Who put the "home" in homeschooling anyway?

Today our family decided to clean out our van. When it gets so that every time we exit our vehicle, it vomits candy wrappers, coats, socks, underpants (yes, I said underpants…CLEAN ones for just in case), singular shin guards, solitary shoes, towels (we subscribe to the literary theories of Douglas Adams), school text books, bills (which we are unsuccessfully trying to avoid) and a partridge in a pear tree, it is probably time to for a vehicular purge. Although I always find that for the two weeks afterward we have emergencies that can only be solved by the chewing gum, claw hammer and chicken wire that were found in the bowels of the back seat and are alarmingly no longer present. It is like a more mobile version of MacGyver, but usually with more bleeding and screaming.

How does my car get to this state of discombobulation--full of miscellanea and bric-a-brac (we are practicing our homeschool vocabulary skills while I write)? My answer is simple, because we homeschool. I think that homeschooling is a complete misnomer and should be revised to be live-out-of-your-vehicle-always-on-the-road-to-a-different-educational-experience-schooling. The truth is, that I am away from my home for so long during the day, it is amazing that I can remember my own address. 

“I called you this morning and you didn’t call me back,” my mother chimes accusingly on the other end of the telephone while I collapse into a chair and stare out the window at the darkening sky. Breathlessly I reply, “Sorry, I just got home.” “Wait, I thought you homeschooled.” People somehow think that being a homeschool family means that you are able to constantly clean while simultaneously being glued to the dining room table in academically riveting conversation. Although other family members somehow think that homeschooling means that my children are sporting loin cloths and running around like wild beasts. The truth is somewhere in the middle, but more focused around my van than my home.

I have friends on social media who ask how I do everything I do in a day. (The truthful answer is with great cursing, swearing, and extremely poor gas mileage, but….) So, I thought I would include a day-in-the-life-type scenario for my curious followers.

My day starts with an exhausted blind stagger for the line to the bathroom that rivals those of a public women’s restroom. I immediately enter by slipping uncontrollably across the floor on the centimeter of water left by the eldest son who has finally mastered daily showering, but not how to tuck the curtain in the tub. My less-than-graceful skid is only halted by the underpants in front of the commode that were forgotten by the toddler in his perilous descent from atop the toilet.

Upon arrival in the kitchen, I realize that in my slothful slumber until the ripe hour of 6:30 has resulted in my minions having raided the fridge and I am left to fix breakfast with one egg, a jar of sauerkraut, a bottle of hot sauce with a chicken logo, and an unwrapped stick of butter that has finger marks in it and smells vaguely of bananas even though they ate all 15 lbs that I purchased yesterday before they exited the van from the shopping trip. Like Mary Poppins meets Pollyana, I raid the pantry and create an organic breakfast of seven-grain oatmeal with cranberries, local honey, and raw sunflower seeds and seat my crew at the table. I am met with an appreciative, “Is this genetically modified?” (always the eight-year-old minion) “Couldn’t we have had bacon instead?” (that is the fourteen-year-old with an unhealthy fascination in smoked pork products), “I LUB OAPEAL!” (the three-year-old whose bowl is now being shoveled to overflowing with the remnants of his siblings’ rejected food.)

In trying to shuffle a load of dishes into the dishwasher, my eyes glance at the clock on the stove only to realize that we are late for our homeschool co-op and half of my brood is dressed, or rather undressed, in attire that might result in legal action if worn in public (my youngest three are dedicated nudists, despite my complaints.) So, I bark orders to get everybody dressed as quickly as possible and we stampede out to the van. We then drop by to retrieve carpool at three friendly houses, arrive at our destination, realize that we forgot the fourth carpool family, go back and pick up the forgotten souls, and then back again. As we file out of the van in clown-car style I make mental note of the wardrobe malfunctions of the day. Toddler is wearing Daddy’s shirt and no shoes, kindergartener is wearing one left tennis shoe and one left snow boot in the middle of June, the teenager is STILL wearing that shirt he loves and won’t remove for washing, the daughter’s hair hasn’t seen a hairbrush and she has a raging case of bedhead, and the eight-year-old has something dubious in his pocket which requires a pat-down.

The crowd is herded to their individual classes and I suddenly realize that I forgot that I was teaching a room full of 6-11 year old children and start digging through my van for impromptu teaching options. I arrive instantly at a math lesson involving an array of magnets, dry erase markers, broken crayons and a reading book forgotten since last year. At lunchtime, the groaning masses remind that we forgot the lunches that I packed last night and we return home and send in an energetic child to retrieve the cooler from the kitchen table. We consume the food (well, most do, while others hide their sandwiches under the seats to be petrified by the sun or be used as a culinary petri dish for an unknown number of life forms) while I drive/eat on our way  to Shakespearean play practice for my older two children.

I race to the freeway to begin the ride to ballet class, suddenly realize it was my day for carpool and perpetrate an immediate U-turn to pick up another budding ballerina. I successfully navigate the demolition derby that is the parking lot of the ballet studio, deposit the two ballerinas and begin the commute to the new gymnastics gym, with the eight-year-old assuring me that he has the address in hand. Fifteen minutes later, his exact direction of “It looks sort of like that place over there but different,” actually results in a completely accidental and miraculous arrival at the gym and I offload two more enthusiastic athletes.

I spend the next hour grocery shopping and holding meaningful conversations with my toddler in the front of my shopping cart. Our dialogue consists mostly of his insistence on needing something with a colorful package and my patient explanation of why he doesn’t need mucous-dissolving tablets despite the funny cartoon on the box. I then spend the next half hour trying to quiet the resulting sobbing and blocking his unrelenting grasps like a ninja. With groceries in hand, minus a few key ingredients that will require a panicked trip another market before dinner, I pick up ballerinas, get lost, finally find the gymnastics gym again (which is located somewhere in our own local Bermuda Triangle) and sigh with relief as I leisurely drive home.

I open the welcoming front door and I am reminded with emphatic shouting that it is soccer for one child, Boy Scouts for  another, and a reminder taped to my door about my mandatory Cub Scout meeting this evening (because I am a den leader). This erupts in the immediate and frantic re-entry to the van. When I finally crawl through my front door, exhausted and completely disinterested in food, the complaining revolt of hungry children and disgruntled husband are a dismal reminder that social conformity prescribes THREE meals a day and I begin the search for something nutritious to pour into their mouths, since most of my family doesn’t usually pause to chew their evening meal.

Each child is bathed, clothed, brushed, and groomed. I begin our read-aloud bedtime story, and am delightfully surprised by only 10 interruptions (which is half the usual number.) This reprieve is because the youngest minion has dosed off in his dinner and everybody is afraid of his reign of terror if we wake him. We pray together as a family (me mostly for dropping gas prices, a good night’s rest, and some tension-relieving herbal tea) and shuffle each kissed child off to their bed for the ceremonial two hours of rambunctious bedtime uproar usually peppered with the occasional complaint about wanting to sleep, but being disturbed by the raucous noise (recited half-heartedly by the loudest of the bunch pretending to be sleepy-eyed.)

I then spend the evening hours sewing, knitting, cooking, cleaning (although those that enter my house may doubt the validity of this claim), preparing school curriculum, snuggling children awakened by alleged nightmares, singing soothing lullabies, and doing automotive maintenance to ensure transportation for the ballet rehearsal, costume fitting, three piano lessons, art classes, pack meeting, and Arabic co-op on the agenda for tomorrow.  

Phew, homeschooling seems to involve everything but the home and although I lived this schedule yesterday, it is really exhausting to write about.

I Only Run When Chased

Spring has timidly sprung around here, and that means that we are infiltrated with swarms of two kinds—mosquitos and marathon runners. I am not sure which one gets under my skin more.

The other morning, I was awakened by one of my small minions in the throws of agony about the sudden pain that had invaded his ear. These evil bacteria apparently are only nocturnal and insist on pitch blackness and the presence of deep parental REM sleep to make their appearance. So, at 2 a.m., I load my son into our gigantic vehicle and creep my pajama-clad carcass to the 24-hour pediatric office. THERE WERE STILL JOGGERS EVERYWHERE! The owls and bats have even gone home to bed and these crazy people are out in the frost in their tiny, aerodynamic, reflective, moisture-wicking, outfits and jogging in the dark. It was like playing a sadistic game of Frogger (Do you remember the old video game where a desperate frog tries to avoid the obstacles while crossing a fast moving stream?) when I was driving to the highway.

Let my preface my sardonic tirade with a short story from my youth. I had a semi-annual appointment at our local hospital emergency room. Every August at the dawning of football season and every February at the closing of basketball season, sometimes with the precision of hitting the exact day, I somehow managed to injure one or the other, or both of my ankles. Whether I was over-rotating on the beam in gymnastics, rolling my ankle in ballet, or skipping the wrong direction in cheerleading, my lower extremities paid the price. At fourteen, I had to have both ankles reconstructed and if it weren’t for several screws and perhaps some chewing gum, I would be crawling around on my hands and knees to this day—well, if I hadn’t just had surgery on my hand last month, but still.

It seems like everybody has caught the running bug. My best cheer buddy, who towers over my ample 4’10” frame with her thin and statuesque 6” stature, sends jealousy pulsing through my veins each day when she posts her mileage achieved in the insanely cold weather conditions of the wee hours of morning. She gushes and glows about her races, she has even started a motivational blog to spur other mothers on to running excellence. Her energy is adorably and disgustingly boundless.

Another friend makes it a family affair. They are planning a trip to Disney World, not for the rides, but the running. I have been informed by her son that vomiting is a very normal part of running a big marathon—not what I would call the “happiest place on Earth.” I don’t know about anybody else out there, but I would do just about anything to keep myself from having a “protein spill.” I wouldn’t be welcoming an activity that encouraged it! I watched my marathon-crazed cousin run an Ironman last year. This is like a marathon for the over-achieving of the over-achievers. Dehydrated, sun stroked, vomiting and followed by several medics, he crossed the finish line. I question if that is sheer respectable willpower or insanity that should have him committed to a mental institution.

Anyway, here I sit on my rump, exhausted, and watching gravity do its worst. So, I have decided to comfort myself through marathon season with a list of informal exercise classes that I participate in on a daily basis as a part of mothering and homeschooling six maniacal children.

 

Toddler Taming—This is similar to lion taming, but with more growling and biting. If you have ever tried to dress a toddler, you understand that it is similar to trying to put pantyhose on an angry octopus. Once you acceptably dress your wild octopus and sent them to play in their bedroom, they instantly emerge in second later completely undressed. It is nearly a magical occurrence. The toddler taming exercise is repeated ad nauseam.

The Naked and the Nude 100 meter dash—I CAN run when properly motivated. This exercise generally requires a naked (often freshly bathed or covered in jam) child escaping out the front door while you are otherwise distracted and often not modestly clothed yourself. I had a friend once who was blessed with an aspiring Houdini. The child would sneak from the house like a mini ninja while she took care of her necessary bodily processes. She shared her repeated daily prayer with me one afternoon, “Please God, keep my child safe so I can pee.” I am a parental Olympian when it comes to the barefoot, bathrobed frantic 100 meter dash after a giggling naked child.

Death Defying Obstacle Course—My sweet husband has been thinking of training for a “Tough Mudder.” (I married him for his brains, but apparently not his common sense.) These are the adrenaline junkies of the over-achieving crowd. Apparently this involves running/dog paddling/swimming through mud with short spurts of sprinting. Some of these obstacles involve voluntarily getting zapped with electricity. Again I ask, “WHAT!?!” Didn’t your mother teach you not to stick your finger in a light socket? Anyway, in his evaluation of the training, he is amply prepared for the obstacle courses, merely by trying to navigate our children’s bedrooms. Tucking our children into bed and kissing them goodnight is a mortally dangerous task.

Laundry Mishap Hot Hula--I used to religiously attend a belly dancing class twice a week. It was a great way to burn calories and make a harrowed mommy feel a little bit sexy, but the calories burned pale in comparison to a full day of laundry mishap writhing.  Have I mentioned that I am the mother of five active boys? They LOVE to play in the weeds , bringing home feathers, burrs, thorns and leaves that then are laundered with my underclothing. It results in my spending what should be a nice night at the theater, trying with pulse-racing diligence to dislodge a cocklebur from the underarm of my blouse or from the soft squishy part behind my knee.(That is keeping it G-rated, because there are many more ominous places that have induced colorful words to accentuate my hot dance moves.)

Thumb Wars—Some people use little squeezy things to strength their hands and forearms. I just provide my toddler with a large selection of things that I really don’t want him to have and then try desperately to pry them from his sticky, dimpled fingers. Anybody who has attended this exercise class disputes the validity of the adage, “Like taking candy from a baby,” which is actually a really arduous task.

Steering Wheel Reps—I might not make it to the gym every day, but I do make it to every art class, ballet class, dance rehearsal, soccer practice, field trip, football game, boy scout activity, doctor’s appointment, emergency room run, that is scheduled (or not) weekly for eight people. No underarm flab on this soccer mom. My guns are well toned from all the left turns, right turns, turn signals, gear shifting, and occasional rude gestures coaxed during a long commute with incompetent drivers, not to mention the occasional flailing wildly in the backseats to attempt to break-up some seat belted brawl.

 

Well, after listing a short number of the exercises that I do every day, I feel slightly less panged with guilt while I watch the flock of runners taunting me from the sidewalk in front of my house. In fact, I have had such a workout this morning, I think I need to go and reward myself with some chocolate ice cream. Happy running!

Empty
The past few weeks have been devastatingly difficult for me and my family. I apologize for the prolonged leave of absence and I would like to believe that I am on the road to recovery, but there are still more mornings than not that I want to hide under my covers and pretend that I am 6 years old again. A wise old friend offered the suggestion that comfort and solace (both for myself and others) might hide in writing about my experiences, so I share my personal experience writing with you. I am sorry that there is not a trace of sarcasm detectable, but there is a small portion of my heart (mostly the part that houses the bitter little troll that usually vents on this blog) that is hibernating.

My stomach has felt as if I had swallowed a rock for at least three hours. Being the mom of six kids means despite the heaviness in my heart and my body, I have to carry on with the scheduled events of the day before I can start attending to the medical unpleasantness I know looms on the horizon like an impending storm.

The sun gently warms the late summer air, but I feel cold and distant as I wait for the last lingering soccer parents to retrieve their son's uniform and listen to my nervously rehearsed monologue about hydration, practices, and game days. But, all too quickly, it is time to face the morbid reality, I am no longer going to have a new baby, I am a defective empty shell – again.

Our neighbors, quieted by uncertainty about what to say to comfort such a horrible situation, welcome my six beautiful children, the ones that had come so easily to my waiting arms, through their front door and my husband and I bustle off to the gaping jaws of the hospital emergency room.

I know that water and fish in waiting rooms are supposed to calm the tension in anxiously awaiting patients, but the brightly colored fish make me envy their ignorant and simple environment. The crime drama on television is far too intense to hold my attention. So, I sit with my hand tucked tightly under my husband's bicep, knowing that his thoughts are clouded also.

The admissions process is excruciatingly drawn out and I can feel my anger rising each time I answer the same monotonous set of questions. Yes, I am pregnant (at least for a few more hours). Eighteen weeks (a deceptively safe number). No, I don't drink or smoke. No, I have felt nothing abnormal, although, perhaps it would pad the blow each time this nightmare happens. There is nothing worse than living a nightmare that is totally unexpected and not being able to control anything about the outcome, only watch it approach like an oncoming train.

We wait with baited breath while they prepare the correct room, ironically much like hungry diners wait for a table at a restaurant. The ancient attending doctor, as tongue-tied and awkward as our well-intentioned neighbors, parrots back the same string of inquisition that I had just answered three times before meeting him. He mumbles his orders and recommendations like an judge delivering sentencing and abandons us to wait for the next conspirator in our execution.

My body trembles and quakes, partly because I sit robed in a scant cotton gown, and partly because my body is nervous and shocked to be sitting in this terrifyingly familiar wheelchair. The gruff middle-aged ultrasound technician feably attempts to make small talk, probably more to ease her own discomfort than my own and I lie down, spread eagle and vulnerable on a padded table blanketed in crisp paper to await the verdict which I know stalks me like a predator.

The black and white nebulous image is unmoving – painfully, dreadfully, hopelessly still. “There is no heartbeat, is there?” I say with a clinical sterility that surprises me to hear. “No,” comes the robotic reply as she continues pressing the wand painfully into my sepulchral and faulty womb to continue measuring the lifeless mound of cells that until this afternoon housed my hopes and dreams of a beloved friend.

I wipe the suffocating slime from my abdomen, replace my gown, and place one tentative foot on the icy floor. I am surprised by the strength my limb displays despite the weakness in my heart. I lower my world-weary body into the waiting vinyl seat and sneak a look at the sagging face of my sweet husband. He had been the optimist, sure that if there was something wrong that God or the universe would have given him some ethereal sign to prepare him. I know better, somehow being blind-sided by devastation is supposed to build spiritual character, although I still don't understand how.

The ride through the labyrinth of hospital hallways is interminable with my mind buzzing over the inevitable events of the next few days. Tomorrow I will experience the anticipation of sitting in a familiar room, draped in warm curtains, floored in honey-colored woods, peppered with furniture to provide comfort for helpless companions, and dripping in electrical cords and medical monitors. Rooms just like this have smiled at me six times before in my life, as I wait to hold another tiny warm body in my arms and kiss the delicate skin of my new child's forehead. But twice now they have sneered at me as I feel my impotent body clench and fight to welcome a lifeless shell that once clothed another beautiful spirit. My mind drifts back to holding another perfectly formed little body, dressed in beautiful clothes that some nameless and charitable soul labored to create to ease my pain, in the palm of my hand and knowing that another cold tiny little hand will perch on my seemingly huge finger all too soon.

My mind flutters helplessly as I ponder how to tell our brood of anxious children, knowing that they don't understand the pain of losing someone that they have never met. And finally, how can I face my partner again, knowing that he biologically performed his duty, but somehow my body just didn't understand its role in the process. I feel like an utter failure to my gender.

How will the weeks of grieving go? He and I have suffered twice before. Once we allowed our grief to evolve into anger and resentment and we nearly lost each other. It took months to reunite and recommit, but some veil of bitterness still lurks on occasion. The other was a staggering battle to not repeat past mistakes and to hold onto our precious marriage. How would this latest, and most painful loss impact our fourteen-year friendship? Were we strong enough to help each other, or were we going to ease our heartbreak apart? My weak and clammy hands crumple and straighten my discharge papers as I lift my heavy body into the passenger seat of our gigantic vehicle, which seems surprisingly empty as if it knows that there will remain one more frigidly vacant seat.

Musings from my Moral High Horse

The sun pounded insistently through the tinted windows of my fifteen-seater, behemoth, red vehicle as I drove my excited sons to a much anticipated birthday party. The conversation was wearing on my nerves like a coarse-grain sandpaper. It primarily focused around the near destruction of my husband's brand new work cell phone. In the three months since my husband began his new position, he has cracked the screen, broken the framework, and taken his phone for a swim in our pool. A few of these abuses happened within 24 hours of his receiving the phone. But, the entire disheveled and ridiculous state of his phone, is apparently my fault for not finding the funds to buy him a scuba-worthy, impact-resistant, high-tech case before he allowed his cell phone to swan dive from his front shirt pocket.

 

In addition, he has this unreasonable idea that his pants shouldn't have holes and neither should his shoes. In all, his list of sudden needs is growing, and the cost is pressing at nearly $500. As the anger and bile rose in my throat and the argument began to build in the air, he opened his mouth and uttered the implication that my needs are always put before his. I cannot truthfully say that I have heard another word he has uttered since that Saturday afternoon conversation, through the hot blood pulsing in my ears.

My righteous indignation has hung heavily in the scorching summer air for the past three days. Every time I look into his brown eyes through the lenses of his outdated prescription, I want to kick him in the threadbare seat of his holey jeans and tell him to go take a hike in his boots that have developed their own air conditioning. I look down on him from my moral high horse, and think about kicking him with my cracking and worn hand-me-down sandals.

I am scandalized by his hypocrisy when he purchases indulgent lunches off of dollar menus at least TWICE A MONTH while I sit at home and eat my lowly peanut butter and jelly with the kids. My blood boils when I think of his luxurious recreation, playing ancient video games on his high-tech, outdated computer that might still have the novelty of an six-inch floppy drive. All the while I sit at home and knit sweaters from inherited yarn for our children; I am working my fingers to the bone and only recreate to fill a need. I am waiting to be canonized for my self-sacrifice.

I know, I am being ridiculous, but it brought me to think about what being a parent entails. Yesterday was like Christmas in my little maternal world. In February, we opted to take our first vacation in seven years. When we went to leave and return home, we found that my glasses had decided to take a vacation of their own. This usually would be no big deal except that my minions had absconded with my spare set and I was left with a Vaseline-on-the-lens view of my entire world. Circumstances being what they are and my husband changing job slightly after, I have suffered in a fogged silence for five months....until yesterday when I selfishly decided that I preferred seeing to not.

My husband just left a job where he worked around dangerous and corrosive chemicals and footwear only truly became unwearable when he began to feel the burning of his own flesh through his shoes. I have mentioned before that I have a thick mane of stick-straight brown hair. I finally broke down the other day and convinced myself that I should invest the extra $2 and buy myself a sturdy hairbrush from the normal hair care aisle at the store rather than the flimsy ones that break from the dollar store. I didn't even get to use my new treasure ONCE, before it was sacrificed to the girlie sleepover gods and hasn't been seen since. Not that either of us has a right to point fingers about whose needs are being neglected and who is carrying the bigger cross...up a hill....both ways....in twelve feet of snow....in corroded shoes...with our hair unbrushed.

But, it makes me grin at the irony of the NECESSITY of putting together the perfect collection of pink presents for our minion rather than buying shoes or eye wear. Not only that, but SMILING and enjoying every minute of the blurry visions of her opening her presents and only guessing that she liked them because I was sitting more than a foot away, so it is uncertain. I have decided that the phenomenon of “Mom-jeans” is more a matter of purchasing the cheapest, albeit poorly designed, jeans to cover your nakedness while still having the funds to delight your minions.

Anyway, I guess that the entire point of this short play-by-play recap of my brief marital distress is intended to express sympathy for those parents who are buying bicycle inner tubes before underpants, Barbie dolls and basketballs before brushes and bobby pins, bedazzled dance costumes before dental care. Wear those frump-butt-mom-jeans and holey shoes like a rockstar, because you are not alone!

My Puberty Lament
My eldest minion is going to be my topic of my rant this week. He turned 12 this year and with this milestone instantly grew a bad attitude, a wagging tongue, and an annoying ability to torment everybody in his presence. When I say instantly, I mean at the very moment that the clock struck 9:30 (the minute of his screaming arrival into this world) his face permanently contorted into a sour and disgruntled pucker.

As I have mentioned before, I have been suffering from a toddler-induced injury. This injury resulted in initial six weeks of prescribed recovery time, which inflated to 8 weeks and a visit to a specialist, which then expanded to several months of steroids and physical therapy, and finally an invasive surgery that minimally required 10 weeks of excruciating opiate-embracing recovery. The combination of a whirlwind toddler, two tornado gradeschoolers, one clothes horse princess, and two pre-teen slugs, has resulted in a crust of child-produced unidentified filth on top of a cushy nougat of laundry and toys, which merely masks a layer of dust due to the minimal performance of sweeping or vacuuming that has been done since....well last October.

So, in evaluating the wretched bog of mess that has replaced my mildly chaotic house over the past six months, I came to a conclusion. The biggest breakdown in the hygienic maintenance of our house is in the portions that are maintained by my eldest son. Most of our jobs rotate weekly, but I concluded that it was not fair or just for the person who washes to the dishes to leave a large mess for their successor, so the rule was established that the dishes must be done to completion before the job was given to the next child. My second son took the first rotation and completed the job with a smile and shining results. My daughter took the next shift, with a bit more coaching, but again a positive result. It has been NINE MONTHS of unsuccessful dish washing for my eldest. He is the most focused and determined child that I know, but when he stands in front of the kitchen sink with a basin of suds, he suddenly has an attention span issue. His typical dishwasher load consists of four bowls, a couple of cups, a pot, three ladles, and NO SILVERWARE (apparently he deems flatware as an unnecessary luxury). He also chooses not to rinse or remove any food from the dishes before he tosses them haphazardly into their places, so usually his successful dish washing skills yield ONE clean ladle. One ladle falls laughably short of being able to feed a family of eight, however I have developed many wonderful soup recipes as a result.

I have concluded that the symptoms of puberty include, oily skin, bad attitude, and a complete breakdown in the understanding of logic. Talking to my eldest child, who until several months ago was an easily reasoned with child, is like reasoning with my dog complete with the head cock and puzzled expression. I have decided that this is to allow the demons in his head to speak to him before he launches into his tirade of nonsensical garbage.

Each child is also given one permanent job. One child keeps the table clear (or relatively so), one child is in charge of taking out the garbage and does so with relative regularity, one child is in charge of wiping of the main community counter (which is hidden under a mountain of tall dishes, minus one ladle). My eldest minion is in charge of carrying and compiling the three baskets of laundry upstairs and transporting them down to the facilities in the basement. As I mentioned before, the majority of our cushy nougat is dirty laundry, therefore I broached the conversation with him.

Me: “Eldest Minion, it has come to my attention that the majority of the thick blanket of clutter upstairs is due to dirty laundry, is there a reason that you have neglected taking it downstairs for the past six months?”

E.M.: “Um....(sour scowl with a slight twitch of resentment around his nose) because there are just too many clothes to carry down. This really is a four-man job and you are asking far too much of my battered and abused body. You are the cruelest mother ever. Nobody else I know has to gather laundry to be washed, their parents buy them magical clothes that fly into the hamper and wash themselves and then teleport neatly folded back into their drawers instantly.”

Me: “May I also ask why you haven't changed your shirt in the past four days, despite nagging promptings?”

E.M.: “Because you threw away ALL of our clothes but this one measly, moth-eaten T-shirt and I therefore have to clothes no change into.” (I am doing some decluttering.) Which this is where I begin to assert that puberty blocks logical thought.
Me: “Then you should have plenty of room in plenty of baskets to get all of the meager laundry downstairs, right?” (Crickets chirp)

The problems extend beyond a resistance to doing housework. The complaints and lemon-sucking expressions extend to every portion of his life. He has a constant low-grade grumbling/mumbling throughout his day. “Stupid sun being so hot and the stupid air conditioner for being so cold. Why can't the world just be the right temperature for me?” “Stupid gravity attacking me when I am riding my bike recklessly.” “Stupid bladder for interrupting my play with the urge to pee.” It is like an unrelenting soundtrack to my life now.

My question is, if we can have a light that warns us when we are going to run out of gas, an alarm that warns us if the house is on fire, a blaring siren that warns us that someone is attempting to break into our home, can't we have some sort of alarm to warn us that puberty and hormonal insanity is descending upon us? I was caught completely off guard. If I had some sort of emergency puberty broadcasting warning, I would have bought some sort of body armor and ear plugs or something.

Glass House for Sale
I am posting early this week. I know. It is totally bizarre and completely out of character, but my life this week has been plagued in my every waking hour (which is about 72 straight now) with a horrific tragedy. I am sorry to say that there will be little to no satire or sarcasm to what I have to say, because it is of the utmost importance to not only parents, but to the human race. I started writing these silly musings not just because I like to write and it is a venue for venting, but because other parents and people need to share the humor in their lives.

So, I pose a question. What is the job of a mother or father? Or a grandparent? Or an aunt or uncle? A neighbor? A teacher? The word that leaps to mind in most of these situations is “nurture.” So why are we supposed to nurture children, but yet do we not nurture each other?

My family has been so close to a devastating and tragic event this week. The actual details are completely unimportant, but sleep has been an absent bedfellow for the past 72 hours and the emotional discordance rarely leaves my addled mind. This tragedy has reminded me why I left my journalism career 12 years ago, and have only looked back to flex my creative muscles and write musings about the joys in my life. Why is it that when people open their mouths, sometimes unbelievable and insensitive garbage falls out? I have heard outside observers make conjectures about drugs, child abuse, anti-depressants, ADHD, autism, school pressures. Knowing what I do, none of these seem at all applicable to this situation, and most seem even laughable.

Two weeks ago, I attended a homeschooling event with my friends who are embroiled in this tragedy. My eldest minion was being a complete monster. Complaining about the silliness of the event and having to participate in the frivolity. The muttering and grumbling continued for the better part of 30 minutes and my temper percolated with his insolence. My dear friend felt the pallettable tension between us, approached my son as she often does her own children, wrapped her arms gently around his slight shoulders, and with sincere friendship said, “I am sure glad you are with us, Little Brother.” His frown faded, the disgruntled gray cloud disappeared and my heart instantly softened— permanently softened.

I sit with tear-stained face in my own stunned silence and think on these people that I know. The only thing that I have been able to say is, “I want to be just like them when I grow up.” Patient, kind, slow-to-anger, gentle in discipline, soft spoken, charitable, teachers of personal responsibility, intellectually brilliant.

So, in trying to make sense of some of the events, I asked my husband why he thought people judged other parents so harshly. What he said was so wise, but so sad at the same time. “Because people want to be able to separate THOSE children from their own and THOSE parents from themselves.” Now, I will admit that there are some instances where THOSE people who grace the headlines should be separated from reasonable and loving parents, but after being confronted with crime at my doorstep, I am left wondering how many times I have comforted the dissonance in my thoughts by ostracizing THOSE parents from myself through perceived fictional faults.

I have begun asking myself, what I hope for my children to achieve when they leave my home and embark on their own journey into adulthood. The answer was obvious, I wanted them to be confident INDIVIDUALS with a true moral compass to guide their decisions. As I watch my minions grow from blissfully sleeping infants to not-so-blissful teens, I realize that this entire exercise in parenting is about establishing individuality and independence. This means at some point, those of us parents who are merely voyeurs in horrific situations, need to accept that sometimes actions have no explanation. Sometimes unimaginable horrors are truly a result of independent choices made by an incomplete individual using their right to choose.

Several months ago, I was struggling through the grocery store with a bright pink long-arm cast and an entourage of tired and hungry little minions. Some of them were running ahead, two of them were wrestling while we waited in the express line. The scowls and grimaces from fellow shoppers were like lasers on the back of my neck. As I approached the checkout and unloaded my few groceries, the finishing touches for my planned dinner, and prepared to pay, the clerk quietly and tearfully said, “The man in front of you gave me this (producing a $20 bill), he says he hopes the rest of your day is wonderful.” I was barely able to catch a glimpse of the stylishly dressed young gentleman scampering up the escalator. The smallest influence of a complete stranger altered my entire viewpoint.

I am pausing this week from my musings on mayhem to beg each of you to show mercy to each other. Who cares WHY something happened, care that it happened and that you have the ability to either add to the festering despair or circulate love among those of the same chosen career-- raising generations of independent individuals. When you are in the grocery store and the distraught mother with a gaggle of misbehaving budding individuals slows your speedy checkout, don't think about how you would change the upbringing of their brood or the critical advice you would impart, think of how you will uplift another.

Mother's Day Wit and Wisdom

I know, I am a horrible MoM! I missed writing last week. I would like to say that I have a wonderful excuse, but life has truly just been whooping on me. I have sat introspectively thinking about Mother's Day and what it means to me for the past two weeks, knowing that as a blog about mothering, I should feel obligated to at least nod in the direction of the holiday.

The honest truth is that I am just not a sentimental person...at all. Some more nurturing mothers post inspirational messages around their houses. I have a QWALL or in other words, a wall of quotes written on 3 by 5 cards that have inspired my family to post them and reflect on their wisdom during our goings on throughout the day. I would generously say about 10 percent of them have truly life-changing and inspirational meaning behind them. All the others are snarky comments that make us giggle and keep me from going on a shooting spree with my Pampered Chef cookie gun. So I have chosen to scatter my satirical sunshine throughout this post and perhaps inspire others to shed their saccharin ways and join me on the dark side.

Being eaten by a crocodile is just like going to sleep... in a giant blender. “

Homer Simpson from The Simpsons

My particular religious affiliation is very sentimental about the role of mothers, especially on Mother's Day. One of my unfortunate friends posted on Facebook that she had been cornered and asked to give the address about motherhood on this momentous occasion. She was begging suggestions. Before I had a chance to enter my opinion, there was a barrage of cute little mommies writing about the “blessings” and the “unconditional love.” Don't get me wrong, I feel blessed and I love my children more than anything in the world, but my advice to her was to tell the truth. More people are going to listen and and relate to truthful stories of mischief and mayhem and your God-given patience not to Velcro the little darlings to a wall. (I have never pondered this unthinkable and extreme course of action.)

Here are the truths that I have plucked from my abysmal parental sea of chaos.

#1 Motherhood is not for the squeamish. When I embarked on this crazy journey, I fainted at the sight of blood and heaved in sympathy when someone else vomited. Now I am an old pro. Apply direct pressure and grab the garbage can, here comes MoM! Admittedly, my home is weighted fairly heavily toward the male gender and their sense of self preservation is clouded by a mistaken belief of invincibility, but I could never have made it this far without an amazing ability to suppress my gag reflex and avoid going into the light.

“I couldn't detect horse manure if I stepped in it.” Michael Caine as Sherlock Holmes in Without a Clue

#2 You may believe that you have the patience of Job, you are wrong. I have mentioned before that I preceded my career in motherhood by being a journalist for newspapers. As a journalist, you research everything. The only way to take action is if three or more sources have told you to do so. So, when I welcomed my first child into the world, I was a well-read and resolute mother. My child was going to be the epitome of discipline, goodness and the American way. After a while of real life, I realized that these parenting books are full of garbage.

#3 All those moments in the store when you were single and thought you would never let your child act like THAT, were completely erroneous. You are entirely helpless to stop it once the wild hair is planted. I recently chose (by some bout of explosive stupidity) to have an operation on my left arm that rendered it completely helpless. I am still unable to lift more than the weight of my own purse (which is admittedly laden with many first aid implements given my line of work) without flinching and howling in pain. Since that ill-fated decision, my children have unleashed their inner demons. We have gone from shopping as a regimented group in a rigid formation to one child licking all the handles on the shopping carts, while another taste tests all the food in the bulk section of the store, yet another is hiding in the racks of clothing and shouting, “PICK ME!” at unsuspecting shoppers (truly happened to me today and the entire escapade was initiated and encouraged by my hubby). Yet another is tired and blowing his nose on the silk skirts in the Women's Section. I am just waiting for some passive-aggressive shopper to slip a box of condoms into my basket as a not so subtle hint.

#4 Your child will sneak out of the house without underpants/shoes/socks...several times. I find myself terrified to observe the ensembles of my crew when they file out of the van at any given destination, especially if we were hurrying out of the house. (We are always hurrying out of the house.) No underclothing, two different socks, two different shoes, no shoes at all! When I started motherhood, I swore that my child would always wear more than three articles of clothing (jam or jelly doesn't count as an article of clothing) and always wear shoes. Now I am just happy if I am not facing indecency charges when I go to the playground.

“What does that have to do with the price of beer?” Sylvester Stallone as Snaps Provolone in Oscar

#5 You may be punctual, but your children are not! Being a reformed journalist, I have a compulsive desire, actually a NEED, to meet deadlines. Being on time to anything with a child is like running a marathon in a chain gang. If you cross the finish line at all it is going to be awkward and painful. The worst part is that a few months ago, I installed a little device in my car to help me squeeze every drop of fuel economy out of our gas-guzzling beast. This cheeky little black box even gives me a letter grade for my driving performance, like some sort of voluntary and sadistic flashback to elementary school. Speeding, which I feel compelled to do when my chain gang is dragging, brings my letter grade to disgraceful levels. The only thing that angers me more than missing a deadline, is a C+ from a audacious little box attached to my dashboard. Does a cumulative GPA still apply 10 years after graduation? If so, these kids are killing my permanent record.

#6 Cold cereal for dinner is okay. Part of my self-imposed parental training was learning to cook EVERYTHING from scratch. When I mean everything, I am truly not joking. I bake my own bread from wheat that I grind myself. I stuff my own sausages with meat that I ground myself and herbs from my garden. I even cook my own soap from lye and fat, like the pilgrims. A few months ago, after that explosively stupid surgery I opted to have, I was feeling particularly unable to summon the sincerity from my soul to cook a nutritious and inspiring dinner. My friend suggested, “Just give them all cold cereal.” The realization hit me like a bolt of lightning.....I could just feed them cold cereal! Occasionally indulging in sugary cereal for dinner was not going to kill them! The epiphany was utterly and indulgently pleasurable.

“A coven of witches! Not an oven!” Tim Roth as Ted the Bellhop in Four Rooms (ask your parents before watching this particular movie.)

#7 Sometimes you just have to accept defeat with grace and dignity. I have had to admit lately, as I begin plodding into the unexplored territory of teenage trauma, that occasionally I have no idea what to do. I say grace and dignity, but what I really mean is random and unexpected laughter. My eldest son, the culprit of pre-teen-anger-inducing-angst, has a razor sharp tongue (which he obviously inherited from his father, because only sweetness and light escapes my lips.) (My husband just shot his cold cereal from a nostril in suppressing his laughter as I read this section aloud.) One day, as he hovered over me (I have been declared fun-sized) and verbally bashing me about my innumerable downfalls as a parent, I was struck by defeat and could find no mature way to handle the feelings of helplessness that sat like a stone in my throat. With total and calculated precision, I inserted my index finger into my mouth and moistened it thoroughly. Being resolute in my course of action, I reached beside his ear (which may have been smoking slightly) and plunged it deep into his ear canal. The effect was immediate. His tirade stopped instantly, mostly because neither of us knew what to do about the situation. We now refer to this as maneuver as “parenting by wet willy,” and find it universally applicable.

“You know what that means, it means he doesn't have a head. How am I suppose to write for a guy who doesn't have a head? He's got no lips, no vocal cords. What do you want me to do?” Whoopi Goldberg as Rose Schwartz in Soapdish.

#8 You are your own worst enemy. Now I will get sentimental. Mother's Day is often used to reflect on the women that have shaped our lives. Not too recently, my grandmother passed away. I won't say that I knew her well, in fact as I sat listening to other people's reflections of her life, I realized that my relationship with her was completely unique, especially being that we had been estranged for many years in my youth. Whenever we came to visit, she flung open her front door with a welcoming smile. She always had food cooking, even at odd hours of the day and her pot seemed bottomless when it came to feeding my large family. I would feel embarrassed about the lack of socks, or the stained shirt, or the hyperactive behavior that is inherent after a long car ride. She would always smile and tell me what angels my children were and what a wonderful mother I was. Amazingly, my children would always rise to the occasion and be the angels that she proclaimed them to be. She didn't just say this to me, she said it to other people. As I heard stories of this woman and her life as a mother, her philosophies, her ideals, I realized that she had this relationship with me, because I was a mirror reflection of her. With her gentle and quiet nature, she had known that I had enough criticism incubating within myself, and I needed nothing more than pure encouragement.

What can I impart about Mother's Day from my mayhem? Remember that motherhood is mischief and mystery. If your children are smiling, happy, even a little smudged with jam or mud, but not withering like a forgotten houseplant, you are probably doing just fine.