Love Poems

We had a wonderful Christmas this year - calm, relatively stress-free, and full of togetherness.

One thing I have always tried to instill in my children is the importance of family - being there to support each other no matter what.

This year, my youngest showered all of us with her love and demonstrated her belief in the connectedness of family.

I knew she'd been working on Christmas gifts for all of us - she always hand-makes everything, usually starting in August! This year, she asked me for some of my old canning jars - I have a huge box of them in the garage - but she kept mum about why she needed them.

The closer it got to Christmas, the more often she mentioned needing to work on "PAPOP," her name for the gift she was making for all of us.

I could tell she was getting concerned about finishing in time, so I casually mentioned that she could wait and give whatever it was to each of us for our birthdays - but she insisted this wasn't possible.

I thought she was being too hard on herself - and being a little stubborn.

On Christmas morning, her reason for needing to finish, all the hours she spent sequestered in her room, and that last-minute dash to Office Depot for more ink, all became apparent.

The whole family gathered to open her gift to us: Pick A Peck of Poems.

We each had an antique canning jar filled with 52 poems - one for each week of the year - all written by Melissa for us.

Here is what the gift tag said:

These jars are full of poems written solely by myself. The poems are the same for each person and are labeled 1-52. Starting on the first Sunday of January everyone will read the first poem. There is a poem for every Sunday of the year. The jars are easily transported so that no matter where each of us is, every Sunday we open our jar and read the appropriate poem.

Love,

Melissa

I am so taken by her thoughtfulness and the love she poured into this gift. What a wonderful young woman my daughter is!

I can't wait to read the first poem!

From the berry patch

Strawberry season has come and gone in our little patch. We picked for 3 solid weeks, averaging 2-4 quarts every other day.

There is nothing like a fresh grown strawberry, still warm from the sun, plucked carefully from its vine, and popped directly into one's mouth.

Our across-the-alley neighbors are from Mexico. One afternoon, the husband saw my boys picking and came over to visit. It turns out, his wife is from the prime strawberry growing region in Mexico and he had questions about growing strawberries in Iowa. We plan to give him some of our plants this fall when we do some dividing.

He has 3 or 4 little boys who had never before tasted a real strawberry.

We figured, in honor of their mother, we should remedy that situation.

They had never tasted anything quite as luscious, and the looks on their faces were pure delight. One little boy exclaimed, "I never knew they tasted this good!"

Makes me think of all the other children - and adults - who have no idea what real food tastes like. If they only knew, maybe more local farmers could make a living growing seasonal crops.

I buy grocery store fruit, but I know it is but a pale substitute for the real thing.

If only everyone could experience the explosion of flavor straight from the berry patch, they'd be like those little boys, who always seemed to show up right at picking time.

Snappy

A few weeks ago the girls and I ventured to a local park. They hung out on the beach and the playground while I walked the park's 3-mile trail. It was a beautiful, sunny day spent out and about together. After a quick lunch of pop, chips, and granola bars (I know, I know), we headed out to do some house-gazing; a favorite pastime of mine which I was pleased to discover the girls enjoyed. For me, drive-by house surfing satisfies my high level of domicile envy. The girls simply enjoy watching my level of panic increase as I find myself lost (temporarily, mind you) or too near the river, or railroad tracks. Or worst yet, lost on a dirt road next to railroad tracks close to the river.

Ah, phobias, I embrace thee, if only because you so verily entertain my children!

Anyway, on our way home after this foray, we drove back past the entrance to this park, which is known for its proximity to the Raccoon River, its large lake, playgrounds, etc. A lot of construction was taking place along the road at its entrance.

As I was zooming along, content in my recently demonstrated ability to simultaneously freak out, entertain my children, and subsequently find my way home, I saw a big muddy bump in the middle of this very busy road. As we got closer, it sure looked like a turtle, but I dismissed the thought since it wasn't moving.

As we passed the bump, Sarah exclaimed, "Mom, that was a turtle in the road!"

After the obligatory argument of the "no it wasn't"/"yes it was" variety, I turned the car around and went back to the park, pulling the car off the road near the entrance.

Sarah jumped out to investigate, declaring the rectitude of her perception, "I told you it was a turtle!"

Ah, then the dilemma. How to rescue a large snapping turtle (I was sure that's what it was - we couldn't possibly have been called upon to rescue a plain, old, mild-mannered turtle) in the middle of a busy road.

Just then, I spotted a couple jogging by and told Sarah to run up and ask for their help. Mind you, my part in this rescue so far entailed sending my 17-year-old daughter out into the middle of a busy four-lane road to ask strangers to help rescue a turtle.

That, and I did turn the car around.

Not one of my proudest moments.

The couple stopped and the guy pulled up a couple of construction stakes and he and Sarah started scooting the turtle off the road. Said turtle obviously had a death wish, since he didn't offer one whit of assistance in his rescue.

I could tell, from the safety of the front seat, that he was hefty, too, by watching how they struggled to move him to safety.

How much does a snapping turtle the size of an 11 x 14 sheet paper weigh? Google wasn't particularly helpful with this.

Finally, he was safely on the side of the road, but was still way too far from the lake for comfort. What to do?

We decided to empty our cooler, scoot the turtle into it, then drive him back to the lake. By this time, Melissa and I decided to join more directly in the rescue effort. While we all stood lined up by the busy road, cars and trucks began to slow, watching what was going on.

We'd become a bona fide rubber-necking event!

One woman pulled her car over, crossed the lanes of traffic, and told us, "With the way my life's been going lately, I just had to watch this! This is great!"

Finally, turtle-in-cooler, the joggers took off, the traffic began to move again, and the girls and I lugged our unwilling rescue-ee toward the back of the Prius.

Once he was heaved in, we drove toward the boat ramp, getting as close to the edge of the river as possible. A quick dump and a little prompting with a stick, and Snappy took off into the water, ready to wreak havoc again someday, no doubt.

We left, buoyed by our altruism and ingenuity, ready for the next perilous rescue to come our way.

Thankfully, my darling husband washed out the cooler.

Fishy memories

Last month the girls and I went to our little local zoo. I think it had been a couple of years since we last were there and it was fun to go back.

As always, one of their favorite places was the koi feeding area. I came prepared with change to buy the fish food and we enjoyed the ensuing feeding frenzy almost as much as the koi.

Two things came to mind while there.

First, I wish I had been more willing to say "yes" back when the kids were all little - they got to feed the fish, but each child only got one handful of food. I've learned a lot about parenting over the course of the past 15 years or so. Thankfully, my oldest two tend to be forgiving!

Secondly, watching the fish go berserk, roiling and tumbling over each other in a veritable orgy of greed, I was transported back to my uncle's ponds nearly 30 or more years ago.

I spent only 6 summers of my youth on my grandmother's farm, but the bulk of my happy memories were formed during those few months each year.

My grandma and I didn't really get along very well and she focused on and openly favored my older sister. Searching for escape, I went outside and discovered the man who probably had the greatest influence on my character and reasoning, along with my dad of course; my Uncle Clarence.

Uncle Clarence was, I think, 14 years older than my dad, making him well into his 60s in the early 1970s. In many ways he was like a grandfather to me. I remember following him around the farm, from tool shed to tractor and pick-up truck to cattle lot. I was so quiet and followed so closely that he often would turn and run into me.

Uncle Clarence was the first adult to treat me as an equal. Although he didn't hesitate to pronounce his own opinions, he opened my mind to question religion, politics, and human behavior. No matter what, Uncle Clarence was on my side.

I remember one year, as my parents prepared to take me back home to New York, I started sobbing and couldn't stop, throwing myself in Uncle Clarence's arms. It was always so very hard to leave!

Uncle Clarence had several man-made ponds that he stocked with fish. I vaguely remember that he ran a fishing business on the side. In the smaller ponds were the starter fish. I presume they stayed there until they were big enough to release into some of the bigger ponds.

Funny, I never asked about that.

And as I write this, I realize how tenuous many of the "facts" of my childhood are in my mind.

The starter fish were given feed on a regular basis and grew to know the sound of my Uncle's footsteps on land as he approached. I'm not sure whether they were crappies, bullheads, walleyes, or what; maybe a mixture of them all.

As he approached, the fish would begin to swim toward the side of the pond until the whole surface was wall-to-wall fish. And mouths.

As cool as this was, it was also kind of creepy to look out on a sea of slimy, writhing fish mouths.

My uncle and my cousin were consummate fishermen, but thankfully they tolerated my squeamishness about the whole business. I did learn to cast (though there was one unfortunate instance when I let go at the wrong moment, sending my cousin's prized new rod straight into the pond) but have never baited a hook or cleaned my catch. Heck, I never even actually touched any of the fish I caught.

Yes, they were mighty tolerant.

I got to participate in farm life as a visitor, savoring the good parts and never quite having to participate in the gross or uncomfortable. But I think the exposure I had to some of the necessities of growing and harvesting food enriched my life. Like watching Uncle Clarence shock a fish, then hang it from it's lower lip (okay, I mean the skin underneath the lower jaw), and skin it. I get the shivers just thinking about it. But I sure did enjoy my Aunt Ruthie's fried catfish.

Boy, it's been years since I've had that catfish.
Years since Uncle Clarence died.

Decades since my childhood summers on the farm.

But the memories of watching my uncle feeding those fish will be with me forever.

Sweetie

My mommy doesn't say much...

but I know she loves me.

What about socialization?

Mea culpa.
Mea culpa.

Mea maxima... you get the idea.

What is the ultimate failure of any homeschooling parent?

A child who doesn't know the times tables?
Nope.

Delayed reading?

Nah.

Inability to find latitude and longitude on a map?

Nuh-uh.

The correct answer here is "socialization."

As in, failure to properly do so.

It's difficult to admit this, being a long-time, somewhat eclectic, a little bit unschoolerish, periodically panicky homeschooler.

And in all honesty, most of my charges do quite well in the social skills department.

Except for one.

And it's all my fault.

Despite her tender years, my littlest girl doesn't get along well with others. She's too excitable, doesn't listen well to the social cues of her playmates, doesn't understand when someone else just doesn't want to play anymore.

Oh, and she doesn't obey her mother very well, either.

A good friend even told me her littlest was uncomfortable around my baby and that her actions are a little "unbalanced."

Wow, was that ever hard to hear.

Granted, she's still just a toddler...

in human years.

But my sweet little Ivy Rose is a bit of a maniac.

We recently dog sat for good friends of ours. Gil, their 9-year-old Welsh Corgi, played with Ivy a lot. But she just didn't seem to understand when he'd had enough, which led to nipping and general grumpiness.

It's hard to pull a 113-pound just-nipped St. Bernard off a guy who stands about 4 inches high at the shoulder. She was angry and hurt, he was fed-up, and I was sweating.

"Please, Mrs. Lauer, make her stop!"

When said friends dog-sat her, Ivy put to use a skill she mastered last fall: fence jumping. Apparently, she took off over the fence and ran straight toward the neighbor's dog, a sweet labrador retriever. A seeing-eye dog, no less.

I think she likely just wanted to play, but a huge dog barreling at full-speed is a little scary. Believe me, I know. I've been hit by flying St. Bernard a time or two myself.

As my mom recently reminded me, nobody likes the hyper, misbehaving kid. So I've firmed up my resolve and deepened my voice, insisting that Ivy obey me. And there's been a huge improvement.

We have much less barking, and when she does, I can get her to listen to me and stop fairly quickly. We've discovered she's afraid of people, so we've been working on those social skills as well.

Beware, those who enter my abode! You will promptly be handed dog treats and asked to greet my baby, quite a slobberful undertaking.

Our next step will be meeting more dogs and working on intra-species social skills.

But the true test will come later this month when my mom comes to visit.

Will I be able to keep Ivy from knocking Grandma over? Slobbering all over her? Basically, loving her to death?

Will my mom ever visit us again after meeting Ivy for the first time?

I'm keeping my fingers crossed and my pockets full of dog treats.

Couch potato

So I'm seeing my therapist again.
Seems as if I should be saying this while sipping a martini in some chic little out-of-the-way cafe. Instead, I'm sweating in my family room, complete with white socks and over-sized t-shirt.
Me, that is, not my family room.
Besides, I don't like martinis.
When I was a teenager there must have been a spate of movies-of-the-week (remember those?) featuring women committed to insane asylums, er psychiatric facilities, against their will. Man, did those creep me out. It became a niggling, unspoken fear of mine. One of those fears that rears its ugly phobic head only in dreams.
Paranoid much?
Anyway, I think it's kind of ironic that I've spent my entire adult life battling depression and anxiety. Fortunately, it's become a lot harder to commit someone.
That, and crazy as this may sound, my husband likes to have me around.
And they say he's the sane one!
There's been a lot going on here the last year or so, and I've noticed my fatigue increasing along with a general inability to get much of anything done.
I mean, a greater-than-usual inability to accomplish much.
So, I guess it's time for a tune-up.
Again.
Sigh.
See you in the looney bin.

In a row

So, I haven't blogged in... forever.

Blogging is kind of like falling off a horse (which I almost did once, by the way) in that if you falter and don't get right back on-line, you just may never get back in the saddle again.

Or something like that.

Anyway, we're all still here, our various maladies variously treated and diagnosed, and I'm ready to re-enter the blogosphere.

We'll see if I manage to hang on this time.

Oh, in case you were wondering, we never caught the mouse.

Mousers

What are these two up to?
They're probably just messing with my brain... something Lester (the little guy) particularly enjoys.
He likes to sit outside the bathroom door and cry. And cry. And yowl.
Finally, unable to take it anymore, I climb out of the tub to let him in.
And he sits there.
Just sits there.
Now that he can come in, well, you see, he's just not all that sure he really wants to.
I close the door.
The yowling begins.
Open it... and Lester shoots off like "striped lightning" down the hall.
Lather, rinse repeat.



So the other morning when Lester and Fannie became preoccupied with something under the stove, I initially chalked it up to cat shenanigans.
Then I began to wonder... there isn't really something under there, is there?
Surely nothing more than a fur forest and maybe a grape?


Then on Saturday, Fannie continued the beneath-the-stove obsession. Fortunately, Michael had not yet left for Hawaii, so I asked him to pull the stove out to check for... gasp! ... mice.


For some reason, Michael didn't take the situation quite as seriously as the girls and me, insisting on, of all things. finishing our taxes before checking on the rodent situation.
Men.

Fannie stayed on guard...



ever vigilant.
All doubt disappeared when she started making hunting noises... clicking... clicking ... clicking...
Finally, taxes done, Michael and Stephen pulled out the stove to reveal... mouse droppings and the bewhiskered nose of our winter invader.
I quickly called the exterminator, my voice quavering just a little as I requested service as soon as possible. Yes, anytime Monday is fine. Anytime.
God, just please hurry!
This isn't the first time we've had unwanted wildlife in the house. We once had a mouse nest in the TV cupboard, we've had chipmunks invade our basement, and of course, my favorite, the bat invasion of 2005.
You'd think I'd be somewhat used to it by now, wouldn't you?
Since the exterminator apparently doesn't work on weekends - the nerve! - Michael bought a couple of traps. The girls were concerned about whether they were humane traps, how they worked exactly, and couldn't we just catch and release?
Um. No.
As far as trap construction and efficacy, I encouraged a don't ask - don't tell approach.
I don't know whether the traps caught anyone, since Michael left in the predawn hours yesterday. I don't even know where he placed the traps.
Fortunately, the cavalry should arrive sometime today.

But it's 9:36 right now and the exterminator has yet to call.
To say I'm a little on-edge would be an understatement.
Every time a cat's gaze lasts a little too long or one of the dogs becomes too interested in what's under a couch, I cringe.




Meanwhile, Fannie and I just wait and watch. One of us is excited. The other, ridiculously freaked out.
I let you decide which is which...

Crafty

Melissa has a tradition.
She always makes the gifts she gives.
Over the past few years she's given altered-book style photo albums, crocheted purses and throws, handmade scarves, books of poems and Haiku, photo calendars and felted ornaments.
Last fall, she made a wet-felted scarf for a friends' birthday present.
We had never wet-felted before, so the task was a little daunting.
For me at least.
I remember when I was in first grade. I used to get Highlights magazine. Oh, I loved that magazine! I used to read the crafts pages and I remember yearning, yes yearning, to make the crafts.
But I was too afraid.
I don't remember whether I asked for help and it wasn't forthcoming, or whether I kept my desires to myself, but I never once worked up the nerve to make one of those crafts.
This somewhat irrational fear - okay, let's be honest, it's totally irrational - still plagues me to this day.
Fortunately I have Melissa to prod me along and push me through my mental hurdles.
Poor child.
Can you say "burden?"
Anyway, I managed to conquer my fear and the two of us embarked on a wet-felting journey together.
I must admit, it is a little less scary with company.




First we laid the silk scarf out on towels.

Next, Melissa took wool roving and laid it on top of the scarf.

Once the roving was in place, we laid a piece of plastic netting over the top.



Then sprayed the whole scarf with water.

Next we rubbed ivory soap over the whole scarf, beginning the felting process. This was hard work!

As usual, we had plenty of extra help...

We then further wetted the whole mess and began rolling and unrolling the scarf felt the roving to the silk ...


We rolled and rolled and rolled. Since we didn't really know what we were doing, we almost over-felted. It was really difficult to extract the scarf from the netting.

A quick soak in some vinegar water to remove the soap and behold...

the finished product!

While this was fun, it was a lot more work than machine felting crocheted projects.

But I can see us deciding to try more wet-felting in the future.

Dickensian

So yesterday I took my two girls to the doctor's office.
Actually, I wasn't planning on going anywhere yesterday, so my darling husband didn't dig my car out from under our latest 8 or so inches of snow. Oh, and the snow plow, which actually came to my neighborhood in a timely fashion, piled up a mini-mountain at the end of the driveway, effectively trapping me in my home.
Sort of.
You see, I don't do snow.
Oh, I enjoy how pretty it is, love snow days, really love wearing my warm woolen sweaters and sipping hot chocolate in front of the fire.
But I don't shovel.
Snow-blow?
No-go.
I have many excuses reasons for avoiding this particular winter toil, all of them excellent in my opinion.
Bad back?
Check.
Lack of strength?
Check.
Prone to exhaustion from extreme physical exercise?
Double check. (I like to blame this one on fibromyalgia and hypothyroidism issues. Works for me.)
Unlike a very dear friend of mine who delights in showing off her shoveling prowess - she regularly shovels her crazy-long driveway faster than her neighbors can snow-blow theirs - I leave the hard physical work to others.
Which usually translates into "husband."
So when I became alarmed at Sarah's week-long stomach distress and pain - visions of appendicitis dancing in my head - I made a doctor's appointment.
And, despite the sage advice my mother gave me when the children were little, "You can't expect Michael to stay home from work when you're sick. Sometimes you just have to hang your head over the toilet and suffer," I called my taxi service darling husband and asked if he could take us.
Boy, doesn't that sound right out of the 1950s? And to think I used to subscribe to Ms.
Now, to be clear, I have spent my fair share of days with my head hung over the toilet, caring for four little ones, four medium-sized ones, and, to be honest, four large ones. Oh, the stories I could tell....
Suffice it to say, asking my husband to miss work is not something I regularly do, nor am I comfortable with.
Sweet man that he is, he readily agreed to zoom home to help me out. It probably doesn't hurt that he's scheduled to go to Hawaii next week, followed shortly thereafter by a trip to Chile.
Guilt can be a wonderful thing.
So, since we were taking Sarah anyway, I called back to see if they could see Melissa, too. Her toes have been bothering her for a month or more - they're sore, inflamed, red-ish purple and itchy. Nothing seems to help, so a two-fer was in order.
Now, just the day before, I got to thinking about Melissa's toes and pondered whether she could have chilblains. We looked it up on-line, and lo and behold, her symptoms fit. We joked around a bit about it and she finally agreed to wear socks.
So after Sarah's diagnosis - a likely side-effect from her migraine medicine - I told the doctor I thought Melissa had chilblains.
You'd have though I'd performed a miracle by her reaction. How in the world did I know about chilblains? In nearly 4 years of practice, she had never seen a case until just the week before, and now here was her likely second case.
Victorian novels.
What the Dickens?
Yes, I told her, it seems the gatekeeper or some other poor soul in Victorian novels always suffered from chilblains. Or gout. Or pleurisy. The flux. You name it, those Victorians seemed to have it.
As she walked out of the door, the doctor chuckled, "Harleqin Romances, huh?"
You could have knocked me over with a feather.
Harlequin Romances? Me? This accusation was almost as bad as the time I had to request a copy of a Louis L' Amour novel at the book store. It was a gift for my husband, something I made perfectly clear to the sales clerk, who could have cared less what I was buying. The embarrassment nearly killed me.
Apparently, my faced turned beet red as I fumbled to explain that I didn't know about chilblains from trashy novels but from the author of, um, David Copperfield, you know, what's his name?
Fortunately, Sarah's young and nimble brain recalled his name. Yes, I read the Victorian novels of Charles Dickens.
So much more respectable.
So much less embarrassing.
What followed was a trip to the lab for blood work to ensure the diagnosis. We should find out sometime today.
So while my life seems to have taken on a slightly Dickensian flavor, I prefer think of it as "grotesquely comic" rather than due to "squalid and poverty-stricken working conditions." (a la Collins dictionary)
Melissa, however, might not agree.
This week alone she's had to scoop the litter boxes, help fold laundry, gather the eggs, and bundle-up to bring in wood for the fire.
Unregulated, strenuous, often cruel child labor.
The little dickens.

Thanks, Betty

Potato Buns.
Need I say more?
These delectable, slightly-sweet dinner rolls are a family favorite.
And who do I have to thank for this fantastic recipe?
Betty, of course.
Betty Crocker.
Yes, thanks to Betty's 1956 cookbook, I have fabulous recipes for cakes, pies, and good-old-standbys like raspberry shrub and tuna casserole.
But that's not all Betty had to offer. The book is chock-full of helpful hints for the happy housewife, such as "Wear comfortable clothes and properly fitted shoes while working around the house."
No more high heels and skirts for me!
And this helpful hint for a good personal outlook: "Every morning before breakfast, comb hair, apply make-up, a dash of cologne, and perhaps some simple earrings. Does wonders for your morale."
I don't think Betty would want to experience my morale before my morning coffee.
But most of Betty's recipes are just the bees knees, especially potato buns, which are actually called "Potato Refrigerator Rolls."
Yes, that's right, the dough for these rolls, and most other breads, for that matter, can be made in advance and kept refrigerated. I often make a batch of bread dough and stick it in the fridge overnight for baking later the next day. The cold of the refrigerator inhibits the growth of the yeast. Once you bring the dough back to room temperature, it will continue to rise.
The great thing about these rolls, however, is their versatility and that they only need 2 hours out of the refrigerator to come to room temperature.
When I made this batch of rolls, I doubled the recipe and ended up with enough dinner rolls for two meals (one for that night, one for later) and enough dough for a Swedish Tea Ring.



So, without further adieu, I present Betty Crocker's Potato Refrigerator Rolls.

Measure into mixing bowl: 1 1/2 cups warm water and 1 package active dry yeast, stir to dissolve
Stir in: 2/3 cup sugar, 1 1/2 tsp. salt, 2/3 cup shortening, 2 eggs, 1 cup lukewarm mashed potatoes
Mix in by hand until dough is easy to handle: 7 to 7 1/2 cups white flour

Turn onto lightly floured board, knead until smooth and elastic. Placed greased-side-up in greased bowl.. Cover with damp cloth; place in refrigerator for 3-5 days. About 2 hours before baking, shape dough into rolls, coffee cakes, etc. Cover and let rise until double, about 1 1/2-2 hours. Bake in 400 oven for 12-15 minutes.
Makes about 4 dozen rolls.

Oh, and they also make great fake McMuffins!

Rule breaker

Now, that is a title I never would have thought applied to me.
In school, I was always the good girl - good grades, polite, well-behaved. If I ever broke a rule, I did it on the sly, always knowing how to cover my trail so I didn't get caught. Not that I did this often, but I do remember pulling a fast one on my band teacher in middle school. We were supposed to keep a daily practice chart and have a parent sign it weekly.
Guess who neglected to do so?
I remember being to afraid to tell my mom that I had forgotten (didn't want to get in trouble), though I'm not sure what she would have done. So I filled in all the spaces with reasonable practice times and asked my mom to show me how she wrote her signature. I then took the paper with her signature and wrote over the top of it to make an impression on the form underneath.
I tried to go over the indentations with pen, but needless to say, it wouldn't have taken a forensics expert recognize the fakery.
What to do?
I couldn't not turn it in, as that would get me in trouble at school; and I certainly couldn't tell my mom now since the evidence of my attempted forgery was so, well, obvious.
It was then I had a stroke of brilliance. I took the form and ran it under the faucet - not too much, but just enough that I could smudge the ink of the signatures and wrinkle the paper up real well. Then, when I turned it in, I told my teacher I had dropped it in the snow.
And of course he believed me.
I was the good girl, remember?
Whew. Just reliving that desperate act of my youth made my anxiety spike.
There have been other instances, both big and small, when I have broken the rules... but not by much.
It wasn't until I decided to take my three youngest out of public school 8 years ago that my desire to live by the rules, or rather, my fear of breaking the rules, began to fade.
The biggest stumbling block I faced in deciding to home school, other than the fear that I'd bring my kids home and make them stupid, was going against the norm.
And when I say fear, I mean FEAR.
I don't remember there being any specific fears, it was just plain scary to do something so... radical; something other people could point at and question. Add to that the decision to "mostly" unschool and the idea of fitting into social norms pretty much flew by the wayside. Though at first it was difficult to answer well-meaning questions honestly. "What curriculum do you use?" "How many hours a day do the kids study?" "Do you have school in the summer?"
I often found it easier to fib than to explain the philosophy of unschooling.
My rule-breaking has since increased, though I no longer feel the need to cover it up. My decision to no longer be a hypocrite by attending a church I didn't believe in evolved into my ability to flatly state that I am an atheist.
I cook from scratch, my home is way too furry, and yes, I raise chickens in my urban backyard. I make my own pickles, can tomatoes, and read for hours to my girls nearly every day. We rarely eat at the dinner table anymore, instead enjoying an episode of "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" while balancing our plates on our laps. (Hmm, I need to look for some old-fashioned TV trays...)
Where am I going with this?
Oh yes, my most recent failure to follow the rules.
I joined the Eat from the Pantry Challenge and was an abject failure.
That's right - no sooner had I vowed to spend no more than $200 on groceries for the month of January than I felt confined. I did well the first couple of weeks, but then orange juice went on sale for 77 cents a half gallon and peanut butter for only 99 cents a jar. I felt the strain of my self-imposed restrictions almost immediately.
Suddenly, despite quarts of frozen strawberries, blueberries and applesauce in my freezer, all I could think of was going to Costco for some fresh fruit - kiwi called to me, blackberries beckoned, and tomatoes taunted.
When milk went on sale for 88 cents a half gallon, I couldn't justify passing that by, so 20 half gallons soon graced my refrigerator shelves. Cheese on sale for less than $2 a pound? Load me up, please.
In all fairness, I did eat from my pantry, which by the way, includes two freezers, two refrigerators, and 7 overflowing shelving units in the basement. But the idea of following self-imposed strictures quickly lost its luster.
I did spend less than I normally would have last month and I even was able to defrost and organize one of my freezers.
But I just don't have it in me anymore to follow the rules - even when they are voluntarily self-imposed.
Funny thing. I've noticed this month that I've hardly ventured to a grocery store and my grocery spending is crazy low.
Wonder what that means...

Mommy and Me

I ran across a rant of sorts yesterday from a couple of young mothers seemingly at their wits' end with their children.
Their five-year-olds are driving them crazy, misbehaving, refusing to clean their rooms. Shouldn't five-year-olds be more responsible?
Shouldn't they listen to their mothers and just obey, for goodness sake?
I mean, should children of this age force their mothers to raise their voices, threaten, and demand obedience?
After all, they're five years old.
Now that they can "think for themselves," it's time to at least expect decent behavior.
Isn't it?
Well, isn't it?

Now, I'm a seasoned mother of four, so I've seen 5 years old four times already. And I have years of mothering experience and lots of frustration under my belt, and I'd like to tell these young mothers that I certainly empathize.
Being a full-time, stay-at-home mommy is hard, often frustrating work.
But I'd like to ask them to step back and imagine the hard work and frustration involved in being 5.
Yes, that's right.
It's hard to be a little kid.
And a child's mommy should never be his or her adversary.
Now, I don't believe in un-parenting. I don't believe that rules and discipline stifle a child's imagination.
But it's time to take a hard look at your priorities, ladies.

Is it so important to have a child pick up his or her room every single day? Is that really the most important lesson for your five year old to learn today? Or even tomorrow? Do you really think threatening a five-year-old with punishment or declaring you will charge him if you clean up his toys for him is the message you want your child to get from you? His mommy?
When my boys were little they could mess up a room, heck the entire floor of a house, in an afternoon of play. They liked to build cities using Legos, blocks, Tinker Toys, Little People, basically every single toy in the house, that covered the floors of entire rooms. It used to bother my husband to come home to this "mess" and he wanted it cleaned up right away.
But the boys had spent all day on their creation and would continue to play with it the next day. I asked him how he would feel had he spent an entire day of work, only to be told to remove it and start over the next day.
He changed his mind.

Now, that doesn't mean we lived in a perpetually messy house. But I knew it was too much to ask of a young child to pick up and sort all those toys.
The best strategy? To help them pick up.
That's right.
Help them.
Even though I had other things I needed, even wanted to do, when it was time to clean up, I helped them do it.

Why? Shouldn't they be expected to clean up their own messes?
Well, partly because it was a kind thing to do. But also because it is too much to ask of a five-year-old to put away and organize alone. There was a benefit to working alongside my little ones as well; we had great conversations during clean up, I could help them learn how to go about such a task, they learned organization skills, and more.

What about the misbehaving? Purposeful disobedience?
Most often I discovered that naughty behavior came about because my kids weren't getting enough of my time and attention.
That's right. My children's behavior often reflected their need for more "mom."
So, maybe you have a home business, younger children, older adults you're caring for... it's easy to get overwhelmed and self-involved. You think you're giving your child enough attention, you think the attention you're giving ought to be enough, for goodness sake. You have too much to do in a single day, can't that five-year-old just behave?
Well, no.
What other way does a young child have to tell his mommy that he needs more of her than to misbehave. Maybe it's time to set aside your business, cut back your hours, reduce some of your socializing, or homeschooling, and just be with your child.
To do this, you will make sacrifices.
You will ask your friends, your family, your spouse for more help.
And that's as it should be.
Your number one priority needs to be your little ones.

And you know what?
When they're bigger, say teenagers? They still need to be your number one priority.

Rearing children is not like training dogs. The number one thing I want from my children is their love and respect. But if I don't teach them how to show respect through my own behavior, how will they learn? Through loving and respectful interaction with my children, I have maintained wonderful, emotionally close relationships with all four of them.
We've never had "rebellious" teens, at least in part because my kids didn't really have a lot to rebel against. That's not to say there weren't limits or rules, because there certainly were. But our rules were "family" rules, not rules imposed on the children from the all-powerful, authoritarian parents.

It's not easy being a mommy.
But the last thing you want to do is create an adversarial relationship with your child. Walk with your little one, hand-in-hand, together through life.
Believe me, the rewards are boundless.

Kitten in a Cupboard

When we moved into our house 3 1/2 years ago, we couldn't afford to buy built in cupboards for the remodeled kitchen. I had always wanted an unfitted kitchen, so we found free-standing furniture pieces and made an old-fashioned kitchen.
Well, fast forward three years and the novelty of the free-standing kitchen had worn off. While I loved the look of the furniture pieces, it was time to create a more functional kitchen.
I was able to keep some of my old furniture pieces, so the kitchen still has a somewhat unfitted look to it, but I love having so much counter space!
Unfortunately, so do the cats.
They've discovered the joy of counter tops and now can climb to the top of the fridge, the tops of the cupboards, and, as you see here, into my antique shelves.
Oh well, what's a little more fur?

Shell Game

Ain't they purty?
I'm ridiculously proud of these beans.

Last summer, for the heck of it, we decided to grow some beans. I ordered a couple packages of heirloom beans and a couple packages of black beans.

And grow they did.

It was just about as easy as tossing them out the window and watching them take off, a la Jack.
The only challenges they faced were a certain St. Bernard, who like to reach into the garden and steal them, and the occasional rogue chicken.



I first jar was shelled last fall and was brim-full. I honestly can't say I've noticed a flavor difference between home-grown and store bought, but that may be because I almost always cook my dried beans from scratch.

Sunday, after a little siesta, I came downstairs to find Michael and the girls shelling the rest of the beans.

Apparently, it takes intense concentration. Probably because you have to dodge all the flying beans.

Sarah and Melissa

Melissa and Michael



The un-shelled.

We'll definitely grow more beans this summer. I hope we can work to maximize our growing space yet again - it's been a work in progress since we moved here 3 1/2 years ago. Someday, I hope to have enough room for a huge garden so I can grow whatever I want. That someday is likely not so far away anymore...

In the meantime, I'll just have to be patient and content myself with only 5 jars of beans.

The problem is, they're so pretty, it's hard to make myself use them!

The Un-yon

Hmm, found this on my windowsill Sunday morning...

Goodbyes

There we are, the whole gang, at the Des Moines Botanical Center in December.
For most people, it seems, the new year started on January 1. But for me, the new year always seems to start when it's time to say goodbye.
Zachary just left today to head back to Iowa State where classes start tomorrow. Stephen has one more week before his classes start. He graduates from college this spring.
Sarah will be home this semester while we try to conquer her migraine pain, but the time for her goodbyes is fast approaching. She'll be 17 in April, with college right around the corner.
And though Melissa will just turn 13 in March, I know how fast six years can speedy by.
There were a couple of times this holiday break that I purposely stopped to form an image in my mind of the whole family together, laughing, joking, loving each other.
I know we'll have many, many, more times together, but life is just around the corner, with marriages, travel, work. Who knows how long before the parameters of our nuclear family change and grow.
Not that this is a bad thing; I know we'll stay happy and strong even as we add more members. It's just that, well, things will change.
And when they do, I know I'll be ready to embrace those changes with open arms. Can anyone say "grandchildren?"
Last spring when we pulled out of my mom's driveway in Arkansas, our week-long visit ended, I watched as she stood by the garage waiving her goodbyes.
Just a few years ago, my dad was standing next to her.
Thirty years ago, my grandpa stood by his garage, waiving, and ten years before that, my grandmother stood with him.
Someday it will be my turn to stand by the garage, waiving goodbye to those I hold so dear in my heart. I can only hope that circumstances keep us close, in distance and in love.
I have to admit, though, I am sooo glad those years are not yet here.

Eat from the Pantry Challenge - Week 1

The first week of the Eat from the Pantry Challenge is going great-guns! We've had some great meals this week from roast turkey and mashed potatoes, to turkey noodle soup, from homemade pizza to falafel.

The pantry challenge just happens to coincide with a challenge I've given myself to make all our own breads this month. Whew! That uses a lot of yeast and flour, but fortunately I started the month with a pantry well-stocked with nearly 60 pounds of white flour and 20 pounds of whole wheat. I bought the white flour last fall when it was on sale for 99 cents/5 lb. bag. The bags of whole wheat flour were full-price - it never seems to go one sale! I bought 10 jars of yeast early last fall when a small store was reducing it's inventory - I believe they were less than $2 a jar. I still have two or three jars left, which should see me through the month.

Above you see but one tray of a double-batch of pitas I made, half of which went directly into the freezer for a later meal. I find that whenever I can double a batch, whether it's bread, muffins, waffles, or even main dishes, it's well worth the effort since it saves me so much time down the road.

My oldest son, Stephen, has spent a lot of time living in foreign countries, especially when you consider that he's only 21! One night this week he made us falafel, using dried garbanzo beans I had on hand, to go with the pitas.

Oh, my, was it ever delicious!
I must also comment on the gorgeous bowl it's in - one of a set of three nesting bowls I received for Christmas this year. I absolutely love the color! In addition to being 50% off full-price, we were able to use a special one-day coupon for another $10 off, making the present even sweeter!

I gave myself $200 to spend to get through the month, which isn't a lot for a family of 6, three of whom are adult males and two teenage girls to boot. Saturday Hy-Vee had a one-day sale that I couldn't pass up. Milk was only 88 cents a half-gallon and grated cheese was $1/8 oz. bag, making it $2 a pound. We drink a ton of milk here and had just run out. Last fall I started buying grated cheese whenever it hits that $2 a pound (or less) mark and freezing it. That way, I always have the cheese I need on hand and I never have to pay an exorbitant amount due to lack of planning. I also had just run out of cheddar, though we were still well-stocked with mozarella.
So... the very first week I spent $78.50 of my $200 budget stocking up. I bought two weeks of milk, about 10 gallons of skim and 2 of whole, and 30 packages of cheese. Add to this several cans of green beans on sale, of course, 1 bottle store-brand ketchup, 1 jar of garlic-stuffed olives (believe me, this is a staple in my house!) and 1 pint of cream.
Add to that total $6 I spent at another grocery store on reduced-price fresh produce. I've discovered one of the local stores regularly marks down perfectly good fruits/veggies for 99 cents a package. Saturday I found a package of 6 pomegranates (only 3 turned out to be good); a package of 5 zucchini, which my daughter promptly turned into two loaves of zucchini bread; two packages of mushrooms, porcini and button; and two packages of mesclun salad mix.



We used the mushrooms in an omelet for lunch that day and for homemade pizza, the salad was huge - and beautiful - and lasted for two meals. We've also discovered a love for pomegranates!



Here you see the falafel in pitas ... we topped them with ripe avocado slices I had on hand in the fridge. Yum!
So, now at the start of week 2, I have $72.50 left and three weeks to go... gulp.
I think I can, I think I can, I think I can...