There Is A Perfect Title For This But I Can't Use It

So now that my tracker tells me that a good many people are getting to this blog due to my being listed as a source for Attachment Parenting information on some kind of health care site...I'm feeling a bit labeled and pigeonholed and like I should have some sort of posting standard to live up to - interesting and informative posts about how we parent, how we educate, and whether or not you can feed sardines to your babies.  But I just can't be any kind of standard for anybody.  And believe me, you don't want me to be.  That would be what we like to call "setting the bar pretty dang low, folks."

So - I am relieving myself of the pressure to inform you - it isn't my fault if you came here expecting to see a certain something and you're seeing something else, instead.  I'm just here to anonymously go blabbedy blab blab blab about whatever the heck happens to come out when I channel Erma Bombeck (I wish) or just unleash the floodgates of my subconsciousness or consciousness or the bottomless pit of angst and anxiety that, as a parent, I am required to carry around.  So are you ready?  We're starting off with Valentine's Day.

Jeff cooked the family a turkey dinner.  But first he had to kill the turkey.  Seriously.  We had four turkeys running around here for the past 6 months (now we have only 3) wreaking havoc and unceremoniously pooping on Everything and let me tell you, these bad boys can make some medium-to-large-dog-sized poop.  They also make a lot of noise....of the high-pitched gobble gobble gobble variety.

They are free range and they roost on the roof of the garage at night - sitting up there, outlined by the moon like some kind of feathery gargoyles.  On the occasions where the temps have dropped into the 20's, Jeff and the boys have had to climb on the roof (fun if it's icy) to chase them around, catch them, and toss them down to waiting hands to be carried into the warm hen house with the smarter variety of fowl, the chickens.  And let me tell you, when you reach the evolutionary low point of being dumber than a chicken, it is time to be eaten.

I still feel badly about it, though.  I've never been much for killing - even bugs and such.  Kind of turns my stomach.  But I refuse to be one of those people who is clueless as to where her food comes from or harbors some kind of illusion that there are happy places somewhere where animals are raised in blissful environments right up until the time they are painlessly and humanely killed and sanitarily packaged for my convenience.

I can honestly say that our turkey really was strutting around here happy as a peacock right up until the moment he was humanely slaughtered.  Ugh. That sounds like an oxymoron.  And I seriously doubt that he now appreciates the fact that I was relatively nice to him and concerned about his comfort before having him murdered.

But the time had come to have him murdered.  It really had.  Love had been in the air amongst the turkeys and it was causing some awkward moments among Ellie's piano students.  Ellie's piano kids are forced to come through our back door because we have an electric fence up around the front yard (welcome to guantanimo!) because the dogs have trampled the yard again and I'm trying to keep them off of it so yeah....Company and Piano Students tromp around to the back door where they quietly knock and then patiently wait until someone happens to walk past the door and see them standing there. 

Lately, we can tell when the piano students arrive because the turkeys tend to get all excited about Company and they run up to the Company and startle the Company and then the Company begins to run and the turkeys are all like, "Holy shit! Something's chasing us!" and then they also hysterically begin to run, thereby creating the illusion that they are chasing the Company with intent to murder and maim or at the very least, peck some eyes out.  This makes the Company scream, and the turkeys begin gobbling while they run, which the Company misinterprets as some kind of Turkey War Cry and so they begin to scream louder and run faster and this further alarms the already alarmed turkeys so they begin half-flying and screeching which sends the Company into quite the frantic fit.  Really.  You should come visit. 

So this traumatic conglomeration lands itself at the back door where it all settles down because there's nowhere left to run and then the "please let us in" begins on the part of both the Company and the turkeys.  The turkeys freaking love to look in our back door, the other side of which they are convinced contains more turkeys, because they are very enamoured of their own reflections.  But lately, love has been in the air for the turkeys, so they have begun umm...courting.  Often they do this while waiting with Company at our back door.

So picture this:  Little piano students standing at the back door holding their music while patiently waiting for someone, anyone at all, to walk past the door and notice them.  Turkeys are in the background, furiously courting.  Now add one more thing to the scene.  Two more things, actually.  Ranger and Napoleon, also known as Sir Humpalot.  Napoleon is awaiting a trip to the vet.  But in the meantime, he has fallen in love with Ranger, our Entirely Too Submissive Favorite Dog.  Ranger is currently spending most of his time hiding from or trying to get away from Sir Humpalot, which is perfectly understandable under the circumstances.  So when Company or Piano Students come and begin the Great Turkey Run, he joins in with the hopes of making a mad dash in through the back door to get away from Napoleon.  But while he and the turkeys and the piano students wait at the back door, well, they have some time on their hands, see?

So Ellie recently told me, "We have to kill those turkeys and get Napoleon fixed.  They're traumatizing my students.  It's like Fornication Farm around here."  (This would have made a cool blog post title - but can you imagine the types of people the Google Gods would send my way?)

One male turkey down (called a tom) and one to go.   And Napoleon has an Appointment.  Fornication Farm should settle down here pretty quickly....although the bull seems to have been getting frisky in the fields, at least he isn't doing it at my back door. 

We spent V-Day at a friend's house where our Odyssey of the Mind teams met (an elementary team and a high school team) for a combined party and work session.  I haven't mentioned Odyssey of the Mind very much, lately.  Usually this time of year I am just going all bonkers with it.  But this year I'm merely co-coaching and woot!  Not a lot of pressure.  My co-coach is probably reading this right now and hating me....

In addition to listening to our little guys finish up their script (I had to type it for them and they are hilarious), we also watched them work on their Rube Goldberg machine. Our Odyssey teams have done really well with these contraptions in the past, and this year is no exception.  And the high school team is also doing an amazing job, although they are doing the Classics problem this year....no technical things like Rube Goldberg machines or sit-n-spin cars....the Classics problem is a much tougher problem to compete in because more teams take it on, and also a lot of them are very artistic and dramatic and stupendous and yeah...just tough competition compared to the more technical categories.  But truthfully, I'm not up to another trip to the World Tournament this year - I'm just not.  So it is all good and the kids are having a great time, which is all that matters.

My friend over at Shaggy Boys recently posted something about her son's soccer team winning the state championship, and how they are a team of homeschooled kids competing against mostly smallish private schools....and the differences she's noticed about the teams as far as how the homeschoolers relate to their siblings and families compared with the school kids.  I must say, yesterday as I sat in my friend's living room watching a large group of kids ranging in age from 5 to 16, play together....I was reminded of how lucky we are that we homeschool.  Seriously, the 16-year-olds were quite happy to chase around the little kids, and they were gracious in allowing the pre-teens in on their games and discussions.  Nobody was telling them to do this, or trying to facilitate it in any way - this is simply the way their lives work - people of all ages living and playing and working together.  Which is pretty much the way it works in the Real World.  When you get a job they don't have a special room for the 30-year-olds to sit in their cubicles, do they?  There isn't a floor on the building for the 40-year-olds....your boss might be younger or older than you....your generations might be different...your knowledge affected by your life's experiences up to that point....all different....all fitting together like pieces of a puzzle to create a big picture.

That is the way the world works - and so it always amazes me when people ask me if I'm concerned that by homeschooling, I'm not preparing my kids for the Real World.  School doesn't simulate a real world by a long shot - and thank goodness for that.

Oh! Look what happened!  I did a homeschooling blog post after all. I wish I could some kind of quirky ending where I tie the homeschooling philosphy in with the turkey sex, but I'm just not feeling it....hmm...nope, still got nothin'. So - we'll just end.  Like just totally end.  As in I'll stop typing and it will all be over.  Without any cutesy wrap-up or thoughtful anything.  Just. Stop. Typing.  Like an awkward goodbye....awkard....goodbye.