Sardines in a Can

My Friend Mark

2012-01-14T19:13:00.000-08:00

You've probably read his comments on my blog. He always signs off as Your Friend, Mark. Actually, I'm not sure if he uses the comma. I thought I was super special-like but then I found out he signs comments on Other People's Blogs as Your Friend, Mark. But on mine sometimes he just says, "m" and so that means I'm special, right? Does he do that on your blog or is it just mine?

No matter. Mark is funny. That's what you all love about him. He's also a good husband and an exceptional father and a fine photographer.

His family is facing an unbelievable struggle right now. A ridiculous, inhuman, nightmarish struggle. You can learn more about his family's situation from this CNN feature. YES THEY WERE ON CNN! It would be all fun and exciting if only it were about something else...like how their dog saved the neighbors from a burning building or how they found buried treasure in their backyard. But it isn't. It is about their desperation to keep their family together.

Please watch. And you can drop Mark a note to wish him good luck and tell him how handsome he looked on his blog.

2011 - It's a Wrap

2012-01-01T11:49:00.000-08:00

2011 - Be Gone With Ye! What am I saying? It wasn't that bad. It wasn't bad at all. It had some rough patches but every year does.

Let's wrap it up, shall we?

2011 was the year Jeff and I celebrated our 25th Wedding Anniversary. Remember that? We snuck off for a weekend and Ellie wrecked my sister's car and then hours later Joel broke Jules' hand during a Matrix Re-enactment. So we hit the year running with a jolt of adrenaline and we just skidded into 2012 last night with nary a catastrophe. On Wednesday we'll celebrate 26 years of marriage - but we're not sneaking off until sometime in February. We have to align the planets first and make a few other arrangements - like alert the orthopedic surgeon we keep on retainer.

In 2011 Jules turned 13 and Camille turned 9 the very next day due to poor planning on our parts. It seemed all momentous at the time, but now, here they are turning 14 and 10 this coming weekend. Whoosh! Times goes by so quickly. Jules looks like a totally different kid. BIG TIME CHANGES. For one thing, he's almost as tall as his brother now. This picture was taken in August, and now, just a few months later, Jules is only about an inch shorter than Joel.

And quite a bit taller than me!

For Jules 2011 is also going to be embedded in our memories as the year his brain tumor finally woke up. After six years of monitoring, we'd begun to let ourselves hope that maybe it was just going to stay asleep - like - FOREVER. But it didn't. Puberty startled it awake. The last trip to the House Clinic and St. Vincent's Hospital in Los Angeles was a traumatic one.

Below is a pic I snapped of Jules heading down the hospital hallway with Jeff. I remember being struck by the image of the two of them together; by how tall Jules was compared to the early days of the tumor, when he was but Jasper's age and oh-so-tiny. But somehow, as I watched them walk away from me all I could see was how small and fragile he still seemed. And really, how small and fragile his daddy looked, too. Because that's how we feel as parents when faced with something like this: small and fragile and vulnerable and helpless - no matter how big and strong we appear on the outside.

So 2012 will be the year we finally rid ourselves of the brain tumor. It's a relief - but also a bit overwhelming, as you can probably imagine. We head back to Los Angeles in April, and then surgery will probably happen in May. It'll just be the three of us making the trip - being away from the other kids for something so intense will be difficult, but we're confident this is the group of doctors we want operating on our son.

2011 was also the Year of My Abandonment....Ellie left for college - a long, drawn-out process of grief that you people suffered through the entire year. After all the work of auditioning and interviewing and meeting and greeting - not to mention all of the hoops we jumped through as homeschoolers - she decided on a music school (the full scholarship plus money for summer European music festivals heavily influenced the decision). So off she went and guess what? I lived. And she's doing GREAT, of course.

2011 saw Joel go from THIS:

To THIS:

He did it in stages, it didn't all get sheared off in one sitting - that would have been too much for him. But he likes it short now. He also got his first summer job (lifeguarding at the city pool), bought his first car (Ellie's old pimp car), and EARNED HIS FREAKING BLACK BELT!!

He's still making movies with GimliSnort - is saving for a better camera and can't wait to start playing with some new editing software. He likes to do animation, but at a recent homeschool co-op meeting, he and his GimliSnort cohorts produced this little dandy in just a few minutes during lunch break. So now they're hoping to branch out into Live Action (!!) films. I love that you can hear our turkeys throughout the entire thing, inappropriately entitled, Chicken Kicken.

For Camille 2011 meant More Dancing. She started the year with a promotion in ballet. She now dances six hours/week at the studio and that is sure to increase with the next promotion. But I'm hoping that won't happen during 2012 - at least not before we can sell The Bus and buy a smaller, more efficient car. 2011 was also the Year of the Cast for Camille. We saw the same orthopedist we saw with Jules. There are still two of our kids the man hasn't met. Hopefully he won't meet them in 2012 or EVER.

Poor baby had to audition for The Nutcracker while wearing that cast! And swim, too, of course. Casts have come a long way since I was a kid!

For Jasper, 2011 was just one more year of Being In Charge of the World. The little guy has it made. He does what he wants, when he wants, and how he wants. There can't be anything better than being seven years old in a non-authoritarian unschooling household. His days are endless hours of playing and fun all strung together. He has two older brothers who don't mind him following them around and acres and acres of land to explore.

Jasper's never been a "joiner" - eschewing any and all attempts at encouraging him to participate in anything with set rules or expectations, but 2011 saw him taking on his first "Organized Activity" as he calls it. He asked to try Tae Kwon Do - a request I readily heeded. He's doing very well and has already earned his gold belt.

He also began some spotty participation in Homeschool Co-op in 2011....tackling Spanish, Sewing, Science, and Ancient History. Here he is in his first attempt at mummifying a chicken.

2011 also saw the some of my Faves getting All Kinds of Active. The Red Hot Chili Peppers released a new album, I'm With You.

AND for 2012 we already have tickets for two of the shows on the tour. For the San Antonio concert??? We have FLOOR SEATS. Just sayin'. Also? I received 3...count 'em...3....new Red Hot Chili Peppers t-shirts for Christmas. Although I am thrilled to death with the new album and the upcoming shows and my new t-shirts....2011 was NOT the year I got over this:

Sorry - but they were better with Frusciante. Plain and Simple.

Other Faves? My favorite author I love to love wrote a new novel!

Haruki Murakami's 1Q84 was actually published in 2010 in Japan as a trilogy, but it was published in the US as a single volume in 2011. I'd pre-ordered it and BOOM! in my Kindle the moment it was released. It looks like it's IQ - as in "eye" Q - but it isn't. It has connections to Orwell's 1984. In Japanese, the letter Q and the number 9 are homophones....and so what is a witty play on words in Japan is merely hard to say in America. I mean, the title is awkward. I say it as One Q Eighty-four. But I can't say it and look at it at the same time or I say Eye-Q Eighty-Four. Sometimes I say 1984. Anyway - I LOVE 1Q84 - no matter how you say it. I understand it was nominated for the Bad Sex Award, but it only makes me love Murakami even more.

Speaking of Bad Sex and Authors and 2011 - The Author I'm Embarrassed to Love to Hate (and read) also had a new novel. That's right, Laurel K Hamilton (I know - I'm pounding on my chest right now) released Hit List, the ninety-billionth book in the Anita Blake Vampire Hunter series. I read every page in one sitting.

And speaking of vampires (how DID we end up speaking of vampires?), 2011 was also the year Jeff and I became COMPLETELY ADDICTED TO "V". That's right mah friends, we are hooked on True Blood. I know! We just keep getting classier and classier over here! But how can you not love it? It's like those guys on the History Channel who wrassle gators only they HAVE FANGS.

Other than that, we haven't expanded our horizons too much. We pretty much ended the year the same way we started it, which of course, is always the anti-climactic catch to New Year's.

Nonetheless - the New Year brings a new calendar (albeit with many of the exact same commitments and appointments that dotted 2011's calendar). It's sure to be challenging - the year I'm not challenged with something or by someone is the year I'm dead - and it's going to be a bit frightening at times - but there are going to be plenty of sweet parts in between. At least, that's the way it's worked EVERY SINGLE PREVIOUS YEAR. Call me crazy, but that's what I'm 'specting for 2012. And I'm wishing the same for you!

May You be Merry

2011-12-24T11:15:00.000-08:00

Whoa! Longest Time Without Blogging. I swear. I have Crazy Missed You People. Mark has promised to leave drunken comments on people's Christmas blog posts in between wrapping gifts and such. This is an enticement I simply can't refuse. So here's my Christmas Post! You can thank Mark for it.

First of all, let me assure you guys that I'm not dead. I'm not even sick. And even though I'd like to, I'm not hiding in shame and embarrassment over this:

No, my friends, I've just been busy. November kicked my arse. I did hang in there and participate in NaNoWrite. I did complete my first rough draft of the manuscript. It is now 21,367 words too long and I have some editing and re-writing to do. I have more to say about that but maybe that will be the topic of a later post - because obviously - I haven't started up a writer's blog, yet.

Since I didn't do a Thanksgiving post, let me say that we had a lovely day, my big girl had come home from college, and it was a perfectly relaxing holiday. Her boyfriend was also home from college and probably to his mother's angst, spent the holiday with us. We ended the day as we do every year, by bombing the San Antonio River with pumpkins.

Thanksgiving weekend was also the opening of The Nutcracker. Camille made her debut in her first professional production as....A Mouse:

And....An Angel:

This was a lot of work, people! And Camille never tired of it. Jeff and I both volunteered backstage at every performance Camille was in, as well as all rehearsals, including two full dress rehearsals with the symphony. They divided the children's cast into two groups so she was only required to perform in 5 shows...but combined with all of the rehearsals, it was a hectic and busy schedule for sure.

Jeff, being a man, was treated with the utmost respect for his volunteer service. He was appointed bouncer - sat beside a side door to keep the riff raff out and the children, mice, and angels in. Since riff raff only attempted to come in one time...and I was backstage with the children, mice, and angels - he mostly sat around playing games on his phone and relaxing. Everyone, however, was thrilled with his volunteerism and women repeatedly brought him coffee and patted him on the back in gratitude.

I moved boxes, tables, chairs, and costumes. I took gaggles of angels and mice to the bathroom. I helped with the "quick changes" during intermission. I applied make-up, sprayed massive amounts of hairspray, and pulled up tights on sweaty little bodies. Also? For the record? It is hard to put eye shadow on a kid who is crying. Nobody brought me coffee or patted me on the back. Go figure. Next year I plan to try to get in the clique of Starbucks Mommies. They volunteered tirelessly by signing in on the volunteer sign-in sheet, heading to Starbucks, and coming back in time to sign out. I watched them do it every single day and it never ceased to impress me.

Ellie and her boyfriend were able to see the opening show - they didn't have to head back to school until the following day so that worked out brilliantly. Of course, they almost missed it.

"Where are they?" I asked Jeff once or twice...not a hundred times or anywhere close to a hundred times no matter what anybody says. He told me he'd texted them and they were in a restaurant lunching casually with friends and I was like OH MY GOD IT STARTS IN FIFTEEN MINUTES and he assured me that he had strongly suggested, via text, that they leave the restaurant and head for the theater. I'm pretty sure that what he actually texted was OMG - Your mom is FREAKING OUT get your asses here NOW.

As the lights flickered and the bell dingled to let the audience know it was time to get seated, they still weren't there. "They're not coming," I said. "I wish we hadn't wasted money on tickets. They're simply not going to make it!"

"Oh, they'll make it," Jeff assured me. "Ellie will slide into her seat just as the curtain goes up and act like it's no big deal." The curtain started to go up and I was just about to tell him he was wrong when I heard a small, "Ahem, excuse me." Then Ellie scooted past me and slid into her seat, cool as a cucumber. She glanced at me briefly with a What? expression. Then, for a special effect, she yawned and stretched leisurely.

Of course, I know for a fact that ten minutes before, after vacating her car as if it were on fire, she'd been sweating bullets, running through downtown knocking aside old people and tripping up winos while yelling at her boyfriend, "Keep up! Oh my God if I miss this she'll never let me hear the end of it! She'll be talking about it on her deathbed! I will NEVER EVER LIVE THIS DOWN! It will go down in Nutcracker History that I missed my sister's opening night! RUN! For the love of all things holy, RUN!"

God, I've missed that kid.

The tree went up, its lights went out string by string, until it only had one little strand across the middle. Eventually, we had to un-decorate the tree, put up new LED lights that are too bright if you ask me, and re-decorate. The lights likewise went up on the house. We live on a ranch, and so we only put the lights up for ourselves. We don't get folks out here looking at Christmas lights. If we get a particularly cold night, we bundle up and walk down the lane for our Cold Walk so we can look back and see our house - a bright row of lights shining brightly in a dark pasture.

Many years ago, when I was a Young Mom of Three, I wrote a story about this ritual and it was published in a Christmas anthology. I was very excited about it at the time, so excited that I agreed to sell my rights to it, and so it has just be re-released as part of a new anthology for which I WILL NOT BE PAID. Bah humbug.

Anyway, so Jeff got out the ladder and it is always so exciting because it could go really, really well - and we end up with a decorated casa, OR it could end up being the incident that finally familiarzes us with our disability insurance policy.

What I didn't know was that Jeff had upped the excitement level by allowing Jasper up on the roof. He perched him up on the highest peak, telling him not to move, to just sit there and watch. Jasper did just that. He was wearing a little brown jacket and had the hood pulled up, his hands in his pockets, sitting like a statue. Or maybe a gargoyle. Anyway, Jeff was hanging up the lights and he casually glanced up at Jasper and his blood ran cold at what he saw. Jasper still sat, quite still and calm, but coming up on his left...out of his field of vision, thanks to his hood...was his arch nemesis, Stevie Ray.

It was getting on into late afternoon, and this guy was fixing to roost up high for the night. Jeff was in a panic. If Jasper did what he usually did when approached by Stevie Ray, he was going to stand up on the very top of the roof, scream like a girl, and take off running for his life with Stevie Ray hot on his heels. And then? Jeff, himself, was going to be in ALL KINDS OF TROUBLE WITH THE MAMA.

But turkeys are not too smart. And this particular turkey looked at Jasper sitting there in his brown hoodie, all still and quiet and perched up high, and came to the logical turkey conclusion that Jasper was also a turkey. He then settled in quite companionably next to Jasper and began to drift off to sleep. Jeff was able to get to Jasper before Anything Bad Happened.

Tonight is Christmas Eve. It feels so great to have all my babies home. It's different though. We're on the cusp of change. One child has already left the nest, the others are growing up. Santa still comes, but he is way more exhausted than he used to be. Instead of wishing for time to stand still so he can live forever, he finds himself occasionally wishing it would all hurry up so he could retire. He is caught between the beautiful nostalgia of the Past and the promise of the Future. He's just enough of a human to prevent his fully being able to ever embrace the Present.

A Very Merry Christmas to You!

From the Sardine Mama of Christmases Past, Present, and Future.

Dramatically Heartwarming Story

2011-11-16T22:01:00.000-08:00

I hinted about a possible heart problem in the last entry, didn't I? That's because I'm dramatic. I don't like being dramatic - but apparently I am. Dramatic. Let's just build on that, shall we?

Let's say a dramatic-type of a person was driving in her gigantic and enormously conspicuous van with a little ballerina in it, and let's just say that person felt a big old flub flub flub TOTAL FLATLINE flub flub flub flutter in her heart. She might have gone..."Hmmm...that was interesting....hope that doesn't happen again..." or she might have gone..."Oh Effing GREAT. Like my life isn't flipping busy enough at the moment what with the ballet rehearsals and the homeschool co-op and the thinking it would be a good idea to have five kids and All That Goes With Them and the tae kwon do classes and the cooking and the cleaning and the shopping and the pets and the lifestock....now I'm having an Honest To God Heart Attack, which on top of being really inconvenient, is also - for some bizarre reason - a tad bit embarassing!!"

Let's say she decided to act like her heart hadn't stopped and then restarted with a ribcage rattling THA-WHOMP while she was careening down the highway at somewhere between 75 and 80 miles an hour. Let's say she just headed to a Starbucks to write for 3 hours and suck down lots and lots of coffee. Let's say the heart stopping and starting became significantly worse, and by the time she got home, her heart was going stark-raving insane.

Let's say she went to bed that night afraid to drift off because it was obvious that if she did she would DIE IN HER SLEEP, thereby possibly traumatizing her husband if he happened to look over at her when he got out of bed in the morning - 50/50 chance of that - otherwise she would traumatize a child or two who found her later, stiff and dark purple with an unattractive line of drool descending her chin, and who would then sit around her corpse begging for oatmeal even though it was apparently AGAINST ALL REASON that she would get up and fix oatmeal in her current condition.

Let's say she stayed up most of the night because the above-mentioned scenarios were unacceptable. Let's also say she stayed up most of the night because she'd had too much coffee. Let's say she also might have stayed up most of the night because of a stuffy nose due to seasonal allergies. Let's say she might have tried to deal with the stuffy nose with a snort (or two) of Afrin, even though she is deathly afraid of becoming addicted to it. Because a girl has to breathe, that's why.

Let's say that in the morning - the heart bippity boppity boo business was Much Much Worse. Let's say she began being Dramatic and telling ~~anyone who'd listen~~ those closest to her that she might be having a heart attack or maybe had already had a heart attack during which her heart has suffered irrepairable damage. Let's say People began telling her to go to the Emergency Room but let's say she decided she would really rather die at home where at least she could get a load or two going in the wash first, as opposed to dying all useless after doing nothing but filling out form after form with information off of the health insurance card that the receptionist made copies of but apparently the information is only valid if it has also been rewritten illegibly 90 bazillion times by someone dying of a heart attack. Let's just say she didn't want to do that - so she stayed at home being all ~~dramatic~~ stoic and brave as if she were on a made-for-TV movie.

Let's say that after four days of this her husband ~~threatened her with divorce,~~ sick with concern, strongly suggested she call a cardiologist. She didn't want to call a cardiologist because that could only lead to one of two things: 1) she would be deemed crazy because she wasn't dying of a heart attack or 2) she would be told she was dying of a heart attack. Even though she didn't want to, let's just say she called the cardiologist and ~~downplayed the entire thing~~ told them about the palpitations and let's just say they strongly suggested she go to the ER but she promised to cling to life until Friday when they could see her in the office.

Let's say that on Thursday night she shaved her legs and her husband heard the commotion because she doesn't really shave she rips the hair out by its roots with an epilator and he said, "What? You think he's going to put you in the hospital?" Let's just say that she might not rip her leg hair out by its roots all that often, but she didn't want to compound the ugly hospital gown problem with hairy calves.

Let's just say that on Friday morning, she ran around the house cleaning it up because the homeschool co-op was still coming over because the show must go on, after all, and let's just say that she noticed she felt a little better when she was up and moving and ~~screaming hysterically at the children~~ trying to wake up the kids to enlist their help with the house, which had become somewhat chaotic during the time that she had taken to her bed with what was surely congestive heart failure or something worse ~~that would require a heart/lung transplant.~~

Let's just say that when the homeschool co-op arrived, she was hysterically straightening her hair, an act that perplexed her friends since things were in such an obvious state of disarray and she had Virtually No Pulse - but her husband understood that she needed to be pretty for the cardiologist and he just shook his head. Let's just say she wanted to be taken seriously by the cardiologist and felt like she had a better chance of that with straight hair. Let's just say that when she doesn't straighten her hair, her seventeen year old son likes to pass through the kitchen and say, "Mornin' Hagrid."

Let's just say that there were several things she was hoping to avoid in the cardiologist's office and the Number One Thing was a freaking stress test. She didn't want that. She also didn't want anyone suggesting she might need a heart cath - as she really didn't want anybody inserting a thingy into a leg artery and then FEEDING IT UP THROUGH THE LEG INTO HER F*CKING HEART even if she had hairless legs. Those two things? She wished to avoid. An overnight hospital stay for some pleasant observation, however, didn't sound half bad. Let's just say that she has never been admitted to a hospital for observation or anything mild that might be possibly moderately relaxing. She has heard of this happening to Other People but she knows that if she needed brain surgery it would probably be performed as an Outpatient Procedure because some considerate doctor would assume she'd like to be home in time to fix dinner. Let's just say she's gotten off-track, here.

Let's just say that her husband accompanied her to the doctor's office because she had practically packed an overnight bag ~~in the hopes of~~ in the case of an unfortuante admittance into the hospital for not really very serious observation over the weekend. Let's just say that when she arrived at the doctor's office - she was forced to fill out lots and lots of forms and write down all the information on the insurance card the receptionist had already made the obligatory copy of. Then let's say she was forced to listen to Dr. Oz on the wall-mounted television, and let's just say it seriously interfered with her ability to focus on her new Haruki Murakami novel which isn't easy to focus on under the best of circumstances, much less when her heart was stopping and starting and Dr. Oz was talking about heart health, which she obviously DIDN'T HAVE BECAUSE SHE DIDN'T EXERCISE ENOUGH SO THERE.

Let's say she was called in and weighed and let's just say she Really Hates That Part of Going to the Doctor. Then? An EKG. It all felt very serious and let's just say she was glad she'd packed a bag and shaved her legs. Things were so serious she only remotely wondered what brand of electrodes were being stuck on her body - seeing as how she used to actually sell electrodes in a former life when she was much much younger and had no kids and a healthy heart. Let's say the EKG picked up TWO (aha!!! i told you!!!) "episodes of palpitation" and she felt the same relief she felt every time she went to the hospital and heard them say she was really pregnant and in labor and not just overweight with gas. Word: Not Crazy Y'all. Serious Heart Problems.

Let's just say that the cardiologist came in and he was of Indian ethnicity and therefore soft-spoken and somewhat under-animated. Let's say he looked at the EKG and then drew a bunch of heart pictures and began talking in the exact same tone that people use with her when they're trying to explain how the DVD player works and let's just say she quit listening after awhile because even with straight hair, a girl can only take so much. Let's just say the cardiologist diagnosed her as having PVC's...premature ventricular contractions...which are not the result of Actual Heart Disease or Anything Serious or even Mildy Serious And Requiring Observation. Let's just say he wondered if she'd been under any stress and she said she had not and her husband starting choking and pounding himself on the chest as if his freaking heart had stopped (and they say SHE'S dramatic??). Then he wondered if she had maybe had any stimulants in the way of caffeine or decongestants and she admitted that maybe she had had a little bit of both. Then he wondered if maybe, when she had the PVC's that rattled her chest and made her head go light and caused her to seriously consider updating her funeral playlist, if MAYBE she had suffered Anxiety about the PVC's and maybe the Anxiety had caused some adrenaline rushes because guess what adrenaline does? It gives you PVC's.

Let's say the cardiologist suggested she come back in a month but she said, "Are you kidding me? I'M STILL DYING OVER HERE RIGHT NOW AT THIS VERY MOMENT MY HEART IS STOPPING AND RE-STARTING ITSELF BY PURE LUCK BUDDY..." and so let's say he agreed to see her in two weeks but let's say he Actually Smirked.

Let's say that she went out for Thai food after leaving the cardiologist's office and only felt mildly guilty about it, knowing that the homeschool co-op mamas were, at that very moment, trying to help Jasper sew a pillowcase. And let's just say that the PVC's quite suddenly, and quite DRAMATICALLY, completely stopped. And let's just say that since she's quit sucking down coffee while snorting Afrin and freaking out over PVC's....they haven't come back.

Wouldn't that make a heartwarming story?

Nano Nano and I'm Not Really Breaking Up With You

2011-11-07T16:45:00.000-08:00

I've been neglecting the blog for NaNoWriMo (national novel writing month). I don't usually do NaNoWriMo because it intimidates me. But a very non-intimidating friend is doing it, so I figured I'd go for it, too. My goal is 2,000 words per day. I know what you're thinking: I've written sentences on this blog that were more than 2,000 words. It's a problem - both when I'm speaking and when I'm writing. But that's another issue for another day.

My ongoing novel-writing saga is getting tiresome. My routine as an unpublished fiction writer goes something like this:

*Obsessively think about novel for an entire day
*Start a round of negative self-talk that will last for approximately one week
*Sit down to write
*Read over what was written a month ago
*Start second round of negative self-talk while re-writing everything
*Stew
*Over
*Failure
*Sit down to write
*Get on facebook, instead
*Wallow in guilt and self-pity
*Write anywhere from 1,000 - 13,000 words in one sitting
*Repeat

It hasn't really been working for me.

Oh! I left out another important part of my routine: Reading endless books and blogs about writing. Most of these books and blogs offer similar advice (Excuses are in Italics):

*Write a little each day. Too busy having angst to fit in writing everyday. Obsessive worrying, when done properly, takes up a lot of time.
*Don't obsess with editing and re-writing, just keep chugging. Ha ha! Don't obsess - hilarious. Also, I like to read over what I've written thousands and thousands of times - changing it each time - often making it much worse in the process - kind of like a bad make-up day when you just keep piling it on and end up looking like Hooker Barbie After Botched Plastic Surgery.
*Set up a time to write and stick to it. Have you seen my schedule? It's really full what with all the obsessing and the five kids and the obsessing! Getting up early to do it is really hard - although I must admit morning is my most creative time of the day.
*Treat it like a job. Panic!
*Never give up. I can't wait for the day when I finally Give. This. Shit. Up.
*Don't despair - writing is a lonely and often depressing state that never gets better, and in fact, gets worse after you publish. Proof that writing is perfect for me and by the way, way to go with the pep talk!

NaNoWriMo is always in November, which is just plain stupid. NOVEMBER. The month of Thanksgiving and shopping and getting ready for the holidays and now, thanks to Camille, the month of Nutcracker Rehearsals. They're killing me. Also? I have a problem with the whole quantity versus quality aspect of NaNoWriMo. 2,000 words of crap? No problem - and this blog proves it. But what's the point of spewing scenes in a novel that you know will be cut just to meet the 2,000 mark? I could never buy into it. But for some reason - this year - I committed. Kind of.

Okay, I didn't officially commit. There is a website where you're supposed to register. I went there. I had to create an account. Part of that process was choosing a username. I hate choosing a username. Too much pressure. Your username will be visible to other participants and can be publicly searched so choose carefully! Ugh. I agonized. Should I use something cutesy? No - and besides, Ms. Write and all other possible usernames where I could be all kinds of not really very witty incorporating the word write were already taken. I wasted a good 30 minutes on that. Then I tried Red Hot Writer since I'm the world's biggest Red Hot Chili Peppers fan - but I worried it might be misconstrued as some sort of I'm So Red Hot Sexy thing, which couldn't be further from the truth. I thought and I thought and I thought in an obsessive writer type of a way - and I wondered if any of the other wanna-be NaNoWriMo participants were sweating over their usernames, and eventually, I gave up. It isn't like I needed to be a part of The Community, as they say. I know enough depressed obsessive people already.

So. 2,000 words a day.

I managed it the first week - and I'm feeling pretty good about the second - which is uncharacteristically cheerful of me. I still edit and obsess a little...but only for a few hours and then I'm So On It.

I can see the light at the end of the tunnel. I think I might actually have a manuscript at the end - one that needs to be cut by 30% and reduced to shreds by an editor - but the dots will be connected, at least. That's HUGE for me. My dots are generally everywhere. I'm not so much of a plot-pointer so connecting the dots sometimes results in a duck-billed platypus with 3 breasts and a nasty overbite. Not really what anybody's looking for in the publishing industry - WHICH - is a mess and a half at the moment, thereby becoming even more attractive to me what with my fear of success and all.

You know what blows, by the way? Last January (almost a YEAR ago), I went on our anniversary weekend with every intention of finishing this dreadful thing. And I didn't do it! (Not entirely my fault because All Of This Happened.) And now January is coming up again - taunting and belittling me - but I think I might surprise it by being Almost Kinda Somewhat F*cking Finished!

Also? According to Everybody? I'm supposed to be setting up a writer's website or blog. Agents and editors want to know you have a website or blog. But you have a blog, Sardine Mama! Yes, I know! But they want to see a PROFESSIONAL blog where I don't post pics of my kids and dogs and where I don't poke fun of Rick Perry and Sarah Palin and use the F-word (even with an asterisk) while whining with poor grammar and too many adverbs about why writing sucks so bad(ly). In short, I need a place to talk about writing like a civilized person. And this clearly is not the place for that.

I am hoping I can maintain a writer's blog. (I don't want a website - what would I say? Welcome to my webiste! I haven't actually finished a book yet - and I'm not allowed to post pics of my dogs - but check out what I've been reading! I'm forced to say really nice things about it so I don't sound bitter!) It's all so nonsensical to me.

So what this is all leading up to - is that I think we need to see other people. I'm not breaking up with you - I'd still like to hang out with you and you know, be friends, but not EXCLUSIVELY, if you catch my drift. I'll be sure and clue you in when the new blog is up and running - You can "follow me" as long as you agree to pretend that I'm a mature and responsible writer whilst visiting.

In the meantime, you can still find me here, just not as often. To make sure you come back, I'm promising this in the next post: Halloween Pictures (ha! pictures of the kids!) and a synopsis of my Visit With The Cardiologist. For a preview, watch this (*spoiler alert - I DID NOT HAVE A HEART ATTACK, but it was exciting, nonetheless.) :

Boys Gone Wild...And Taking My Heart With Them

2011-10-24T08:31:00.000-07:00

The boys have been watching one of those shows where people are dumped out into the middle of nowhere and immediately begin eating all kinds of disgusting stuff. It inspired them.

Yesterday morning they woke up. Do you want to know what the weird words are in that sentence? Morning and Woke. They do not usually stir before midday unless they absolutely have to.

"Why are you up?" I asked as I was leaving to take Camille to ballet. I knew something was going on.

"We're going to be outside all day," they said. "We have things to do."

They often spend huge chunks of time outside - well, they do if it isn't triple digit temps, anyway. Which it kind of was All Summer Long due to the Natural Warming Trend that has Nothing To Do With Us. (We will resist Global Warming and All Science-Based Evidence in the same way we resist The Highly Suspicious Metric System because We Are Americans and that's What We Do!!) Where was I? Oh yes, the boys....headed outside...up early...Camille and I headed off to ballet...

The cast of the Nutcracker was being photographed for the programs - hence my trip back into the city on a Freaking Sunday. I get really irked by Sunday activities. Anyway - the girls were told to wear light make-up for the photo shoot - Camille put on a little lip gloss. What else does she need? If she didn't look just like her brothers and sister I would swear this kid had been switched at birth. It's like I had no part in the deal whatsoever - they all look like their dad - and he doesn't need much make-up, either. This is not her natural smile, by the way. She and Jules both have the same Fake Camera Smile and we have tried but we can't get rid of it.

Look at those graceful arms! And I've noticed that she often stands with her feet in first position while making a sandwich or mouthing off to one of her brothers. (Pardon our mess - Homeschool Co-op is in full swing and meets in our home - maps on walls - chairs against walls - sewing machines on the floor...mummifying chicken on the counter but that's another story for another post...)

So my girls - one lights up a stage while playing piano....the other is about to get her first taste of lighting up a stage while dancing.....and the boys - the boys - the boys - are busy EATING TERMITES.

By the time Camille and I returned from the city is was late afternoon. Jeff was already working on the Big Sunday Dinner. "Where are the boys?" I asked. "And why do I smell smoke?"

"They're down by the lower pond and they've got a fire going."

WHAT???  Let me just explain my brief moment of panic by reminding my dear readers that the state of Texas was Officially On Fire not that long ago. The dreadful and tragic fires of Bastrop, while not all that nearby, poured smoke over us for weeks. And grass fires were breaking out right and left in our area - and I was quite concerned about you know - my whole life going up in flames. And my boys were casually playing with fire.

"They're fine," Jeff said when he saw the blood drain from my face.  Okay - so we finally got some rain out here. Everything greened up overnight - our cows got some meat on their bones again - and the weather cooled down. But still. "I've been down there and checked it out," my husband continued. "They've got a fire ring in a pit and it's a small fire. They're spending the night down there."

"Oh," I said, feeling much calmer.  "Well, are they coming in for dinner?"

It was then that Jeff explained to me that the boys were living off the land and refusing dinner. In fact, they had spent the day building shelters, making weapons, and hunting and gathering. They'd eaten cactus and other flora and fauna and TERMITES. That's right, my very own flesh and blood turning over rotting logs and eating bugs while trying to make simple tools. And some people don't believe in evolution.

You might think I reacted strongly to this - but I've known these boys for some time now. These are the boys who bring snakes in my house - the boys who wake each other up by actually THROWING snakes into each other's beds....

- the boys who used to occasionally wake me up by announcing breakfast was ready - breakfast being grasshoppers sauteed in olive oil with garlic and cumin (they're their daddy's sons after all - they're going to use some light seasonings - can't have unseasoned grasshoppers). So the termite thing didn't throw me all that much. They're big boys, though, and I wondered just how many termites they'd have to eat before feeling full.

"They're gonna do frogs for dinner," Jeff said casually. "I told them how to clean 'em and cook the legs."

UGH. Jasper chimed in that the cactus was kind of good....he hadn't tried the termites but he wanted to eat the frog legs later with the boys. Jasper refers to Joel and Jules as The Boys. The Boys have talked Jasper into eating all sorts of things over the years - most of which I do not know about and I'm perfectly fine with that.

Jeff kept on cooking our dinner as if all of the talk of termite-eating was normal. He grew up on this land and spent his own childhood living wild - so it was pretty much just me wondering if the boys would survive the night. They've always been Outside Sleepers.....often traipsing through the living room at bedtime, carrying a pillow and saying, "Goodnight Mom!" before slamming the backdoor and heading outside. Sometimes they slept in the "fort," and sometimes they slept right on the ground. We live close to the San Antonio River and so the river fog tends to roll in every morning - they would wake up with their hair soaking wet.

But this time, they weren't sleeping where I could see them out my bedroom window. They were sleeping far enough away so that I wouldn't be able to hear them at all if Something Bad Happened. What if a dingo tried to get my babies? Okay -so it would be a coyote, but you get the idea, right? We live on a big place - over 100 acres - and they were as far away from the house as they could get and still be on family property.

Since we're such a Norman Rockwell family The Grandpa came for dinner. And during dinner, we were talking about the boys, and by the end of dinner we had all decided to take them dinner. We had not seen them all day - wanted to make sure they were okay.

By the time dinner was over it was good and dark. We grabbed flashlights and food and headed out the door. "Dad, we'll be back - just hang out here for awhile," I said to The Grandpa Who Walks With a Cane and Has Steel Rods in Both Legs.

"Oh no," he said casually. "I'm coming, too." He turned on a tiny little flashlight he keeps on a key chain to prove it.

We don't live in the Piney Woods of Texas - which are quite lovely in a Little House in the Big Woods sort of way. And we don't live in the deserts or mountains of West Texas, which are also quite lovely. We live in Brush Country which is not quite lovely at all. It is full of thorns that grow on basically everything. Thorny trees, thorny bushes, and tons and tons of thorny cacti. Rattlesnakes curl up at their roots. The ground is hard, packed clay for the most part - especially during a drought. There are animal trails throughout - followed by cows, coyotes, javelina, wild pigs, and the occasional fox or panther. And our place isn't manicured and kept up. We were basically going to be following cow trails down the hill and through the brush to get to The Boys. In the dark. With an old guy and a cane. And Jasper (who wore flip flops).

Off we went.

I held onto my dad and I only tripped him once. Jeff caught him and copped a feel. "Was that your breast I grabbed?" he asked me hopefully. "Not mine," I replied.

Jasper kept running ahead - you know - into the dark and thorns and rattlesnakes - and Dad and I hobbled along with his cane and tiny little flashlight. Jeff tried to pick out the path in the dark while swatting mosquitoes, and Camille danced along under the impression that We Are A Normal Family.

"How much further?" my dad asked.

"Oh, not much," we said. We are good liars.

Finally, Jasper yelled, "I can see their campfire!" And we could. But they were in the middle of a mesquite thicket and Jeff had to lead us around a maze of cow trails to finally get to the little clearing they'd made. Joel was guarding the fire.

And Jules was already bunked down.

They only had one cot between them - with the rattlesnakes Jeff didn't want them actually sleeping on the ground - so the plan was they'd sleep in shifts.

"Are you hungry?" Jeff asked. The Boys admitted that they were, indeed, a bit on the peckish side. So Jeff spent the next few minutes feeding them.

They had dragged some tires in from a nearby creek and settled in like proper rednecks - little grilling racks set out to cook their frogs on. They'd also, they informed us, cooked eggs in the coals and then scooped them out of their shells to eat them. These eggs came from the hen house - not sure if that counts as living off the land but I guess it does if there happens to be a hen house on said land.

The boys showed off their place to their little brother and sister - the shelters they'd built...

Jasper didn't care for the flash...

After a perfectly lovely visit, we bade farewell to the Wild Boys, and began our long trek back to the house.

We immediately headed off on the wrong cow trail - walked in circles for a few minutes - and then got our bearings and made our way home without further incident. During the day you'd never get lost - but it was a dark night and we had teeny tiny flashlights.

Later that night, after Jeff had snuck back to their camp with mosquito repellent and an extra blanket, we were snuggled in our bed. The coyotes were howling, and I worried that Jules might be a little anxious. My heart strings were stretching in new directions - the boys seemed so very far away. That's my theme this year - the stretching of the heart strings. I fell asleep with the same slight worry I've grown accustomed to feeling - the one I didn't think I'd grow accustomed to. My heart stretched all the way to a college dorm room hours and hours away, floating down the hall to where my firstborn lay peacefully and safely sleeping in my mind (it was more likely she was tucked away in a practice room). And it stretched through the thorny bushes and down the cow trails of this place we call home, seeking out the Wild Boys who were stargazing and story-swapping beneath the big Texas sky. It spread warmly down the hall to the two who have yet to test the bounds of its reach. Where will they pull this heart of mine?

I've a feeling this journey of my heart has just begun.

“Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.”
Elizabeth Stone

Typical Unschooling Day? No Such Thing.

2011-10-20T10:37:00.000-07:00

I've been asked to share what a typical unschooling day is like in The Can.

First of all - a little back story - we didn't start out as Unschoolers. We started out as Actual School People, but Joel didn't fit the school very well and so we decided to homeschool. Initially, we did everything the school did (School At Home) and because we are slow, were surprised to see that it didn't work. Joel and his learning disabilities forced us to do things differently. And since Joel was (and is) such a curious kid - an active kid - and a hugely entertaining kid - his days were pretty filled with his general Joel Activities and we found that there was very little time leftover for any kind of schooling. And amazingly, he was learning anyway! Like TONS AND TONS of stuff! And since I'd already decided that the kid might not ever read and that I needed to be okay with that, I focused on finding ways to help him, as a non-reader, navigate the world.  He learned brilliantly and eagerly and all without reading. And since he'd learned nothing in the 2 years he'd been in school for kindergarten and first grade - and was now learning by leaps and bounds - I had to trust him and his natural curiosity to get the job done. It was Unschooling.

It was Radical.

Turns out, it was Radical Unschooling. The word Radical has now been placed in front of Unschooling for some folks - to show that there are Unschoolers and then there are UNSCHOOLERS and you don't want to confuse the two. Radical Unschoolers are radical (!!) and their kids typically learn without the aid of adults, textbooks, classes, or organized or structured ANYTHING. Once the kids became older, we found ourselves becoming less and less radical (!!). We still don't make anyone do anything (and I realize that might sound radical) but we do encourage them to do the things they've already identified as necessary for achieving their own goals. This means that Joel - aged 17, who finally began reading independently at the age of 11, no longer has the entire day free to chase tadpoles.

Here are some recent unschooling questions I've been asked, and remember, I'm answering about my own family - so if you consider yourself a Radical Unschooler to your 3-year-old - please don't begin defining Radical Unschooling for me and telling me how I don't fit the label.

Sardine Mama, do you have a set time when you Unschool? Like, do you schedule it in along with other things?

I don't schedule in school time. I don't call the kids to the kitchen table for "school." We do have some school-ish books...and sometimes Camille (9) and Jasper (7) enjoy filling in blanks and connecting dots. But it's an activity for fun - not a true method of learning.

My teenagers do have some schedules - but these are in accordance with goals they've set themselves. And the Official Schedule usually goes something like this: At some point in time during my conscious hours I will finish a set of math.

How does Unschooling change as the kids get older?

It changes a lot (for us). Our younger kids are totally free - they have nothing at all that they must do. We do participate in a Homeschool Co-op that meets in our house - and they are both taking Spanish so they might have a little Spanish homework to do every now and then - but it's fun and they're the ones reminding me that they need to get on the computer to do it.

Our teens appear to be less Unschooled. They might be taking distance education classes or working math problems. But it's because they've decided to do these things in order to attain a goal.  And the fact that they've not been doing schoolwork for years and years already means that they're not bored to tears by the very thought of it.

How do your kids adjust to book learning after years of Unschooling?

They adjust just fine. Like I said, it's kind of a novel approach for them. I can honestly say that their run-ins with textbooks and syllibi have only cemented the idea of natural learning for them, though. Because they are used to following their interests as far as they like, for as long as they like, and using as much technology as they like - they find courses and textbooks to be extremely limiting.  In Unschooling, you follow a subject until you've exhausted it or lost interest - not for a specified amount of time - at the end of which you turn in your book and consider yourself educated. In Unschooling, the answers to your questions are found everywhere and anywhere you want to look, not just between pages 116 and 119 in "the book." I'd say that's the biggest challenge for Joel - he already knows so much about so many things - it is always hard for him to limit himself to the medium the course requires.

This textbook frustration began for him when he was in 5th grade. We bought, per his request, an Actual American History book. He challenged the very first sentence about North American exploration. He had a vast working knowledge of Vikings at the time - and the book, he said, was simply wrong.  A brief Google search proved him correct and he's been very dubious of textbooks ever since (and he never opened that specific one again).

The same holds true for the high school courses he's taken via distance learning - he's on the Internet so much and so intensely curious - that he's painfully aware of how outdated all of his textbooks are. He never sees anything as an Absolute Truth - because he's fully expecting that tomorrow - some new truth will be discovered. He's currently reading Lies My Teacher Told Me and it cements his opinion about the uselessness of textbooks when a world of constantly changing information is at our fingertips.

Learning is a continuum that never ends - not a checklist to be completed.   I love that my kids know this.

Can you give an example of a typical Unschooling day?

There is no typical, but I'll do my best.

Camille and Jasper are up by 8. The two teens left in the house do not tend to get up unless they absolutely have to - and they're very likely to sleep through lunch. I don't like them sleeping through lunch, but there is research to support that this type of sleep cycle so common to teens is actually beneficial to their neurological development.

But for Camille and Jasper the day begins with Jasper letting the chickens out of the coop and feeding them. Then he will usually stay outside and play, often joined by Camille, until around 9. Breakfast is often made by Camille - and might include pancakes, fresh eggs, etc. She likes to play restaurant and will distribute homemade menus she's written out herself (ummm...that would be spelling and grammar and math, thank you very much). After that, there might be some television (yes, we're one of THOSE families). As I type right now, I can hear Spongebob's irritating nasal voice. There is also a 1,000 piece jigsaw puzzle out and Camille stops by it constantly - spending a minute or two - before flitting off to do something else.

They might pass some time playing computer games (they both like Minecraft). A day doesn't go by that they don't make a huge mess by making something craftsy - yesterday, for example, they used a kit I didn't know we had to make their own paint. They built a set of bunk beds for Camille's dolls - they made finger puppets and a stage for a puppet show. This was all done with no input from me - they never asked permission - they never asked for help.

Now that the weather is cooler they spend a lot of time exploring in our fields - something their older sister and brothers grew up doing, as well - and this results in them coming in with all kinds of treasures like petrified wood, bones, clay, and rocks. They build shelters and hideouts and stare through binoculars. On my camera right now is a lovely recorded short film of a dung beetle rolling a dung ball through the tall blades of grass on the macro setting. This was not of my doing.

Around lunchtime I'll begin the process of reminding the sleeping boys that they're running out of daylight - and they'll usually get up. They typically hit facebook first - and then they might spend the next couple of hours on You Tube, laughing loudly at animated videos. Joel is working on a animated short movie at the moment - so he can easily kill several hours on that. He's had to learn how to animate, of course, and that began with Manga art in middle school years - now he actually uses animation programs. He's buying a camera because he wants to try his hand at live action shorts - and he and his cohorts have already been writing scripts. When he watches television or movies he's taken to pointing out camera angles - movie making is never far from his mind. In our co-op he's taking Art - actually paying close attention to design elements - because he thinks it will help him in movie making.

Because college hasn't been ruled out - he's taking a distance education Biology class. He's learned how to outline chapters - that's probably about all he's getting out of the course - and so he tries to devote some time everyday to the biology textbook.  He doesn't see much relevance in the subject matter, nor does he appreciate the fact that he has to learn things within a specific order, so it seems to be a rather painful experience for him. But guess what? He does it anyway.

The evenings might find him reading or playing video games. He's a Halo fan - and that includes all of the Halo books, as well. And speaking of reading, he's reading a Great Books anthology that kicked off with Giglamesh. Joel already knew the basic story of Giglamesh (he loves ancient literature and always has) but had never read the actual translated version. It is absolutely filled with SEX. He finds it hilarious - and will toss me the book and say, "Read the second paragraph," with a huge grin on his face. Let me just say that we've got nothing on the Ancients. They did it ALL. There was even a phrase that went, "She let him in through her back door..." and Joel about died. A favorite line was "And when his brothers saw his penis they knew you'd done something heinous." Now this kinda makes me wonder about the translation, you know? I mean, in English it quite obviously rhymes. Surely it doesn't rhyme in Akkadian? It was written on stone tablets in cuneiform!! Don't you think it is too much of a coincidence that penis and heinous rhyme? The whole thing is highly suspicious and smacks of teengage boys posing as ancient history scholars.

Sigh.

So he is enjoying Giglamesh and I'm afraid that Prometheus Bound (which is probably not a bondage story) might be a disappointment after Giglamesh. Prometheus Bound is next in the anthology...

On NPR Joel and I heard an interview with a man who wrote a book about Bananas. Joel was enthralled. Not only did the author sing the Chiquita Banana Song (Joel loved it), he also talked about the violent, bloody history of banana farming in South American, the United Fruit Company and the atrocities it committed - its relationship with Dole - the fact that it was at one time considered coarse and crude for women to eat bananas (due to their ahem...shape)....this was a book Joel could not pass up. So we ordered it - he read it and loved it - and now knows all kinds of useless information about bananas, which we no longer eat, by the way - because Joel says they've got blood on them.

Jules spends his days taking care of his turtles, playing with the two younger ones or hanging out with his brother - he seamlessly goes back and forth between the worlds of childhood and teenager-dom. I love this and want this for him right now. He has a couple of good friends who might call throughout the day - usually to discuss video-gaming. He wants to be a scientist - but doesn't want to put in the effort to make it happen. He's currently on a math bender, though - doing several sets a day (Teaching Textbooks). When he gets his fill he'll go months without touching it again.  He will sit through an entire disc of Through the Wormhole - and I think that is what is inspiring him with math at the moment. He's fascinated by time travel and alternate realities. He's reading a Great Books Science Fiction Anthology and loving the hell out of it.

So a typical Unschooling Day looks like what your day would look like if you could spend it doing the things you love. For us it means we're reading Giglamesh and watching Beavis and Butthead. We're talking about String Theory and learning to sew. We're learning to tolerate doing the things we don't love in order to do the things we do love. We're laughing and arguing, working and playing, and living life as if we only had one go at it - and for us - that has meant staying out of the classroom and going into the world - be it real or virtual or something in between.

Occupying My Life...It's Not Really a Protest But It Does Tend to Get Out of Hand

2011-10-09T13:54:00.000-07:00

Whew! Have you been worried about me? I've been gone for a long time, haven't I?

Actually, when I'm "gone" from the blog it means I'm being hysterically present somewhere else. I have been busy occupying my life (where I am Actually Part of the 99% and pardon me for saying so). My Friend Mark does a monthly photo-dump post. This is kind of a photo-dump. Unlike Mark's photos, though, mine are blurry and grainy and generally Not Very Good. But they're all I've got.

We went to see Ellie.

It was a long drive and we couldn't even begin it until Camille got out of rehearsals for The Nutcracker - that's right - we began a long car trip loaded down with pillow pets, a Sardine Mama, a Sardine Daddy, a Sardine Grandpa, and a school of fishies - at the Worst Possible Time of the Day.

We like to treat old people with respect so we stuck my dad in the back seat with a blanket, a windbreaker, and a jar of pretzels. We hate it when he whines that he's cold or hungry. He loved listening to the 110 Red Hot Chili Peppers songs we lined up for the trip....at least we think he loved them....it was hard to hear what he was saying back there.

When we finally arrived in College Town, USA it was late, but I figured my kid was still up studying or practicing because I Know Her. I sent her a text:

Hey, I know it's late but we're here and I would like to swing by your dorm for a hug if you're not busy.

She was busy practicing dictation for her Aural Skills class. I don't know what Aural Skills are but I'm pretty sure it's one of the things they teach at Hogwarts. She dropped it all and came bounding out of her dorm to meet us on the sidewalk. I apologized to her in advance for the fact that I was probably going to hug her until Awkwardness Set In. She sighed and held out her arms. She felt SO GOOD and I didn't want to let go but I did and was immediately replaced by Camille. Ellie happily gave her little sister a longer hug - everyone else got the half-hug.

The next day was spent touring the campus, visiting the dorm, and yes! We ALL FIT in there with even enough room to spare for the thoroughly traumatized roommate! My dad really enjoyed it and says he feels better about her being gone now that he actually knows where she is. Camille took this picture of him and it is a great photo because it shows exactly the way he looks when he's looking at Camille. He's the only grandparent my kids have, but what we lack in quantity we make up for with quality!

And here Ellie is (barely - i almost cut her out) posing with The Brothers. While we were posing in the auditorium foyer - one of El's professors walked by. She looked at him - he looked at her - he looked at us - he paused - Ellie didn't say anything - and he kept walking. "You could have introduced us!" I said. She was like, "I'm pretty sure he knows you're my family." She looked at all of us. "I don't think he thought I was here hanging with my friends - aged 7 through 80-something...."

Jules's shirt is bleach-stained and has a large hole in the back. He wore his best clothes so as not to embarrass his sister.

And here she is with Camille - who stuck to her like glue.

And here are Camille and Jasper taking a break from Running Amok.

Did I mention Camille stuck to her sister like glue?

We spent all of one day with Ellie - and then we picked her up after classes on the second day. She took us to a cute little coffee house and out for Thai food. We dropped her off and said our final goodbyes in front of curious onlookers. She headed off to her dorm, clutching her take-out container of tom kha gai before heading to a study group, with Camille waving dramatically and tearing up.

And then? After her study group was over we snagged her up off the street and took her for ice cream. This was followed by another tearful goodbye. And then? The next morning she texted that she wanted us to bring her some CREAM FOR HER COFFEE. And since we are the pathetic, sad, lonely people that we are....looking for just one more reason to see her....we did it. We pulled up to the sidewalk as she came out of class and held the carton out the window. She grabbed it, said thanks and goodbye, and scurried off before we had a chance to start yet another round of hugging.

We couldn't head home yet, however. Joel had spotted a sword in an antique store the day before and had become somewhat fixated on being its new owner and so we headed back downtown to make your general commonplace no big deal whatsoever sword purchase. He proudly brandished the thing on the sidewalk, looking all kinds of fierce. It was weird but only in the expected sort of way.

The next time we'll see Ellie will be at Thanksgiving - and that is when The Nutcracker is up and running and we'll be all crazy so I doubt I'll even feel her presence. Plus I suspect The Boyfriend will be taking up a certain amount of her time.

Other things I've been doing? Include turning 16-year-olds into 17-year-olds. Joel is 17. I can't believe it. He celebrated by having a bunch of wild boys over - something he's been doing for his birthdays since he started having birthdays. When he turned 8 he had an Indian Party (although I'm certain I called it a Native American party because sometimes I'm so PC even I can hardly stand myself). The Indian Party was probably the crowning achievement of my Over The Top Birthday Party Phase. I still get just a little bit proud when I think about it.

The boys were each assigned a regional tribe - they were to come dressed in tribal clothing that they had researched themselves, they were to bring a peace offering, and we were to play Actual Native American Games and have an Official Pow Wow. The evening mostly consisted of half-naked boys running around trying to poke each other with Peace Sticks Turned Spears, while screaming at the tops of their lungs. There was Loosening of the Loin Cloths as the evening wore on - the boys too hysterical to notice or care - the parents too exhausted.

If you've read the Indian Party Story on the blog before - pardon me - some of these folks are new here. During the Peace Circle the boys were supposed to make their offerings and give brief reports on their tribes. One little boy, who shall remain nameless but who appears on this post years and years later and wearing a Ramones t-shirt said, "I don't have an offering or a report and my mom says if you pull this crap next year we're not coming." He was wearing a paper sack as a costume, kind of an after-thought, and that made it all the more hilarious.

Look at my little boy with his missing teeth. (I'm going to go cry a little bit now but I'll be right back.)

Can I just point out that I made the tee-pee on the cake MYSELF?

I no longer try to camouflage the violent birthday games by calling their weapons Peace Sticks - these boys have gone Mafia on me, now. They're into Airsoft Weapons - much as it disgusts me - and so Joel chose to celebrate his birthday by staying up all night shooting at his friends while they shot at him. As moms pulled up to drop off sons they shouted, "Don't shoot!!" and luckily for the armed boys - they didn't. Jeff wasn't as fortunate. He went outside to fill up a cow trough and forgot to yell, "Don't shoot!" He got shot. I'm not sure what sounds or words escaped his lips when he felt the first ping, but I'm betting it wasn't G-Rated.

The boys wouldn't even come in for cake - but when I woke up in the morning it had somehow disappeared during the night. I tried to be a good hostess and take care of the guests. "Can I get you boys anything before I head off to bed?" I asked as they took a break from Actually Shooting Each Other to begin Shooting Each Other via video games.

"Just a girlfriend and the keys to your car..." said one of the boys. Every time I asked a question I received some version of this as an answer so I quit asking after awhile.

I woke up to this: (That's my big baby sleeping under the piano).

Speaking of boys being boys...Joel and Jules and a couple of friends have started their own animation film company. Thus far, they have produced one very offensive and not even marginally funny 2-minute video where a cartoon cat is killed, a building is bombed, and the words midget and porn are both used. I would share a link but NO. Because a cat is killed, a building blown up, and the words midget and porn are used and oh my god I hate to see what The Googles are going to send my way now. But the animation is good and Joel did that part all by himself. It took him hours and hours and hours and hours and I'm really proud of him. We are currently involved in discussions about crude and offensive humor and what makes it humorous - and the fact that his is lacking the humor. He gets it and is trying to figure out how to get the humorous ramblings of his mind (and they are humorous - I'm subjected to them daily) to stay humorous once it's been transferred to an actual medium. There's a learning curve. I'm still trying to perfect my own story-telling craft...often I find that the stories in my mind are Way Less Awesome once they've been written down. If only we could use those little magic flash drives - just stick them in our heads and then stick them into the computer....

Joel plans to actually own an animation and film studio someday. He has promised to employ all of his friends and his brothers, thereby making it a charitable operation as well.

Finally, our Homeschool Co-op took a little field trip to see a play adapted from one of R.L. Stine's stories...R.L. Stine of the famous Goosebumps series.

Our family and two others crammed into our bus and headed over the the insanely crowded theater and its accompanying parking lot and BOOM. Rock star parking. One of our mamas suffers a condition that requires the use of a cane and while I'm sure she would gladly trade in her Handicapped Parking Tag for the chance to toss her cane out the door - the rest of us are not used to Rock Star Parking and we were all like Booyah!! Whoop!! Right. Up. Front. Sistas. We piled out and were immediately disheartened by the lines and lines and lines of School Kids waiting to get in the front door. But guess what? Way up at the front of the line - way off in the distance - we saw that there were two doors. Two. And one was for students and one was for individuals. Again with the Booyah!!-ing and the Whoop!!-ing and we headed right on past all the hundreds of students to correctly identify ourselves as Individuals upon whence we were escorted into the theater that was completely empty except for some families (I spotted tie-dye immediately) seated in the first three rows. Those are our people!! We were seated in the Homeschool Rock Star Row and awaited the seating of the masses. Also in the first 3 rows? Sat R.L. Stine.

As always, when we attend field trips along with School Kids, my ears were ringing soon enough. Every time the lights dimmed (to start the show, to switch scenes, etc) the kids erupted in out and out total and complete SCREAMING. Jasper put his hands over his ears and at a certain point, so did I. And I have seen Van Halen FOUR TIMES, people. And it was before there were sound ordinances. I'm practically deaf. But I had to cover my ears on this field trip.

After the show R.L. Stine took to the stage to answer questions. The kids in the audience started raising hands and the questions that came out of the kids' mouths were all the type of questions you would find on the annoying Reading Comprehension quiz at the end of a standardized test literature passage. Why were they ghosts? What happened to the parents? Why was he on a skateboard? Why did the brother and sister fight?

I wanted to ask, "How did you get noticed by an agent? What are your advances like? Could you have busted through as easily in the industry climate of today?"

Finally they took a question from a homeschooler and she asked him how old he was when he started writing. That was the kind of question we'd been waiting for. He was 9, by the way.

I'm not sure that the kids in the audience knew that Mr. Stine is a world-famous author or what that even means. With the exception of that one question, it didn't seem like it.

Would you believe they wouldn't let him sign books? Rush rush rush - no time for pics - thanks for coming and out the door with all of you. We waited around and broke the rules.

Hope you enjoyed the pics and are reassured as to my continued existence.

I have been asked to blog about what a typical Unschooling Day is like for us. I'm pretty sure I've done it before, but I'll do it again because as I pointed out earlier, some of you are new. Also? It's been awhile since anyone bothered to e-mail me to personally tell me that I'm ruining my kids.

So tell me - how've you been occupying your time over there in your life?

Lady in Waiting

2011-09-22T21:46:00.000-07:00

I'm like a dragonfly today, flitting about from spot to spot, landing here and there for a moment or two. Although now, at this last spot, I'm done flitting.  It's a little after 5:00 and I just dropped Camille at dance. I'm in Starbucks - nestled within a Barnes and Noble - and now I Wait.

Sometimes I like this feeling of having several hours to kill - all to myself - with the excuse of Waiting. But tonight I'm not enjoying it. That's because I'm not writing - I just finished a scene in my novel and now I'm at that horrible Between Scenes Phase where contemplating the next scene is completely overwhelming and so I just sit here feeling guilty and overwhelmed and like I could very well be dying of failure.

I'm not dying, by the way. Not from failure and not from skin cancer. I know that because my first stop of the day was the dermatologist's office where I learned the multitudes of spots on my body are JUST Age Spots - like anything with "age" in it can be preceded by "just" in this mid-life crisis of mine. Camille enjoyed the dermatologist's office and gleefully examined all of the posters on the wall, mightily exclaiming that my frown lines were "A three at least, Mama!" on the scale of 1 to 3, and extolling the virtues of Botox. "You should get that, Mama! It says here it's virtually painless!"

"What? And risk looking like Jennifer Aniston in Horrible Bosses? I think not!" Camille looked at me like I was insane because I so clearly was. Also she doesn't know who Jennifer Aniston is nor has she seen Horrible Bosses. "And besides," I added. "Nothing worthwhile is ever virtually painless."

Camille disagreed and spent the rest of the doctor's visit naming Painless and Worthwhile Things to Do.

After leaving the dermatologist's office with wrinkles and age spots in their original and upright positions, we hopped in the car and Camille said, "I don't need a boy to make me happy, Mom!" which is her way of asking me to pop in a Taylor Swift CD. We listened to Taylor sing about kissing in the rain and throwing pebbles at windows all the way to Payless, where we intended to buy Camille some intact and hole-free tights. After snatching the last two pairs off the shelf we hit the register, where we were told by the clerk that the computer was re-booting. "Okay," we said. And then we stood there watching the clerk watch the computer screen while obviously resenting the fact that we had nowhere else to be.

"This might take a while," he said.

"Okay," we said, because really, what else were we to say? We did not fully realize the implications of rebooting a Payless computer. Fifteen minutes later the clerk said, "Okay. Cash or charge?" Like I hadn't been mildly to moderately inconvenienced by the fifteen minutes of seriously awkward silence I'd suffered while pretending to look at slipper-socks. He should have given us the tights for free but gone are the days where anybody gives a rat's ass about customer service.

THEN (are you still with me?) we walked down to the craft store. Co-op is tomorrow and we needed to buy some supplies for sewing and art. I am not the Sewing or Art Mom, by the way, I'm the Let's All Sit in a Circle and Discuss Literature Mom. Although I also do History with the younger kids and before I left the house this morning I had made 3 batches of sugar cookie dough to become crumbling Roman pillars in the morning....so come to think of it, I am kind of awesome, actually.

Anyway - the craft store.....was also a somewhat awkward experience. It was in an older strip mall and it just seemed old and ancient and sad and gloomy and depressing.  It was as if every Cat Lady Who Needlepoints Or Arranges Silk Floral Funeral Wreaths Within a 60-Mile Radius had left bits and pieces of her aura in there. All of the Halloween stuff was already 50% off and it looked like it had been sitting there since last Halloween. Even Camille, who goes bonkers for anything remotely Holiday Retail couldn't muster up much enthusiasm. She just lifted up a pumpkin or a witch here and there while saying, "Hmmm..." I don't think she actually Asked To Buy Anything which was further proof that some kind of weird magnetic current was running beneath that store.

There were just a few other customers, most of whom were plodding along pushing squeaky carts as if maybe they'd been in there pushing squeaky carts for decades; like we were in some sort of hellish crafter's version of Hotel California. We found what we needed (sketch pads, embroidery thread and pencils) without tossing anything fun! and extra! into the cart. I think if we HAD found something fun! and extra! to toss into the cart, Don Henley would have started singing, We haven't had that spirit here since 1969..."

Speaking of 1969, the music wasn't helping the mood in the old craft store. I'm not sure how you'd classify what they were playing. It wasn't Classic Rock or 80's Cool or 70's Retro....it was just old music that reminded you of that time you had to sit in the doctor's office waiting for your back-to-school booster shots. We're talking an old Elton John piece I couldn't quite place and I Kid You Not...the Monkees. Now don't hate me for dissing the Monkees. Hey Hey We're the Monkees...that's all fine and dandy. But this was that weird Daydream Believer and a Homecoming Queen song that you never really understood.
The cashier was talking to herself (how could she not?) a LOT. Like seriously, a lot. Camille was fascinated. Initially, Camille tried to answer her and politely reply to the comments and questions before she realized she wasn't the person being addressed.

"Let's see...embroidery thread...what's this color? Oh, Flamboyant Red...red red red...here's the barcode...bleep! That one's done. What's this? A sketch pad a sketch pad a sketch pad...oh and another one I see....into the bag...what's next what's next what's next...and now we're almost done...."

All of this was mumbled. When she finally gave me the total I didn't realize she was speaking to me and Camille had to poke me in the ribs. We got out of there just in time... Seriously. I think if we had lingered one more minute we would have become permanent fixtures...scarecrows maybe, or possibly cake toppers.

We felt yucky and depressed after the Craft Store Experience, and being girls, that made us hungry. We needed something cheap. I named all of the usual cheap places as we got in the car and none of them sounded good to Camille. We pulled onto the freeway and tried to ignore the looming Chick-fil-A sign. Camille, a non-vegetarian child, made the decision months and months ago to never set foot in a Chick-fil-A due to their stance on gay marriage. A good chunk of our friends are Gay/Lesbian (in fact, we seem to have our own personal League of Lesbians) and Camille decided it was Just Wrong to eat at Chick-fil-A. But the sign loomed ahead, nonetheless, and it was super duper Conveniently Located and and when I looked in the rear view mirror I saw that Camille was drooling. "Do you...umm...want a Chick-fil-A sandwich?" I asked somewhat sheepishly.

"Yes," Camille whispered.

And before you knew it we were parking the bus in a compact spot right by the WE'RE CLOSED ON SUNDAYS sign.  We did our best to look White and Christian as we opened the door, and I did a better job of it than Camille I'm just sayin'. Other people were just lolling about eating their chicken sandwiches with no sense of shame whatsoever, like nudists on a nude beach...and we did our best to fit in...Yeah, that's right, we often frequent homophobic anti-gay rights establishments....Yo!

After ordering (and yes, I ordered a chicken wrap even though I DON'T EAT CHICKEN because hey y'all - I was already in a freaking Chick-fil-A hatin' on the homos and so I might as well eat factory-farmed meat while I was at it and THAT'S HOW IT ALL STARTS I'M SURE) I headed in to the bathroom. It sparkled. It smelled good. There was plenty of toilet paper. Wow! I thought to myself. Christians really are better than the rest of us!

There were signs everywhere explaining that they were CLOSED ON SUNDAYS AND SHAME ON YOU FOR WANTING TO EAT OUT IN A FAST FOOD ESTABLISHMENT ON A SUNDAY INSTEAD OF GOING TO CHURCH and I found that a tad bit annoying. You don't see Kosher Delis explaining enthusiastically that they're closed on the Sabbath (even though they are) as Proof That They Love God. There was unfamiliar music playing so I assumed it was Country but then I realized it was Actual Christian Music of the kind they play at the homeschool skate days that we don't attend and I listened to it with an Open Mind but it only reminded me of that South Park Episode about Faith Plus One. Camille and I ate in companionable and guilty silence while thinking, Damn but those Christians make a good chicken sandwich...

Next? We headed to Krispy Kreme. We had another hour to kill before ballet and they're right Smack Down The Street from the ballet studio - which seems somehow cruel, if you ask me. We weren't either one hungry but we both managed to slam down a cream-filled doughnut while listening to 80's Dance Music that did not make us sad and out of sorts. "This is the Bangles," I said.

"Cool," Camille said.

Then we sat and read until it was time to go.

I dropped Camille off at the studio and she did her usual Goofy Routine of crying and clinging and acting like she'd never see me again while People Watched. She especially likes it when People Watch. She thinks she's hilarious, but really, the People often look alarmed. Then she skipped off down the sidewalk and I watched her with that little bit of sadness that I've somehow carried around since Ellie Left For College.

With the looming Free Time resting firmly on my shoulders, I cruised by the nearest locally owned coffee shop. I peaked through the windows and was disgusted to see that all the good seats were taken, leaving only the stupid cold aluminum seats in the middle of the room where everyone who walks by can look at your laptop screen and discover you're writing smut - if you're lucky enough to be able to kick out the smut on that day. If not, they see that you're just wasting time on the Eff-Book - which is just as embarrassing.  Normally, I would have done the stiff upper lip thing and gone inside anyway but What The Heck, people - I'd already eaten Actual Chicken at a Freaking Chick-fil-A so I figured I might as well head on over to Starbucks where all the good seats were also probably taken but at least everyone wouldn't seem so smug about it. I can't even remember why I quit going to Starbucks - I'm sure I felt very strongly about it at the time - but as I've already pointed out, I'm shedding principles right and left.

So here I sit. I walked through the book store to see if either of the Two Comfortable Chairs were available, but they were not. I passed back through the aisles, noting that Rob Lowe has an autobiography on the shelves, thereby confirming my opinion that Rob Lowe believes himself to be Worthy of an Autobiography. I thought to myself that I missed the hell out of my Borders, where they had more than two comfortable chairs and lots of cozy spots to sit on the floor. I'm sipping a tall Americano that is already making my hands shake, and avoiding my novel by blogging. I look industrious, though. I really do. Type, type, type....

I saw an Honest to God Exhibitionist here one time but no such luck tonight. She had been pretending to read while sitting and facing the room in a short skirt with no underwear and her legs, predictably, apart. I was obviously Between Scenes and not writing or I wouldn't have noticed her. It appeared I was the only person who did notice her, and that seemed particularly lame. I wanted to somehow acknowledge her efforts but couldn't think of a way to do so...clapping seemed inappropriate. There are students here tonight, a guy who keeps falling asleep, a guy who keeps clicking his pen and when I kill him in a moment nobody will blame me, and a girl meeting with a geometry tutor who seems just as confused as she is. There are a lot of tables with a single person at them - people who are killing time....or people who come here to be alone with other people.

And I'm here...a lady in waiting. But waiting for what...I can't exactly say.

A Long-Long-Long-Long Time AGO...

2011-09-14T13:18:00.000-07:00

Reuniting with old friends is risky business. You know how it is - you find that guy from college on facebook....that guy who was so freaking hilarious and rebellious and SMART in that he shared all of your opinions about EVERYTHING *generally accepted definition of smart* but then you discover via status updates that he's now on fire for the Lord and heavily into the Tea Party in the same way he used to be into clove cigarettes.

I have been reunited with an old friend - and the friend has changed - but in all the ways that are right and meaningful - not the ways that leave your head spinning. It's hard to believe it is still the same friend, because we're talking some Big Changes.

You probably saw this coming, but my old friend is the Red Hot Chili Peppers. It had been a really long time, my friends, since Stadium Arcadium.

And those of us hardcore Chili Peppers Junkies spent that time snooping the Internet or consulting the Googles for any little bit of news. The news repeatedly stated that the band were on "hiatus," and we were seriously concerned they were on "hiatus" the way the Rolling Stones or Aerosmith are on "hiatus," and that we would be forced to wait pathetically for Reunion Tours to which we would take our clients and waste space on the expensive floor by schmoozing instead of moshing or sit in the nosebleed seats with our grandchildren while complaining bitterly about the inconsiderate people STANDING up in front of us instead of SITTING POLITELY and watching "the show." We were afraid the Red Hot Chili Peppers had become an Institution instead of the band we adored. The anxiety about the "hiatus" fed our mid-life crisis, yes it did.

We tried to soothe ourselves with John Frusciante's solo albums, of which we became increasingly fond in an OCD sort of way. At times, we donned dark sunglasses and lurked among the RHCP message boards, listening to people much younger than ourselves discuss rumors that the band were going to be heading back into the studio yay! or whisper about the Big Daddy of All Rumors...the possibility that John Frusciante (who we truly believed was the secret spice that made the Chili Peppers Funk Stew so super tasty) would not be joining them shit!

We worried and we worried and we worried. What if it were to be like that One Hot Minute when Frusciante quit before? That One Hot Minute right after Blood Sugar Sex Magik when John flaked out in Japan and flew home and locked himself in his house for six years and traded in his guitar picks for paintbrushes and hypodermic needles and the band slipped Dave Navarro in there like maybe nobody would notice, although honestly, who wouldn't notice Dave Navarro - the hottest Pepper to have ever Rocked the Sock and the world's most perfectly groomed heterosexual male - and we had gone, Really? We couldn't have been more surprised if you had replaced Frusciante with the Viena Boys' Choir - because it would have been the same amount of awkward.

Actually, looking back at the Dave Navarro Era of the Chili Peppers - it seems surreal - like a vague memory after a rough night of partying where you go...Wait a minute, I did WHAT? Or like that morning you woke up after a really lucid dream convinced you owned a horse.... It was just a strange and confusing winkle in time.

DISCLAIMER *I actually do not HATE One Hot Minute at all. I own it. I just don't consider it part of my Chili Peppers library because it just doesn't belong there.

The Big Daddy Rumor turned out to be right. Frusciante wanted off the Rock Star Roller Coaster and he exited the ride and made a solo album and produced some other bands and oh yeah, Married a Woman...

....and I was devastated as to what all of this meant for ME. Because I had been with these guys for a long time! They owed me something, didn't they?

I'm With You delivers. It's no One Hot Minute. This time, Frusciante is replaced by close friend and cohort, Josh Klinghoffer, a frequent collaborator on Frusciante's Projects. In fact, when the Young Kids on the Message Boards asked if Klinghoffer would be able to pull off Frusciante's famous background vocals...wondered if he could hit the high notes, I found myself wanting to defend the new kid. "Seriously?" I wanted to say. "Have you listened to Shadows Collide With People? The ten-year-old girl singing on Carvel is Josh Klinghoffer!" Because it is. This is a picture of Josh Klinghoffer and John Frusciante together. Josh is on the left.

Klinghoffer is not gifted with Frusciante's virtuosity. He is not a guitar genius - he's more of an all-around-really-good-musician. BUT, he knows the secret recipe. He's added some kind of new spice that you can't put your finger on....but the dish is still the same great-tasting Chili Pepper stew you grew up on.
Klinghoffer is a nostril-flarer, and that's going to take me awhile to get used to. It's not nearly as appealing as Frusciante's Silent Scream, after all.

And Klinghoffer does this funky rhino-charge thing on stage instead of the spaghetti legs thing that Frusciante did. I feel slightly embarrassed for Klinghoffer when watching him perform - like I want to take him aside and tell him that all of that really isn't necessary - we're not holding it against him that his hips don't swivel and he doesn't thrust his left shoulder out all adorably when he plays. Scratch that. We totally hold it against him. Because we're only human, after all.

This is a deliciously catchy album with all the requisite Chili Peppers Parts except for maybe the Nasty Business. There are times when you think it's about to get nasty but then it just goes into rhyming nonsense, instead. There's no Sir Psycho Sexy on I'm With You. In fact, this is a completely G-Rated Red Hot Chili Peppers. It's even more G-Rated than By the Way, if you can believe it. Like, I don't even have to skip any songs with the kids in the car (thanks guys!). The fact that the kids know exactly which songs I do skip on the other albums, and exactly why I skip those songs, tells me that their daddy isn't nearly as anal about the skipping as I am. The worst thing on I'm With You is the B-Word - a far cry from Party on Your P*ssy, that's for sure. Our boys are growing up (sniff sniff).

Or Maybe Not

All the essentials are on I'm With You. Anthony's in his Prime With The Rhyme. Seriously, the day he rises above Sesame Street Rhyming is the day I cry my eyes out.

There are some rhyming stand-outs on I'm With You. For example, this beauty shows up in Look Around:

This is for the folks in Fayettville

It'll come true if you say it will

Woot! And from Did I Let You Know we have:

I like your cheeky,

So Mozambique-y,

GOOD JOB ANTOINE....the swan. That's right, back in the '80's Anthony referred to himself as Antoine the Swan - because it rhymed. It was a sign of things to come.

Speaking of poetry (and I use that term loosely) - one of my favorite songs of the album is Even You Brutus? It isn't mentioned much as a favorite with the critics, but I are ignorant and not a critic. The beginning of Even You Brutus? is like a session of Poetry Slam. Much Awesomeness.

Monarchy of Roses is a great choice for crashing out of the gate - first song up and also one of my faves.

I could go on and on about each and every song but I've already indicated my Complete Lack of Credentials in Music Critisism-ship and honestly, none of you want to read it anyway. But I do want to comment on the Partridge Family Feel of Happiness Loves Company. Seriously. Is that Shirley Jones singing backup? No....just Josh again. But it is a great song.

Oh, and I'd like to comment on Did I Let You Know...we're talking a FANTASTIC trumpet solo (it's not Flea playing on the album - it's a guy named Mike Bulger and he's awesome). Flea plays some extra special smooth and smoky bass on this one. Josh floats in and out with little riffs and does some heavenly girlish vocals that make me happy.

All in all, I'm With You has some great jazz undertones - more than usual - and features four Master Musicians who seem to be completely at home with their current sound - and their new guitarist. Throughout it all - Chad Smith has shown up for work - solid rock hard drumming. As usual.

The band have an adorable nervous air about them at the moment, like they're quite desperate for us to like them. We don't have John Frusciante anymore but don't hold it against us! Here! Meet Josh! He's really nice! And he does seem really nice.And he has certainly stepped into some big shoes. They're not a perfect fit, but he can definitely walk in them.

Good job, guys. I'm still with you.

I Will Now Take Your Questions

2011-09-07T08:01:00.000-07:00

I was feeling badly for you guys. Really - I totally was. Because tonight? I was going to write a very unprofessional yet highly spirited (!) review of the new Red Hot Chili Peppers album, I'm With You. It was going to be so very good and awesome and totally uninteresting to 99.9% of my peeps. But I'm going to have to hold off on that because a reader left me an incredibly heart-felt and detailed comment with many questions regarding my last post about homeschooling and so I'm going to be hitting on that, instead. But the Chili Pepper review is coming and c'mon...you know you're gonna read it. You read my erotica critique, after all. Don't deny it. House of Holes in is in your Kindles.

OK. So my reader has a blog and I checked it out and she has a couple of adorable kiddos she's considering homeschooling. And can I just say, Dear Reader Considering Homeschooling, that we have the exact same picture of not quite exactly the same kid with the hair done up in the tub like a narwhal or a unicorn? Made me chuckle.

So, the reader had this to say (and I'm going to interject my comments and answers in italics):

I'm strongly considering homeschooling my kiddos due to the deplorable state of the public schools in this city (some of the worst in the nation) and the high cost of private ones.

Many (most) people strongly consider homeschooling for the same reason or some similar and very specific reason. There is A Reason...mine was a child with learning disabilities....that serves as a catalyst for this monumental decision. What I have found (and don't let this discourage you) is that The Reason, at some point, ceases to become "enough" if the lifestyle of homeschooling is one that is at odds with the family's structure. Basically, what I'm saying is that tons of people choose to homeschool for This Reason or That Reason and then a year later you run into them and their kids are in school and it turned out to not be so horrible after all....because homeschooling, for them and their expectations, Just Plain Sucked. So - good reasons you have there - but unlikely to sustain a long-haul experience in homeschooling unless, at some point, you find yourselves doing it because you love it and would do it even if good schools were available.  It has to become a lifestyle you cherish or you can't keep it up. That's what happened for us. Obviously, not all of my kids are learning disabled - yet they are all homeschooled (except for the one currently in college).

My main misgiving isn't that my kids would turn into those *weird home schooled kids* or anything like that.
Good! Because I'd really hate to go all judgemental on your ass - but ahem - it would be hard because I'm pretty sure I worried about my kids becoming weird homeschooled kids at one time or another when I was agonizing over this decision myself so....yeah. All I can say is this: Good for you for not worrying about it....we know some spectacularly awesome and brilliant and smart and sweet and kind and incredibly loyal weird homeschooled kids. I love them and their quirky selves to bits. Also? I have as Asperger's kid who might very well qualify for this....and Jasper definitely seems to be headed in the weird direction. But I do know how the stereotypes and That Family You Saw At The Park That One Time can send chills through your body when you consider your own children forced into wearing tube socks and jogging shorts with polo shirts tucked in...oh and the tube socks are worn beneath sandals, by the way...while talking about Star Wars for twenty-nine billion consecutive hours. I GET IT. But - those kids are being themselves. They are grateful for the opportunity to do so - they will accept your kids and their possible quirks without the slightest hesitation - and they will probably grow up to invent something quite amazing that you might be able to ride at Disneyland or watch in the movie theater or use to control the environment of your eco-bubble. Also? There are weird kids in school. They were there when I was in school - and they're there now. Often they're bullied and humiliated and depressed instead of doing all the awesome things they would be doing if they were homeschooled and not bullied and humiliated and depressed. Alnd? You can make your kids be cool with Peer Pressure. That's how we do it over here. Of course, in order for this to succeed, you yourself....must be cool.

There are a lot of social options for home schoolers around here.
Yay! There are around here, too.  Our house is as full of cheap and meaningless trophies and ribbons as anyone elses. All the museums and nature centers and art places and dance and music schools offer homeschool classes. There are homeschool groups out the wazoo and they are all taking field trips (I HATE FIELD TRIPS but a lot of folks enjoy them) and performing musicals and other such nonsense and forming co-ops and there is absolutely no reasons for homeschoolers to sit around at home unless they want to.

I'm mostly concerned they wouldn't respect me/listen to me like they would *a teacher.*
Talk to a teacher and ask them how much respect they're getting in their classrooms. Also? When I talk like a teacher to my kids they don't tend to listen to me for very long because I become boring and I begin to spoon feed them information they do not find relevant or are not interested in. I know this happens because I am driven to do it several times a year for reasons I do not understand but am pretty sure have something to do with a past life as a one-room school teacher. In fact, Laura Ingalls was in my class and my name was Miss Beadle. I have strong urges to ring bells on church porches and to whack kids across the knuckles with rulers. Most of the time I can resist my urges, but sometimes I cave and put on my homespun dress.

I'm already noticing this attitude from my toddler.
Did you say toddler? That means she's developmentally RIGHT ON. Good for her! The more egocentric she is at this age, the more capable an adult she will be. The smart ones look out for Numero Uno - it's encoded into their survival DNA. They will continue learning how to advocate for themselves and devise ways in which to meet their needs unless this instinct is effectively stamped out by well-meaning adults....who will then later complain that kids don't know how to be independent.

She knows what makes me tick. She knows which buttons to push to drive me insane.
I knew it! She's a smart one. Good for you - you should be quite proud!

She knows that she can ignore me or be mean to me and I will still love her. 19 months old, and she knows this already.
This warms my heart. She has a good mama. Do not fret about this, my friend.

I have a feeling we would get into far more "battles" on a day to day basis than she would with an outsider.
Now I feel we might be getting into parenting issues rather than educational ones - and here's my revelation that we practice Attachment Parenting and subscribe to Unconditional Parenting. *Read Unconditional Parenting by Alfie Kohn for more info.* But, that aside - you are absolutely right. Your child will and should have more battles with you than an outsider. If a child trusts an outsider with her emotions as much as she does a parent - there is a severe disconnect. You don't want to have the same level of trust and intimacy with your child as a stranger would. This means, a child is going to trust you enough to argue with you, to make her demands known, and to become extremely upset when her efforts as communication fail and she doesn't get her way or doesn't understand your reasoning. (Until the Age of Reason has been reached - Parenting is Pretty Much Hell unless you accept the fact that you're dealing with a tiny person who meets all the clinical requirements of Actual Insanity and adjust your expectations.) The battles can be quite trying and stressful depending on the nature of the child and your relationship, and honestly, if it is too difficult - the break that school provides is welcomed by most parents and rarely results in the Actual Ruin of the Child.

My mom taught me the violin for 16 years of my life. I hated/loathed/etc. playing the violin. I learned in spite of that and became quite good at it too, but I didn't develop a passion for it, mostly because I felt like my mom forced it upon me all those years.

I'm truly sorry this happened to you - not uncommon for parents to wish certain things for their children thinking they have their best interests at heart - only to discover they didn't know what their best interests were. We do not force our children to do anything. Force doesn't play into our relationships at all - unless we're talking safety (they must wear seat belts, etc) and they are generally cooperative because they have so much control over their lives in other areas. My daughter plays piano - she debuted with a major metropolitan symphony as a concert soloist at the age of 16 and is now studying Piano Performance in music school. She had her first lesson at 11 - loved it - and we've invested much time and effort and $$$ into this pursuit of hers. And just recently, when she was joyfully complaining about how much work it all is, I told her again..."You're not a prisoner of your talent. Walk away at any given time and nobody here will blink an eye. You have ONE LIFE." She knows this - but I still like to remind her that she's in charge of her life - the last thing in the world she needs to consider when deciding what to do with it is whether or not she will disappoint someone else, who has their own life to worry about.

I'm intrigued by unschooling. It seems very logical to let a child drive his/her own learning in order to prevent the dying of passion. Similar to the Montessori method in that it allows a kid to just become fully immersed in a topic and direct his/her own learning without the distractions of the traditional schooling environment. Love that thought. On the other hand, what do you do when the kid shows absolutely NO desire to learn a particular topic that's super important to know in order to function in society?
I want to be frustrated by this question but again - it was one that I had - and one that I felt was never adequately explained to me. I once said to an adamant unschooler (before I homeschooled) - "But they can't learn calculus from gardening or cooking experiences!" To which she replied, "Most people don't need to know calculus." She was right, of course, but I remained unconvinced.

However, now that I can look at this from the other end of the rainbow - I can see just how ridiculous it was to worry about if they'd learn what they needed to learn. We all learn what we need to learn. If there's a particular topic that is super important to know in order to function in society - we learn it. Maybe we don't learn it in 1st or 3rd grade....but eventually, we learn it. Back to calculus - my oldest daughter took it. She didn't need to know calculus in order to play the piano....so you might be wondering how it made it on the list of Things Super Important to Know. Well, she needed to go to college or conservatory, and we knew this, and so we checked to see what was required by the colleges to which she might want to attain entrance. There were a lot of things on their lists that my daughter then studied in order to gain admittance to the colleges - because she saw a reason for it. In fact - she was accepted into some very good schools because of her coursework and her SAT scores.

My 16-year-old just registered for an online distance learning biology course, he's taking algebra, and although he's unlikely to NEED these things in order to write storyboard animation scripts (what he plans to do with his life), he WILL need them if he decides college is in his future - a possibility he has not completely ruled out. Again - he sees the need for this. Now my 7-year-old? Doesn't see the necessity of knowing anything other than really long complicated dinosaur names. At some point, I'm quite certain, that will change and he'll learn the things that are necessary for his particular life plan.  With the exception of the 12-year-window known as formalized education - that is how and why we all learn things.

I was a writing tutor in college and it was mind-boggling how many college students didn't know how to follow basic grammar rules. Their sentences were a mess to the point where I felt like I had to hire an interpreter to understand them sometimes.
And had these other college students been homeschooled? If not - it's obvious that having been enrolled in institutionalized learning environments didn't amount to success in this area. As a writer, I feel your pain. When I was in college (back in the day), I was also amazed by the lack of writing skills of my fellow students. I continue to be amazed by the lack of writing skills of adults I interact with (oops! I ended my sentence with a preposition!!!). Anyway - another reason to homeschool!

I recall learning grammar through pure repetition/ritual back in gradeschool. The teacher *made* us do "easy grammar" worksheets where we had to underline the subjects, double underline the verbs, cross out the prepositional phrases, put the implied "you" in commands in parenthesis, etc. We even had to memorize the most common prepositions. "Busy work," yet so invaluable.
Here's the part where Real Radical Unschoolers call me a fraud. Are you ready? I freaking LOVE the Easy Grammar Systems curriculum. We go through spurts where we actually do this stuff! We have the Daily Grams (takes like 5 minutes) and my 9-year-old eats it up. She goes through periods of whininess where she does not eat it up - and then we just don't do it. But often she is quite happy to sit at the table for a few minutes doing these things. She can string a sentence together and is already ahead of 60% of the average incoming college Freshmen LOL. (*I just typed LOL - shoot me now.)   Early Intervention is simply not necessary. Let me give you a lovely little example.

We sometimes participate in a very loosely run and somewhat insane small family co-op. I use Great Books Foundation to teach the teenagers how to think and how to write (the program requires them to record their thoughts in the form of essays). I had a delightful unschooled 15-year-old boy who had never written a word in his life....(he's at Rice University now, having earned an impressive academic scholarship). He read a lot (I've yet to meet unschooled kids who don't love to read) and he was good at organizing his thoughts. There were, however, a few grammar issues. "Galen," I said...(I just outed him on my blog, didn't I?)...."You should begin your sentences with a capital letter and you should end them with some form of punctuation."

"Okay," he said.

And from there on out, he did. The next grammar class he took was a college course. I know! You people are kicking yourselves now for all the hours spent trying to teach a 6-year-old who wasn't listening to you that he needed to start a sentence with a capital letter while wishing that someone was pulling your fingernails out with a rusty pair of pliers instead because it would have been so much more enjoyable!

My 16-year-old and my 13-year-old do NOT care for doing any kind of Easy Grammar work and they rarely, if ever, cooperate with me on this. But recently my college kid said, "Hey, when did Jules learn to spell and use punctuation? I noticed on facebook that he's like almost literate..." And he is! In fact, compared with his peers (many of them in school) he writes like Hemingway on the F-Book. "Hey mom!" he called from the study. "When do you use the too with two o's? I'm writing a status update!!"

"Double o's are used when the word means ALSO or in front of the word MUCH."

"Okay - thanks!"

The end. Once we get down the concept that "there" and "they're" and "their" are not interchangeable - he's ready for the Big Leagues.

In short, I'm curious how you teach a kid to write properly if they show no interest or motivation in wanting to take on that goal themselves. Is there a point at which you just go "it's too bad you don't want to do this. You're doing it anyway" or do the child's whims reign supreme i.e. if they don't want to do it, you can't make them do it?
I do not say, "Too bad," to the 7-year-old - or even the 9-year-old. And I don't even say it to the 16-year-old, preferring instead to be passive-aggressive and say things like, "Don't blame me when you're rotting in jail because you had to resort to ripping off liquor stores in order to provide for all of your illegitimate children...." Like I said, with goals in mind - the kids simply WILL do the things they need to do in order to meet those goals. They might not be doing it in elementary school - but by about the 7th grade - they have some loosely formed dreams and ambitions and it is super easy to get on the Internet and Google "What Kind of Education Does One Need to Become an Anthropologist?" and then devise a road map.

In summary, I'd like to point out that, as a society, we only approach education as an All or Nothing on a Timeline for twelve years. It is a hysterical 12-year-window and we've convinced ourselves that it shuts and then we're ruined for life if we didn't get through it in time when in fact, the average human lives to be what....80? Don't you think that if everything we need to know about life and general subject matters could be compressed into twelves years it would be a very sad state of affairs? The reality is: We learn new things and utilize that knowledge to better our own lives and the lives of others from the day we're born until the day we die. The 12-year-window of opportunity can be completely ignored with the same (or better) results.

I liked answering these questions! Should I do it regularly do you think? Let's try it out occasionally. If you have any questions pertaining to Unschooling, Attachment Parenting, or the Red Hot Chili Peppers - send them my way! I will now take your questions.

Naysayer Numbness

2011-09-01T13:16:00.000-07:00

It's that time of year.....that Back to School time of year....and each year it becomes less and less noticeable to us. This is our tenth year to homeschool. I can't believe it. By the end of this school year we'll have been at this nonsense for an entire decade! A DECADE!!

What a journey it has been. Not just the homeschooling - the whole shebang. Because I don't know if I've mentioned this....I think I might have once or twice....but Ellie is now settled into college life. On a full music scholarship that had nothing to do with me as I can't even play Chopsticks BUT what I might not have mentioned is that she also received an academic scholarship that almost covered the full tuition. And I am taking credit for that. Now then, you might be imagining me standing before the kids....chalkboard behind me...some sort of book in my hand....but honestly - we unschool. I don't "teach" and they haven't been "taught." So what do I do? I encourage learning. I show them how to find information. I help them set goals. I help them devise road maps for meeting those goals. I drive them places and buy them things and make sure they have what they need to get where they're going. I talk to them, ask them questions that make them think, and most importantly, discover and learn new things right along with them. I will take credit for raising kids who know how to learn, and who can figure out what to learn in order to do the things that are important to them.

When we started this whole Homeschooling Business there were many naysayers. Naysayers you say?? Yes I say!! Naysayers! People saying, "Nay!" We heard it all, let me tell you.

You have a learning disabled son - don't you think he should be in school with professionals who can help him?

You have a *GIFTED child* - don't you think she should be in school so professionals can challenge her?

You have Jules - don't you think he should be in school so you don't kill him?

Addressing these issues one by one:
There are professionals at the school. Many are dedicated and want to teach. Most are overworked, stifled, tied up and pushed down, and basically unable to teach the way they want. They're using their own money to buy things for their classrooms, which are overcrowded. Some are talented at teaching "the middle" while simultaneously keeping the go-getter challenged, as well. Very few have the time or resources to deal with the one who just isn't getting it at all - due to normal developmental variances or do to some sort of undiagnosed learning disability. Pretty much everyone knows that this is what the schools are like...and yet....all I heard (and sometimes continue to hear) was Don't you think the school would do a better job? Ummm....maybe if I were Actually Dead.

Joel made it through first grade and on his last day the Entire Institution breathed a big old sigh of relief. His teacher was so thrilled to say buh-bye that she was literally tossing free stuff at me and giggling like a little girl as she ushered us out the door. I think it was the first time she'd ever actually smiled at Joel - but what a smile it was! "So long!" she shouted. "You'll do great!" That was my one big vote of confidence and it was really just giddy hysteria. *Before you think this woman might be a horrible person, let me just share something Joel recently (he's almost 17) said to me about his first grade experience.

"So like there were a lot of kids in the classroom and some of them were up in the front of the room and The Lady was like doing stuff with them and talking to them. I just sat in the back with my buds peeling the paper off crayons and tossing them at people. I really didn't think what was going on up there had anything to do with me at all."

There you have it. But let me just add that Joel was doing this out of boredom, not out of any sort of longing to start a life of crime and corruption. He was later diagnosed with four learning disabilities, one of which makes it hard for him to understand English - (I'm not kidding) - and so the kid was just trying to entertain himself because he was stuck there for 7 hours, after all. He was pulled out of the "regular classroom" several times a week. This confused the heck out of him and did nothing to address his specific learning issues. The woman who was in charge of helping him read (something he didn't do successfully until he was ELEVEN and that was with a ton of help from a whole bunch of us non-professionals pouring our blood, sweat, and tears into it) was mean. Plain and simple. I haven't met many mean teachers - but I have met a couple and she was one. So he went to her for reading because he was "slow" and she basically did nothing to help him. In fact, she kept him in at recess to "write lines" and then became angry when he couldn't do it (he couldn't write his name at that point, much less I will listen in class.....). He also went to Reading Fluency because his reading speed wasn't up to benchmark standards. The fact that he couldn't read at all, much less quickly, didn't figure into the equation. So he went to Reading Fluency where two professional women who may or may not have finished high school timed him as he sat quietly not reading. He also went to speech, where he told the therapist he "wuved" her. Because he did. And she was a doll, although he continued to say "wuv" for many more years. The one place he almost never went - was the playground. Because he was constantly being punished for not understanding what someone had said to him, or for not being developmentally able to cooperate with their demands. People would listen to all of this and then say, "But there are professionals there...you don't know what you're doing..." and I began to get suspicious that the institutions of learning were actually factories of stupidity.

Ellie made it through third grade. She made it through third grade because she did, in fact, have some truly wonderful teachers. But by the time she entered fourth grade - Joel was being homeschooled and it just seemed a natural progression for her to come home, too. Since she was bored out of her mind and not quite getting it in the social arena - it wasn't hard to convince her. Four years later she was taking college courses through community college - banging away on the piano for six hours a day - and the rest is history. And yet, throughout it all, people would say, "But don't you think she'd be doing EVEN better at school with the professionals?" It was as if she were learning in spite of the horrendous circumstances of her homeschooling. I couldn't win the naysayers over because they had been quite successfully brainwashed and were unable to form logical conclusions. So I quit trying and we just quietly went about our business.

Even now, when met with skepticism....if I point out that Ellie is in college (as are all of her other homeschooled friends) I am told that she must be an exception because Ignorant People Are Trying To Teach Their Kids At Home!! "You're obviously not ignorant! You know what you're doing! You got it goin' on girlfriend!!" Okay - they don't actually say that last part - that's just the little voice in my head. But they do say the other things - and that's without having any idea of how I teach, if I teach, whether or not I know what I'm doing or the fact that I am, indeed, ignorant about any number of things.

Jules simply could not have survived school with any sense of self intact. I knew that before I knew he had Asperger's. He would be one heavily medicated kid in school, and I doubt he would be learning much at all, because he has very specific ways of learning - none of which involve sitting down or being still. Who was going to read to him while he spun in circles with a light saber held triumphantly above his head in school? What professional person was going to be ABLE to do that for him? "But there are professionals in the schools who attend WORKSHOPS in order to know how to deal with spectrum kids! Don't you think he'd be better off with someone who has attended a workshop?" Right here - at this point - I'm not even going to comment.

Camille and Jasper have never attended school. Camille, I'm quite certain, would love it. She's right smack in the middle of the learning curve, loves Justin Bieber and knows How To Dress (it's a recessive gene apparently). But she's doing great at home - she has a gaggle of girlfriends who are also homeschooled. They do fashion design together. They sing together. They giggle and put on make-up and paint their nails. When Joel sees them he usually likes to comment that they could pass for school kids.

The one thing Camille would not be doing if she were in school is receiving 6 or more hours of classical dance instruction per week. And Camille simply must dance.

If Jasper had been placed in school he quite possibly could have ended formalized education as we know it, leaving the whole mess in an even bigger pile of ashes than it already is. That's just the way he operates. Your logic and reasoning mean nothing to him. One of his favorite comments is, "What's that got to do with me?" And usually, he's right. What does it have to do with him? Luckily for him, his idea that the rest of the world doesn't really relate to him or necessarily require any contribution on his part....well, this doesn't bother me in the least. He's rocking awesome and I wholeheartedly support him in his eschewing of well.... Basically Anything Anybody Wants Him To Do. My little man can just keep on keeping on. Sometimes I get the feeling that he's the only person on Earth who sees things as they really are. He's the dude who notices that the emperor's not wearing any clothes. Nobody likes that dude - he makes us all feel stupid. It's frightening to think of what he'd be like when faced with the day to day Obvious Insanity of Mindless Busywork. They'd have to invent new workshops to deal with The Clarity That Is Jasper.

All of my kids can read (even though Jasper has tried really hard to Not Get It and when he does get it he refuses to say it out loud). All of them can write (even though Jasper has tried really hard to Not Learn How), and most importantly, they know stuff. Important stuff that they find relevant.

So let's summarize, shall we?

I'm a Success.

The End.

What say you? Yea or Nay?

Look at Her Go! She's Really Fast!

2011-08-21T10:27:00.000-07:00

I stood at the kitchen counter cutting up cantaloupe for Jasper and acting like it was any old normal day. Of course it wasn't any old normal day....I was in a big hog of a hurry so that we could hit the road. We were taking Ellie to college.

Ellie came strolling in. "Would you like some cantaloupe?" I asked all Casual-Like and Not In The Slightest Bit Hysterical.

"Yuck. I hate cantaloupe. I don't like any kind of melon."

Oh my God - how could I have forgotten that? The kid freaking HATES melons. Even watermelon! Who the hell hates watermelon? It's not normal. It's unAmerican. It's ridiculous. "Jesus! You're incorrigible!" I thought to myself. "I mean....really really incorrigible!! I honestly don't know how we've kept you around this long!! Should have gotten rid of you YEARS AGO...." I made a mental list of all of her irritating qualities and imperfections...working hard at it and hoping to turn around and look at her and be able to say, "Disgusting!! We should just....I don't know....TAKE YOU TO COLLEGE NOW."

Of course, it didn't work. I turned around and looked at her and melted into a puddle at her adorableness.

We took photos of everyone hugging her goodbye. Here she is with her good friend Hannah - who stayed behind to man the fort with my other kids, which was no small or easy task. Joel is in the background trying to make a stupid face because he likes to ruin landmark family pictures.

And here she is with The Boyfriend and she looks like she might cry but really she's trying not to laugh because I'm fussing at her dad who is in the background making a stupid face because he likes to ruin landmark family pictures.

And here she is with Camille, the most enthusiastic sender-offer. Camille is going to miss her sister. I had to take 3 pics to get one of Ellie with her eyes open. She was wincing in the other two. People often wince around Camille. It is a protective measure as she is rarely still and usually hopping and jumping and screeching and occasionally she'll accidentally get you with a knee or elbow or even the top of her head when you bend over to kiss her and she picks that moment to JUMP (!).

And here she is with The Joels. I won't go into how she and Joel were the best of friends, how they used to sleep in the top bunk together because it was their pirate ship, or the bathtub tea parties, or the forts and hideaways and endless lining up of the matchbox cars....I won't go into that or I might start crying. And Joel does own other shirts by the way - he just keeps wearing this one.

With the exception of Camille, Ellie didn't feel that her siblings were showing the proper amount of sorrow. They weren't gnashing their teeth or beating their breasts or wailing and moaning. They were mostly going about their business. "Jasper - I'm leaving!" she said. "Like, really soon!"

"Whatever," he said. This is what he says lately. It's endearing.

"No, really. I'm actually LEAVING."

"Whatever."

"I mean, it's not like when I go away for a week or two....I'm NEVER COMING BACK TO LIVE HERE EVER EVER AGAIN."

"Whatever."

The statement didn't have the desired effect for Jasper but it did cheer Ellie up a bit. And actually, Jasper will miss her when he figures out he can't see her whenever he wants. He's seven but since he's not in school he's got a few little holes here and there in his General Understanding of Things. We haven't stressed the whole Time Goes This Way idea with him. He still regularly asks me to check back with him about this or that on the day after yesterday. Technically, according to most people, the day after yesterday is Today. For Jasper it simply means Go Away Now and Bother Me With This Another Time. You'd think the NEVER COMING BACK TO LIVE HERE EVER EVER AGAIN would have resonated with him, but honestly, people around here make that threat all the time.

Jasper refused to pose for a picture with his sister. He hid behind the chair. Hiding behind the chair means I'm upset and you can't see me. So I suspect he got the gist of the goings-on after all.

Ellie has traveled a lot and I imagine it will take a couple of weeks before her brothers and sister really get it that they're not going to see her for several months. Until then, it is likely to be business as usual for them.

The first night in the hotel, Ellie and I played Boggle. We love that game. And there's nobody else in the house for us to play it with because....how can I say this nicely?....they can't keep up. I'm not sure I'm all that much of a challenge for Ellie - but I'm better than a brother who takes the entire minute to come up with a three-letter word that turns out to be misspelled. I've never actually beat her.

"We'll play til 100," she said all smug-like. That's right...be all smug and obnoxious like that and maybe I'll miss you less when you're gone...

It was really really really close. I thought I might actually win. It was going to be my last chance for awhile, after all. We feverishly searched for words while the little minute-glass wound down. Ellie likes to write Really Loudly with her little pencil because she thinks it intimidates me. Also? We both write down nonsense words on the off-chance that the other person has written the same nonsense word and what it if turns out not to be a nonsense word? So there is a lot of Pig Latin-ish words in our lists which we happily sacrifice as long as the other person sacrifices her's as well. I'm telling you, there is strategy involved in Boggle.

I had an awesome last round...thought maybe I'd finally done it....finally beaten the kid.

"Aha!" I shouted. "100! I have 100 points! I win I win I win I win I win!!!"

She just looked at me quietly. And then she said, "I have 101. Goodnight." She turned out the lamp and rolled over.

"Fine," I muttered. "Tomorrow I'm just going to leave that smug condescending smarter-than-everyone-else little attitude in a nasty old dorm room...boy will THAT feel good goshdarnit so THERE." Then I rolled over and weeped my sad little self to sleep.

I didn't sleep too well that night because of the drunken Swedish boys in the hall. They were blond and loud and very obnoxious. I HATE it when there are noisy people in the hallways of hotels slamming doors and talking loudly all night. Sometimes I will hold my breath in order to hear it better so I can be more properly outraged. Which is probably why I dreamed about loud drunken Swedish boys in the hall. That's right, there weren't really drunken Swedish boys in the hall. But I dreamed that there were which was just as bad...actually worse.  I woke up all irritated about the Swedish boys and got myself a bit of water before heading back to bed for Round Two of Weird Dreaming.

I dreamed I'd given birth to a perfect baby. She was all adorable and the word perfect kept coming up again and again when people looked at her and I was all impressed with myself for having had such a perfect baby. Full of pride! Then I left her in a parking lot. It was an accident, of course, and upon realizing my mistake I rushed back to the parking lot hysterically.....shouting to everyone, "Have you seen my perfect baby? Remember the one? You were all so impressed with her and I drove off and left her in the parking lot!"

And Everybody pointed to the dark scary woods and said they thought they'd seen her head off that way. They acted as if this were the most natural thing in the world and weren't concerned about it in the slightest. I took off for the dark scary woods. "Where's my baby?" I screamed repeatedly. Finally, I saw something disappear around a tree trunk. The Other People were around me and calmly commenting that they'd also seen her disappear around the tree trunk. "Look at her go!" they said in very pleased tones.

"What? Where?" I asked. I looked but could see only darkness. I took off running. Finally, I came to a little red fox sitting peacefully licking its paws.

"There she is," said one of The Other People, pointing at the fox.

"What? That's not my perfect baby!" I said. "That's a FOX!"

The fox walked right up to me and I thought I saw a little smug glint in its eye. It looked vaguely familiar.

I picked it up, and it started struggling to get away.

"Really?" I said to The Other People. "This is my perfect baby?  How did this happen? She's turned into something else entirely and all I did was leave her momentarily in the parking lot when I got all busy doing other things..."

"Yeah. They do that," somebody said. "She's a cute little fox. You should be quite proud."

The little fox wriggled free from my grasp and jumped down. She took off in a blurry flash....bushy little tail disappearing through the woods.

"Look at her go!" The Other People said. "She's really fast!"

I woke up missing the hell out of the nonexistent noisy Swedish boys and their lack of symbolic baggage.  Ellie woke up, too. She hadn't grown two more legs or a tail, but I knew she was about to run off anyway.

The next few days were spent shopping for last minute dorm items (her room is tiny and old, old, old....she loves it), and taking care of things like registering, textbooks, obtaining studio keys, dropping one class and picking up a harpsichord class...figuring out how to gain access to the scholarship money...how to use the meal plan. She loved all of it (except orientation which she deemed a complete waste of her time). She familiarized herself with the Steinways in the practice rooms. We took her to dinner, took her to a movie, and she insisted on sleeping in her dorm room every night rather than in a nice hotel with us. On her first morning she awoke to a lone tuba...the second morning it was drums. She's Home.

"Hey, can you drop me off at the practice rooms on your way out of here?" she asked. On your way out of here....now please.

"Sure," we said. Like we were leaving anyway.

When we got in front of the practice building there was a line of cars behind us. She couldn't get the van door open - it got stuck and freaked out the way those computerized automatic doors do when you jump the gun and yank on them too soon - something Ellie always does. She continued to struggle while the horns honked and her father lectured about proper van-door-protocol. I sat quietly, listening to the last echo of Normal.

When she finally managed to extricate herself from the vehicle, she sighed and stomped off down the sidewalk. She didn't look back and the last thing I heard her mumble was Crap!

Jeff pulled away muttering obscenities about impatient honkers. I watched out the window as her tail disapeared around the trunk of a tree...Look at her go....that was really fast.

My Fellow Americans

2011-08-14T15:52:00.000-07:00

So this post attracted the attention of Unity Productions Foundation, and they have asked me to share some information about a project of theirs called My Fellow American. According to their website, "My Fellow American is an online film and social media project that calls upon concerned Americans to pledge and spread a message that Muslims are our fellow Americans. It asks people of other backgrounds to pledge, and share a real life story about a Muslim friend, neighbor, or colleague that they admire. Using the power of social media, My Fellow American seeks to change the narrative – from Muslims as the other, to Muslims as our fellow Americans."

What a lovely idea and worthwhile project. After watching the shenanigans in Iowa over the weekend and listening to Michelle Bachman talk about Real America, I have to wonder, where would Muslim Americans (and Jewish Americans, Gay/Lesbian/Transgender Americans, Atheist Americans, or anybody other than the White Straight Christian Americans).....where would they fit in? Just something to ponder.

Unity Productions Foundation is a "501©3 media and education non profit organization. The mission of Unity Productions Foundation (UPF) is to create peace through the media. Founded in 1999, UPF produces documentary films for television and online broadcast and theatrical release, and implements long-term educational campaigns aimed at increasing understanding between people of different faiths and cultures, especially between Muslims and other faiths. We are convinced of the power of media to empower citizens with greater understanding and to nourish pluralism in America."

Pluralism? Where would pluralism fit in with Michelle Bachman's Real America? Hmmm....it didn't fit into
Anders Behring Breivik's Real Norway.

The emerging Nationalism in America, where are we really wanting to go with this? I've said it before and I'll say it again - If America is a Christian country...what does that mean for me? I'm not a Christian. What does it mean for you? Even if you're Christian, are you the Right Kind of Christian? You should find out, don't you think? Because Real Americans have very specific ideas about this, you know. The Club will start out large because there will be all these non-Christians to deal with. But once they're gone...The Club will focus on itself and it's parameters are certain to narrow. If you're Catholic or Mormon or Jehova's Witness.....I'd be a trifle worried.

First they came for the Communists,

And I didn't speak out because I wasn't a Communist

Then they came for the trade unionists,

And I didn't speak out because I wasn't a trade unionist,

Then they came for the Jews,

And I didn't speak out because I wasn't a Jew,

Then they came for me,

And there was nobody left to speak out for me

Pastor Martin Niemoller

Do you know any Muslim Americans? Jewish Americans? Buddhist Americans? Atheist Americans? What place do you see for them in Real America?

Whereby I Wait, Flounder, and Critique Erotica. Of Course.

2011-08-11T17:20:00.000-07:00

Dog days of summer, man. So smurfing hot.  And I'm bored. And drifting. It's not that I don't have anything to do...it's that I don't feel like doing any of it. Because I'm floundering. And this floundering is taking up all of my time and energy.

I've been reading while floundering around....sweating in the heat and nervously awaiting the inevitable change that is upon me. I'm stuck in la-la land until the girl finally leaves. And I'm waiting...waiting...and so is she. We will all feel better when she's gone and we're not waiting anymore, just because it is difficult to be in the place of waiting. She's checked out but she's still here, her bags are packed but she still needs a toothbrush every night, we're tired of saying goodbye and we'll miss you and ready to get on with things. I'm sad because she's leaving, and that is precariously close to being sad that she's gone, and entirely unfair, since she's still here. We should be either:

a) Spending lots of fun time together while we still can or:

b) Missing her because she's gone but managing well enough. As it is, we're stuck with:

c) Not really having fun because we know she's leaving and not being able to move on because she technically hasn't left.

It's a weird place to be and since I'd rather not be here, I've been removing myself from reality with the endless reading. Dang, but having a Kindle has made it all entirely too easy. I about died when I recently saw how much money I'd blown on Amazon. Yesterday, I went to order a book and saw that the Kindle edition was $14.99, and I said screw it.

Screw it, I said! I shall reacquaint myself with the library. I'll request this book online and wait patiently for it to arrive. My Kindle laughed in my face as I said this. Really? he said. You're going to WAIT? Once you've had instant gratification, baby, you can never go back.

Yes, that's right. My Kindle calls me baby.

Yes, I can go back, I said. Just watch me! Someone (pardon me...someTHING) was getting just a tad bit overconfident.

I logged into my library account.  And, as soon as I logged in I saw that I had zero books checked out. I was freaking flooded with relief. Usually it says I have several books checked out that nobody in this house has ever heard of.  Did you check out the book about 19th century pottery-making??? No? What about the one on spiritual dance as a way to cleanse the soul of psychic toxins?

ANYWAY, so I logged in, saw that my alternative self in my alternative universe had not been covertly checking out books without consulting me, and I attempted to request a book like other people who are not missing library books they apparently checked out while sleepwalking. I felt very confident as I clicked on "request a hold." But then it said, "Request cannot be processed due to a problem with your account." Turns out I owe $13.96 for a book (probably about the origins of metalsmithing or something equally ridiculous) and I can't request another book until I pay up in person. Paying up in person would not normally be a problem, but since Camille is out of dance for the week I'm not going to be in the general vicinity of the library and just can't justify spending $25 in gas to pay a $13.96 library fee when I could freaking have the book in my possession Right This Minute for a mere $14.99. What a deal! What a bargain!

I told you, doll face, smirked my Kindle.    You can't resist me so don't even try.

God, he's so sexy when he talks that way. And he's right, too. I can't resist the pull of instant gratification. The book in question? Is awful. It's by Laurel K. Hamilton and it's the latest in the stupid vampire porn series that I quit reading over a year ago...had seriously kicked the embarrassing habit...but then my Writer Friend (and she knows who she is) said, "Oh you really have to read the latest one.  They're still awful but really good."  Since that made perfect sense to me, I set off to get the last book only to discover that there had been 2 BOOKS published since my having kicked the habit (quantity versus quality) and so I had to start where I'd left off. While reading these books (the Anita Blake series) I like to text my Writer Friend to make fun of how badly written it is. Because that's what bitter unpublished writers do for fun. Anyway - the books are classified as paranormal romance but really they're just vampire smut. Read them if you dare, but don't say I didn't warn you. Now I must redeem myself. On my Kindle I've also recently read:

The Help. Sometimes I like to follow the masses. Actually, a lot of the time I like to follow the mass. In fact, I suspect that I am, in fact, a part of the masses. I loved the book. I know there's controversy surrounding it but I honestly don't know why. Maybe I'm being insensitive. If I am, I don't know it. That's how insensitive works, after all. I've read that people are upset by the heavy dialect/accents/speech patterns used by the Black characters. I noticed it, but it didn't bother me. I'm used to reading books or watching movies or television shows where Texans are depicted with the most ridiculous and unreal accents imaginable. The characters were 1960's Mississippi Jim Crow Times Black Characters...and I'm not saying their dialects are expressed correctly in this fictional representation - I'm just saying that some of the people doing the criticizing probably don't know, either. Anyway - I do plan on seeing the movie. See? One of the masses.

I also read What Alice Forgot by Liane Moriarty. It was one of those amnesia stories - but I loved it. The character, Alice, wakes up on the floor of a gym, where she had passed out. She doesn't know why she's in a gym (she hates to exercise), she doesn't know why her friends look so much the worse for wear, and she thinks she's pregnant and happily married - because ten years before - she was. She's lost ten years of her life. The story doesn't go on and on about what happened during those years like a lot of amnesia stories - it just throws her right back into her life only she's a different person.  She's still fiercely in love with her husband....yet she's in the middle of a divorce and custody battle with him - which is strange because she doesn't even know why they're getting divorced in the first place, and since none of the things that stressed their marriage have even really happened in her mind, she sees things from a very different light than her non-amnesiac self. It was really very interesting.  It was a good read with a satisfying ending. Who was I ten years ago and how would that person do if plopped down right here right now in what I currently call my life?

I'm currently reading Spinning by Michael Baron and I honestly don't know how I came to have heard of this novel. I have notes jotted down everywhere with novel titles on them. Anyway, it's too soon to say whether or not I like it. The dialogue seems awkward and unnatural and I'm also having trouble with the believability of the main character at this point. It could be it'll turn a corner very soon and I'll end up being enthralled. After all - I am The Person Who Is Apparently Reading The Entire Anita Blake Series.

I'm waiting to read two books (already on the Kindle!) by authors I heard interviewed on NPR. I always listen to these interviews with the full intention or getting my hands on the books but then I can't remember the titles or the authors or I forget that I ever heard the interview because the only time I ever listen to NPR is in the car. But this time - with my handy Kindle - voila! Instant books. So I'll soon be reading The Family Fang: A Novel, by Kevin Wilson. And no, it isn't about vampires.

The other book is called Knockemstiff by Donald Ray Pollock. I didn't actually hear Pollock discussing this novel. He was discussing his latest novel, Devil All the Time. But it isn't available on Kindle so....I bought an earlier novel of his that is. I liked how his interview went - I liked HIM. He is an older writer. I appreciate that. It gives me hope.

I'm also (ahem) currently reading a bit of erotica. I read a book review in Slate about an erotica author and the review was good and strange and I liked the language of the excerpt and I picked up my Kindle and BINGO! Erotica at my fingertips. The author is Nicholson Baker - he's written other novels I haven't read because, believe it or not, my bookshelves are not overflowing with erotic fiction (unless you count the vampire porn and I'd really prefer that you not). If my bookshelves were overflowing with erotic fiction, by the way, I wouldn't admit it. But they're not. We're still somewhat of a family show over here in The Can. In fact, were it not for my sexy new Kindle, I doubt I would ever have purchased Baker's newest novel, House of Holes, at all. But I do have a sexy new Kindle and I did order it. Wow! Did you hear how much I defended my purchase. Me thinks she does protest too much...

I'm only partway in (that sounds bad considering the subject matter and the book title, but truly, it was unintentional or possibly a Freudian slip), so the jury is still out on whether or not I LIKE it. I mean, the story is weird and the sex is not sexy sex or romantic sex or hot sex. It is just extremely strange and rather unemotional sex. So I don't know for sure whether or not I like it. But do I like the writing? Yes! Very much! He says the strangest things...you can't just read along without being very aware that you're reading because the sentences never take you where you think they're going. I love delightful surprises in the details. You know who this author reminds me of? Haruki Murakami (my all-time favorite author). It is just the kind of erotica Murakami would write if he wrote erotica.

It's as if the guy writes his novels using Mad Libs.

Check this out:

...he wanted to meet a nice, smart, sexy woman, so he went to a lecture on the history of the municipal water supply... Don't you think that's delicious? See how he dumps little surprises into your lap while you're sitting there totally not expecting it? I was like, "Municipal water supply...that's hilarious!"

...and sat down on a folding chair next to a woman with mustard-colored stockings.  Again - just knock me over with a feather there have been no mustard-colored stockings in the history of colored stockings. He could have said ANY color on the planet. He had the full color spectrum to choose from and chose MUSTARD and I cannot tell you how much I appreciate that.

...such a beautiful boy - ascetic looking, with a shy large toothy smile and high cheekbones and large bony knuckles and heartbreaking shoulders.  Heartbreaking shoulders. I had to read it three times at least because I loved the idea of heartbreaking shoulders so very much. I wish I had thought of heartbreaking shoulders but most people just don't think that way. I am very much like Most People and I really hate that about myself.

Nicholson's characters speak in the same clipped, blunt manner as Murakami's characters. One character will say something supremely strange and the other character will respond in a delightful ho-hum manner, as if they heard things like that every day. That kind of quirky dialogue is a trademark of Murakami's.

Let's see...I've pulled a Murakami novel off my shelf, Kafka on the Shore. Now I've just randomly opened it up to page...let's see...247. And aha! Let's just look at this dialogue, shall we?

I turn red. "I can't really explain it," I reply. "It's complicated and there's a lot of stuff I still don't get."

"But you're probably in love, probably with Miss Saeki?"

"Right," I say. "Very much."

"Probably, but also very much?"

I nod.

"At the same time it's possible she's your mother?"

Another of my patented nods.

See what I mean? This is on every page.

Baker's characters do it, too. One character, Shandee, is having a relationship with the disembodied arm of a man named Dave. She refers to the arm simply as Dave's arm. She and Dave's arm have ended up traveling through a porthole to the House of Holes, where Dave is supposedly running around without an arm, having exchanged it for a larger penis, of course. And she meets a young man who entered the porthole through the pierced ear hole of a girl he met. And here, she's introducing Dave's arm to the young man, who acts as if it is perfectly normal to meet an arm.

"Dave's arm, meet Ruzty. Ruzty, meet Dave's arm." She held Dave's arm out.

"Hey, dude," said Ruzty, and gave the arm a thumb-to-thumb handshake. He smiled at Shandee - dazzling teeth. "Good for you to travel with somebody who is a friend."

"That's very true," said Shandee.

It could be that you're reading this and thinking, "Wow, that Sardine Mama is quite strange." It could be that you're reading this and not getting the slightest bit enthusiastic about clipped dialogue that takes you down rabbit holes, or unexpected details like mustard-colored tights. It could be you have absolutely no intention whatsoever of jumping onto Amazon and buying either vampire porn (and I really suggest you don't), erotica or Japanese sci-fi based on my less than professional critique, and are, in fact, thankful that you are the master of your own Kindle and can avoid erotica and Japanese sci-fi, entirely. And if that is the case, that means I am sometimes a part of the masses, and other times.....not so much. And if that is the case, it makes me perfectly happy.

Lamenting and Smurfing

2011-08-06T21:13:00.000-07:00

So, the lamenting about the this and the that and the other thing over there has got to stop. I have become a bore. BUT - for the 3 of you who commented? Wow! Awesome, Long, Amazing comments. And Mark - I know how hard it was for you to write so many words all at one time....and I even suspect you had read my entire post! You guys were great. Thanks for taking one for The Team!

I was going to write something all happy and inspirational - really I totally was - but then....just as our co-op meeting was starting, Camille came in saying she had fallen. And I took one look at her and said, "What did you break?" And she said, "Nothing. But I fell on my back."

I knew she had broken something. She had that shocky look - big eyes - pale face - rubbery vibrating quality to her. But obviously, it wasn't her back that was broken. She was holding her wrist.

I am not good with Broken Things. If something breaks around the house I just want a new one....I am turned off completely by anything that dares to be broken. Now if you add humans to the list of broken things I am more than turned off - I become downright disgusted, nauseous, and depending on whether or not there is blood involved - quite useless. So it was with great trepidation that I looked at her wrist, and I had one foot halfway out the door when I did it. That's right. When things are Really Bad...I run. My kids will tell you that they were often amazed when on the playground, kids would fall and get injured and their moms would run TOWARD them instead of AWAY. If my kids really needed my assistance, they had to catch me first. Stop bleeding and we'll talk! I'd yell.

The wrist didn't look bad. There was no bone poking up through the skin, there was no bone sticking up almost but not quite through the skin, and nothing was bent the wrong way. I relaxed. But I knew it was broken - because we were literally covered in the broken bone fog - that feeling that something is not right and is, in fact, broken. Do you feel that fog when something's wrong? Maybe I'm just special. Anyway - I was all Mature and Adult-Like in front of the other mamas....getting ice, settling her on my bed, etc. I didn't rush her to the hospital right away because I really wanted to wait and see if maybe I was wrong - maybe in 30 minutes or so she'd be right back out there trying to get in the tree (that's how she fell). After co-op, however, her wrist was swollen and she was still quite content to lie in my bed, which is very unusual for this kid. Joel The Lifeguard looked at it and pronounced it sprained. He asked if she needed a floatation device.

We had about 2 hours until we needed to leave for Ellie's Un-Graduation party. Dang! I threw her in the bus and we headed to the ER - where she was pronounced the happiest patient they'd had all day. The idea that she had broken a bone (her first) was quite thrilling for her. She's my little attention-hog. We were seen quickly - it was deemed quite broken - and we see an orthopedist we keep on retainer on Monday. (He's seen 3 of my kids in the past few months - remember Jules' broken hand that happened that weekend we tried to leave to celebrate our anniversary? You know the weekend - the one where Ellie wrecked the car while we were gone trying to celebrate our anniversary? Yeah - THAT WEEKEND.)

I'm sorry! I'm still lamenting, aren't I? You didn't come here for lamenting! So here's some pics from Ellie's party. It was a nice little group shot and then Jeff jumped in at the last minute. He looks like an axe murderer who's about to start picking these kids off one by one.

These boys posed to show off their new aerodynamic looks. Between the 3 of them, I'm thinking they've recently cut over 20 inches of hair off. Austen (middle) is missing his dreadlocks!! They hardly recognized each other. And that's my Joel on the right - I TOLD YOU he cut his hair!!

And here's The Joels.

No pics of poor Camille - she was busy being propped up on pillows and pampered at my dad's house. Jasper was at the party - no pics, though. He never slowed down long enough. But if you want to know what he looked like just imagine him drenched in sweat, covered in ice cream, and fueled up by All Natural Soda. Got that image? Good.

It was something like 104 when we arrived at The Cove, where we'd reserved the outdoor patio for the event. We did that several months ago, when it was in the mere lower 90's or so...and it seemed like a good idea at the time. Rick Perry has been praying for rain and it hasn't been working. We've still got The Gays and a Middle Class, too. So he's just not praying hard enough.

That reminds me. When we were in the ER, the doctor told Camille to put her hand on her chest like she was saying the Pledge of Allegiance. And then he said, "Oh, that's right...they don't LET them do that in school anymore, do they?"

Now folks - I was tired. I was cranky. I was wondering if Jules last MRI had finally met our freaking deductible. And so before I knew what I was doing, I had opened my mouth and said, "Did you hear that on Facebook? Huh? Because it's WRONG. They not only still say the Pledge of Allegiance to the United States of America and to the Republic for which it stands.....they ALSO say the Pledge of Allegiance to TEXAS and the Republicans for which IT stands." I didn't actually say the Republicans for Which it stands...i mean...i said it right now...to you...but not then because i didn't think of it until just now.

"Really?" he said. "I didn't think they let them do that anymore."

Who the smurf is THEY? I saw what was coming next....because you can't mention how they stopped the Pledge of Allegiance without going into how they won't let the kids pray in school. So before I could stop myself, I had cut him off by saying, "And they follow all of the pledging up with a moment of silence. So kids can PRAY if they want to." Which most of them smurfing don't!! I remember School Prayer. At times, I LED School Prayer because I was on the student council or whatever. It was a little written-down thingy that was read (badly) with no thought or emotion over the crackly intercom while 90% of the kids picked their noses....God is completely beside himself now that this tradition has been removed from public schools and replaced by a moment of reverent silence. I mean, He's so mad about it he's apparently trying to kill us with a drought!! But that's okay because Rick Perry and His Friends are Talking to God RIGHT NOW and trying to distance themselves from the sin and debauchery (not climate change) that has led to this punishment. Like God is gonna fall for that! But it's a Genius Plan because eventually - it's gonna rain - and then Perry can take the credit.

Oh wow! I didn't see that coming, did you? I had no intention of talking about any of that at all. It is just crazy how things come out when I blog. Crazy, crazy, crazy.

Since I am obviously still lamenting instead of inspiring or informing, let me lament about how, despite Rick Perry's efforts to save us, we are all going to hell in a hand basket. We really are. How do I know this? Because I saw the Smurf Movie. You read my earlier post about how I was feeling all Lame-O, right? This spurred me to travel to our small downtown theater with the little people and suffer through the Smurfs. This particular movie caused all kinds of Special Suffering....it was really THAT BAD...as in even worse than Mr. Popper's Penguins. God, you don't have to punish us with a drought. Really. Mr. Popper's Penguins was enough! Stop! I'll stop coveting, lying....um....what else do I do on that list? Oh yeah....I'll stop dishonoring my poor dad by writing a blog....I'll do just about ANYTHING if you could just stop allowing idiots to create children's movies!! I'll even stop CURSING. Oh! Cursing! That's where this was all going. I knew it was going somewhere.

The Smurfs cursed. A lot. Not with Real Curse Words. With SMURF. And I found it unbelievably smurfing offensive. I was like, What the smurf, Smurfs? And then I was like, REALLY? Did you really just say "Smurf yourself?" and "Kiss my smurf"? I was completely stunned. And let's face it kids, I curse like a sailor. WHY DOES THIS BOTHER ME SO MUCH? I mean, it really really really bothers me. I've been known to substitute the word "freaking" for the word "fu*king" and I don't think I'm fooling anyone. In fact, I'm sure I'm not. When I clutch my shin and scream, "Why can't anyone in this freaking house close the freaking dishwasher door???" I think it's pretty obvious what I'm Actually Saying. And I'm not defending myself. But at least (here's where I defend myself) I don't use the word FREAK as a VERB. As in, "Go freak yourself." Or, "Freak it...I'm just gonna do what I want." Or "Freak me." Or "Freak you." You know...there's just lines you don't cross when you Fake the F-Word. Unless you're writing the script for a CHILDREN'S MOVIE using little tiny blue cutesie creatures. OR, as I recently discovered, furry little high-pitched sounding cutesie creatures. Wanna hear about the latest Chipmunk movie? (I swear to God if you said yes to that you deserve to have God dry you up in a drought.) Just go to http://www.munkyourself.com/. That's right! Munk yourself!! This verbiage is coming soon to a toddler's mouth year you. "Munk you mama!" Very cute. Also? For the record? When I dropped my 16-year-old off at the pool where he works and he saw all the daycare vans parked in the lot and said, "Mother-smurfer?" I was not amused. And he hasn't even SEEN the Smurf movie. There's a Winnie-the-Pooh movie out and nobody's telling anybody to go Pooh themselves. You know why not? Because Pooh's got class, that's why. SOCIETY IS DOOMED. Smurfing doomed, I tell you.

I've worked myself up into a smurfing fit here. I need to let off some steam. Maybe I'll just go munk my husband. And yes, I know that was a tacky and offensive thing to say. That's my point!

I think my work here is done.

Signing off as the Smurfing Sardine Mama

Regrets: I've Had A Few

2011-08-04T11:15:00.000-07:00

Do not read this if you're ~~Mark from Our Simple Lives~~ sensitive and emotionally drained and somewhat bored with my going on and on and on about The Kid Leaving.

Sigh.

My life is such utter chaos right now that you'd think maybe I wouldn't have time to be so singularly focused. I mean, Jules' tumor grew, JOHN FRUSCIANTE GOT MARRIED, and I still have two little people doing all sorts of things requiring my Direct Involvement. And yet....it all comes down to Her. Leaving.

Yesterday she loaded up her two youngest siblings and headed into the city with them. She took them ice skating and to the movies. Her movie of choice? The Winnie the Pooh movie. The stories of her own childhood. She'd deny it - but I think she's missing her childhood, too. Or at least, remembering it.

Anyway - so she took the two littlest because she feels she really hasn't spent all that much time with them during the last couple of years. She's been super busy being her Big Non-Child Self to worry with the siblings who are still busy being their child selves. I think she's kind of hoping that after she leaves, all their little minds will eventually remember is that they had all kinds of crazy fun with their big sister doing things like skating and movie-watching. She's trying to trick them. I know where she's coming from because that was my Official Plan with HER.

I was going to spend these last two weeks together doing all sorts of crazy fun things with her. Of course, it hasn't worked that way. For one thing, her idea of having crazy fun rarely requires my presence. She's been hopping around from one friend's house to the next....up to Bandera to visit her boyfriend....Mom, I'm LEAVING soon and I have to spend time with these people!!

Before you get all teary-eyed imaging me sitting here in her path of destruction - just sitting here all lonesome -like and ignored while she visits with Other People Who Are Not Me...let me just say that I have been running around like a crazy person and wouldn't have had time to give her if she'd wanted it. I've had no sense of a relaxing summer at all - and now it's all over and done with. Next week is Ellie's official last week here before college - and I'll be driving Camille into the city every day for her Dance Intensive Workshop. And taking Joel to work. And picking Joel up from work. And getting our co-op going again. And doing a million other things. I won't know whether I'm coming or going. The one thing I know I will NOT be doing is sitting around waxing nostalgic with Ellie while bestowing womanly words of wisdom. I'm pretty sure she has a schedule planned for herself....I've heard her talking to friends....so she's not all worked up about the lack of Mother/Daughter Time, believe me.

Recently, Ellie performed at the McNay Art Museum with her Aloegretto Quintet as part of the San Antonio Cactus Pear Music Festival. (That's her on the very end - far right.)

It was a great concert and a rousing success for these kids. Here's a pic of my dad and Ellie's best friend, outside on the grounds of the McNay after the concert. Hey! Ellie's Best Friend!! Ellie's leaving and I'm going to be All Kinds of Needy!! Come see me!!

The museum sparked a little panic. As we were leaving, I was overcome with REGRET! I suddenly had an overwhelming sense of regret about all the things I thought I'd do with Ellie and haven't. I mean, when she was a little baby - I had all these big plans, see? And most of them have not happened.

"Ellie!" I said.

"Oh my god, Mom...WHAT?" She's cute, isn't she? The way she always thinks I'm overreacting and hysterical when in fact, I'm just using a normal tone of voice (in my head).

"I never took you to an art museum!! Like, ever!! Why didn't I ever take you to an art museum? I've had almost 19 freaking years to take you to an art museum and I never did! There are all these things I haven't done with you and now it's too late!!" (Notice the exclamation points!! That's how I'm feeling ALL THE TIME!!)

"Mom, you would HATE walking through an art museum." Ellie loves art museums.

"I wouldn't HATE it. And even if that were true, I should have taken you. I have totally sucked, haven't I?"

"Michele took me. Papa took me. And they enjoyed it. You wouldn't have enjoyed it."

"But that's not the point! The point is we have things to do and no time to do them! I never took you to the symphony! Oh my god, you're a classical pianist and I never even took you to the symphony."

"You took me that one time I performed with the San Antonio Symphony," she said. With a smirk. "And Other People took me."

(I'm totally whispering here)....I don't like classical music. Whenever we attend a recital or performance, Ellie always feels the need to apologize to me. "What are you talking about?" I'll say. "I love this!" She'll snort or something. The truth is, I love it when she is playing. I more than love it. I can't even think of a word to describe what I feel when she plays. I'm completely absorbed by her, mesmerized by her, in love with her, when she plays. But when other people play? Even the really good and famous people? Well, it's kind of like T-Ball. Have you ever had your kids in T-Ball? It's Crazy Exciting when your kid is batting. The rest of the time...not so much. I'm embarrassed by this analogy, believe me. But it works.

One time we sat down in a recital hall to listen to a concert pianist and Ellie skimmed the program. She did her snort-sound.

"What?" I said.

"Oh, nothing," she said. "You're just going to die, that's all. Well, maybe this song and this song....hmmm....the rest are going to kill you."

"Are they all really slow and really long?" I asked. She just smiled as the lights dimmed.

I survived that recital and countless others. In fact, I more than survived. I enjoyed them. Because I was with her.

On any given evening, I'd rather sit through a piano recital with my kid than do any of the million things I love to do. Because I like her. A lot. Have I mentioned she's leaving for college in two weeks?

When she was little I took her to the aquarium with friends. And we were both filled with all kinds of awe when we walked through the doors into that underwater world. We stopped at the first exhibit and I read all the plaques and signs to her. Then I tried to move along. She didn't want to move along - she wanted to ask endless questions and have the plaques and signs re-read. Finally, we moved on to the next exhibit. Repeat. Next exhibit. Repeat. The magic of the underwater world was quickly losing its appeal for me, especially when Ellie wanted to hear all about things like plankton and ocean current patterns and oh, I don't know, the mating habits of shrimp. "Come on!" I said. "We've been here 2 hours and we haven't even seen the sharks, yet!"

That was when my friend, Ann, took Ellie's hand and said, "I'll read you the signs. Your mama just likes to look at the Big Fish."

I don't think that was meant to be a summation of my entire personality, but it kind of is. I am a Big Fish Girl.

Ellie has always been more of a Microscopic Sea Creature Girl.

She liked jigsaw puzzles. I never did one with her....even though she begged. I cheated in board games or surrendered, entirely. Whatever would get it over with the quickest. I slept through countless children's movies. I never strung beads, tie-dyed, or played Barbies. UGH. I have regrets, people! I do!! But am I transferring these feelings to the current Little People Living in my House? The ones who are not too old to play games and string beads? Nah. Not really. I'm entirely focused on my failures with the oldest kid! One at a time, people. Get in line.

Regrets, regrets, regrets. I didn't sing enough lullabies. I didn't pack good lunches. I was never prepared and never organized and her entire life has been a helter-skelter mess of us running around like chickens with our heads cut off. What will she remember of her childhood? If I took her to the art museum tomorrow - do you think maybe time will all run together-like and possibly convince her that her childhood was filled with trips to art museums? Can a lovely little fog descend where she'll remember a mom who worked puzzles and painted tea sets for hours on end?

I doubt it.

I'm afraid I've missed so much by only looking at the Big Fish. And now it's too late to go back and slow down and enjoy instead of sighing and tapping my foot as she lingered here and there and everywhere. I linger in my mind, I linger between words on a page, but I don't linger at the physical places...the places where I could have held a tiny hand and clung to it with the knowledge that it wouldn't stay tiny forever...those physical REAL places where we could have stood side by side looking at seaweed and sandcrabs. In the physical world, the REAL world, I am often in a hurry to get it over with. And what have I missed? Too much to contemplate.

Will she remember me that way? hurry up, let's go, why are you stopping, how long are you going to take....

I'd like to wrap this up with something catchy, at this point. I know you think I'm leading up to it. And don't think I haven't tried. I've been sitting here for ten whole minutes thinking...and that is a long time for me. But the truth is, I don't think she's spending a lot of time contemplating my parenting skills. I think she's pretty busy being herself, which is something I've always encouraged. Is that my legacy?

Recently, I was looking for a very particular post I wrote years ago....a post about Unschooling. I couldn't find it but I did find a post I'd written when Ellie was maybe 15 or so. I was talking about how I had been a little blue - feeling that I was losing her (if I'd only known then that I wasn't losing her because I am FREAKING LOSING HER NOW and there is a big difference....exclamation point) and how I'd arrived at my dad's house and looked in my mom's desk drawer for some reason....and my mom had been dead for several years. I missed her dreadfully and wanted to tell her how my baby was pretty much refusing to stay a baby and how it was dreadfully inconsiderate of her and it never occured to me that my mom's baby had done the same thing to her. And I found something in the drawer that seemed to have been left there for me to find just that very moment.

I found a poem, tucked away in her drawer.

Here's what I wrote:

My dad noticed I was kind of blue. I tried to explain to him what I was blue about but I could tell he didn't get it. Male minds are not tuned into the subtle nuances of mothers letting go of daughters. I felt the need to talk to my mom - which is a frustrating need since she is dead. I walked back to the bedroom and for some reason, opened the drawers of my mom's desk. I don't know why. I wasn't snooping - just trying to find her, I guess. I needed to touch her things. Inside the drawer I found a little journal. My mom kept a journal? I hadn't known about that. It was mostly empty, except for two entries. The date was October 30, 1990 - two years before Ellie was born. Glued to one of the pages was a copy of this, by Kilil Gibran:

Your children are not
your children.
They are the sons and daughters
of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you;
And though they are with you
yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love
but not your thoughts,
for they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies
but not their souls.
For their souls dwell
in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit,
not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not
to make them like you.
for life goes not backward
nor tarries with yesterday.

The funny thing is, I had forgotten all about this post. And then today I found it while looking for something else. Like it was left there, just for me to find, at this particular moment.

Thanks, Mom. You were a Microscopic Sea Creature Girl who raised a Big Fish Girl. And I turned out okay. Thanks for reminding me of that.....just now.
Dang! I almost made myself cry. I wrapped this up quite nicely, after all.

Here's the Aloegretto Quintet performing something classical by Brahms :). Ellie's on the piano, of course!

LA Times

2011-07-30T12:23:00.000-07:00

Two blog posts in as many days! Crazy. You know what this means, right? I've started another writing project. And my Propensity Towards Procrastination shall land me repeatedly here...at the blog...every time I sit down to write. So, hello! How are you? How are things? Please...tell me. Otherwise I might have to (gulp) write. something.

We went to Los Angeles last week, remember that? We've been going to Los Angeles since Jules was seven years old. It's not for giggles - we go because Jules has a tumor and we see a doctor at The House Clinic, where they monitor and treat more of this type of tumor than anywhere else.

Jules is now 13. And he's bigger than me. The first time he had an MRI in Los Angeles, I carried him down the hall. Obviously, I don't do that anymore.

As we sat in the San Antonio airport I casually said, "Did we ever confirm the appointment?" We've learned over the years that it is prudent to confirm appointments at this particular clinic. "I mean, we know the hospital appointment is confirmed...but what about the clinic?"

Jeff called the clinic. While we were boarding our flight. And guess what? They'd cancelled our appointment and we were supposed to have somehow known that. I guess somebody was supposed to have called us. On any one of the 3 phone numbers on file for us at the clinic.

Now we're knocking our way down the aisle of the plane..."We're flying in from Texas. No, RIGHT NOW. We're on the plane right now. Nobody called us."

What was the point in our calling to confirm while already on the plane? We did it for the same reason we go to Los Angeles every year. To make ourselves feel better. To reassure ourselves that everything is bumping along as it should be. Yes, yes...we're just calling to confirm our appointment...ta da! Yes! We knew we had an appointment, just calling to confirm! Thanks a lot!

Only this time? We didn't have an appointment and we had to see a Different Doctor.

Reassuring ourselves. That's why we go to Los Angeles. Hello! We're just here to have an MRI to confirm that this tumor isn't growing! Just here for that confirmation, thank you very much. Just checking...just a formality and all that...we'll just be on our way for another year, now.

Only this time? We didn't get that confirmation.

The Different Doctor told us immediately that the tumor had grown. And I didn't believe him because he was a Different Doctor. He told us the measurements of the tumor and the measurements fluctuate from year to year...one time a tad bigger, the next time a tad smaller...because whether we like it or not - this medical business is not an Exact Science. In fact, I suspect that it is Actual Voodoo. And with every fluctuation, our doctor has announced that the difference wasn't measurable or significant or something like that and then we would vacate the premises feeling all victorious, like we had personally done something to keep that tumor in check, like we'd won a game or defeated an adversary or achieved some kind of Concrete Goal. Woot! It didn't grow. I know...we're awesome, right?

The exam started badly with the Different Doctor walking in and flipping casually through Jules' very thick chart. I hate it when they do that. I feel like I can't talk, because the doctor is "busy flipping through the chart." Talking to a doctor while he's flipping through a chart is like talking to Joel while he's playing a video game. Not very satisfying. I could have given him the entire low-down in under a minute and he wouldn't have had to look at the chart except for maybe some confirmation but I didn't say anything and he silently flipped before asking Jules how his hearing was in his right ear. Seeing as how Jules is completely deaf in his right ear and seeing as how the doctor was sitting on his right side, Jules didn't even hear, much less, answer the question. I sighed. So much for the effectiveness of chart flipping.

"It's on the cochlear branch, not the vestibular," I said like some sort of expert.

"Oh!" said the Different Doctor. Flip, flip, flip.... "Well, it's definitely grown."

So you can see how at this point I wasn't really putting all that much stock in his proclamation. He started talking surgery and I started tuning out. Where's the Real Doctor?? I wanted to shout. Because this guy didn't seem to understand How This Worked. He was supposed to say it hadn't grown and then we were supposed to march out through the waiting room with We are the Champions playing in our heads, past the other patients who may or may not be quite as good at prohibiting tumor growth as we were and wasn't that sad and tragic and everything and then we would go to China Town for some so-so Chinese. That's how it Always Worked.

I didn't believe the Different Doctor. But I didn't disbelieve him, either. We were told the Real Doctor would call us later. When he was done with brain surgery yada yada. Like anything he could have been doing meant anything to me now that Different Doctor was making all sorts of ridiculous statements involving words like growing and surgery.

Jules didn't hear most of what the doctor said, but he'd heard enough. I assured him that we hadn't even seen a Real Doctor, further confusing him. Because I'm helpful in that way.

"Hey, Mom. Did you see me raise my eyebrows?" he asked with a little smirk.

"Yes, I did, and I was extremely proud," I answered.

This is one of our little private brain tumor jokes. Does your family have private brain tumor jokes? Surely you do. Anyway - when Jules was 7 and first diagnosed, we saw lots of Different Doctors who were not the Real Doctor and one of them was a particular sort of A$$Hole Doctor and I particularly didn't like him for all sorts of particular reasons. The first time he saw Jules, he asked him if he could raise his eyebrows. In response, Jules did a whole lot of bizarre things with his ears, nose, mouth, and cheeks. He also opened his eyes really wide, crossed his eyes, bulged his eyes....all sorts of neat-o tricks. The eyebrows? Remained stationary. I was like, "What the heck, Jules? Dude, RAISE YOUR EYEBROWS." He stuck out his tongue.

The doctor wrote down partial facial paralysis in Jules' Official Chart.

As soon as we got to the car I said, "I swear to god Jules, raise your freaking eyebrows."

He did.

And that's the sort of nonsense I deal with on a regular basis.

We did go eat at our usual China Town establishment, and the owner who remembers us every year came over and talked with us. He likes to talk basketball with Jeff, seeing as how the owner is a HUGE LAKERS FAN and Jeff HATES THE LAKERS. They have a lot of fun. He talked to us for so long that LA-Type-Of-People started looking at us and trying to figure out if we were Important. The guys at the table next to us were making fun of Rick Perry. I tried to hide any little lick of Texas accent I might have because dude, some things are just embarrassing. And Rick Perry's one of them.

I didn't have much of an appetite. We didn't leave China Town and do any of the fun things we normally do while in LA. We didn't even drive around looking for Red Hot Chili Peppers promotional propaganda, even though it is everywhere right now. We didn't even look for Actual Red Hot Chili Peppers. Somehow, we just weren't in the mood this year. We headed back to the hotel where Jules watched hours of History Channel shows - none of which were about history but many of which involved Rednecks of All Flavors wrestling or shooting alligators, trying to dislodge tree trunks, cutting down trees, or driving big rigs on icy roads.

Normally, I wouldn't have trusted that the Real Doctor would even call back, because even though he is Real, he is still a Doctor. But we were going to be attending my uncle's funeral and so I figured he'd call then - because sometimes Murphy's Laws trump Normal Doctor Behavior. I was right. So after the burial, we pulled into a convenience store and the Real Doctor said, "It's grown and I'll call you back tonight to discuss options." He didn't waste a lot of breath on it, and we drove home in stunned silence. The rest of the day was rather long and consisted of me walking around with a phone stuffed into my bra...walking, walking, wandering around aimlessly, trying to focus.

It was 9:00 pm when he finally called. And he was very sweet and awkward because we had him on speaker phone and awkwardness is a requirement for speaker phone etiquette. I don't normally put anyone through the speaker phone experience, but these were extreme circumstances.

So we're looking at surgery next year. Not this year. And putting it off until next year fills me with both relief and hysteria. Try to balance those two. I dare you.

But all's good. We're still one of the Lucky Families...we're painfully aware of that. But we're also painfully aware of how we're not special and immune to disaster...we are, in fact, like Everybody Else. Luckily, being like Everybody Else also means that after this brief time of feeling vulnerable and fragile, we'll go back to thinking we're special and immune to disaster. That's human nature.

I, personally, am really grateful for human nature. It's going to kick in any day now...

This is Where The Cowboy Rides Away

2011-07-29T17:47:00.000-07:00

My uncle died. Alzheimer's is a horrible disease. But then again, most of them are. Nobody dies from a pleasant disease, now do they?

Uncle Gene was a cowboy. Not the kind who rode in trail rides along the highway on the weekends; the kind without any cows and a police escort bringing up the rear. And not the kind who lived on a 25-Acre "Ranchette" that he managed from the seat of a tractor the rest of us would readily identify as a lawnmower.

My uncle was a Real Cowboy. As in, that's what he did for a living.

Just like his daddy before him.

Alzheimer's took him, too.

Here's my grandfather with my mom. Alzheimer's took her, too. I was pregnant with Jasper, at the time.

My uncle was also a daddy. This little baby on the back of the horse is my older cousin. It was great to see my cousins. It's one of those situations with us where we really only see each other at funerals. Which is sad. Our lives are all so busy. Which is ridiculous.

I used to visit my cousins on the ranch were they lived. My uncle managed Big Ranches....the kind where herds are now rounded up via helicopters. I loved visiting and playing with my favorite cousin, Gene Anne, and pretending I was a country girl. I wasn't exactly a city girl, you see...I was a Tiny Texas Town girl...but we lived in a neighborhood with a driveway and gangs of kids riding banana-seat bicycles. It was very quiet where my cousins lived, and there were exciting challenges like cattle guards, barbed wire fences, and of course, rattlesnakes.

Watch out for the tall grass, girls, he'd say as we walked. There's rattlers out. Here now, I'll go first and y'all follow me. I'll wake 'im up...the next one of you will make 'im mad, and well, whoever goes last can deal with angry SOB.

On our heals was always his blue-eyed cowdog, Son. Son was his nickname, of course. His full name was SonuvaBitch. He was occasionally referred to by his full name, usually when he'd done something stupid.

Sometimes he'd let us go with him to feed cattle. Y'all mind the truck, he'd say as he got out. The truck was still running, of course. Driving ahead very slowly through the pasture, all by itself, with me and my cousin sitting in the front seat while my uncle hopped in the bed and rolled out salt licks or hay. This was all great fun to me.

Sometimes I was a little bit afraid of my uncle. He was gigantically tall. In fact, I once snagged my cheek on his belt buckle during a goodbye hug. He could give us what my sister called...the crazy eye. He'd cock his hat back on his head and a raise up a single eyebrow and say, What did you say? To which we'd invariably reply, Oh nuthin'. No matter what we'd said. 'Cause that look could knock the air out of you.

Sometimes when he raised that eyebrow he wanted to know what we were up to. And usually we weren't up to anything but man, it sure felt like we'd been caught under that steely gaze. And sometimes he'd raise that eyebrow and go to ask a question and we'd be all ready to say, No sir! but then he'd say, Y'all want some ice cream? And it would take a minute for us to recover and switch to Yes sir!

When I was a teenager I discovered something cool about my uncle: He knew stuff. Lots of stuff! And if you had the patience to withstand the raised eyebrow and the tilted hat and the long periods of considerin' this and that....he had a lot to say. Wow! Who knew! I guess I fell in love with him in my teens.

My uncle loved to fish. Mostly he fished in rivers and cattle tanks and ponds and such. But my dad introduced him to saltwater fishing and man oh man, but he liked that a lot. My dad would be all decked out on his Boston Whaler with his leather, rubber soled deck shoes and his fishing hat and shorts...some sort of t-shirt...and my uncle would come aboard as if it were any other dull Sunday and time to feed the cows. Hat, long-sleeved shirt with pockets and the cuffs Not Rolled Up but buttoned snugly...and....boots. On the deck of the boat. My dad complained about the boots on the boat deck until my uncle finally bought a pair of sneakers. The first time I saw him wear them I laughed hysterically. I mean, I couldn't stop. It was just so weird.

My mom took this picture of him fishing on the boat in the back bays of Port O'Connor.

My uncle taught me to 2-Step. He took us to dance halls....the kind with sawdust on the floor and a band on the stage...the kind of band with a steel guitar and a fiddle. He was so tall! You'd think it would have been hard for a shortie like me to dance with him. But it wasn't. He was so smooth it was like we were floating...floating and twirling. He was always the best lookin' cowboy on the dance floor, at least in my opinion, and the best dancer...in everybody's opinion.

I grew up and went to college and got all kinds of busy. And then I got married and had kids and a job and got all kinds of even more busy. And so I didn't see him, anymore. And then my mom got sick...and he got sick...and I got all kinds of busy with my mom. Then my mom died, and I was all kinds of sad and yet all kinds of relieved from the stress of Alzheimers and so I didn't go see my uncle. I thought about him. He was my favorite uncle...mysterious and handsome and a mind that never stopped...and so I didn't want to go see him when I knew all of what made him my uncle was slipping away. I wish I had, of course. But at the time, I just couldn't muster it.

We're not a religious family (have I mentioned that before?). There was a graveside service. It was deathly hot but nobody complained. My eyes caught the glint of a silver and turquoise belt buckle as my cheek rubbed against a 100% polyester suit complete with a western yolk as I was embraced by a man named Chili. You remember me Carol Ann? Because you don't call a person by their first name only. My mom called me Carol Ann. Even when she wasn't mad.

There were flowers and tears. The picture at the top of the blog sat next to the casket. I looked at it. With my uncle, still waters ran deep. I knew him as my Cowboy Uncle...but beneath that there was a man that I didn't really know. I think, I'd have liked that man, with all his faults, just as well.

There was noise from a nearby construction sight...life rudely marches on even in the middle of a cowboy's burial. There was a preacher who was sweet as peaches but couldn't remember my uncle's name to save his soul. There were my kids, politely bowing their heads...hugging people they didn't know...amazed that this was somehow a part of their story, as well...these hats and buckles and mustaches and soft-spoken people.

We left the tent and the coffin and the cousins....with promises to get together soon....and I really hope we do.

Here's George Strait and this song's for my Uncle Gene. It's an old video...looks like Austin City Limits, maybe?

I wish I could have had one last dance before the cowboy rode away.

It's Clearly Fundamental

2011-07-24T11:38:00.000-07:00

We were in Los Angeles when the attacks happened. And the first thing I thought was, "Who the hell hates NORWAY??" I was sitting in the cafeteria at St. Vincent's Hospital and saw TERROR ATTACKS IN NORWAY!! I was interested (wouldn't find out the specific horrendous details for quite some time because even though it was a big monumental event - I was sitting in a hospital because my kid has a brain tumor so everything's relative and Norway is Really Far Away). But I was puzzled by it. Who would attack Norway? I just couldn't see a Big Operative Plan involving Norway. I'm an American, after all. So I consider other countries, especially physically small ones, to be rather unworthy of Big Attacks.

So, who attacked Norway? Was it a Muslim Extremist Group? I mean, they used the word TERROR and everything. So it must be a Muslim Extremist Group. Uh....no. It was a Norwegian Right-Wing Christian Fundamentalist. Now before you think I'm going to go all Liberalie Hippie Dippie on you (which I kind of am), let me just say I'm One Of You. If you're a hypocrite, that is. If you're not a hypocrite...good for you. I'd prefer most people be Just Like Me, which is just one of the ways in which I'm a hypocrite. Anyway - let me 'fess up. While standing in the security line at LAX, Jules and I were looking around. And over against the wall, a Very Angry Looking Middle-Eastern Sort of Individual, in Full Middle-Eastern Sort of Garb, was being held up, detained, whatever you want to call it. He had been pulled to the side and they were calling for other Security Personnel, etc. and everyone was kind of glancing back at him repeatedly. Now I felt all indignant and outraged for this fellow. That's racial profiling!! I thought. And immediately following that thought was this one: Jesus Christ, I hope he doesn't get on my plane. **He did...last guy on...having been detained and all...and we didn't blow up.

The Right-Wing Christian Fundamentalist Terrorist Suspect (yes! I said it again! 'cause that's what he is!) looks like a movie star. Seriously, have you seen his picture? Why does he have an Actual Head Shot? Do all Norwegians have Glamour Shots Photos of themselves if they're not teenage girls or members of the Actors Guild? Is that a Norwegian thing? I know so little of Norway. As I said, I'm American and I'm not much concerned with places that are Not America. Anyway, the Right-Wing Christian Fundamentalist Terrorist Suspect, Anders Behring Breivik, is perfect for the part. I mean, if you were going to cast a Bad Guy in a 007 Movie, and this guy's head shot turned up on your desk, you'd be like, "This is our bad guy! I don't even care if he can act!" Seriously. He is the Icy Cold Sharp-Shooting Norwegian Bad Guy. Only, this wasn't a movie. This was for real. And my heart is breaking for that country, and especially for the families of the slain teenagers. Because in the end, it all comes down to individual tragedies. I got that as I sat in the cafeteria of St. Vincent's Hospital, looking at my own teenager, who was sound asleep with his head resting in his arms on the table, his hospital bracelet peeking out from under his cheek.

It is hard to understand why a crazy person does something. It is nonsensical. But whenever the words Extreme and Fundamentalist are in the equation, you have the potential for Extreme and Fundamental Nastiness. Now then, I know that this attack was politically motivated, but part of his political problem is that his religion doesn't allow for the Muslim immigration that is going on in his country. Or his view of his religion, anyway. I bet that every time I say Right-Wing Christian Fundamentalist, all my Christian buddies are cringing. I don't blame you one bit. And you're (rightfully so) wanting to yell at me through the blog and say, Hey! We're not all like that! In fact, VERY FEW of us are like that! He is EXTREME!! He is crazy! He doesn't represent the rest of us and our peaceful beliefs and our good deeds!!

And you'd be right if you're wanting to yell that at me. And most people are going to agree with you. Even non-religious people, for the most part, are going to readily admit that terrorism isn't what Christianity is all about. This guy is clearly a fringe-nutter who totally doesn't "get" Christianity.

Now then, what if this guy weren't a good-looking blond with icy hard eyes? What if he were Middle Eastern, and was identified as an Extreme Muslim Fundamentalist? And what if the Muslim Community in...oh, I don't know....let's say New York....were to say, Hey! We're not all like that! In fact, VERY FEW of us are like that! He is EXTREME!! He is crazy! He doesn't represent the rest of us and our peaceful beliefs and our good deeds!! He clearly doesn't "get" Islam.

Would most people readily agree and nod their heads, much as we're all doing in the case of this latest Christian Fundamentalist Terror Attack, or would we maybe boycott the building of new mosques within a certain distance of the attack?

Now don't go all crazy on me. I understand that we haven't had any Right-Wing Fundamentalist Christian Terrorist Attacks here in the US except for Timothy McVeigh, a self-proclaimed Christian who was convicted and executed for the Oklahoma City Bombings. Oh well, actually, after a brief google I've discovered that presumption is wrong. The Southern Poverty Law Center lists over 90 attacks or planned attacks by Right Wing Extremists, and if you begin to individually google the perpetrators and accused perpetrators you quickly see a Christian trend developing. Yet, nobody is afraid of Christians. Even though the KKK wasn't out burning Stars of David and McVeigh wasn't carrying a copy of the Koran. Nobody is boycotting the building of new churches. Including me.

Because that would be wrong.

But it wouldn't be wrong because this is a Christian nation. It would be wrong because this is a democratic nation. Now then, I hear some of you starting up about this being a Christian nation founded on Christian principles and let me just say this: If this IS a Christian nation, what are we to do with all the non-Christians currently living, voting, serving in office, and serving in the military? Where are we going to bury this guy?

What are we to do with these people? Just let them continue living, voting, serving in office, and serving in the military out of Christian Charity?? Or should we do as some Christians wish? Ever heard of Dominionism? Just sayin'.

And seriously. If we got rid of the non-Christians, wouldn't you guys miss the hell out of me? And Steven Spielberg? And the Red Hot Chili Peppers? Because founding guitarist Hillel Slovak was also known affectionately as the Israeli Cowboy. Don't you love it how I can slip RHCP factoids in on basically Any Discussion? And don't you just want to say to the Dominionists....Come on, people. THINK. Your cardiologist is probably Jewish. As was/is JESUS HIMSELF.

While we're speaking of Religious Extremism and Fundamentalism and its Propensity to Lead to Violence Within and Among the Three Monotheistic Faiths ('cause that is what we're speaking of), can I just say that the Big 3 seem to be the most troublesome? The 3 Monotheistic Faiths seem to be the ones In The News. When is the last time Pagans attacked anybody?

I think it is that whole One God Idea that is the problem. It seems great in theory. But if there's Just The One, (I love this title for God, by the way. I picture a Jewish God...much like that picture I have of my great-grandfather rabbi in Russia...long-bearded and God-like...and he's waving his hand and smiling modestly and saying...I'm Just The One...) Anyway, He's Just The One and He's got to divide His attention among many...in this case, among the Jews, Muslims, and Christians, and if you're a warm and fuzzy religious person you're even thinking he is paying attention to The Others, as well, like little old Sardine Mama over here. And I can totally relate to His predicament. I most surely can. Because even Sardine Mama is overwhelmed by her children and accused of playing favorites from time to time. But so far, no Actual Explosions have resulted. You get my drift, though, don't you?

It seems we have a fundamental (scary word) problem. And it is simply this: We can't all be right. And if we are all right (like the feel-good tree-hugging type of hippie Christians say we are) - then what does being right even mean? It means that we can all choose our own Truth and believe in it, and at the same time, acknowledge everyone else's right to their own Truth. But that idea, while very lovely and sweet and warm and fuzzy - doesn't really make much sense. Believing in All Truths pretty much negates Any Truth. Which is why most religious people reject that idea and stick with the I'm Right and You're Wrong idea. And then? A very small percentage of them....a minuscule percentage, actually....begin stockpiling explosives and weapons.

It's a problem. And I certainly don't know the solution. But might I ask that while you pray for the victims of Norway and their families, that you also consider...just for a moment...the fact that some of the folks praying with you are Crazier Than Hell?

Be Aware. They tend to look perfectly normal.

I promise not to blog about religion for awhile. I realize it can be considered rude in some circles. And blogging, the word itself, sounds rather rude, doesn't it? Like something you should say Excuse me after. So if you combine blogging with a religious discussion, it could be misconstrued as doubly rude. And I'm just a Southern Girl, after all. Sipping on a Mint Julip and gently fanning myself in this Effing Triple Digit Heat that is part of a Natural Warming Trend and not Anything To Be Alarmed About.

And now I'd like to end with this. Because another tragedy occurred over the weekend - having nothing to do with religion and everything to do with the demon of addiction. God, how I'll miss Amy Winehouse. This isn't my favorite Winehouse song - but I love the video because it shows many sides of Amy.

The Adventures of Rain Dance Maggie and the Awesomeness of a Fleet Foxes Funeral Finale with a Bit of Frusciante For Good Measure

2011-07-16T11:51:00.000-07:00

Looking back over the past few blog entries, I see that I've tackled:

1. Politics (if Sarah Palin Entertainment can be counted as Actual Politics and unfortunately, I think it can).

2. Impermanence

3. Attachment Parenting and the Fostering of Independence

4. Religion

Don't you think it's time I drop all the fluffy unsubstantial blogging for something REALLY important? And judging from the title of this blog post, which is probably the longest blog post title ever in the history of blog post titles, can you see that I'm about to talk about something monumentally imporant? Like...oh, I don't know...The Adventures of Rain Dance Maggie? Yes, my Sardine Peppers....today the brand spanking new Red Hot Chili Peppers single was released. It is a few days earlier than expected, so boo-yah! Sardine Mama woke up to an unexpected pleasant surprise instead of the kinds of surprises she's used to waking up to, which are more of the I think I'm gonna throw up! variety. Or the Jasper just dumped an entire gallon of milk on the floor! variety. Or the Mom!! I have to be at work in five minutes!! variety.

You can listen to the single, if you want. But you don't have to. You and I don't have to be on the same page for EVERYTHING, after all. Or anything, for that matter.

I do not count myself a citizen of the Insane Chili Peppers Community. I'm not one the millions of (surprisingly young) people who spend hours commenting on discussion boards. The threads on these boards have titles like Will Anthony Shave His Mustache? It seems that there are a lot of people very concerned about the Chili Peppers front man's facial hair. Like REALLY CONCERNED. They're all rolling around on the floor in orgasmic bliss right now because of this single. Unfortunately, I am not in any kind of orgasmic anything that I know of. But I am really excited. But not as excited as the Crazy Fans on the Discussion Boards. I love it that I'm not as crazy as they are. There is a Them (crazy fans) and there is a Me (normal fan) and there is a rock solid line between us. I mean, after all, I don't spend hours commenting about Anthony's mustache. I just spend hours reading the comments about Anthony's mustache. This clearly makes me Normal. Clearly. Normal. Look it up.

Anyway, I am thrilled and excited and after listening to it 40 or 50 times, I have decided to come out in favor of The Adventures of Rain Dance Maggie. It's catchy. But it's missing something. And his name is John Frusciante. John, my favorite Pepper, is not in the band anymore. He's been replaced by a fine young man named Josh Klinghoffer. And I'm like totally cool with that. I am. Not. Really. Cool. With. That. Because even though I claim not to be obsessed with the Chili Peppers? I must admit to a somewhat casual no big deal or anything like that very small and tiny little obsession with Frusciante.

I have a small little tendency towards ridiculous obsessions. I have a small little tendency towards not really grasping the idea of moderation. You know, I couldn't just have one or two kids, I had to have five! I couldn't just homeschool, I had to unschool! I couldn't just breastfeed a baby, I had to breastfeed toddlers! That's the Sardine Mama you know and love (or are at least mildly curious about)....but my All Or Nothing personality doesn't stop at parenting. Unfortunately. Let's just say it's a good thing I never did Real Drugs. I can't just casually like a band, product, person, or philosophy. I wish I could. Casual Liking, it seems, would take up far less time that Complete Devotion.

So I'm devoted to Frusciante. Everybody needs a hobby.

Fortunately for me, I do have a Fellow Frusciante Buddy...and fortunately for me, I'm married to him. And fortunately for me, he often plays John's songs on his guitar. I don't think Jeff's interest in Frusciante extends to where he was last seen and what he was wearing, as does mine (even though I'm not crazy). But still, he appreciates him. I'm thinking a lack of appreciation for Frusciante would have been a deal-breaker for me.

My kids? Do not appreciate Frusciante. In fact, I'm pretty sure they're a little bit jealous. Like, who do you love more, Mom? Me or John Frusciante? Before you become alarmed by this, let me just say that I hardly even had to think about it.

John has crazed fans. I'm not even in the same universe as some of these people, many of whom claim he is Jesus. He has just sometimes looked like Jesus, which is clearly not the same thing as BEING Jesus.

He has also, at times, looked a bit like Edward Scissorhands, and he currently looks like a cross between Ben Stein and Grizzy Adams. None of his looks (and he's had so many) define him. He's undefinable.

Many claim to be in love with him. They want to marry him, have his babies blah, blah, blah. I am NOT THAT OBSESSED. I do admit to a 1:00 pm John Adoration Hour where I like to watch videos...but that's not EVERY DAY. It's only the days that I'm home at 1:00. I'm not in love with him, I don't want to marry him, and I certainly don't want to have his babies. I'm just his soul mate. That's all.

I would like to hang out and be his muse. Don't you think I would be a good muse? I could inspire him to write beautiful music. Because don't you think I'm inspiring? He might also find me amusing. Ha! Did you get that? I made like a little pun-thing....aMUSE....get it? I'd be an awesome muse. Unless, of course, he'd want to be like writing music All The Time. Like, spending hours and hours locked away being all boring and writing music. After awhile, I think I would cease to be amusing and start to be needy. I'd be all like Come TALK to me....I'm feeling LONELY....You don't pay enough ATTENTION to me.... I have been known to be um...emotionally needy (at times). And if I weren't all emotionally needy, I'm afraid I'd become physically needy, and John would be all like trying to write a song and I'd be all like, John, I'm hungry...fix me a sandwich!! Can't you see how well that would work out? See why he needs me? Let's see....what was I saying? Oh yeah. About how I'm perfectly normal and Not Like Those Other Fans who are clearly Not Perfectly Normal. Like I am. Normal. Ahem...

I have most of John's solo albums. And I like to listen to them in the car but I have to FIGHT FOR MY RIGHT to listen to John Frusciante. Sometimes we Rock/Paper/Scissors for it. Rock, paper, scissors! I win, Mom! Taylor Swift it is! Whenever Camille wins it is either Taylor Swift or Justin Beiber. I'd prefer a little Beiber, myself. But Camille sure loves Taylor. When she hands me the CD, I say, "What do you say?" And Camille says, "I don't need a boy to make me happy!" That's right. I refuse to pop in the Don't Leave Me Alone or Break Up With Me or I'll Die a Thousand Deaths-themed CD until Camille has recited this particular mantra. Sometimes she decides to be a smart ass and says, "You don't need John to make you happy, Mom!" And then I say, "Yes, I do. Mommy has reached middle-age and she's not at all comfortable with that and loving John makes it more bearable and adds meaning to my life and I'm entitled to a little joy, after all, and...." and then she walks off. See? All. Completely. Normal.Over. Here.

Joel can't stand the Chili Peppers. He says By the Way, in particular, reminds him of childhood family vacations, which I thought were all pretty swell but apparently give Joel nightmares. Whatever. He doesn't have much of an opinion about John one way or the other. But he supports my right to my obsession. When you die, Mom, I'm gonna have you cremated and sprinkle your ashes on Frusciante's lawn. Then you can become a PART OF HIS LAWN. No wait! I'll sprinkle your ashes on his George Foreman Grill and you can become a PART OF HIS STEAK and he'll eat you and you'll become a PART OF JOHN FRUSCIANTE. You'll freaking BECOME John Frusciante.

I think he's teasing but it is a lovely idea.

Speaking of when I die (because I don't know if you noticed but it seems I've subtly changed the subject), Joel and I have Big Plans for my funeral. I have a Funeral Play List and it is Rocking Awesome and it is a shame I won't be there to hear it. One of the songs that shall be played at my massively impressive funeral attended by thousands is Fleet Foxes' Tiger Mountain Peasant Song. It is SO DANG BEAUTIFUL.

Joel and I were discussing it and I was like, "Just picture it....me in the coffin....this song playing beautifully and everyone crying and weeping, but wait a minute...Joel, dude, you know we have to cut that song off before he gets to the end where he says, "I'm turning myself to a demon," because that would be inappropriate, in a way, and you know, quite possibly upset the church-goers amongst my fans..ahem...I mean, the people who have come to my funeral."

And then Joel is like, "Oh no, Mom! That would be AWESOME. I'll tie some invisible strings to you and when it gets to that part of the song I'll pull on the strings and you can SIT UP IN THE COFFIN."

I must admit, this idea does hold a small amount of appeal for me. It would almost be worth dying for. Listen to the song and tell me you don't agree.

Well, this was another one of those posts where Sardine Mama revealed just a tad too much about herself and lost a couple of followers, but whatever. It's my blog, after all.

I'm worse than a Tax Collector? Really?

2011-07-13T08:30:00.000-07:00

So, I'm trying not to let this thing bother me. It's a little thing. A little thing that was done with no thoughts about me. A little thing that was not intentional...certainly not done to hurt me or upset me in any way. I'm usually pretty good about not taking offense where none was intended. Life's too short to get your feelings hurt when nobody was even out to hurt them, right? Life's too short to get your feelings hurt by something that was done thoughtlessly.

I'm quite certain that I hurt people or offend people thoughtlessly. I'd apologize, because I hate to be responsible for bringing negativity on someone else, but you can't apologize if you don't know. That's the frustrating thing about thoughtlessness. It's just like insanity. If you freaking KNEW you were being insane, you'd stop, but that's not how crazy works. People who are crazy don't know it. And people who are thoughtless don't know it. If they knew it, that would imply thought, which would thereby take them out of the Thoughtless category altogether, moving them on over to the Intentionally Mean category.

I don't think I'm hurt by this unintentional thing that was done. I mean, it was done by someone I don't even know. By someone who doesn't know me. There's no target on my head - nobody is being mean "to" me or anybody else.Yet, I'm bothered. Annoyed. Pondering. Ugh, and probably a little hurt, after all. Because this has to do with children. Inadvertently, with my children.

Here's the situation:
I moderate an inclusive homeschooling list. I'd say about 99% of the members are Christian. If you put Texas and Homeschooling together you get Christian Families. So to me, it makes sense that if you are Christian and you have your choice of ninety billion Christian homeschooling groups - and you choose to join the only inclusive group in the area to join - you are saying, "Hey, I'm Christian. But I don't care if you're not. I don't care if your kids aren't religious. We joined an inclusive group and we freaking EXPECTED to meet a few non-Christians and we're cool with that."

Now before I get to the actual little incident that's nagging at me, let me just say that most of the co-ops and organized activities that are discussed on this list are Christian in nature. They'll say things like, "We're going to be using Christian themed lessons, or a Christian Worldview, or Evolution Will Not Be Discussed...." yada yada. And that's okay, right? Because the next person might post that their group is going to be doing things from a Buddhist perspective. That's what inclusive IS. Of course, I've yet to see that happen...the Buddhist thing...but people know that it could happen, and wouldn't say anything if it did. The groups that post are letting you know what you're going to get if you decide to attend so you're not surprised and uncomfortable once you get there. There are non-religious families doing things with religious groups within this inclusive list, believe me. And it's not a problem. I personally do not attend these types of groups/events because they do tend to make me uncomfortable and I can do my socializing with the Christians in settings where it's the things we have in common that have drawn us together (of which there are usually plenty), and not the things that might tend to separate us.

Last week someone posted an announcement that seemed different to me....a little out of place for an inclusive group....even though definitely acceptable according to our guidelines because hey, we have to include them, right? Even if it's an openly exclusive group.

A woman posted a message about a teen homeschooling group. It was a long message of the We're Going to Have So Much Fun!! variety. She listed the things they'd be doing and they did, indeed, sound like typical fun teenager-ish things to do. The types of things my kids and their friends do. And even though I wasn't really interested in the group, because quite frankly, we've just got enough to do and enough people to do it with, I still became....offended? Irritated? Hurt?...when the message ended with something along the lines of..."There is no statement of faith but..."

Ahhh...the But. If you're unfamiliar with what a statement of faith is, it is a line that people have to sign or verbally agree with that usually states that the person signing or agreeing accepts Jesus Christ as his or her lord and savior. Sometimes more detail is given as to EXACTLY what it means to accept Jesus Christ as your lord and savior. In case you were under the impression you had done so but had still missed the mark in some way...like not understanding the terms "lord" or "savior" in the context of Christianity. In case you've just been walking around mistaken about the whole thing (something I actually did for several years).

Anyway, so people sign these things, and sometimes...if the group or association is big enough or organized enough to have really cool activities...well, I know a few people who sign the statement even though they don't agree with it. Personally, I've got no problem with this. Camille is a Scientologist, after all. *Long story but let's just say it involves vaccinations and her desire to participate in a group activity that required her being vaccinated and did you know you can actually download a form stating that you don't vaccinate for religious reasons? See? I'm not kidding. I've got no qualms. Also? Not that it's any of your business but there are specific reasons why Camille is not vaccinated and she's no danger to your kid if your kid is vaccinated because DUH your kid has been vaccinated so BACK OFF.

Oh my, that's what Sardine Mama sounds like when she gets a bit defensive...now, where were we?

Oh yeah. The woman who posted her exclusive activity on the inclusive homeschooling list...she's going on and on about how much fun they're going to have doing all kinds of non-religious types of activities like movies, parties, swimming, skating, games...and then states that there's no statement of faith but only families with Jesus in their hearts should attend. In other words, what she's saying is: No Jews, Muslims, Pagans, Unitarians, Buddhists, Hindus or Atheists (and in some cases, depending on the particular brand of Christianity and why a statement of faith is sometimes helpful...no Catholics or Mormons) need apply.

Is it just me, or do you think Jesus is offended? I think he's offended. I mean, My God (literally), if this dude sat down with prostitutes and the dreaded tax collectors, don't you think he could stomach a few sardine teenagers at the skating rink? And, if the stories about him are true, don't you think he WOULD? Like...joyfully?

WHY is this bothering me? WHY do I care? I'll tell you why. Because I have 3 great non-religious teenagers. I have 3 teenagers who will not make fun of you, talk behind your back, or exclude you even if you have this syndrome/disorder or that. They will not be unkind in any way. I have 3 teenagers who go out of their way to include kids who might be a little different or quirky, who have been raised by the Golden Rule, and who understand what it means to be a friend, even during stormy adolescent times. And they're somehow...what..not good enough to hang with these guys? Not Christian enough.

What does it mean to bowl as a Christian? Do Christians bowl, skate, or play Monopoly differently than us? Well, I guess apparently some of them do. Some of them do it exclusively, with their backs turned and their circles closed. And that just doesn't seem very...Christian. And yet? I expect it more from the Christians than I do the non-religious. I have yet to meet a non-religious homeschooling family that excludes religious families from entering their social circles. And yet it's the religious folks who own the market on Good and Kind. Doesn't make much sense, does it?

You might say that parents have the right (and they do) to protect children from dangerous outside influences. They have the right to protect their children from secular folks who might not subscribe to the same values. Because we all know that the Christian Stamp means Good People, right?

Well, I don't think most parents are actually trying to protect their kids from Bad People as much as they're trying to protect them from considering that maybe not all non-Christians are bad...or that not all Christians are good. That's really why they don't want their kids hanging out with mine. What if their kids like mine? What if their kids decide my kids are (gulp) good and decent even though they don't have Jesus in their hearts? What if they're forced to actually think about how a good and decent friend who they like a lot is DOOMED to eternal damnation? And what if they do think about it and it doesn't make sense? And if that doesn't make sense, what if they start to think about other things and decide they don't make sense? What if they become actively engaged in discerning what their spirituality means and how they wish to apply it to their lives?

Okay. Never mind. I get it and she's right. This could lead to all kinds of crazy sh*t. She really shouldn't let her kids skate with mine. It could end Christianity as She Knows It.

Now if you're a Religious Type or the Church-Going President of the Sardines in a Can Fan Club....no need to comment that Not All Christians Are Like That. I know that already. Most of my friends are religious and obviously, they're not like that. I get you. I understand you. I don't always agree with you but I know where you're coming from and it's generally a pretty good place. No need to defend the faith unless you just really want to, in which case you're completely entitled and feel free to have at it.

I feel much better now. Thanks for listening.
Signing Off as A Non-Christian But Pretty Decent Sort Anyway Sardine Mama

Fostering Independence on Independece Day: But First - A Couple of Stories!

2011-07-04T13:05:00.000-07:00

Well, that last post was a tearjerker, if I do say so myself. I've had some requests for Funny. "Be funny!" y'all say.

The funny thing is, I don't currently feel like being funny. I'm not blah blah depressed or anything, but I'm wanting to talk about thoughts I've been having, lately. Thoughts about how children and teens are treated within our society, and how the ways in which they are treated are directly at odds with how we wish them to behave. But then I'm not being funny, am I? Sometimes Sardine Mama is funny, sometimes she's inspirational, and sometimes she's Just Plain Smart - but who likes a smart ass? Not me. But still, I'm going to go all smart on you in a minute. But first I must deal with the funny business you people demand.

Since I seem to be all out of humorous musings, I'll go with good old-fashioned storytelling, instead. As in, A Funny Thing Happened To Me On The Way To....

You see, yesterday, I unintentionally shed panties in the parking lot of the local grocery store. How is that, you ask? Are you laughing? For me, it was more embarrassing than funny, but go ahead and laugh at my expense. It's what I'm here for.

How does one unintentionally shed panties in public? Well, if one wakes up the morning after a late night out at The Cove during Pridefest...and one hastily bends over and picks up the very cute and not as tight as they used to be (yes! i've lost some weight!) dark denim capris from the bathroom floor, and then puts those dark denim capris on to run to the grocery store without checking those dark denim capris for the stray panties that are wadded up inside them, one runs the risk of having those panties from the night before fall out the bottom of the capris to land upon one's foot while one is in the middle of the crosswalk leading from the parking lot into the grocery store. One might or might not accidentally kick the panties up into the air while strolling, just in case the guys sitting in their pickups at the crosswalk failed to see the panties fall out in the first place. Then one might say to oneself, "What the hell is that and where did it come from?" And then one might recognize the item as one's very own pair of panties from the night before and feel compelled to snatch them up and act like shedding panties through the leg of one's capris is a perfectly normal thing to do....like dropping one's keys. "Oopsie!" one might say as she bends over to retrieve the fluttering panties. "Clumsy me!" Then one would have two options:

a) Stuff panties in purse and continue into the store.

b) Take panties back to the minivan.

In the spirit of needing a little recovery time, I suggest one choose the second option, whereby one could hope to collect herself and regain one's composure before heading back into the store for a gallon of milk. Once one has properly collected oneself and headed back into the store for a gallon of milk, one should try to avoid getting sucked into the belief that there are possibly still an infinite number of panties waiting to drop out the leg holes of one's dark denim capris. One should not become fixated on the possibility that there might be panties creeping out the waistband and down the legs of the the dark denim capris, or out the arm and neck holes of one's t-shirt. One shouldn't do that because then one will find it difficult to focus on the expiration dates on the milk jugs.

OK - well, if you didn't laugh at that you probably cringed. I actually did both.

It reminded me of a High School Incident (and I'm having dejavu at the moment - so either I'm still sufficiently traumatized or I've already shared this on the blog). Anyway, here is my High School Boy, Was My Face Red! story. Because the recent Panties in the Parking Lot Incident wasn't quite enough. I was sitting in Geometry, and I reached into my purse to retrieve a hairbrush. I firmly believed that brushing my hair during Geometry increased the blood flow to my brain, which had become completely numb about one and a half minutes into Geometry. So I yanked out my brush (I fully intended to apply make-up right there in my seat when I was done with the brushing ritual) and began brushing my hair. The boy next to me watched me and I assumed it was because my Hot Sexiness was thawing his geometry-numbed brain. Only he didn't really look turned on. He looked curious initially, and then slightly mortified. I continued brushing. I had really thick hair so I only kind of felt the light little tapping of a something or other as it hit my head with each stroke. Whatever could that be? I wondered. And then I saw the something or other out of the corner of my eye. It was white-ish....tubular shaped....and attached to a string that was hung up in the bristles of my brush. That's right, people. I was repeatedly smacking myself in the head with a tampon in front of a classroom full of kids who would have watched ANYTHING....absolutely ANYTHING...over the Geometry lecture. This was way more than any of them could have possibly hoped for in the way of a distraction.  I still occasionally see that boy...he always grins. I think he's a grandfather now.

Okay - have your funny bones been tickled enough? Now let me get on with my Important Thoughts.

I don't think I realized, until recently, how much independence we give our kids compared to Most Kids. I don't think I realized just how much more freedom they have than Many Kids. I don't think I realized how much faith and confidence we bestow on and have in them, compared to Lots of Other Kids.

We don't speak for our kids, unless one of them is going through the I'll Whisper What I Want You To Say For Me stage. If one of them is in that stage, we fully cooperate with that tag-team form of communication. Almost all of our kids have been at that stage at one point or another and I see nothing wrong with helping them express themselves over their shyness. Anyway - I'm OT, as they say. Off-topic.

What I'm not used to is parents of teens speaking for them. Not really FOR them, either, as in, "My child would like me to express this for him..." I'm talking "this is what I want to express for my child." And that's totally different.

I recently volunteered at a piano competition for Ellie. I simply registered pianists, telling them what time they played, asking for music, making sure their measures were numbered, etc. And in only ONE CASE did I actually talk to the teen pianist. The parents were the ones who came up to the desk, signed their kid in, flipped through the music to check measures, etc. Their teens stood behind / beside them, appearing either disinterested or frightened to death. I didn't talk to them. I talked to their parents. It was strange to me. I could no more have checked Ellie in at her own room than I could have taken Joel's Black Belt test for him. I didn't know what music she was playing, the order in which she was playing it, or whether or not her measures were numbered. And even if I did know all of that, I would still expect her to be the one to check herself in. She needs to hear the information, she needs to be able to ask any questions she might have....it just never occurred to me to do it for her.

The strange thing is, Attachment Parenting is often confused with Helicopter Parenting. What people don't understand is that we're not hoverers. We're really not. We're Emotional and Physical Need-Meeters. The acronym for that is EPNM....which is lame. If someone wants to come up with a better title and accompanying acronym I am All For It. Get to work on that, would you?

Anyway, we attempt to meet the needs of and give legitimacy to our kids in infancy and beyond because it fosters independence. They are in charge of identifying their needs. Not me. Who am I to argue with you if you say you're not hungry? Who argues with me if I say I'm not hungry or I don't feel like sleeping or I'm not really interested in continuing to learn about tarot cards? Nobody. So why do parents feel the need to tell their kids things like, "yes, you are hungry - it's dinner time!" or "you can't quit soccer simply because you don't like it! then you're a quitter! for the rest of your life! i'd rather you develop an intense fear of trying new things!"

Sheesh. Anyway, honoring their needs, even if what they needed was to sleep with us for comfort, or continue breastfeeding, or whatever it is that they wanted/needed to do....all of the things that made them look possibly clingy to people who didn't get it, just ensured that they felt worthy of having their needs met.  That's a Huge Thing. Think about it. I'm worthy of the things I need. I believe in the legitimacy of the things I need.

Truth be told, I don't have that level of confidence about myself. I wish I did.

Kids who are Attachment Parented learn how to express their needs with the complete expectation that value will be placed upon those needs. It means they can look adults in the eye and speak to them with the knowledge that they deserve to be heard. Likewise (and here's the part where those of you who believe this results in egocentric and bratty kids lose your leg to stand on), they firmly believe that everyone else also deserves to be heard and that their needs also have value. Bingo. Do you realize how many of society's perceived ills are solved with this simple idea of giving worth and value to the needs of your children? Oops! I think I got off-topic again.

Here's the incident I'm working towards:

Yesterday I had to attend a Parent Meeting for a music festival Ellie's participating in. There are only five kids in this group, and they spent an hour and a half telling us things that only the participants needed to know.  And yet, the other parents were intensely interested and involved in this meeting. With the exception of one young man (the only other homeschooler), none of the kids said a word during the entire thing (I'm sure that will change - they all hardly knew each other at this point - and Ellie really didn't say anything, either). But what I'm getting at is, the parents spoke for their children, and about their children, as if they weren't sitting right there next to them. At one point in the meeting, the leaders talked to the teens about how they would be attending many receptions with artists and patrons and how they should Speak To The Adults at these events. Like this was a really Big Concept. They told them that if they are introduced to their benefactors (all of these kids are being sponsored by patrons of the arts) they should Say Thank You and Maybe Even Something Else Like Nice To Meet You. They were repeatedly told to take advantage of opportunities to socialize with the professional musicians. But when you looked around the room, the kids had their heads down and the parents were nodding enthusiastically and speaking and talking and I wanted to point out the obvious, which is that you can't expect kids who are raised as if they are mutes in adult circles to suddenly know how to stand up and take their places as equals...you know...on command. **I don't know these kids and doubt very seriously that they are all raised as mutes by their parents, I'm talking about the Bigger Picture of how our culture and society tends to treat young people as somehow lesser than those who have simply been here longer, as if any of us even have anything to say about the order in which we arrive.

Just a little something to think about. I'm SO FAR FROM PERFECT, believe me. And if you don't believe me, I can ask my kids to leave their opinions in the comments section and you will get the Real Dirt on the Subject.

Sometimes I have to remind myself to pay attention to and honor the needs of my littler guys (not so much with the bigger ones....I have a problem treating the little guys with the same respect as I do the bigger ones....I'm a Work In Progress). Sometimes it is something simple, like Camille will say she doesn't like something and I'm tempted to say, Yes you do!! And instead of thinking she just doesn't know what she's talking about, I'll force myself to believe that she absolutely does. And then I just keep on doing it the rest of the day. Not just giving in, but believing in what she expresses to me. It makes me see her differently. It makes me honor her, respect her, and yes, love her, differently. It makes me value her differently. And then? It makes me value everyone a little differently, myself included.

I'm more likely to believe my own needs deserve to be met when I can see that simple truth in the needs of others.

OH MY GOD. I think I just bestowed the Golden Rule upon you people. I told you I was going to be all smart! Just did it in my usual Wordy Way.

Happy Independence Day!

And Then The Past Recedes

2011-06-25T10:23:00.000-07:00

We were riding in the car. Actually, it was our old blue Mitsubishi Montero. It only had one seat in the back - very different from the enormous, Nasty Big Boy Van I drive now. But we only needed the one seat, because we were the typical American-sized family at the time. We were the obnoxiously proud parents of exactly two children, and Ellie and Joel rode in the back, ages four and two.

We were driving through the country....Jeff was humming to the radio....in my mirror I could see Joel with his brows drawn together as if he were thinking about something. When Joel thought about something he tended to use all of his facial muscles to do it. Ellie was just hanging out in her booster seat. A particular sense of melancholy rode along with me. I was happy, but feeling the pangs of impermanence. The details of this trip in the car...where were we going? I can't recall....I only remember the details of those few seconds. But I remember them so clearly. I knew I was in a living snapshot....I had this sense that nothing was real - nothing was permanent - we were images captured but for a moment. Nothing was any more solid than the dream you wake up from in the morning.

Joel and I seemed to be on the same wavelength because he said, "Someday we'll be two mommies and two daddies driving in this car." He couldn't say his R-sound...so it sounded like caw. I smiled, clinging to that mispronounced R-sound. Because I knew it would change...it wasn't real and solid and something I could hold onto. I remember I actually grabbed the door at that point - I wanted to feel something firm and hard and solid to remind myself that it was all real....at least for the moment.

Joel, at the age of two, grasped the concept that things were going to change...that things were, in fact, changing as we drove along that country road. Two mommies and two daddies...mommy and daddy being his euphemisms for grown-ups. So he understood the change of growing up...he understood he was going to get bigger and turn into an adult...but he didn't grasp the enormity of it. He didn't grasp the hugeness of the change, or the implications of it. He wasn't just going to get bigger, he would be reborn a thousand times over...he'd become a new person with each lost tooth, each new skill, every new discovery...and with each rebirth, there was sure to be a tiny...death.

To Joel, this enormous truth was processed in the only way his two-year-old mind could do it. He would get bigger. His sister would get bigger. Mom and Dad would stay exactly the same because they were already big. And the four of us would forever drive along that road together in the blue Montero...Mom and Dad in the front, and Joel and his sister, all grown up and riding in their usual spots in the backseat.

I smiled at the vision. It was such a sweet one. And I remember trying to imagine what they'd look like when they were all grown up. I couldn't do it. The young woman and young man of the future were total strangers to me....their images drifted just outside of my mind's eye, blurry and remaining stubbornly unfocused. Yet, they were as real to me as the two children in the backseat, which is to say, not very real at all. That's how I felt at the moment.

I'm feeling that way again. As if my life and the people and things in it are made of mist. I want to hold on...to keep things just as they are...us driving along the road with this new, bigger family....in our Big Church Bus, as the kids call it. I want us to just stay like this....but we, as we are right now, are not solid enough for me to grasp. We're not solid at all. The only thing constant about us is our unending metamorphosis.

Joel has his first summer job as a lifeguard. He takes on as many hours as he can...both because he is in the process of buying Ellie's old car, and because he loves being with new friends and co-workers at the pool. He's having the time of his life. He opted out of a recent family vacation, along with Ellie, who was at a music festival. And the rest of us drove to South Padre, a set of parents and three children....three children who were unseen, unborn, and unbelievably absent from my life that day in the Montero. Try to hold on to that thought with any level of understanding. It's impossible.

Joel hugged me out of the blue last night. He's so much bigger than me, now. He'd been at the pool all day. He smelled like chlorine. His arms were strong, and he squeezed me tightly. He rested his chin on the top of my head. I wanted to cry, but then he began rubbing his chin across the top of my head very hard (it hurt), saying that he was an expert in chin/scalp massage. So I laughed instead, and he let go, and casually walked away. Always walking away.

Ellie is mostly gone nowadays, too. She's busy going to lessons, teaching lessons, leaving for days at a time for music festivals and competitions, getting ready for college and wanting to see her friends. She senses the instability of the moment as well, but I don't think I'm often among the concerns about the things in her life that are changing. Which is as it should be. But last night she came home from a friend's recital in the city. And instead of barging through the door to hit the piano (even though it was late at night) or hit the study to get on skype with her boyfriend....she came back to me, where I sat quietly trying to cling to my life, chasing it in my mind like little balls of mercury.

"Hey," she said.

"How was the recital?"

"Good." She sat down, picked up the nearest guitar, saw some printed tabs sitting on what used to be a meditative fountain of mine but has since been claimed by Jeff as a music stand and pick holder. "Ooh," she said. "Dad's been playing John Frusciante." She gave me a little sexy glance. She easily began strumming, little delicate brows scrunched up with the effort of figuring out the tabs. For a kid who doesn't play the guitar anymore, she plays really well. She used to play the guitar all the time, but then she decided to do something else and that was that. She's better at letting go than I am. I'm a look-behind girl, and she's a look-ahead girl. And it isn't because she's young and I'm old. I've always been a look-behind girl.

She chatted back and forth with Jeff, who was already in bed, about this note or that and this fret or that, complaining about the tabs, which they decided weren't quite right....and plucked away at my one of my favorite Frusciante songs, The Past Recedes. Strangely appropriate.

"Sing the chorus, Mom," she said. "I can't remember how it goes."

I did. Badly.

"Ahh....and here's the part where John plays the solo..." she made some noise on the guitar and that face she makes when she's being a little bit silly. She waved her hands around to indicate there was no way in hell she could play it....made some noises....and set the guitar down.

We talked. For almost an hour. I can't remember about what, none of it really mattered. What mattered is that the whirlwind had stopped for a moment, and we'd become a snapshot together. And I clung.

While she talked, I focused on her beautiful face. It was the grown-up woman face that had eluded me that day in the Montero. More beautiful than I could have imagined.

I looked into it,searching for the face of the four-year-old. But she was gone. Vanished. I reached for the arm of the chair I was sitting in....solid.

"Well, I'm going to bed," she said suddenly, standing up.

"Ellie," I said. "Thanks."

She smiled her huge smile, looked at me in a way that let me know that it had, indeed, been a gift to me....this little chat of ours. She wasn't going to deny it. She knows my world is an earthquake at the moment....the ground constantly moving beneath my feet...as she and her brother get on with this business of growing up.

"You're welcome, Mom."

Go and be happy, I thought. And then a scene from Kung Fu Panda II popped into my head. I HATE it when that happens. I didn't like that movie, by the way, and slept through some of it....it wasn't bad....I'm just not entertained by children's movies like I used to be. Anyway, there is a scene that made me cry right there in the theater. Because it was My Scene. My Life. My World At The Moment. In it, Po is leaving his dad to go fight the bad guys. And his dad, Mr. Ping, is just a hand-wringing, sniffling mess about it.

But what if you don't come back?

Dad, I'll be back. But first, I have to go save China.

I smiled as she walked away.

Fine already. Go save China, Ellie.

Do NOT alert the Lame-Stream Media

2011-06-08T08:09:00.000-07:00

Hold onto your seats and don't you DARE contact the lame-stream media.....Sardine Mama is soon to take a little va-cay-cay. That's right! Just like Sarah Palin, I'm blowin' this joint. With several of my children and my husband. But it still counts as a va-cay-cay because there is no dishwasher to unload.

So yeah....ME....a small-town married American woman of five children with little to no work experience in national politics and a hot husband.....ME a former ~~beauty queen~~ high school drum major who is highly prone to quitting jobs after about two years (I get bored easily), is taking a little breaky-poo.....a Bus Tour, if you will. Okay, actually more of a mini-van tour - I'm not like Joe Plumber and the Rest of Middle Class America who own a tour bus and work for FOX News. It isn't like I have managed to snag my own reality TV show YET. But one is in the works. It is called Sardine Mama's Texas. I'm gonna ride a horse and rope a bull. Or maybe I'll ride a bull and rope a horse. We do both of those things here and you'll learn all about that on my show.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah - my trip. Don't you DARE FOLLOW ME AND PUT ME ON TV AND ASK ME STUPID QUESTIONS ABOUT THE ALAMO THAT ANY THIRD-GRADER COULD ANSWER. Gotcha! I'm not going to tell you when I'm leaving, or where I'm going, because I don't want you to be aware of my schedule in any way or be waiting for me any place while all I'm trying to do is educate poor ~~Piper~~ Camille about the Alamo (I freaking love the name Piper and I am kicking myself over not discovering it sooner). Not that I'll BE at the Alamo. So please don't be waiting for me there. If you want to know where I'm going and what I'm going to do you'll have to FOLLOW ME and that will make me angry because I'm just trying to take a little va-cay-cay, after all, in a business suit.

If I were to go to the Alamo (but I'm not so don't SHOW UP THERE WITH NEWS CAMERAS) I would take a guided tour with my family because don't string me up....but gosh dangit.....I've never taken them to the freaking Alamo. We drive past it all the time and someone will say, "Look, there's the Alamo." So it isn't like they haven't SEEN it. One time we drove past and Jules said, "Look, there's the Alamo." And then Joel said, "That's not the REAL Alamo, you idiot." And Jeff looked at me like, Seriously, Sardine Mama? And I looked at him like, Oh, you think this is easy? You wouldn't last 24 hours, buddy....it is HARD being a famous non-famous person hounded by the lame-stream media while not-really-raising five kids and not-really-being-governor anymore!!

Anyway - so if I WERE to go to the Alamo and the lame-stream media tried to toss a gotcha' moment at me with a Lame-O question about John Wayne or David Bowie.... I would be totally prepared!! Because everyone knows the story of the Alamo where we fought the horrible Socialist Mexicans.....half of whom were born in Africa!! David Bowie (this was before his singin' career DUH) was fresh from the Country of Europe, having rushed to the aid of Other White People in defending the Christian Mission San Antonio de Valero against that Muslim, Santa Anna. WE WON. If we hadn't won, all our kids would be forced to speak Mexican and wear sombreros. There's a wall around the Alamo and that's to keep the Mexicans OUT (unless they're custodians). But if you stand on your tip-toes, you can peek over the wall and see Mexico, just like I can see it from my house. And I'm keeping my eye on it, too.

If you don't believe this is the true story of the Alamo, you can go look it all up on Wikipedia. If it doesn't match up, well, wait a few hours and try again. I have some folks working on that as we speak. They're called the Texas State Board of Education. They're good people and we're on the same page.

Well, I've gotta run. So much to do. I've gotta pack the sunscreen, the camera, and call Rick Perry to see if he'll be my runnin' mate for the election I'm NOT participatin' in. You remember Rick Perry, right? He's governor of Texas, which we all know, is no big deal. ANYONE can be a governor. Especially for 2 years. But Rick Perry has been governor of Texas for ten years!! Ten years!! Oh my god it's been Ten Freaking Years. Anyway - yes! Ricky as my runnin' mate! Of course, first I have to talk him out of running for president. 'Cause rumor is, he's Actually Thinking About It and that frightens me to death because the last not-very-bright-Texas-governor who made me giggle by sayin' he was fixin' to run for president ACTUALLY WON. Twice.

Rick's a true Texan and a real American (unlike other people who were born in Texas and vote and work here but who do not agree with The Right and who are therefore - duh - Wrong and UnAmerican). An example of his patriotism was his proposal that Texas SECEDE FROM THE UNION. "Let's just freaking secede! Secede! Let's just quit the union! Let's just NOT BE AMERICANS ANYMORE because I don't like the current president and that makes total and complete sense and is a very logical way of dealing with my disappointment! When I'm elected president, we'll rejoin the union! And then if I'm not re-elected....we'll secede again! And thus forth and so on!"

With Rick Perry at my side, how could I lose? How could ANY of us lose? We are the very definition of a Winning Ticket and if you don't believe me, look it up in Wikipedia.

Okay - well - I'm off to see the world! Because I will Totally Rule It Soon.
Sardine Mama.....well, that's Madame Mama to You People.

Whereby My Week is Predictably Anchored by Weekends on Both Ends

2011-06-04T10:25:00.000-07:00

The weekend is upon us. And I haven't even recovered from last weekend, yet!

Last weekend was a Big Weekend for two of my kids, Camille and Joel. Camille is a dancer. She really is. From a very young age, all she wanted to do was dance or watch other people dancing. She was especially drawn to ballet - and even at the age of 2 and 3, would sit and watch an entire ballet spellbound. The same went for opera. She's only been to one live opera, but has seen several on television and she is always sucked in, quite literally, to that world. Even if it is in Italian and she hasn't a clue as to what is being said, she knows what is going on. "That's the bad guy! There's the princess!" And always....jumping up in between the action to expressively dance the story, or what she thinks is the story. And can I just add that she'll dance with anybody? At one time her most willing partner was Jasper. Not so much the case anymore.

When Camille was three, she started dance lessons in our little town with Miss Erin, who looks, walks, and talks like a dancer, so Camille worshipped her. She loved it immediately, as expected. She was one of the more social little girls in the class....so she often didn't know what steps she was supposed to be learning...but when the music came on she danced anyway, and she wasn't bothered at all by the fact that she was often doing completely different steps from the other girls. It was all rather adorable.

Camille also read about ballet through picture books and some little chapter books that Jeff read to her every night, and when she was 7 she asked me when she would get on pointe. I explained to her that Erin's students didn't dance on their toes and she sort of freaked. "But it's my life long dream!" she said. Now let me just explain something to you about Camille at the age of 7. SILLY GIRL. Goofy, giggly, funny, and silly girl. And here she was crying about her life's dream possibly slipping through her fingers. "If I don't start training soon, it's all over!" she cried. I was like, what??? But I did a little research and it turned out she was totally right.

Well, it would have been quite easy for me to blow this off....really really easy to talk about how unlikely it was that she would become a professional ballet dancer and the futility of it all....but I'm a sucker for life long dreams. And we didn't blow off Ellie when she said she wanted to be a concert pianist, and guess what? She's well on her way to becoming a concert pianist. So even though Camille's personality and nature were the opposite of Ellie's in every way, I still thought she deserved a chance at a real classical ballet education, although I absolutely expected it to be short-lived. I figured that as soon as Camille was told to be quiet, or forced to do something uncomfortable or difficult, we would be right back with Miss Erin. But at least this way, there would be no regrets over what might have been in regards to a life long dream.

San Antonio has a professional ballet company, and Camille now takes with its academy. It has been almost two years since she started there, and there is no indication that she's losing any of her initial enthusiasm. There are rules against silliness, talking, and even yawning, if you can believe it. The classes are long, repetitious, and consist mostly of strength-building and technique-perfecting drills. There is no booty-shaking behind the teacher's back (one of Camille's former favorite tricks). She loves it. After the first class, Camille had come out with her little legs shaking. She was sore the next day. And even sorer the next. But when it was time to go back the following week, she packed her little dance bag and got in the car. And she's been doing it ever since.

I'll never forget the evening I picked her up to find her standing quietly in the lobby, looking quite stunned. I thought maybe she'd gotten in trouble, or someone had been mean to her....something had obviously happened. "What's wrong?" I asked. "I've been promoted," she whispered, clearly not believing it. So now she dances with Big Girls Who Have Bras And Everything. And she goes more than once a week, which is a sacrifice for me in the driving department, but one I'm happy to make. Camille, after all, is doing the hard work to justify it.
So: Back to the previous busy weekend. Camille's ballet academy holds a year-end demonstration. No sparkly costumes or any of that. It is simply a demonstration of skills learned before they begin summer lessons. Camille takes two classes at the academy, jazz and ballet (she's adding lyrical next week).

Her jazz demonstration was on Friday. Here she is with her teacher, and yes, you do have to be gorgeous to teach dance at this particular academy. Or at least that seems to be the case, anyway.

The next morning found me dropping Joel off at the crack of dawn for his black belt test. He's been working toward this goal for years. He had to write an essay about his journey to get to this point in Tae Kwon Do, and it was beautiful. I don't think I realized how much it meant to him until I read it. Of course, it was Pure Joel so there was plenty of goofy business in it, as well. In fact, when he handed it in to his teacher he made her promise she wouldn't read it unless she was playing Journey's Don't Stop Believing in the background.

Joel was a pre-pubescent kid when he started....a little on the cuddly/fluffy/not-quite-chubby side....and now....well, he runs at least a mile each day and he's big and tall and has a super low voice and here he is putting on his brand new black belt after a grueling day of testing that included running a mile on what ended up being the hottest day of May (98 degrees or so....).

He didn't want me to stay for the test (what is it with my kids and the Please Go Away Now thing?) but when I came back for the presentation ceremony I got to see him do this:

At this point he was so tired he could hardly stand up straight, but he did break that dang board with his head. He also fought 3 black belts at once (I missed that but I'm told his strategy was to run like hell and that it worked brilliantly for a while).

Here he is with the other candidates. The gorgeous blond in the middle who looks like one of Charlie's Angels is his teacher - she's the mother of 7 and a grandmother several times over. It really raises the bar for the rest of us who were just kind of looking forward to granny rockers on the porch.

My dad had a busy weekend, as well, seeing as how he is a glutton for punishment and likes us to drag him around everywhere. Here he is posing with Joel....he was trying to show off his hands as weapons but I think his steely gaze was more effective. Jeff snuck in the back with a Kung Fu Panda Face.

No rest for the weary, we threw everyone in the car and headed back to the ballet studio (an hour away) for Camille's ballet demonstration. It would have been entirely too convenient for her jazz and ballet demonstrations to have been on the same day. So here she is with Miss Sally...who comes with the added bonus of speaking with a lovely British accent.

We ended the weekend by going to see The Hangover II which was predictably funny....but so predictably funny that this time it wasn't quite as funny. But it still had this guy in it, which made the whole thing Worthwhile.

Technically, he's Bradley Cooper. But he's also known as The Cute Guy From The Hangover. Jeff didn't know there was a cute guy in The Hangover. "Which one is the cute one?" he asked, thereby proving once again that he's not gay. If you google Cute Guy From The Hangover, Bradley's face pops up. There isn't any first runner-up or anything like that. There are several guys in The Hangover, and one of them is cute. That's all. And he's very cute. I appreciate the heck out of his cuteness. What I don't appreciate? Is the fact that multiple morons brought their kids to see this movie. What is wrong with people? I just don't get it.

Memorial Day found us grilling and gardening and doing yard work and entertaining and taking Joel to and from work life guarding at the city's pool. And by us, I mean Jeff. I mostly recovered from the previous two days by reading non-stop.

Now THIS weekend has already gotten off to a busy start. Last night Ellie was supposed to meet her boyfriend at a wedding, only her car was having problems so we drove her into the city and dropped her off at the wedding. As in, WE ALL DROVE HER. All of us, plus Joel's girlfriend (pink-haired little doll in the back seat). Ellie loves it when we take her places. You can tell by how happy she looks sitting there next to Jasper. Camille also seems to be trying to get as far away from him as possible.

After dumping Ellie we headed to the movies where we split up. I took the two littlest kids to see Kung Fu Panda (not The Hangover) and Jeff took the older 3 to see the latest X Men movie.

Today finds Ellie packing while her boyfriend and his dad (a mechanic and boy has this come in handy considering Ellie's unfortunate luck with automobiles) work on her car. In an hour or so we'll take her a few hours away to leave her for a week....she's one of 25 kids accepted from around the world to attend an International Piano Festival. We'll also be getting Joel to and from work and doing the other usual things that will hopefully include my curling up with a book or two or three.

So there are lots of things weighing on my mind right now. I'd like to blog about them. But since this blog is mostly my own journal, I find it necessary to occasionally record the day by day happenings of our lives. The things you might not find very interesting, but mean the world to me, nonetheless. I know that years from now, these will be the posts that will bring me the most joy to read. Opinions come and go, as do thoughts about this or that....and nobody misses them once they've been expressed and put away....but the small moments and events of my family's lives just run through my fingers like water....and this blog is my small attempt at catching some of them before they evaporate into hazy memories.

Go the F(moon)K To Sleep

2011-05-31T11:23:00.000-07:00

So when I say I've been asked to review Go the F**k to Sleep by Adam Mansbach, and that I've perused said book, I do not mean to imply that I have been contacted by Mr. Mansbach or his agent or his publicist or his publisher or his anybody....or that I was mailed a book or am going to receive any under-the-table money for a better-than-stellar critique (I wish). What I mean is....an actual real-life friend and fellow attachment parent / unschooler type person asked me to give my opinion (via my blog) on the book. I had seen the book when it made the rounds on Facebook before Facebook took it off because of the fact that the cover has a big F, then a moon, and then the letter K on it. That's right. The moral majority at Facebook wasn't fooled by that moon! They are, however, apparently fooled by every status update of my teen "friends" none of whom bother with a moon, unless it is in one of their pornographic photos, that unlike breastfeeding pics, are also not considered offensive. Anyway - when it was still circulating...I read the entire thing....even the pages with no moon. And I laughed my A-moon off.

Apparently, some parents have taken offense at this book. I think they totally get that it is an Adult Picture Book....they get that. They're not under the impression they're supposed to read this book to their babies and toddlers. But they're offended by its tone, which they take to be disrespectful to the rights/needs of a child and the relationship with its parents. Now you know how I am folks....I'm the last person to tell you how to feel...I find it incredibly difficult to exert my will (see how hardcore attachment / unconditional aka Alfie Kohn I am?) over someone else....or to invalidate or trivialize your feelings of indignation....I can rarely even give a direct order of any kind. Ask my kids....I will merely suggest TO DEATH but I will not TELL YOU TO DO SOMETHING. I just won't stop suggesting until either your head explodes or you follow my suggestion, whichever comes first. Ellie recently said to me, "God, just tell me to come home..." during a phone conversation about how late the hour was and her not being home and all. And I said, "You know I can't do that." Because I can't, alright? I'm a Sick Person. I want the Rest Of The World to come to the general conclusion that I am Right About Everything under their own accord. No matter how long it takes me to get them to come to that conclusion.

So where was I? Oh yes. The book and its critics and their delicate dispositions. I never tell people what to think or feel - but really, if you're one of the people upset over this book....LIGHTEN UP.

The book has page after page of beautiful artwork found in all truly classic picture books, illustrated by Ricardo Cortes. I like Ricardo Cortes immensely, even though I don't know him. I'm basing my opinion of him based on his Amazon biography, which has a photo of him looking like a young Carlos Santana, and factoids about how he has also illustrated books about marijuana, electricity, the Jamaican Bobsled Team, and Chinese Food. What's not to like? About ANY of those things?

Accompanying Mr. Cortes's beautiful illustrations is the poetic prose of Mr. Mansbach. I want to say I like Mr. Mansbach in the same way I like Mr. Cortes, but the truth of the matter is that I looked at his biography and he is the successful author of some wonderful-sounding novels and that pretty much just turns me into a jealous green-eyed monster so sorry....like to love him but, no. He's smug. I know this because I would be smug if I were in his shoes.

I did, however, order up a couple of his novels (The End of the Jews and Angry Black White Boy) on Amazon. Even though he didn't ask me to. Or send me a free book for a critique so that you, my 20 or so peeps (and I know that most of you are here by accident - directed here by the wicked sense of humor of the Google Gods) can go all Oprah-Bookclub-Crazy and overwhelm Amazon.

Mr. Mansbach's prose begins innocently enough....sounding like any other lovely childrens' picture book about bedtime...Runaway Bunny comes to mind, as does Raffi's Baby Beluga, the song turned board book. Only each page ends in some version of the phrase....Go the fuck to sleep.

The tone becomes a tad more desperate with each page, with the author falling into the pits of despair and questioning his ability to successfully parent this child who is supposed to just go to sleep after all - with a quiet song and story and hug and kiss.....like all the kids do in all of the other picture books about bedtime. And all this author wants to do (as it turns out) is join his (now sleeping) wife/partner on the couch in the den to watch a freaking movie like normal folks after the kids go to sleep only his kid won't go to sleep.

My opinion? This is the best book ever written. This is the most honest, hilarious, heart-warming, and inspiring book about nighttime parenting. I know you're wondering how I can use the phrase Night-Time Parenting, thereby bringing up the God-Like Dr. Sears, in the same breath with a guy who just pleads like crazy for his kid to go the fuck to sleep...but in all seriousness, where night-time parenting is concerned....the one thing missing from the general nasty business is humor. There is darned little of it in respect to this particular aspect of parenting....those horrible, frustrating, and exhaustive sleepless nights...wondering why your kid, who obviously hasn't read any of Dr. Sears books, won't just go the F**K to sleep. Because you used to have a life, right? You used to watch TV, read, catch a show....and now all you can do is be chained to this kid's bed/crib while your popcorn gets cold. And then you resent the kid just a little, and then you hate yourself just a little, because after all - this must be all your fault because clearly, everyone else's kid is freaking SOUND ASLEEP.

AP People - here's my disclaimer. YES - the baby/toddler would be better off sleeping with Mom and Dad and nursing all night like a soft little kitten blah blah blah....and mine did that yada yada yada....but dang it - I still wanted out of that bed! The dishes needed washing....I needed to pee....and I had something like 8 unopened movies from Netflix. I would disconnect my nipple from the sleeping angel's mouth and begin my escape only to have said sleeping angel turn into a burrowing, snorting, enraged piglet hysterically searching for the breast. And I'd reattach the piglet to my breast...feeling the call of a million other things....and think, "God....why won't you just go the f**k to sleep?"

This book reminds parents that they're not alone. Because nobody feels more alone than a parent trying to get a baby to sleep. Nobody. This book is a humorous lifeline to the rest of the night-time parenting community; to the parents who very well might look as if they have their shit together on their daytime blogs, books, and tv shows....who arrive looking rested for playdates and such....but who won't mention under the bright, blazing sun that the night before had found them curled up in a ball on the floor or awkwardly crammed into a jr. bed or hanging on for dear life at the very edge of a king-sized bed for fear that moving the baby over one inch would be taken as a General Announcement of an All Night Play Fest.....who might have whispered their own personal version of When Will This Ever End and Why Won't You Go the F**k to Sleep all night long. If the pages of this book make one red-eyed parent smile instead of resenting his wakeful child....or at least smile while recognizing he's not the only one currently resenting his wakeful child, then it has its place in the world of night-time parenting literature. Even with the F-Bomb. Actually? Because of the F-Bomb. Because sometimes it just feels good to drop it, and the middle of the night with a kid who won't go to sleep is definitely one of those times. Even if it's under your breath or in your head or within the pages of a fabulous new book.

Everybody Just Calm The Hell Down

2011-05-24T20:37:00.000-07:00

That was a cheap shot...the title of the post, that is. I just did it to get your attention. 'Cause I have become a negligent blogger - as in neglecting my blog - and probably some of y'all don't even remember me. So I used an Alarmist! Strategy!

But seriously. There are several things that were causing excitement around here that I could tie into my bogus title.

A. The Snake Has Been Found.
     A few weeks ago Jasper informed me that he had seen a large snake (looked like a rattler to him) slither beneath my leather sofa. I can tell when Jasper's fibbing (I've had practice at making this discernment) and he didn't appear to be fibbing. So I told him and his sister to guard the couch while I went and woke up the boys. The boys are generally hard to wake up if it is before noon - but the promise of pulling a rattlesnake from beneath the sofa was a good carrot to dangle beneath their noses and they very shortly made their way to the sofa in question and pulled it away from the wall. No snake. Jasper swore it hadn't come out on his watch. So they flipped the couch over. No snake. Possibilities were discussed. Maybe the snake slithered away while Jasper and Camille shared a simultaneous group-blink. Maybe Jasper was fibbing. Maybe the snake had CRAWLED UP INTO THE COUCH. The boys went back to bed (thanks for nothing) and Jasper worked at sustained indignation when it was suggested that he had maybe mistaken a shoelace, sock, or pair of Spiderman briefs for a snake.

We forgot about the snake - I had dispensed with the notion that it was a rattlesnake - as rattlesnakes tend to hold their ground and say "Come and get me you stupid dumbass....I can KILL you with my tiny little teeth....that's right MoFo...just bring it...I'm not going anywhere but right here..." rather than slink off to hide in sofas. Also? They rattle.  I did, however, avoid sitting on the sofa, preferring to offer it to guests. 'Cause I have what we call Southern Hospitality. Anyway, a couple of days ago the situation was resolved as the snake in question (turned out to be a bull snake) was found curled up beneath the bench in our hallway by the back door. Jasper was vindicated....I TOLD YOU SO....the snake was escorted outside....and the You Know I Seem To Recall Seeing Something Out Of The Corner Of My Eye stories began. Jeff says he heard something slither away when he picked up a pile of dirty clothes to put in the washer and I was like Holy Cow No Way....you picked up a pile of clothes to put in the washer??  I'm pretty sure the thing slithered along the wall in my little meditation nook while I sat in a chair writing....everyone else is pretty sure they almost stepped on it in the middle of the night.

Now you might wonder how a snake managed to find itself in my house. This is not the first time we've had a snake loose in the house...but it is the first time my sons were not directly involved. Snakes do like to curl up by our back doors (I always say stepping out the back door is more dangerous than walking barefoot in the tall grass around here) and I guess one could have slithered in on somebody's heels. And occasionally, our doors remain open for indeterminate periods of time. I'm not going to name names or out any fellow bloggers / homeschoolers....but let me just say that there is a specific mom who shall remain annonymous and whose identity I shall take great pains to protect who has 9 stinkin' kids, all of whom suffer from an unfortunate genetic infliction that apparently renders them incapable of shutting doors. Just somethin' I've noticed in passing, is all. Not that there's anything wrong with that. Unless you live in Texas and have a general dislike of cohabitating with snakes. (The family with the unfortunate genetic predisposition is a transplant family - dang Yankees every last one of them except for the littlest 3 - so I'm cutting them some slack. After all, they called the police when they found a snake in their garage. And I'm pretty sure the police are still talking about it.)

Let's see....what else to calm down about?

B. The World Did Not End
     Ellie and I were in Wyoming the day the world was supposed to end. She was in a practice room at the University of Wyoming and I was napping comfortably in a hotel room. I woke up to see that it was 5:00 Wyoming Time...which meant it was 6:00 Texas Time...so I called my husband to see if the End of The World had begun at home. "What's shakin'?" I asked.

"We found the snake!" he said. See Above.

And that was that. Not even an earthquake.

Ellie and I were in Laramie, Wyoming for the Snowy Range Piano Competition and let me just say that people in this particular town are freakishly nice. And speaking of freakish - it was snowing - and it had been something like 96 degrees when El and I had left Texas....so we did indeed assume the freakish snow was a preclude to the end of the world. We had some discussion about whether the predicted End Times consisted of the Actual End All or just The Rapture. Or does The Rapture involve the Actual End? We didn't know and we were highly curious, because if it were The End of The World - it might actually affect us, whereas if it were The Rapture, we intended to go about our business minus a few more or less irritating people. Although, seeing as how dang nice the people in Laramie were, we might have found ourselves quite alone - but maybe Ellie would have placed 1st instead of 2nd in the piano competition. Either way, it is my understanding that the Big Event has now been postponed until October 21.

Laramie was a lovely town surrounded by mountains. I bet they are prone to the occasional snow-in and resulting isolation. They are, Ellie pointed out, highly susceptible to a zombie attack....or at the very least....a Shining Type of Mishap where someone goes stark, raving insane with an axe during a snow storm. That's why they were all freakishly polite - it wasn't so much that they were happy to see us as they were just hoping we wouldn't murder them in their sleep or bite them and pass on the zombie virus. Throw in the possibility of the Apocolypse and you can see why those folks tiptoe around like they're walking on eggshells. Delightful people - and the town also seemingly contained a higher than average number of extremely good looking Wyoming men. Not that I noticed.

Ellie performed in the semi-final round and was chosen as one of the five finalists. I heard she played very well....I wouldn't know.....I sat in the car. The little stinker prefers I not listen to her during competitions. Recitals and other performances are okay....but competitions are not. "I just don't like walking out on the stage and seeing YOUR FACE, Mom." Some moms might take offense at that - luckily I'm not one of them.

The young man who placed first was delightful. Originally from Korea, he now lives in Texas with his piano teacher. He holds both a bachelor's degree and an Artist Certification in Piano Performance (an advanced degree).....and here's the kicker....he's ONLY SIXTEEN. When I commented on how impressive this was, he shyly shrugged his shoulders, gave me a little-boy-look and said, "Well, I'm Asian." Ellie wants to be Asian but like Mick says, you can't always get what you want. You can, however, freakishly play the piano and pretend to be Asian....even if your mom insists on behaving in a very un-Asian manner by banging on the practice room door and saying, "Hurry up! Justin Timberlake is hosting SNL and I want to get back to the hotel!"

The finals were held in the recital hall / auditorium at the university, audience attended of course, and I was asked to stay below in the dungeon where the practice rooms were. I did sneak up at one point because I didn't want to miss the awards announcement - but when I heard, from the lobby, that Ellie was still playing, I obediently stuck my ear buds in and listened to Blood, Sugar, Sex, Magik - which is what I like to listen to whenever I'm anxious. I try not to bop my head or make facial expressions or move in general as it tends to mortify anybody within a hundred-mile radius who happens to share any of my DNA. But if I'm feeling extremely anxious, I might tap my foot. Ellie says I have "anxiety." I do not have "anxiety." I simply like to imagine the worst case scenario and then repeatedly play it in my head until I find it necessary to listen to Blood Sugar Sex Magik. Ellie did not pass out, vomit, fall, or begin a round of hysterical laughter at the piano. Not that I thought she would. Well, maybe I did a little...but that doesn't mean I have "anxiety." She played (according to the strangers who watched her) beautifully. One of the judges told me she was mesmerizing. An elderly gentleman (good looking guy) told me she made him cry. She won a sh*tload of money - and worked dang hard for it. It was a great trip and I enjoyed every minute of it....always grateful for any time I get to spend one on one with my little girl before she leaves me in the dust.

That's it for now. You can just calm the hell down because I'm done blogging. Hopefully, I will blog again soon. I've been asked to blog about the soon to be released picture book called Go the F**k to Sleep. I have perused said picture book and am anxious to share my Solicited Opinion. It isn't very often that one gets to share an Actual Solicited Opinion, so I don't want to pass up the opportunity. I've also still got to come up with something sappy about the two youngest kids - or the earlier post will be something else for them to hold against me. God knows we don't need to add anything to THAT list.

Signing off as a very calm, peaceful, and non-anxious Sardine Mama.

It's The Way That You Love Me

2011-05-07T16:08:00.000-07:00

I set out this morning to write about each child. But I've stopped after three. Exhausted. Teary-eyed. The last two - my babies - I'll write about later in the week. Writing about the first three dang near took everything I had.

Ellie

I'm afraid I tend to love you somewhat hysterically. I can't help it. You were my first. The occasion called for a certain amount of hysteria in the absence of any calmer emotions. It was a long labor full of bad advice and old-fashioned doctoring that did nothing to boost my mothering instincts or confidence. When you were finally born, you took one look at me and screamed. I took it personally. And I'm pretty sure you meant it that way.

The adrenaline rush never wore off. I'd read a million baby books but you apparently hadn't. You didn't do anything according to how the million baby books said you should do it. And you were terribly unhappy with the help, so to speak, which was basically your big old inadequate pile of mommy nerves. But God, how I loved you! I loved you to the point of hysteria. Hysteria over everything you did or didn't do. And always questioning....questioning.....until I finally let you teach me.

I love you from more of a distance than I'm comfortable with. You like your space - physically and emotionally. I'm not sure you realize I'm doing this loving business from afar....I'm pretty sure you think I'm doing it in your face.

I never know what is coming up around the corner...just when I get used to one thing, the next thing pops up. You were my first baby, my first toddler, my first big kid, my first teenager..... How can I know what to do and how to do it? I've never done it before. Neither have you. And there's that whole thing about you not getting any of the memos about the Way Things Are Usually Done.

I'm walking blind, running wild, desperately floundering....that's how I love you.

I've loved every You I've been presented with. The precocious toddler, the surly little girl, the intense pre-teen, the driven teenager, the beautiful young woman. You were always defined by your bulletin board - Bob Dylan pics and lyrics....poetry....pins and bumper stickers. And by your music - you little B-Side snob. Always finding something new - something edgy....then backing off when the masses caught on. And by your books: You're reading This is All again. And you're reading Extremely Loud Incredibly Close again. You're reminiscing, aren't you?

And always - the tattered and torn Pride and Prejudice. You've been carrying it around like a security blanket. You're excited. But I think you're a bit nervous. I always know what you're reading....it's one of the ways that I love you.

I'd like to say it'll get calmer, more peaceful, less intense....somehow. But it won't. You're leaving. And I'm supposed to keep breathing anyway.

Hysteria just below the surface.

Someday you'll do something huge; like maybe get married or have a child. And I'll be hysterical about it. Or maybe you'll do neither and I'll be hysterical about that. Or you'll study abroad, or go on a world tour, or win a Grammy. And I'll be hysterical.

Someday soon, you'll be playing the piano for people who are Not Me....songs I haven't heard....I won't have memorized every little facial expression you make at this point or that...every little mannerism of the wrist or shoulders....for the songs you're playing now - this is familiar territory for me. Watching you play - I know what to expect. Now. But someday soon - I'll show up to hear you play something...unfamiliar....and I'll be like everybody else. I'll be an Audience Member, watching you on the stage of your life...of your world....not paying attention to the rules...and I'll be unsure of what's coming next...not even knowing when the song is over. Is it time to clap? I won't know. But I'm your biggest fan.

This bittersweet time of anticipating the hugest change....this Going Off To College Era....it's making me love you with a fierceness I haven't felt since you were a newborn screaming in my arms and not wanting to be held.....and me squeezing more tightly because I simply didn't know what else to do....Only this time I can't squeeze more tightly. This time I have to let go. It's counterintuitive. It's making me crazy. And yet - I'm so thrilled. And excited. And happy.

That's the way I love you. In a way that doesn't make sense. With a desperate, fierce, hysterical love. It's the way I'll always love you. And you love me quietly. Undemonstratively. Intelligently. Respectfully. Patiently. Slowing down every so often so I can catch up. You say things, every now and then, that let me know you approve of how this has all played out. You're content with the way you've been raised. The way you've been loved.

And that's the way that you love me.

Joel

I love you with a carefree heart and a silly smile. I've never been able to stop smiling around you. You crack a joke - I laugh - you say I'm easy to impress. But the truth is, nothing's been easy for us. So we both deserve to laugh. Also? You're pretty funny.

You were an easy birth. You were of normal weight, no jaundice, no complications. No Screaming. Grins, giggles, and chubby cheeks. Everything was By the Book with you. And....I waited for the other shoe to drop. Because I'm kind of wired that way. But it all seemed fine....it really did! Until it was time to talk. And you wouldn't. Until it was time to follow simple directions. And you couldn't. But you communicated with me very well....through sound effects and sign language and charades. And I understood every word. Perfectly.

I sent you to school - because that's what we do here, after all. We cross a line where the parents are no longer qualified to teach simple things like counting, letters, shapes, and colors. There's some sort of mystery to this educational process....we must send them away so someone more qualified in counting to ten can do it with a lot of kids all at once. So I sent you. With a sinking heart. And your smiles became rarer, your grins went away, your happiness retreated to a place deep inside you. You could not read or write. You could not count to 100. You didn't cooperate with the multi-level commands, demands, instructions and directions. And I loved you sadly. I loved you guiltily. I loved you protectively. And I yanked your ass out of that school.

We never gave up, did we? You are anything but lazy - the hardest little worker. When I would begin to doubt that we'd ever get there, you'd close your book and say, "Maybe tomorrow. Right Mom?" I'm not a patient person - it isn't in my stratosphere of virtues...but you taught me to love you patiently. Waiting. Always waiting. You taught me to enjoy the sights along the way....the hours spent reading aloud to you because you couldn't read for yourself - the most precious hours of my life. Sometimes I'm sad that you won't let me do it anymore. I've loved you through books...the adventures we've shared.

I love you more selflessly than I've loved the others. How could I not give a lot to someone who gives everything of himself? I've loved you peacefully - for you are the peacemaker in our house. You're the Calm Factor. The Cooling Element. The Therapeutic Puppy. You diffuse situations with a joke or a facial expression. I love you with gratefulness. I love you with a tenderness that almost breaks my heart.

I love you happily - and humorously - because the two of us? Are funny people, even though not everybody thinks so. We appreciate that about each other. I cherish the car rides, where you tell me nonstop jokes. I love that you laugh at mine. I love it when you talk like Richard Nixon and call me a damn hippy. Or a stinkin' liberal. Because that's the way you love me.

I love it when you're laughing so hard at whatever it is you're saying that the rest of us can't understand you.

I love that you like me.

You're getting your learner's permit soon - you'll be driving. And I'm nervous, but not hysterical. Hysterical is reserved for Ellie.

I love you with....reckless abandon.

I've loved you through the school days and the playgrounds and the minefields of expectations....the ones you navigated with a grin. I'll always cheer you on. I'll never turn my back on you. I'll always believe in you at least as much as you believe in yourself - and that is a lot. I promise to be the loudest one laughing in the room. Because that's the way I love you.

And I love the way you love your brother. Always knowing the right thing to say or do....when I'm all out of ideas.

Jules

I love you...differently. I love you desperately. And I love you energetically....for loving you could never be a spectator sport or a passive activity. Sometimes I worry that if I lower the intensity, you'll disappear. Sometimes my love for you is draining, but often it is invigorating.

You were so tiny when you were born. The nurse blamed me. "Did you eat while you were pregnant?" she asked. Of course I had! But maybe not enough.... And that was the first of many times I would feel responsible and guilty for things that are beyond my control where you're concerned.

Of course, you WERE tiny (5 lbs 13 oz) but we now know it was normal for you. You are hard and lean....nothing soft on you. You look exactly like my Uncle Gene. You are a double gift carrying my mother's smile. You're the only one who looks like my family, even though, oddly enough, that means you look nothing like me - ha! Since I'm famously known for looking nothing like my family.

You were the one who finally brought out my inner attachment mom. How could I put you down, as small as you were? How could I stop nursing you, as small as you were? How could I let you sleep alone, when you were so tiny? I loved you protectively. And I was always frightened. Of what? I couldn't say. I just held you closer.

But eventually you wouldn't stand for it any longer. And you assumed your role of middle child before the other two had even arrived. I was always searching for you....with this unshaken feeling that you'd slip between the cracks. And you were always in my blind spot, beneath my radar, just outside of my peripheral vision. "Where is Jules?" I would ask. "Right here," you'd say quietly.

But I never felt as if I'd found you.

You often didn't respond when I talked to you. You often pushed my buttons. You seemed to have no boundaries.

You couldn't hear.

"Why didn't you bring him in sooner?" the doctor said. "Maybe we could have saved his hearing in this ear." The second time I accepted blame.

I love you with a terrifying desperation. With you, we looked over the brink - stared down into that unfathomable darkness of loss - and then stepped away from the edge. "Come back in six months and we'll do another MRI. For now, we'll just watch the brain tumor."

I didn't think I could live my life in six-month increments. Turns out I could. And now I live it in yearly increments. Pretending to look forward to our yearly trip to Los Angeles.

I love you with a strength I didn't know I had. And with gratefulness I didn't know I could feel. You've taught me to take nothing for granted. You've taught me that life is a gift.

You love me differently, too. We talk. About Things.

Star Trek, turtles, snakes, the universe, Star Wars, the weather, marine life....always Things. Mostly you talk and I listen. And in between is silence. I love you in silence. It is comfortable with you in a way it isn't with others. I feel your love for me in the silence; riding in the car on the way to the orthodontist....resting between topics....companionable silence.

"How are you feeling today?" I'll ask. "Do you know the relationship between Boba Fett and Darth Vador?" you'll reply. Sometimes your answers indicate anxiety or depression or extreme happiness. Sometimes you just really want to talk about Boba Fett and Darth Vador.

"No," said the doctor. "His hearing impairment shouldn't interfere with his ability to socialize to that extent...you're dealing with something else." We learned about The Spectrum. The third time I accepted guilt.

The way I love you is foreign to me. I am a girl of strong emotions, of intense feelings....a demonstrative sort of girl. And yet, I love you by bringing up topics like time travel. By being interested....all the time....and by never passing up an opportunity to connect with you. Because sometimes you reach out for me - and I have to be ready to grab you up. Right then. Because I'm always afraid you'll slip away.

You bless me with hugs - you've figured out they make me happy. And so you'll be halfway across the room, walking away....and then spin suddenly on your heel to come back and give me a punfunctory hug. Because that's the way you love me. With an endearing thoughtfulness....a premeditated show of affection....a calculated demonstration. I've never been so intentionally loved, before. I don't think many people are intentionally loved. Love is something that "happens" to us. But I'm not sure that is the case with you. You are loving me because you want to. You make a choice to love me. You make a choice to show it in a way you hope I'll appreciate. Nobody's ever loved me like this. How could I ever have lived without you?

It's the way that you love me - Full-Intentioned. Whole-hearted. With everything you have. And I promise, I'll never let go. I'll never be too tired or too old to hold on tightly.

My first three - you make me believe that anything is possible. Every single day. I love you all insanely.

Starvation, Frustration, and the All-Time Favorite: Overwhelming Guilt

2011-04-28T09:46:00.000-07:00

I'm cranky. Not sure why. Oh, what the hell? Yes, I am. I'm cranky because:
1) I'm starving
Ellie challenged me to a week-long detox. We're following Gwyneth Paltrow's 7-day-Cleanse. I don't know if I necessarily believe these types of regimens do what they say they do....which is to eliminate toxins and clean out your liver, etc. But this one isn't quite as awful as most of them and it is basically giving me a week of healthy eating (although scant) and eliminating most processed foods....I say most when a lot of people would say all - but I'm weird about processed. To me, if it has been dehydrated/dried and altered or powdered or comes from a can - it's gone through a process and is no longer whole. The dried fish flakes? Didn't look whole to me. Anyway - with the exception of the obvious hunger - I'm feeling pretty good. I'd been retaining some fluid and now I'm totally not. That alone makes me feel better.

This cleanse is supposed to be easy. It's not. Things that Gwyneth said would take five minutes took more like twenty. I think maybe it takes her five minutes to let her chef know she's hungry and she's just confused her lifestyle with the lifestyle experienced by us Ordinary People. She also acted like all of this stuff would be easy to find anywhere. It's not. We've felt like hunter/gatherers....going here there and everywhere and still not finding it all - Whole Foods even shrugged over some of the items on our list. Oh, and let's not forget that it is freaking expensive. There is no way Regular Folks With Mortgages could keep this up.

I'm doing it because I'm fat and hoping to kickstart myself into a real effort at weight loss. I do think I'm accomplishing this goal because I feel very strongly that I don't want to blow it - doing this for a week is just too much work to throw away.

Ellie's doing it to be competitive. She doesn't need to lose weight and as soon as Saturday rolls around she's going to chow down on a gigantic veggie pizza. She eats really healthy anyway - the only true vegetarian in our house - and the one time she ate a bunch of junk food with friends she was sick the next day. So she is just basically trying to kick my ass and detox better than me. She's a bit competitive....have I mentioned that before? Everything is a contest to her - my little tiger cub raised by pussycats. In a yoga class our teacher, Wendy-Girl, had to actually remind her that yoga was not a competitive sport and there were no winners and losers and and Ellie said, "Oh, I know that! But see how my leg is higher than Mom's?" When we were asked to hold poses for as long as was comfortable - Ellie's comfort level was simple. She was simply comfortable holding a pose longer than everyone else, and not a second less. Let's face it, it's one of the reasons she has a full ride to college next fall...and the reason I know she won't blow it when she's there.

So, you can imagine my pride at having been able to swallow TWO spoonfuls of olive oil (we're talking Fear Factor) when Ellie could only swallow ONE. I mean, seriously. I haven't been that victorious in a long time, if ever. I think I may have gloated. I know I bragged. And I held up my bottle of extra virgin olive oil and quoted Ellie's favorite phrase: I'M A WINNER.

To which she replied, "Just like Charlie Sheen."

Sigh. So I'm hungry.

I'm also cranky because:
2) I'm frustrated.
I'm frustrated that I can't find enough time to write. Or read. Or nap. Or just sit and be. I've chosen this lifestyle - homeschooling and having kids around me ALL THE TIME and being active in their lives yada yada...but sometimes a mama just wants to sit and write a steamy scene without a 9-year-old coming up and saying, "Whatcha doing?" and then looking over my shoulder, or sticking her face in mine, or climbing on my lap. Yes, I've been writing steamy scenes. And I'll write them basically anywhere I can...because as I just mentioned....finding time to do it is an issue for me. Ellie had a rehearsal in a church once...and when she was all done she walked back to where I was sitting behind a pew on the floor and said, "Writing smut in the back of a church, Mom?" I totally was. Anyway, sometimes a mama just wants to finish a bit of dialogue without having the 7-year-old coming in and yelling, "Mom! Jules won't let me in my own room!" or any number of things find their way into my characters' mouths:

"I can't explain it, really. Not very well, anyway. It's like...it's like I can't escape the rhythm of the world. It invades every part of me. I hum with it. I'm shackled by the weight of its endless sounds and colors and JULES WON'T LET ME IN MY OWN ROOM!"

Ugh. So then I get mad. And then I feel guilty. Which brings me to reason number 3 as to why I'm cranky:
3) Guilt.
I hate the guilt. I know every mother has guilt, but mine all revolves around writing. Well, not ALL of it. I have a few other character flaws, as well. Being a writer isn't my only one. But ignoring my kids instead of writing...being short with them because they're interrupting my flow...rushing through the minutes of their lives (you know the minutes I'm talking about...the ones you can never get back)...rushing through them so I can get back to a scene. Silently wishing, at times, that they were in school - even though my Asperger's son wouldn't survive a day. Guilt over all of those things...and guilt over the times that I blame them for the lack of words, the incomplete thoughts, the poorly structured sentences....when it is my own lack of skill, talent, or focus. Guilt over not being fully present because I'm silently plotting, or being distracted beyond words by the fear that my story has fallen apart. Again.

And I'm overwhelmed by the amount of physical work it takes to run a household of seven. I'm behind on virtually everything. The laundry, the shopping, the cooking and cleaning. There are forms to be filled out and details to be handled. Order Camille's skirt for the dance demonstration, make travel arrangements for Ellie's Wyoming Competition, print up and fill out forms so Joel can get his learner's permit, mail off his last geography lesson, register him for biology, make those dental and optometry appointments, put all of Ellie's summer performance dates on the calendar (I'm sure I'm already double-booked)....lots of little details. I recently read an essay called, Drowning in Daylight by Tess Hardwick, a writer mom. Found it by accident and it resonated with me strongly. Drowning. I often feel as if I am drowning - right here in my comfy red chair. *Tess has a new book out, her first novel, called Riversong. Tess is on my blog roll, now. OH!! Speaking of blog rolls - you read Our Simples Lives, right? Mark is up for an award for Best LGBT Parent Blog or something like that. Go to his blog and click on the pink link to vote for him. You can vote every day up until May 13. Mentioning this was one more item on my to-do list. But I really want Mark to win! And he wants to win! Then he can be just like me, Ellie, and Martin Sheen.

So:
4) I'm overwhelmed.

I realize that some of my blog posts might make it seem like it is endless fun and games over here. And often it is. But sometimes it's not. Sometimes I'm cranky.

Holidays. They Simply Refuse to Pass Me Over

2011-04-25T09:17:00.000-07:00

You might want to save this for later. Seriously. You know how it is when I haven't blogged in a while. I have a lot of words to purge. But - there are lots of pictures for you slow readers and two videos, too! So settle yourselves in and procrastinate for a few minutes longer....Sardine Mama blogged her heart out.

There was a time when I was exuberant. About everything, really - but mostly about parenting, unschooling, homemaking....I don't know how I stood myself. Holidays were not excluded from my exuberance...and we celebrated all the ones "most people" celebrate and some extras, as well. We're a multi-cultural, multi-ethnic, multi-religious family (although I have shed the Actual Religion - the holidays just won't go away and there are SO DANG MANY OF THEM). I cleaned, decorated, cooked and also managed to throw in a little Meaning, on the side. It was exhausting.

It is still exhausting. Also? Birthdays are exhausting. And you know what? The more kids you have, the more birthdays you end up with. I know, right? I failed to anticipate that detail during the exuberant business of fruitful multiplying. I still remember timing contractions at Jules' fourth birthday party - feet propped up on a chair and surrounded by the level of exuberance that only four-year-olds can provide and thinking that I probably could have planned THAT a little better. And every year on our anniversary, which is right Smack After Christmas....when we're exhausted and penniless...I think to myself that we probably could have planned that a little better, too. Especially since three days later the layer upon layer of birthdays begins. In my last post, I mentioned my dad's birthday. My mom's birthday was on Friday....she passed away from Early Onset Alzheimer's seven years ago - so it is usually a pretty sad day for me. Jeff's birthday comes the very next day - and God love him, he's an easy birthday boy. He really is.

This year he wanted a new guitar, and so on Saturday we loaded up the bus with all five kids plus my dad and drove to Guitar World. Jeff had already spent several hours at Guitar World the previous evening....trying to actually shop with five kids in tow usually leads to poor consumer decision-making. Even so, we were in the shop with the entire crew for quite some time as Jeff still managed to change his mind after we got there. We left with a nice mid-line shiny black guitar....Les Paul style (not an actual Les Paul, of course), a new Line 6 amp with bells and whistles, and a very small acoustic because Camille mentioned that the strings are too hard for her to push down on all of the acoustics we already own and here's the part where you ask me if I play guitar and I say NO OF COURSE NOT and her hands aren't quite big enough and DUH my dad was with us and said that was simply horrible and unacceptable and Camille walked out with a new guitar, too, even though it wasn't her birthday.

My house is full of guitars; I had to move one out of my chair in order to sit down and blog. And when people are looking for a place to play without other people (Jasper) getting in ther faces they go to my meditation nook which is now no longer used for meditating, as evidenced by the fact that my beautiful fountain now holds Nirvana lyrics and little piles of guitar picks.

Ellie used to be quite the guitarist and she has a pretty nice Fender Strat that lives in Joel's room since she's mostly now into doing this (and I don't know if I've posted this one before - it's Chopin - I think the last one I posted was different):

Scherzo in B-Flat Minor, Op. 31, No. 2 Chopin /

We also have a wonderful old Martin that my mom got when she was 7 - and she would be 82 now. Lee Greenwood once offered to buy it off of Jeff, but we wouldn't sell it for the world.

After the guitar shopping, we went out for Chinese at one of those horrible buffets that Jeff and the boys love so much. Me?  Something about watching a bunch of people eat crab legs with their fingers, and then go up to the buffet line and use those same wet, salty, and spittle-laden fingers to grab the serving utensils just turns me off...but hey - it wasn't MY birthday.

Then the real musical talent kicked in from the back seat on the way home.  Joel had been forced to take Jasper to the bathroom earlier at the restaurant, and Jasper was apparently having issues with regularity as they were in there long enough to hear the piped-directly-into-the-bathroom performance of It's Ladies' Night by Kool and the Gang. They liked it. They liked it a lot. And, much to Ellie's disgust, they sang it the whole way home. It sounded pretty awesome, if you ask me. We had Joel's low, booming voice, complimented by Jasper's chipmunk voice....

Oh, it's Ladies' Night
And the feelin's right
Oh, it's Ladies' Night
It's outta sight...

Then Joel would point to Jasper and say, "You get the trumpet solo, dude!" And then Jasper would make silly sounds. This went on for at least 45 minutes while Ellie hugged herself and chanted - I'm going away in the fall...I'm going away in the fall....

Personally, I thought it was better than the ride up - which had consisted of 45 minutes of Joel and Jules reciting drinking songs from Lord of the Rings, with Joel switching halfway through from the voice of Gandolph to the voice of Richard Nixon.

Jules and Jasper both look up to Joel. It's a problem.

And in addition to birthdays, we've had a few holidays, no?

We celebrated Passover with a Seder Dinner at my dad's. I've mentioned I'm not religious, right? But God, I do love a good seder. It is the only opportunity I ever get to enjoy cheap, kosher, overly- sweet table wine with an extremely high alcohol content. It reminds me of high school.

Anyway, if you're not Jewish and you've not been to a Seder Dinner - there is a lot of reciting and reading and praying and washing of the hands and hunting for the matzoh. Accompanied by a minimum of four glasses of the above-mentioned table wine. We try to be reverent, we really do. And there are certain poignant moments in the Seder where we muster it royally. But there is also lots of other stuff. There is the part where we solemnly recite the words...."we know what it is to suffer...and how to find good Chinese!" There are the 10 Plagues....the recitation of which involves dipping of spoons into wine and making little drops on our plates while my kids fight over who gets to read aloud about the choicest of plagues. My boys say things like, "Fine! But next year I get the lice and you get stuck reading about the lame frogs or famine!"    This year Joel wanted the Wild Beasts. And he read it like this:

Nobody wants to read about the smiting of the firstborns, the smiting of firstborns by the Unconditionally Loving Father being one of my Minor Small Problems with religion.
Jules, as usual, was our Sharp Dressed Man.

Jasper mostly did this over at the table reserved for Little Kids and Shiksas, because who else besides Jeff is going to suffer through a Seder with Jasper?

Jasper also did lots of this:

I think he was attacking the Wild Beasts. He also did this.

And below, Camille took reclining at the table to a whole new level. We don't have multiple Jaspers, by the way. He just won't light very long in one place and he ends up in all the pictures.

All the while, Ellie sat at the table with her mantra running through her head....Leaving in the fall, leaving in the fall and excuse me but was that a slightly little melancholy I'm So Going To Miss These People look on her face? I seriously doubt it! More likely, it is me projecting my emotions....

Our holiday Mood Music was provided by Matisyahu. I love him, love him, love him....although I doubt very seriously he'd approve of our Seder. Check him out at the end of the post.

I mentioned the Multi-Everything business right? That's good, because we also do Easter. And we do it Texas Style...which is where our kids walk through tall grass searching for Easter eggs while wearing boots just in case they find a rattlesnake, instead.

We have Easter Chicks and Easter Turkeys, all of which we plan to eat.

It is supposed to be hard to get turkeys to breed and brood. Nobody told our turkey. These are fertile grounds. Apparently.

And we even had birth and the promise of new life...I saw this:

See those udders above? That is one engorged mama. I knew there was a newborn nearby and I was right. He didn't seem even slightly interested in the egg hunt going on around him.

His new friends were very interested in him - all lined up and waiting to play.

When the gathering of the plastic eggs was all done, Jasper still had to do his chores, which included Real Egg Gathering.

So that's it for holidays until next month. Drumroll....Mother's Day. And this year's celebration of My Awesomeness should be really great because I'm pretty sure they're all still feeling guilty about last year. And they totally should.

Hope your holidays were marvelous and don't forget to check out my man Matisyahu. Shalom Y'all!