he will have time to calm down and reflect. Lastly, he can re-read his own view point and take back anything he may have regretted saying, had he said it.

Fabulous!!!

I'm in Homeschool Mom heaven!

Well... now I've got to go re-wet my hair so I can blow dry it. I put it off to type this little article.

Bye for now...

Oh, yeah... and that's my $0.02!!!

School Days, School Days... Good Old Golden Rule Days...

It's almost that time of year again for my family and, though I am still dragging my proverbial feet about a start date, I have to admit I am beginning to get excited about the coming school year.

I am amazed at the early school start dates in my part of the world! There are public and private school kiddos marching off to school on August 11th, FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!!! That's gotta be like heresy or blasphemy or some equally heinous insult to reason. Everyone knows that school starts in the Fall! (Now I know there are year-rounders out there who would have a thing or two to say to me about that, but remember... I get to decide whether or not to publish your comments, so be nice).

I won't go so far as to say we should wait until the calendar literally marks the beginning of Autumn. I just hold strongly to the belief that August was made for bathing suits, watermelon, ice cream, and my birthday! This is no time for suiting up our young ones in jeans and backpacks and trotting them off to the bus stop.

Not to mention that, at least in my part of the country, August is known for its tiresome parade of 100-degree, sultry, summer days. I cannot imagine the money the schools would save in cooling costs by waiting until a more humane month to begin school!

That being said... I rest my case. We will most likely begin here at Cherith Christian (yes, our homeschool actually has a name!) after Labor Day. And if any of you are prone to believe that the biggest reason for this decision is because we did not finish last school year until the very end of June... I sheepishly say to you, "you are correct." I shall not tell a lie.

And now, lest you look down upon my late finish and subsequent late start, let me bedazzle you with a little-known fact: Cherith is a term from the Bible which means "a place of seperation in God's provision." ...and that is exactly how I see our homeschool!

and that's my $0.02!

Time Flies...

At first I hesitated about using such a common cliche as the title for this post. After all, just about everyone says, "Time flies when you're having fun!" But I've noticed something slightly different. Time flies no matter what.

It's truly amazing, actually, the times that time flies. Time flies when you're raising kids. Time flies when you're on the phone. Time flies when you're watching TV. Time flies when your in your husband's embrace. It flies when you're eating, cutting the grass, working, sleeping, and exercising. It even flies when you're crying, hurting, recovering, or laughing. Time has flown while I've neglected this blog of mine. Time has the brazen audacity to fly when you're aging!

This past week has given me several opportunities to reflect on this topic. Little things keep popping up that make me stop and think about how much time has gone by and how very quickly it has done so.

Just two days ago I was going through some pictures my Mother-In-Law recently dropped off. Included were photos of my girls dressed for their ballet recital, wearing make-up. My girls are only 6 & 8 years old so the regular use of make-up is still a long way off... or so I thought.

As I looked longer at their pretty, made-up faces I realized I was seeing a glimpse of the future. I was seeing the more mature faces of lovely, young ladies who will turn the heads of young men in the not-so-distant future. I was seeing the forms of girls from which the rolls of baby fat have melted away, which have paused only briefly at this pre-teenage silhouette of childhood, and will soon continue their journey on toward womanhood.

To add to the wonder of seeing my daughters in this light, yesterday I was re-introduced to the daughters of a close friend whom I haven't seen in six years. Her daughters are now 10 & 7 years old instead of the 4 & 1 year(s) they had lived when last I saw them. I was amazed the very second I saw her oldest as my memory of her 4-year-old self collided with the sight of her now.

It's only logical that she would be so much older, so much bigger, but for some reason that lies below my consciousness I had pulled into the driveway expecting to see the little girls I remembered. As soon as I recovered from my shock it occurred to me that seeing my children would undoubtedly cause my friend the same surprise. And that, like me, she would probably marvel for a moment at the flight of time that had taken place.

Somehow during our visit we moved to the topic of supervising our children's outside play. We both lamented the fact that we find it necessary to physically be with our children whenever they play in the front yard. Because we are busy mothers this necessity greatly limits our children's play options. Gone, it seems, are the days in which we were reared; the days of walking a mile to a gas station for an ice cream sandwich, or riding our bikes far beyond our own streets, of just making sure we were home by the time the streetlights came on.

But it wasn't even very long ago... was it? Apparently the last 25 years of my life have also been loaded onto that stealthy jet-plane called TIME.

Even our visit was sped away in the jet stream as our 6 hours together was crammed into an experience that felt like 90 minutes-tops!

While my 3 younger children and I were whisked through time yesterday my oldest child attended a teen-pool-party given by the president of the home school group to which we belong. He's actually still twelve but will be 13 this Fall and the invitation was for members 12 & older.

The moment I saw the email invitation I was taken aback. Teen? Surely not! Am I old enough to be the mother of a teen? I have only recently recovered from his graduation from the children's ministry at church to the youth ministry. In fact, I still grapple with the realizations brought on by the sight of the pretty, young girls who also attend this youth ministry. The pretty girls that will soon catch his eye. The pretty girls whose eyes he will catch. So far I've not noticed any particular spark of interest on his part. But I'm grounded enough in reality to know that it's only a matter of quickly moving time... (after all, he's about as good-looking as they come;-)

I could go on & on with examples but I'm convinced that you already get my point. I have no doubt that you have your own examples on which to reflect.

As I'm writing this post my husband makes the valid point that time doesn't seem to fly during the tough times. He's right. If anything, it feels as though time is not just walking, but dragging its feet during times of suffering or hardship. It's true. We've all experienced it. While we are uncomfortable time seems dreadfully slow, but only until things change.

What do I mean? I'll explain.

I can't say this is true for everyone (although I suspect it may be). After things get easier, after we've had time to recuperate, and after we've been able to put some distance between ourselves and our troubles... it seems that even those tough times moved quickly. I can think back to the most difficult times in my life and, though I recall how long it seemed to take, I can now more accurately place them in proper perspective in the timeline of my life.

My conclusion... time ALWAYS flies.

May we be wise enough and resourceful enough to make the most of it.

...and that's my $0.02...

Time To Re-Evaluate

I wrote this for the newsletter for my local homeschool support group. I thought I'd share it here, too.

Very recently I received an email from an old, high school friend which
contained one of those inspirational forwarded messages. By now I've
learned that very often the things written in these types of emails turn out to be false...thought up by someone who has nothing better to do, I suppose. And the one I received may be no different. Or, it may be true. I don't know. But, it was good and it made me think.

Supposedly, it was written by a lady after she learned she was dying of cancer. She composed a list of things she would have done differently if she could relive her life. It was one of those lists that, if you really stop and think about, will make you re-evaluate why you do what you do and whether those reasons really make any practical sense.

So... I started thinking...

As a homeschooling mother, why do I make my children save their "good clothes" for when we go out when, in truth, we are mostly in? If my daughters want to look pretty just to stay home and "do school"... why shouldn't they? Are the people out there more worth dressing up for than the people at home? Why shouldn't we get the most out of the clothes while they still fit?

If I am going to a meeting or party (VHS or otherwise) why should I bake a dessert to take, threaten my husband if he gets near it, and only bring home the picked-over left-overs to my family? No offense to the rest of you, but I think from now on I'll just make more, separate an ample portion for my family, and bring you what is left (also an ample portion).

Why should I try so hard to justify homeschooling to skeptical and unsupporting family and friends. Why put that pressure on myself when I can just smile politely and change the subject. My husband and I are pleased with our children's progress and, more importantly, we believe God is as well. Whose opinion trumps these? Hmmm, can't think of anyone...

The list could go on and on:
-We absolutely must have routine in my house, but should it win out over an on the spot, God-sent, teachable moment that may have very little to do with a text-book?
-Isn't living integrity more valuable than spelling integrity for both my children and me?
-So what if the paint does get on the carpet? We'll get it clean, but even if we don't, is the carpet to be our master?
-And, why not occasionally forsake the lesson plan for a good book with my children, in the springtime sunshine, in the back yard? After all, that is the freedom we homeschoolers have, isn't it?

Those who know me also know that I'd be the last to advocate reckless abandon regarding educating our children. Not at all! I just don't want to look back on these precious years with an "I wish I'd done it differently" list. I believe the grammar and the arithmetic really do matter, but does the knowledge of them make life beautiful? What good are the best writing skills without something truly moving to write about? God, love, family, joy, etc...these are the things that make life beautiful.

So it is my new goal to let the people and things that matter most, matter most. I'm sure I won't always get it just right but I will work toward it. Then, hopefully, at the end of this homeschooling journey I'll chuckle to myself and thank God for the memories...and, who knows, I might even have a stubborn carpet stain to make me think back and smile!

...and that's just my $0.02...

Tonya

Here We Grow Again

Once, several years ago, when faced with difficulties of some kind my husband replied to the Associate Pastor to whom we were speaking, "Here we go again."

"No," she responded authoritatively, "Here you grow again."

Her point was not lost on us. We knew she was referring to the fact that during the more trying times of life we have the opportunity to dig deep, press in to God, hold tight to our courage, and...grow. Either that or shrink back in paralyzing fear and take a passive and unproductive stance.

I cannot remember what particular problem we were facing at that time but I do know this: We've faced many problems and have repeatedly made the choice to grow forward. That's just what we do.

It's what we will continue to do.

"Many are the afflictions of the righteous,

But the LORD delivers him out of them all."

Psalm 34:19

Today we learned that Ron has lost his job due to RIF (reduction in force). The company he was employed with is fairly small and has been struggling financially. They had to make the decision to let some people go. Ron was one of several. This comes at a bad time (although I don't know that there is ever a good time to unexpectedly lose your job).

Needless to say, this is tough. Right now there are a whole host of unanswered questions. We will seek God for the answers and do what we must to get things back on track. All prayers on our behalf are greatly appreciated. We trust that things will work out for the best.

And we know that all things work together for good to those
who love God,

to those who are the called according to His purpose.

Romans 8:28

That being said...Here we grow again!

Tonya

The Cost of Children

I did not write the following piece. I would have---if only I'd thought of it first. I have no idea who to credit with its authorship though. It was given to me a few years ago by a friend and fellow homeschooling mom. I hope you enjoy it as much as I have.

I have to request that you please not crowd my comments section with claims of authorship. All claims should be sent, in writing, to my home office and should include at least two samples of similar writing, a right thumb print, retinal scan, blood type, and a DNA sample. I apologize in advance for the inconvenience. These matters require the utmost security and it would be remiss of me to ask less of you than was asked of me the last time I cashed a $5.00 check from my Mother, at her bank...especially post 9/11. I'm sure you understand.

Now, please enjoy!

The Cost of Children

The government recently calculated the cost of raising a child from birth to 18 and came up with $160,140 for a middle income family.

Talk about sticker shock!

For those with kids, that figure leads to wild fantasies about all the money we could have banked if not for (insert your child's name here). For others, that number might confirm the decision to remain childless. But $160,140 isn't so bad if you break it down. It translates into $8,896.66 a year, $741.38 a month, or $171.08 a week. That's a mere $24.44 a day! Just over a dollar an hour. Still, you might think the best financial advice says don't have children if you want to be "rich". It is just the opposite.

What do your get for your $160,140? Naming rights. First, middle, and last! Glimpses of God every day. Giggles under the covers every night. More love than your heart can hold. Butterfly kisses and Velcro hugs. Endless wonder over rocks, ants, clouds, and warm cookies. A hand to hold, usually covered with jam. A partner for blowing bubbles, flying kites, building sand castles. A partner to attend baseball, football, and basketball games with. And skipping down the sidewalk in the pouring rain. Someone to laugh yourself silly with no matter what the boss said or how poorly your stocks performed that day.

For $160,140, you never have to grow up. You get to finger-paint, carve pumpkins, play hide-and-seek, catch lightning bugs, and never stop believing in Santa Claus. You have an excuse to keep reading the Adventures of Piglet and Pooh, watching Saturday morning cartoons, going to Disney movies, and wishing on stars.

You get to frame rainbows, hearts, and flowers under refrigerator magnets and collect spray painted noodle wreaths for Christmas, hand prints set in clay for Mother's Day, and cards with backward letters for Father's Day.

For $160,140, there is no greater bang for your buck. You get to be a hero just for retrieving a Frisbee off the garage roof, taking the training wheels off the bike, removing a splinter, filling a wading pool, coaxing a wad of gum out of bangs, and coaching a baseball team that never wins but always gets treated to ice cream regardless.

You get a front row seat to history to witness the first step, first word, first bra, first date, and first time behind the wheel. You get to be immortal. You get another branch added to your family tree, and if you're lucky, along list of limbs in your obituary called grandchildren. You get an education in psychology, nursing, criminal justice, physical education, and communications that no college can match.

In the eyes of a child, you rank right up there with God. You have all the power to heal a boo-boo, scare away the monsters under the bed, patch a broken heart, police a slumber party, ground them forever, and love them without limits, so one day they will, like you, love without counting the cost.

...and, if I had written it...that would be my $0.02...

Tonya

I Am Momma... Hear Me Roar!

Now, at first glance, my "oh so clever" title may lead you to believe that this post will be about the Momma Bear within me, ever ready to leap tall buildings in one single bound or throw myself into oncoming traffic to retrieve one of my children's lost balls. And I can see why you'd think that because I have done that, and worse, many times over. But still, this little number is not about that. For now I will lay aside my heroic Mommy-deeds and address a topic that strikes me beneath my armor, in the vulnerable underbelly of my womanhood.

Let me begin by admitting that I suffered a bout of angst while creating this blog. When I came to the "About Me" section I felt obligated to input some information about ...well...me. So, naturally, I asked myself "Who am I?" And, like most of us, I started by thinking of who I am to other people...wife of...mother of...sister of...etc. I see no problem with that. Yes, I know, technically those things aren't really who we are but I'd venture to guess that very few of us are poetic enough to capture the very essence of our beings and confine it to mere words. So...like I said, I'm fine with that part. Here's where I struggled:

I am a happily married, stay-at-home Mom. I homeschool. I have no personal income. I am not an "independent woman." I have not yet convinced myself that I have any time (or desire) what-so-ever for a "cottage industry." I don't mind cooking for a man who gets up every day and goes to work for me. I loved college but I don't miss it--which means I may never have any letters behind my name (other than Q.T. if you ask my husband or P.P. if you catch me at a bad diaper moment). All of this works well for me 99.9% of the time. In fact, I only just ran into trouble when I had to lay it out in the daunting "About Me" section.

It's not that I wish I had a string of letters behind my name or a list of accomplishments to put Apostle Paul to shame. It's just that I cringed at the thought of the of the critical eyes who would write me off as a know-nothing, or worse yet, label me as identity-less. May I say, for the record, "I know who I am." "I think." "Well at least a much as any of you know who you are." Okay, I admit, life is a journey and I am a seeker. Who I am is changing all the time. It's the same for all of us. But, the fact remains--there are those of you out there who would think me more fulfilled, more complete if I could put M.D. after my name. Or Ph.D. Or Vice President of such-and-such. You would say, "Now, there's a gal who saw what she wanted and went after it!" Or you might think to yourself, "She's really something. She didn't let her husband and kids get in the way of her dreams."

Here's where it could get controversial, but I'm gonna type it anyway...

My husband and children are the best parts of my dream. Sure, they are not the only part, but, next to God, they are the parts that matter most to me. I love doctors. In fact, I frequent them with four children. But, still I say to you doctors, "Will your patients take care of you when you get old?" Oh, how I hope you are more to a few special people than their doctor! My husband is the best Direct Marketer I've ever kissed (or heard, or read) , but, I say to you business masterminds, "Will your clients hold you close at night?" (Okay, if the answer is yes, please keep that hush, hush..k?) I pray you'll be much more to someone than their sure-fire money-maker. I trust that along with attaining your goals you are tending the relationships that make life meaningful.

Of course, all of these are great achievements in their own right, but they are not necessarily the kind that warm your heart while your body grows cold at the end of this earthly journey. I just figure I'm cutting to the chase; leaving out the middle man. I know not all people are passionate about what I am passionate about...and that's perfectly fine with me. I just happen to be blessed with life dreams that mesh seamlessly with what I value the most.

So...who am I, anyway? I unabashedly invite you to check out my "About Me" section!

...and that's just my $0.02...

Tonya