My husband has always been way more interested in our homeschool than most dads seem to be. Few fathers in my circle give more than a passing thought as to what curriculum their wife chooses, what books are being read or what hours are taken up with educational endeavors. I've always counted myself blessed that my dh does, in fact, invest in these things. It's endearing to have a man who takes an interest in the single pursuit that takes up the bulk of your time. And frankly, I really wouldn't want the burden of making all of these potentially large and looming choices by myself. They're our children, after all. Not just mine.
Over the years, dh's role in our homeschool has taken on varying roles according to how much time he can devote to educating the kids alongside me. This, again, is uncommon in my experiences. My dh has always been responsible for reading the SL read-alouds to Jo. This was his first act as a homeschooling dad--claiming that little bit of territory--and he's maintained it throughout the years. Now that Atticus is also able to listen in on many of the read-alouds, he often joins in on the pre-bedtime fun. Poor Logan gets a separate read-aloud with me that is more age-appropriate. He doesn't seem to mind.
Other things that dh has taken on: teaching Jo French. When Jo asserted that she wanted to learn Spanish, French and Portuguese, I was at a loss. Resetta Stone has our back covered on the Spanish end of things, and dh (who is bumblingly semi-fluent in French) swooped to the rescue on the whole French thing. Portuguese ... we'll figure that one out.
There are other things that clearly fall into dh's homeschooling realm. Checker of all things math. Player of many learning games. Builder of many projects. He is the master of many little odds and ends that keep our homeschool exciting and lively.
Dh has always been fairly content with my day-to-day teaching of the children. After helping select the curricula and rallying the troops, he tends to step back and allow me to take the reigns in the educational areas where I generally lead our little army: reading instruction, math drill, geography ... the basics. He asks how it's going. He listens as the kids detail the course of their day. He encourages. He offers a me perspective.
He has his areas. I have mine. And together, we get the job done.
But lately, apparently, he's been worried that I haven't been doing my part to the fullest.
O.k., o.k. Let me say right off the bat that I am glad I have the kind of marriage where my husband can turn to me in the middle of flipping Sunday morning pancakes and ask, "So ... are you getting tired of the whole homeschooling thing?" I mean, if I were actually, growing weary of home education, this would have been a wonderful, gentle opening that allowed me to bow out gracefully. What a man!
But, no. I am not tired of homeschooling. And I thought he knew that. I mean, didn't he know about all of the big plans I was sorting through in my head? Couldn't he see the way I was carefully easing us back in to a semblance of schedule? Wasn't it obvious that I was just waiting to get past this and that and this again, and then we'd be ready for the full swing of fall?
This is what I thought: you can't read my mind? What kind of a man are you?!?
The conversation got long and drawn out, because of course, homeschooling is an emotional thing for me. (Is everyone like this?) The long and short is that what was in my head (see above) looked like this to my husband:
1--I hear her talking about plans, but I don't see any actual evidence that she's doing them. 2--She's been taking things slow for a month. Isn't it time to just get on with it? 3--What is she doing all day anyhow?
Yikes.
I took this all as a huge wake-up call. I spent the evening last night putting together actual, concrete plans for this week and making them accessible to dh. I woke up this morning, got dressed and got moving. All of those things I was waiting to do have suddenly snapped into focus, and I'm moving forward. It feels strangely good.
Part of dh's concerns, I discovered, stem from the fact that Jo is moving at break-neck speed toward high school and eventual higher education. And just like the anxiety he felt when we first began homeschooling, he's fighting off the niggling fear that what she gets here won't be enough. That a private school could do it better. That without careful attention to detail, we might fail her.
Now, he doesn't really believe that. And I don't, either. But, as the primary parent in thie educational adventure, I have to set his fears to rest. I have to show him that the trains can--and will--run on time. I have to stay focused, to shrug off my own "it'll happen ... someday" mentality and to offer her the opportunities she deserves. A tall order!
But at least I know we'll be working toward that goal together. While dh did chide me with a gentle rebuke, he fully reaffirmed his commitment to homeschooling, as well as his faith in me to get the job done in the areas I've accepted responsibility for. Once again, I'm so glad not to be balancing the entire load on my own shoulders.
So ....
So long, lazy days of summer. So long, casual school. It's time to snap back into routine and to actually, satifactually progress.
No doubt you read this post's title and began asking yourself if MG has finally gone so far off her rocker as to be certifiably insane. I regret to inform you that I have actually been certifiable for quite some time, and am now working in my PhD in the area. I'll let you know when the sheepskin arrives.
My children have fallen into a nasty little habit as of late. Of course, I am ashamed to admit that it's gotten to the stage of "habit"; in order for something like that to develop, it has to grow from a tiny little seed, be allowed to blossom and then finally entrench itself. Clearly, I missed quite a few character training moments in this particular area. Most likely, I cruised past the warning signs with my eyes eagerly trained on something I saw as more important. I do that sometimes, I'm sorry to say.
This paticular habit I see my children manifesting is one that's a particular hurt to my mothering heart: tearing Logan down. Igh. Just seeing that in writing makes me cringe. I mean, how do you miss something like that?
The fact is, it's been coming for years. And while I've been trying to navigate the choppy waters of sibling relationships, I'm afraid I completely missed the boat on this one.
The seeds were sewn back when Logan was a toddler. For some reason, each consecutive child in my life has spoken intelligibly at a later date than the one before. Jo was spouting fully-formed, grammatically correct sentences with multiple, appropriate adjectives by one year of age. "Mommy, may I have the fuzzy, yellow duckling, please?" That was Jo. Atticus was somewhat slower to the draw. What set him apart was his vocabulary--apparently, falling asleep to me reading to him from Whitman's Leaves of Grass made an impression. "It's ominous!" he said of an approaching storm one afternoon shortly before his second birthday.
Logan did not speak at one year of age. He muttered little more than his own Logan-speak even as he approached his second birthday. At 30 mos., I sat down with him and made a list of every word he had ever even tried to say. The list stopped at 21 words and consisted mainly of sounds more than words: "duh" for "ball" and the like. I decided to pursue professional evaluation.
After six months of therapy, some intensive home intervention and a little maturing, Logan began to speak with fair intelligibility. It wouldn't be until he turned five, however, that I would say his speech issues became a moot point.
During those first years, his siblings learned that unless Mom was around, understanding Logan was a fairly taxing exercise. As siblings are wont to do, they often decided that this was a little more involved than they really wanted to be, so they began blocking him out altogether. Logan's response? In true Logan fashion, the reasoning came down like this: "Well, if you're not going to listen to me when I'm nice, I'll make you listen to me when I'm mean!"
I work on this with my older kids to this day. It's not an every day thing at this point, but it's still something I keep my feelers out for. Four years of, "Are you listening to your brother?" Four years of, "Try again, Logan." Four years of, "He's talking to you, Jo."
((sigh))
So that's where this all started. Logan gets ignored. Which has now been translated into, "What Logan says is probably wrong."
Now this jump I really don't get. I suspect that it comes from the fact that I have one very intelligent, dominant firstborn (that would be Jo) and one super-grandé intelligent oldest male (Atticus). And of course, anything they say is, by definition, right. And the opposite of right is ... (follow along with me here!) WRONG.
So if Logan disagrees, he's wrong. The problem is that Logan is no dummy. He's actually just as full of factoids and general knowledge as Jo, though clearly less obsessively detail-oriented as Atticus. As Logan has come into his own and is now a big old first grader, he not only wants to be heard, he wants to be HEARD. But what he gets is often this:
Logan: "If the next president serves two terms, I'll be almost 15 when he leaves office." Jo: "Two terms is eight years." Atticus: "You'll be 14." Logan: "I know! I said almost 15, because the inauguration is in January and my birthday's in May."
Did you catch that? It's really subtle to the casual on-looker. Logan must be wrong, because he is Logan. That's the upshot here.
I know that some people will dismiss this as part and parcel of being a little brother. I'm sorry, but I can't swallow that. It's rude, it's wrong, and above all, it's completely disrespectful. I expect more from my children.
This morning, after hearing the above exchange and watching Logan hunch down in his chair and generally lose a bit of his morning sparkle, I snapped.
"Everyone up!" I announced. The kids looked at me like I was a crazy woman. Didn't I know that there was hot food on the table? This was breakfast time, by golly. A sacred hour in my house. Who gets up at breakfast time?
"Out to the gameroom! I want each of you to build me a Lego wall. Make it 4 big bricks wide and ten bricks tall."
Their eyes still wide, Jo, Atticus and Logan marched out to the gameroom. Ten minutes later, they were back, each carrying a little Lego creation. I instructed them to put the walls in front of their plates and to listen very closely.
"My children, you have fallen into an ugly habit," I began. "The Bible says that a house divided against itself will not stand. And yet, here we are, dividing against ourselves. My children are doing to one another exactly what the world does: pick and pull and hurt. And it's got to stop."
I read to my children from 1 Corinthians 8: We know that we all possess knowledge. Knowledge puffs up, but love builds up. We talked about what we know, what we think we know, and what other people know.
Then we moved on to 1 Thessalonians 5:11: Therefore encourage one another and build one another up. Which would be where our lovely Lego walls come in: today, whenever someone uses their words to correct someone else in any way that uses their knowledge but is ultimately undermining, they will have to physically remove one of that person's bricks. In other words, the intangible from your lips will be made tangible. You will see how you are breaking others down.
I finished up by pointing out that each one of us really and truly is a little wall of Legos. We are our own little structure ... but at the whim of others. The things that break us down can slide so easily off of the tongue as to be almost unnoticed. And there it goes ... another brick from the wall, leaving us less sound, less sure, and less encouraged.
Conversation overheard as we sat at a red light in front of a line of teachers picketing an elementary school:
Logan: "What are they doing? Are they ... striking? Like miners? Teachers have a union?" Jo: "Yeah. (voice drops to a whisper) They're picketing." Atticus: "Oh, joy! (he actually says this, y'all. i kid you not.) I've always wanted to see strikers!" Jo: "Really?" Atticus: "Yeah. Because you never know when the Pinkertons will come rushing in." Logan:(to Atticus) "Are you joking? You're joking me again." (to me) "Mom, pull over NOW!" Me: "Sorry, but when the light turns green, I'm going."
Collective groans.Light turns green and we roll forward.
Jo: "They might have to call in the feds." Atticus: "Yeah, better that we're not here. It could get ugly." Logan: "I hope their broken legs heal before they start teaching again. ((sigh)) Poor public school teachers."
We're still working on establishing an actual routine for school this fall. So far, it's been a loose collection of educational odds and ends that pick up sometime after the morning chores are under control. I can't start school with a messy house. I just can't. Call me a freak.
Logan has continued to plug his way through Headsprout with good results. His reading fluency has improved, and I'm noticing that his vowels are becoming far more consistent. For a while there, it was a grab bag: "Long 'i.' No ... short! Silent 'e.' No! I'm going to use a long 'e' at the end of that word!" Insert exasperated Momma smilie, here, folks ... because that's about where I found myself. Logan is also continuing to explore his MUS Alpha skills. I'm still not challenging him in that area, as he seems to pick up plenty on his own. I sat down and selected a month's worth of Family Math games with him primarily in mind, and am looking forward to seeing how he responds to that. I also found a handful of sites that I plan on pulling from as the year goes on; Figure This!, Illuminations and one of our old faves, AIMS Puzzle Corner, will all be useful, I think.
Atticus is again the human computer when it comes to work. With barely any effort, he hurtles himself through Greek, Math, Science ... whatever you throw at him. I am planning on ramping up on a) what I require of him and b) the level of Language Arts instruction this year. I get the feeling that Atticus does exactly what's required of him ... and not a whole lot more. He saves his creativity and actual brainpower for his own personal rabbit trails. Not that I mind his rabbit trails! On the contrary, I find them fascinating ... but often, far too obtuse for me to do anything more than place holds through our library system and find him some safe websites to explore. I need to find a way to tap into that curiosity and fan it.
Jo is feeling the weight of her new-found junior high status. She's spent the past few days filling in bubbles on a standardized test--I'll post more about that at a later time. This was a whole new experience for her, and one that she didn't relish as much as endure. She was delighted to find, however, that she not only could identify the math skills needed for the test, she could do the computations as well. This was a boon to her math confidence, and one I hope she can ride throughout the year.
Our Sonlight schedule has been relatively light thanks in large part to the fact that we had to order a new computer to utilize the World Book program that is an integral part of Core 5. People have posted on the forums that you can do Core 5 without the Eastern Hemisphere Explorer notebook or the World Book, but frankly, I don't see the point in that. The activities and research component are too big for me to gloss over. Besides, my kids are chomping at the bit to get into that program. A new computer is well worth it.
Oh--and what is Oliver doing while we dig into our homeschooling? Well, he naps. That's a big help, as you can imagine. And other than that, he's a pretty good independent play kid. From time to time, I assign a child to play with him, or read to him. I take my spare moments and make sure he gets Mommy time. I have pulled out a rotation of fun activities that he can only get into at school time. And, of course, there's always the Wiggles. If all else fails, Oliver is happy to dance with Captain Feathersword long enough for someone to finish up what they're doing and play trucks with him.
Do you know any writers IRL? If you do, then it will hardly surprise you when I tell you that I have far more acquaintances than friends. Writers seem to be cut from a particular bolt of cloth that precludes a large number of deeply intimate relationships. We can manage one, two or possibly three, but by that point, our confidant cup runneth over. Don't ask me why this is the case. It just is. You can go ahead and regale me with as many stories of gregarious, überfriendly writers as you'd like ... I'll simply chalk it up to God sometimes deciding that His universe needs an anomaly--like a platypus--to keep us on our toes, and I'll move on. Despite the fact that I am, indeed, one of these socially challenged writers, I do not live my life in a vacuum. Hardly. I am surrounded by people. All day. Every day. To the point of distraction, from time to time. As a matter of fact, I spend weeks every winter in hermit mode, filtering out the world and reorganizing my brain lest I melt from the sheer intrusiveness of it all. During this time, I write like mad. I read to my children from the books that make our mouths water with their all-encompassing plots. I encourage them to invent their own tales, and to share them with us. I read insatiably.
And I do not, as a rule, return phone calls within my usual 48 hours timeframe. Or emails either. As a matter of fact, I sort of ... disappear.
As you can imagine, this is more than a little off-putting to casual acquaintances. Those who do not know or understand me generally come to the conclusion that, while I seem like a with-it enough gal on the outside, I must be a bit touched in the head. After all, what kind of person maintains the general status quo of getting kids to AWANA every week and shows up for appointments, yet turns down any and all requests for playdates for three weeks running? And what's this her son is talking about? A live-action reenactment of Redwall during school time? Who allows such nonsense? A crazy woman, that's who.
While Hermit Season is a happy time for me and my family, I know it's crazy-making time for the people in my life who just plain wish I'd get over it, dump this whole writing notion and be a normal person. A couple of friends over the years have hinted at this. A select few have given voice to their frustrations with me and my distracted flights of fancy.
I really don't know what God was thinking when he stitched our friendship together. On the outside, Benny and I have only a few marginal things in common. First of all, we do not pass the suburban "we should be best friends!" test. You know that test, right? The one where all of your kids line up perfectly, thereby giving everyone a playmate. Benny and I fail this one miserably; her eldest is a few months older than Logan, which leaves Jo and Atticus dangling in the wind. As a matter of fact, when we met in March of 2003, Benny was momma to just one little boy and I had three--two of whom were ji-normous at five and almost three, respectively. Everyone knows that moms of babies don't hook up with moms of school-age kids. It's just not done.
I'm almost 34. Benny is closing out her 20s.
Benny loves to host. I loathe it.
I love to cook, and I love to eat. Benny enjoys neither.
Benny is a new house person. I am an old house person.
The list goes on and on. Like I said, it's just not done.
But we did it. Not sure how or why, but we did.
I could tell you fabulous stories of all of the history we have shared in the years our families have been growing alongside each other. But frankly, there are too many stories to tell, and no time to tell them well. I think the pictures of our children-- 6 little boys like like stair steps and 2 girls like bookends-- are actually the stories of our lives. Crafts at kitchen tables. Babies in arms, carriers, strollers. Making cookies. Riding scooters. Playing in the pool. Birthday cakes. Couch time. Christmas Eve on the steps. If you share enough history with someone that you have a photographic tapestry together then, well, suffice it to say you are invested.
We're invested enough to ride out the hard times, too: the ones you purposefully don't record for posterity's sake. While I'd love to say that our friendship has been nothing but sunny afternoons at the zoo and fun times digging in the sand, you and I both know that God's gifts are made so much richer with the love and understanding that comes through seeing one another--and a relationship--through the times that make you want to throw your hands in the air in walk away. Some of those moments are so deeply shaming to me that I shudder to even remember them. Have you ever told your best friend, as she announces a pregnancy to you, that you just aren't in a place to be happy for her? Well, I have. Really--through hot tears and a lump in my throat. Thankfully, not only did the Lord value my transparent honesty, but Benny did, too. She absorbed the hurt and still managed to love me enough to let me witness the miracle of that baby being born.
Benny will freely admit that she misses me during my Hermit Season, but she takes it as part and parcel of who I am and waits it out. No judgement. No hurt feelings. No pressure. Just like I ride through her more emotional conundrums, Benny accepts that this, too shall pass. In the end, we both know, we'll be the better for having weathered the storms of life together ... just our little families clinging to the rock of the Lord.
I truly hope that you have a Benny in your life: someone who will take your kids at a moment's notice, who you could call at 3 a.m. and cry with, someone who loves you enough to tell you when you're being nuts and still lets you lick the batter from the spoon. If you don't have one then no, you cannot have mine. But because I think she has loads to share and because I know that you all will love her, too, I am happy to introduce her blog, Psalm 118:24. Please pop by and tell her hello. Maybe even tell her about your own best friend. And, hey, if you have an extra second ... tell her that MG says she's glad she has someone who speaks truth over her life.
We're awaiting word on a potential foster placement. Our agency was shocked to learn on Thursday evening that one of their adoptive placements had suddenly blown up in a nasty, dramatic way. This was in no way the child's fault; I've heard probably more about the situation than I should have, but trust me ... this little girl had nothing to do with her adoptive family self-destructing. She's simply an 8 year-old living through yet another mess that she can't control.
No child left behind. I think that oft-abused phrase fairly well sums up what Jesus means when He said He wanted the little ones to come to Him. Too bad we "Christians" are just as bad as the rest of the world in leaving children by the wayside.
ETA: The little girl will be staying with the family who provided her emergency respite care this past weekend, at least for now. Part of me is very, very glad for this tiny shred of continuity in her little life. The other part is, I admit, sad for us. For some reason, the idea of an 8 year old girl was joyful to all of us.
Yes, it's true. We are submitting an application to AAI with the intent of bringing home a child from Ghana. This is an absolute, total step in faith for us on many levels, but I know in my heart that God isn't just going to meet us in this place ... he's already gone ahead of us, and is just waiting for us to catch up.
For anyone who is asking themselves why a family of six living on one income in a 3 bedroom townhouse would pursue such a crazy, expensive thing, let me explain:
You Know You're An Adoptive Parent When . . .
1. The fact that there are 143 million children without a parent to kiss them goodnight has made you lose sleep.
2. You realize DNA has nothing to do with love and family.
3. You can't watch Adoption Stories on TLC without sobbing.
4. The fact that, if 7% of Christians adopted 1 child there would be no orphans in the world, is convicting to you.
5. You spend free time surfing blogs about families who have experienced the blessing of adoption.
6. It drives you crazy when people ask you about adopted child's 'real' parents.
7. You had no idea how you would afford to adopt but stepped out in faith anyway, knowing where God calls you He will provide.
8. You have ever taken an airplane ride half-way around the world with a child you just met.
9. You believe God's heart is for adoption.
10. You realize that welcoming a child into your heart and family is one of the most important legacies you could ever leave on this earth.
11. You know what the word 'Dossier' means, and you can actually pronounce it!
12. You have welcomed a social worker into the most private parts of your life.
13. You have ever been 'pregnant' with your adoptive child longer than it takes an elephant to give birth. (2 years!)
14. You shudder when people say your child is so lucky that you adopted them, knowing full well you are the blessed one to have him or her in your life.
