5K

Please sign up for this amazing race.  All proceeds go to build a school in Zambia.  My friends are working really hard on this project.  One of them has spent time in Zambia and cares deeply for the children, who are in desperate need of educational opportunities.  Even if you can't participate, it's a great way to make a small contribution to the school.  Your $15.00 can go a long way!

Congratulations, Golda!

This was Golda when she was a little girl.  Now she's a big soon-to-be student body officer at the junior high.  Sunrise, sunset...

Principal P-Town

My student got sent to the principal's office yesterday for talking back.  OK, she would have gotten sent to the principal's office if there were such a thing at Ruby Academy, and if she wasn't so funny.  Our conversation was about Ruby going to school to do Shakespeare with the rest of the 6th graders.  I told Ruby she should and she told me there was nothing in the world she would hate more.  I said good, she should suffer a little bit and she said,

"Mom, you're so MEAN!  If you think it sounds so fun, YOU should be in a play!  YOU should try out for Taming of the Shrew!"

And I said, "OK, that's it!  You can't talk back like that.  You are soooo going on my blog!"  I think it's worse than going to the principal's office, especially if you consider that Ptolemy is the only person around here who is available to fill the role of principal.

 Principal P-Town inspires fear in the hearts of backtalking sixth graders at Ruby Academy and all over the country.

Newton's Laws at Work (and at Rest)

Did Isaac Newton have a second grader when he came up with the laws of motion?  Is that how he knew that an object at rest will stay at rest unless acted upon by an outside force?  Freestone is the object and I am the outside force.  This kid has absolutely no desire to do anything that he isn't already doing at the moment.  Usually, what he is doing is careening around babbling stuff like, "I'm like swyeewww!  schyeeewww!  AAAAAAggg!  And then it's like I fell down and rolled all the way under the couch and a trap door opened up and I'm like heeeelp!  I'm falling!  And I fall into the center of the earth, no, all the way through the center of the earth and I keep going to - no past - infinity..."

With a reality like that, who cares about taking a shower?  If I manage to actually get the little space cadet into the shower, he will remain there, standing under the water until I turn off the water and hand him a towel.  I've never experimented past oh, 45 minutes or so, but I'm pretty sure Newton was right on this one.  A boy in the shower will stay in the shower until acted upon by an outside force.  And a dripping wet boy in a towel will stay in a towel.  And a boy eating breakfast will keep eating breakfast, and somehow a boy getting his shoes on has the uncanny ability to stretch that task to infinity and beyond, so that if he was left to his own devices, he would still be tying his shoes a year from now.

I attribute Freestone's slow orbit to the fact that his mind is nowhere near interested in what is going on in this plane of existence.  The universe inside that little head is vast and unrestrained, and in that incredible place, there is hardly a need for time as we know it, let alone hygiene and clothing.  The rest of us are soooo out of it.  Freestone's world reminds me of the last line in Back to the Future.  "Roads? Where we're going, we don't need roads."   Which might also explain why Freestone can never remember to put on his seatbelt.

Hard Times

I just love these Mormon Messages.  They always speak to me and uplift me to do better and be better, while relying on the Lord more.  Today I liked this one, in light of the economic burdens and seemingly insurmountable catastrophes that are happening all over the world.  I find myself singing these Bob Marley lyrics in my head:  "Don't you worry...'bout a thing...Every little thing...gonna be alright." 

Cello Throwdown

 Araceli wanted me to record her playing one of her favorite pieces on the cello.  Then she thought it would be fun to record ME playing it.  How could I resist the chance to be the Bobby Flay of cello practicing?  That's what I get for always pulling the, "Here, move over, let me show you..."  Even though I don't play the cello.  There's a fine line between confidence and sheer stupidity, and I'm pretty sure I've crossed that line with some of the stuff I've thought I could do.  Sometimes you just have to learn stuff that you never thought you would.  At least my kids don't skydive.  I can just see myself, full of my Mother's False Sense of Ability:  "Here, let me show you how to do that.  What?  A parachute?  Why didn't you tell meeeeeeeeee...."

What have YOU learned by accident?

Temporary Beauty

The warm weather drove me to my flower bed, where I raked away dead leaves and twigs, revealing green shoots and rick, black earth beneath.  Every year, this springtime experience invigorates me and gives me hope and energy.  Not this time.  My thoughts were clouded with reminders of past gardening failures.  Every spring, I cultivate my two little flower beds, setting them up for success with a colorful assortment of flowers and daily careful weeding and watering, only to lose conviction and let the sunflowers and grasses take over by mid-August, after half of my carefully selected flowers have died.  I am a bad gardener. 

Usually, though, I can forgive my past failures and plunge right on ahead, determined to do better.  Is it a sign of defeat or maturity that I am reminding myself this year that I can't do it?  Am I being realistic or fatalistic?  My little flower bed seems pretty insignificant compared to the other parts of the yard that are in weedy shambles, too.  Why even try?  Come to think of it, why try anything?  I have a whole garden variety of failures under my belt in every area of life;  scripture study, nutritious meal preparation, food storage, visiting teaching, returning library books on time, keeping my closet clean, being a good neighbor, taking the dogs for walks, not forgetting things.  It is empirically proven that I cannot succeed in any of these areas for a sustained period of time.

So why am I yearning to drive to the garden store and walk slowly up and down the aisles, breathing in the fresh dirt smell?  Why will I carefully select my favorite flowers?  Why will they uplift my spirit, why will I love the colorful blossoms, when I know I will eventually neglect them to death?  Why don't I heed the voice in my head that says, "This is not going to work.  You can't do this."

I don't know, but I suppose I would be worse off if I gave up entirely.  At least my front yard will be beautiful in June.  And maybe all beauty, all success, is temporary anyway.

How to Have a Relaxing School Holiday: Nine Instructional Photos

Sit

Veg

Tell Stories

Discuss

Go for it

Soak

Laugh

Dare

Act like a Polar Bear

 Thanks so much, Sarah! Love ya'll!

Xanthe, Xanthe, Xanthe

Xanthe at a recital we had at our house a couple weeks ago.  Did she wonder what all those violin students were doing at our house?

Xanthe asked me the other day on the way home from piano, "Mom, did you ever play an instrument?"  I thought it was so funny that she asked that, because, well, I do own a violin shop and everything. 

So here's Xanthe playing Lightly Row, just in case her kids ever wonder if she ever played an instrument.  By the way, does anyone know where I can get a zoo animal?  Because Xanthe told me that everyone in her school class AND church class has a real, live zoo animal except her.  And it's just embarrassing.  Her top choices are zebra and giraffe, in case anyone has an extra.

Neglected by Fairies

As a result of having a lazy, neglectful tooth fairy, our kids have gotten resourceful.  Ruby didn't even tell me she lost a tooth.  She just said casually at breakfast, "Oh, Mom, the tooth fairy left me a note and it said for you to transfer a dollar into my account.  It was a molar."

I'm on it.

My Zen Retreat

I'll let you in on a "clean little secret:"  I love cleaning the bathroom.  If you frequent my house, you're probably saying to yourself, "Really?  Because your bathroom isn't that clean."  True, given the hordes that mess it up constantly , but there is at least one point during each day that it sparkles, because I like to clean it every morning.  It's like a little spa treatment for me.  I turn on the hot, hot water and let it run while I wipe everything down (sink, walls, floors, toilet, baseboards, tub...) with Clorox toilet bowl cleaner.  I love the bleach smell and the steamy hot water.  I can almost imagine I'm at an indoor swimming pool.  Weird, but true.

If I could just figure out how to love cleaning my entryway as thoroughly as the bathroom, people would be greeted by cleanliness when they enter my house instead of shoes and backpacks.  I guess I could always open the front door and say, "Close your eyes and come with me.  Let's talk in the bathroom where the baseboards have just been sanitized and the air smells like an indoor pool.  It's very Zen-like.  Watch your step as you navigate the piles of shoes and schoolwork." What do you think?  Could that be awkward?

With or Without Leprechauns, We Got Mischief Covered

 Who needs leprechauns when you have kids who throw pillows as siblings?  We have plenty of mischief here, thank you very much!  I told Freestone, it's a good thing we have a violin maker living at our house.  Otherwise, he would have been in as much trouble as he was afraid he was going to be in.  I think the fear was punishment enough.

 Leprechauns did manage to sneak in during the night and draw on the kids' faces.  Ptolemy got a mustache and a four-leaf clover.  Our leprechauns must have gotten these sneaky ideas form my cousin Emily's leprechauns!  :)

And this little imp had me cracking up yesterday.  Her assignment was to find items around the house that begin or end with the letter X.  (Incidentally, after being asleep at the wheel for the first seven months of the school year, her teacher is now sending home the I Am Sam books every night, plus an additional baggie book AND a "Letter Bag" and is starting a chick hatching project.  Manic phase??)

So, the letter X.  I found a boX for Xanthe, and then turned her loose to find other items.  She found forx, boox, sox and cards.  Unfortunately, the cards did not end with X.  But I sent the other items to school with her, just because I thought it was funny.  And we didn't have a xylophone or an X-ray lying around.  Ha ha...St. Patty's day is making me feel mischievous!  Or maybe it's the red hair. 

And Speaking of Clowns...

Bozo may freak you out, but you haven't experienced Carney Fear until you've seen my hair today.  It's way over the Big Top.   It was an accident, of course.  I had a color that always worked, but they were out of it at the store.  (Yes, the grocery store.  Judgement, anyone?)  And the brown (rhymes with frown) just didn't look as exciting as "Paint the Town!"  (Hmm...also rhymes with frown.  Did not realize that until it was too late...) I'm sure I'm not the target market for Paint the Town. I'm too old to be experimenting with colors that don't exist in nature and about 50 years too young to get away with looking like I stuck my finger in a socket inside Willy Wonka's Chocolate Factory.

Aren't there laws protecting people from their own stupidity?  Selling this color should be illegal.  It looks like a cry for help.  I timed the coloring procedure perfectly so that I stepped out of the shower, looked in the mirror and said holy %$#&!! two minutes before I was expecting a violin student.  For the rest of the day, there was no time for a redo.  I sported the cap until Ptolemy ran off with it right before I had to take Ruby to the junior high to register for 7th grade.  The junior high is the last place you want to be when you look like a housewife attempting to"paint the town."  Several other moms said how "hip" and "fun"my hair looked.  Uh-huh.  Suburban code for "Your life must be a wreck!"  Some said, "You're so brave!  I would never dare try that!"  Meaning, "I get my hair done professionally and you would too, if you weren't so poor and dumb."

Araceli said the color of my hair was "witch," but Freestone hugged me and asked with his big, innocent, brown eyes, "Why do you think it looks bad?"  Beauty might be in the eye of the beholder, but I can almost guarantee that beauty doesn't come in this shade.  Back to the drawing board.  No more painting the town for me!

Circus, Circus

I knew our house was a circus, but I didn't know it had gotten this bad!  Just a typical Saturday morning with Barnum and Bailey.

I Am Mit

I am Mit.  Boy oh boy, the word Mit had Xanthe all tied up in knots.  Here's our relaxed, positive reading experience for page 7:

Xanthe:  See Sam!
Me:  Look at it again
I see Sam
No, sound it out.
I am Sam
No.
I see Sam?
No.
I am Sis. 
No.
I am Mat.
OK, look at it. 
Mmmm...iiii...ttt....SAM!
Ooooh, so close.  (I doze off, wake up, say Mmmmmmmmiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiittttttttt!)
You weren't supposed to help me!  Now I'm not going to say it!
(I think to myself, well you weren't going to say it anyway, not in this lifetime.)

But the fine print at the bottom of the page says "Praise!"  with a smiley face, so I do, and we go to the next page, because "it is very important that my child has a positive experience reading this book." 

I am Mom.  See me.  See me have an aneurysm if you can't remember that I makes the "i" sound!

Great American Tragedy at Fresh Market

I ran into Willie Loman at the grocery store tonight.  He was hiding behind a display advertising "Professional Family Portraits!"  The cardboard stand was covered in large photographs (11x13!) that couldn't have been more recent than a decade ago.  Fleetingly, I wondered if the man had found the whole display in a dumpster and set up his racket as a scam.  The salesman shuffled even further behind his portraits when I smiled at him.  No, this salesman didn't have what it takes to be a scam artist.  His hair was wax-yellow, his fingernails nicotine brown, his bottom teeth all but rotted away.  His tie was what killed me.  It looked more like a tie-shaped remnant of a green floral couch than an actual tie.  That tie inspired an unbearable feeling of despair in me.  I thought of all the ties Scott has hanging in his closet, just one of which could make this guy's outfit a little more respectable.  I thought of the man's tired feet and Death of a Salesman flooded back to me with all its terrible tragedy.  A small man can be just as exhausted as a great man.

After offering my weak smile, I walked past Willie and took the groceries to my car.  I unloaded all the small items I had purchased for the family feast we were hosting the next day.  I thought of what I have in comparison to the beaten-down, homely salesman and I had to go back.  I had to.  It's just ten dollars, right?  I tried to justify giving away ten dollars that could buy our family a few gallons of milk or a few gallons of gas.  Then I tried to justify keeping it.  In the end, I guess I was just trying to alleviate my pity for the man.  I'm the New England man.  I'm vital in New England.


I went back in and drew the man out of his hiding place, saying, "So for only ten dollars, I can have my family's picture taken?"  He got a little excited and started showing me options.  I filled out a form for a family portrait, and my Mr. Loman pulled out the schedule.  With a professional huckster's air about him, he leafed through the pages saying, "Let's see, we have openings on Friday...or Saturday..."  For the first time, I noticed his handlebar mustache.  He was in his element now.  Before it's all over we're gonna get a little place out in the country, and I'll raise some vegetables, a couple chickens....  I looked.   Of the dozens of available time slots, one was filled in.  Just one.  I had him fill in my name right next to the other name.  As he perked up and launched into his sales pitch about how many poses and backgrounds I was entitled to, I just wanted to leave so I could cry my eyes out.  I wanted to tell him, everyone has a digital camera.  Nobody needs your photos.  Have you looked on the internet at all the creative, new ideas there are for family portraits?  Let me help you!  Let me at least give you a tie.

All I could hope was that the photographer had someone to go home to who would defend him like Linda defended Willie.  Attention, attention must finally be paid to such a person.  You can't eat the orange and throw the peel away.  A man is not a piece of fruit.

I went home under a heavy cloud and read a great book called In a Heartbeat by Leigh Anne and Sean Tuohy, the people who inspired the movie The Blind Side.  It's all about their philosophy of "cheerful giving," and was full of examples of people helping people.  I just needed to hear something inspiring.  Although I live in the same world as the supermarket photographer, his existence doesn't have to make me jaded.  He will find his way, and maybe he has happiness that I can't see through his wrinkled tie and yellow fingers.  He might have a family who loves him.  I just pray he does.  If nothing else, he has an appointment next Saturday at 2:45 to photograph my family with a variety of backgrounds and poses.

Utterly Me

If you're going on a trip, you can hope you're lucky enough to get a note from Araceli in your suitcase.  Scott found this little treasure on top of his socks and t-shirts as he prepared to leave for Vegas, Baby! with his brothers.  "Dad, we utterly love you and miss you.  I hope you are having a good time.  Love, Circe, Golda, Ruby, Utterly Me, Freestone, Xanthe and Ptolemy."  Take a guess at what Ari's new word is.  She's utterly adorable.

Diverging Interests

"Freestone, show Prestie how you get your shoes and socks on."

"No thanks.  She's not interested."

"Well, I'm interested in you getting your shoes and socks on and getting ready for school without me freaking out!"

Chuckle..."That's a weird thing to be interested in!"

Glad I can be so amusing.  Perinse can be so funny.

Growing a Foot or Two

This girl has grown out of all her shoes.  I told her to stop growing so I wouldn't have to wedge her feet into her boots every day, but she told me, "I'm not doing it!  Jesus just growed me!"

Hee hee...

Chapter One

The front seat of the car made a comfortable haven from the biting cold of the January morning.  Inside the car, the sun seemed like a warm friend instead of the ineffective tease that it was, no match for sub-zero temperatures.  Lisa and Zibby could almost pretend spring was coming, ensconced in their heated seats, sipping their Saturday morning hot chocolate.

Lisa had just dropped off her older daughter at ballet, turning her over to the familiar chill of the wood-floored studio with its resiny smell and promise of a challenging workout.  Getting hot chocolate and sitting in the car watching Main Street come to life was a Saturday morning ritual for Lisa and her younger daughter, Zibby, whose own ballet class would begin in 30 minutes.  That half-hour was Zibby Time, a chance to review the week and talk about third grade with no distractions. 

Picking up her steaming cup, Zibby sighed.  "I love Saturday mornings," she purred.  She switched her hot chocolate to her right hand, holding out her left to admire a bejeweled dragonfly ring which glimmered in the winter sunlight.

"I think it looks like a magic ring," Zibby exuded.

Absently, Lisa agreed.  Her daughter's creative mind was always teetering on the cusp between this world and the imaginary kingdom of her imagination.  Since having children, Lisa had realized that it was much more difficult for grown-ups to flit between fairy realms and princess castles and the real-life scenarios that demanded their attention on what seemed like a minute-to-minute basis.  Lately, it seemed like she could barely manage one reality.  At times, she almost longed for the safety of her daughter's imagination.  It had been a long time since she had visited those magical places.

Almost imperceptibly, on the fringes of Lisa's consciousness, an uneasy feeling about the ring sprouted.  She couldn't pinpoint her discomfort, so she turned in her seat and spoke to her daughter. "Zibby, where did you get that ring?"

"Oh, Grandma gave it to me for Christmas!"

Lisa settled back into her warm seat, squinting into the sun to look at the city clock tower.  Twenty minutes until Zibby's class.  Did she bring her ballet shoes?  Did she have a coat?  The little girl's voice interrupted Lisa's thoughts.

"...but I think Grandma got the ring at Shirley's Gift Shop because when Aunt Pat took me there yesterday, I saw some just like it!"

Lisa looked hard at the ring, glinting and sparkling as Zibby moved her hand.  It did not look familiar at all.  Lisa's sister had taken Zibby to Shirley's to pick out a new dress the day before.  But stealing?  Recently, her third grade teacher had confided that Zibby had cheated on a math test.  The girl's ballet teacher had reluctantly made Lisa aware that Zibby had been struggling to concentrate in class, often doing handstands during barre work or humming under her breath.  And making up stories!  Stories that didn't make sense.  And there were other minor reports, too, of little lies or playground skirmishes.  Zibby seemed to lurch between rage and glee, alienating everyone around her with both her sullen, unkind words and her extreme enthusiasm.  Each new episode, each incrimination, made Lisa feel like she was drowning again in the murky despair that was becoming unnervingly familiar.  A mother, a good mother, should be able to repair the invisible cracks in her own daughter.  With sickening clarity, Lisa knew where the ring had come from.  She spoke very carefully.

"Zibby, did you steal that ring yesterday?"

"No!"

"Zib, Moms always know the truth, so I want you to tell me where it came from before I find out on my own."

Zibby looked down at her hand.  From her daughter's expression, Lisa knew that the ring looked far less pretty to her daughter than it had a moment ago.  Zibby's long, brown eyelashes fluttered.  She didn't look up.

Lisa said in a voice so soft, it surprised her, "Do you think we should go back to the store and tell them what happened?"

The big, pink ribbon wrapped around Zibby's bun bobbed up and down as she nodded.  At last, her amber eyes looked up beseechingly at her mother.  Lisa was surprised at the pain she saw in them, and the relief.

Lisa was relieved, too, but for different reasons.  Her mind was swimming in unfamiliar waters, trying to reconcile the image of a juvenile shoplifter with her beautiful, spirited child in her black leotard and pink tights, ready to jump out of the car carrying her favorite dance bag.  Weren't shoplifters malcontent skater-tweens with ill-fitting clothes and safety pins in their eyebrows?  Weren't they the long-haired misfits who hung around the mall while their parents worked long hours at bars?  Lisa shook her head at her own biases, reluctantly admitting to herself that she was wrong.  So wrong.  But was her own daughter...bad?

Moments ago, Lisa had felt that the early spring sun was bringing new hope to her unravelling life.  Now she felt like things were ruined all over again.  Taking a pensive sip of her now-cold hot chocolate, Lisa looked at Zibby's small hands, resting in her lap, cupped tightly around the dragonfly ring, as if to erase its existence.  Lisa felt the exact same way.


It wasn't until dance classes were over and Lisa and her daughters had had lunch and straightened up the house that Lisa faced the prospect of going back to Shirley's Gift Shop.  It was a boutique that had been in business in her town since long before Lisa was born.  She had registered for her wedding there and tried to support the store each time a baby shower or birthday party came up.  She knew all the employees, mostly because some of them had gone to high school with her father.  There was no chance Lisa would remain anonymous when she returned.  Nevertheless, she had to, right?  This was a chance to teach her daughter a valuable lesson about honesty and integrity. 

Once again Lisa and Zibby were in the front seat of the car, this time, in front of Shirley's.  Zibby twisted the ring nervously around her finger, taking it off, clenching it, putting it back on.  Her head was solemnly bowed, but Lisa held her head at a determined angle, her terse motions filled with a resolve that Lisa hoped counterbalanced the bleak feeling of hopelessness that sat heavily in her stomach.

"Let's go, Zib," Lisa said, opening her car door.

"Mom?  Do we have to do this?  I'm too scared."

Lisa studied her daughter's face and, just for the smallest second, wished that she could just take her little girl into her arms and squeeze her until the past year ceased to exist.  There was a time when everything had been right.  Lisa didn't know when their reality had taken the first wrong turn, or how they had lost the map.  There was no going back, but ahead, there was only darkness.  She just knew that returning the dragonfly ring was one small course correction, one little candle she could light to stave off the blinding darkness.

"Don't worry, sweet little girl," she said, taking her daughter's hand.  "I'll help you."

Germs 101

Freestone informed me of an "amazing fact about babies:"  "Babies can fit their whole fist in their mouth."  That, and THIS are two reasons why I'm sure all my kids will be sick together, any minute.  Better go stock up on Motrin.

Jesus' Early Reader Program

Xanthe was troubled and brought me her Book of Mormon.  She said she couldn't tell what it said because she can't read.  I told her, "Just look at the words and see if you can find some that you know, like me, you, go, I, and, for..."

She hugged her book and said gently, "No, that's not following Jesus's plan for me."

I said, "What is Jesus' plan for you?"

She said, "Reading my Book of Mormon like the big kids do."

OK, then, I guess we should get to work on those reading skills.  Fast!  (Again, too bad we don't have any Dr. Seuss books to help with that.)  Xanthe also needs instruction on reading traffic signs.  She saw this one today:

 She pointed and said, "Mom, no kids doing backbends.  And I can do one.  But it says not to."  Does that look like a kid doing a backbend?  I'm glad Xanthe was willing to obey traffic laws, though.  Obedient child.  I'm going to get this sign:

 Do you think it'll work?  I'll tell her I copied it out of the Book of Mormon.  She won't know any better for awhile.

Artful Araceli

You got to read Araceli's blog!  Artful  Araceli.  It's on the side bar.

Dr. Seuss is on the Loose

Freestone came stomping home from school with this indictment of my parenting:

"Mom, my teacher had all the Dr. Seuss books to show the class today, and do you know how many of them I was familiar with?"

He folds his arms and stares me down.

"Two."

And he waits for an explanation on why we don't have all the Dr. Seuss books in our house like people should, and an apology for causing his public humiliation.  Sorry, kid.  We had all the Dr. Seuss books when Golda was a baby.  I fell for the Book of the Month thing and we eventually had quite a collection.  But you can't read Hop on Pop too many times before you want to (and do) hurl the whole batch of insipid nonsense into the giveaway.  My tongue was tired and my brain was swirled-up and I just wanted to read a story with a plot.  SAM DOESN'T WANT TO TRY THE GREEN EGGS AND HAM, OK?  HE SAID NO!

Who knew the doc could inspire such rage.  I do not like him in a box, I do not like him with a fox.  I do not like him here or there, I do not like him anywhere.  I think he wrote too many pages and I hate books that take you ages.  I want to read a book that's brief, a tale that doesn't cause me grief.  Old Seuss could rhyme, there's proof of that.  But how can you love the Cat in the hat?  He's naughty, sly and underhanded.  Maybe it's me.  I misunderstanded?  And maybe the Lorax can save the planet, but I still want to tell The Doc to CAN IT!