Mom Interrupted

For this post, I'm logging the kids' interruptions (1 - Older implied younger was a geek. He is. They both are, but younger doesn't want to be called that) in real time  (2 -Younger sticks duct tape in older's hair. At older's request.) during a single blogging session.  Good luck reading this (3-Younger brings kitten to me, asking a question the kitten has.).

Sometimes my most burning question (4-Younger complains about his brother's answer to a simple question he asked.) is whether I'll ever be able to carry a thought longer than 20 seconds long while the boys are in the house (5-"Mom, did you notice the present under the tree?" asks older), not including any time they spend playing computer games or sleeping.  I worry if my older's ADD is contagious, and I wonder if I've caught it. 

I'd like to say I'm reassured by my longer periods of concentration when they're not here, that I notice an ability to sit for hours, writing, reading, or just thinking.  I'd be lying, however.  (6- "He won't accept a free wedgie, Mom!  It's only five dollars!" my younger illogically notifies me.)  Even when alone, I have trouble settling into the quiet needed to allow myself submersion into a thoughtful activity.  I may write a paragraph or two only to urgently need to find a snack, warm my coffee, check on the kittens, or move the laundry.  (7- Some nonsensical notification of the pain of "Korean burns" from my younger.  I have no idea.) (8-Ditto number seven, but now "Canadian burns".)  I'm seriously concerned that I'll never focus again.

My meditation attempts are at least as scattered as my other stabs at prolonged attention (read: longer than 43 seconds).  I try but generally find my mind wandering off, a few breaths into the process.  Gently, I bring it back, but the wanderings far outnumber the breaths spent in quietude.  It's worse than monkey mind.  It's two-kids-at-home mind.  Yikes.  (9- More weird comments from younger -- seems I'm a "momafant."  I don't know, and I'm not asking.) (10- Broken icemaker triggered by older -- stern reminder from mom to leave it alone.)  Now where was I? 

Tree Tales

The tree's up.  It's bare, but it's standing in it's assigned place at the front window.  And this year, the top doesn't fold over at the ceiling, so I guess I've learned how to judge heights under eight feet.  That's progress.


The boys and I trekked to our local tree lot ("ours" since we started going there in 2008) and, rather quickly for us, picked a suitable specimen.  It's relatively straight, after quite a bit of adjusting, and needles seem to be holding on, at least for now.  It's our second real tree after 14 years of the fake variety, and I relish the smell of life in the midst of this dark and rather dormant time of year. 

I grew up with the genuine article, hunted down in a local tree lot, usually on the coldest day of December. A certain amount of dithering about shape and size occurred of course, as we assured ourselves the tree had enough of a good side to be presentable.  The best tree had pine cones, which opened with a crackle in the heat of our living room. 

Once I moved from my family of origin to my family of marriage, the tree changed to the artificial variety.  Rather than hunted and hauled, it was unfolded and fluffed.  While I understood the fire concerns regarding a real tree, I missed the, well, realness of the genuine article. 

Last year, with my marriage dissolving and change swirling around, I made a change of my own.  After some online research on choosing a tree and features of different varieties, I was ready to shop.  Boys in tow, I drove three miles down the road and dug into the chore at hand.  Our final pick, a Douglas fir, turned out to be a bit larger in the house than it appeared on the lot.  How my older son (all of 60 lbs of him) and I wrestled that monstrosity into our narrow entryway and then into the tree stand, I really don't know.  As the top six inches bent onto the ceiling, I cringed, but just a bit.  My pride in our efforts and delight in our find far trumped my disappointment in my misjudgement of height. 

This year, there was no going back to the unfolding and fluffing.  We trooped back to our tree lot, dithered and dickered as long as the cold wind allowed, and brought home another Douglas fir.  Set up was faster, thanks to last year's experience, but the joy was not diminished for the familiarity of the task.  Our real tree is a new tradition for our newly changed family.  And that's progress.

Thanksgivings

Two hours left of Thanksgiving Day, my first one in forty trips around the sun that I've spent without family.  The first one in 13 without my children.  Far from feeling broken and lost, I feel strong.  Strong in mind, body, and spirit.

Strong mind.  I've learned so much this year.  Some comes straight from homeschooling my sons:  Latin declensions, geometry theorems, cellular respiration equations, Punic War details, and so much more.  Other learning is more self-directed.  I've stretched it with Scrabble games and busied it with Buddhism readings. I'm thankful for the time and ability to think, read, and write.  My mind is stronger, and for this I give thanks.

Strong body.  Post-push-up pain aside, I've gained considerable physical strength thanks to martial arts training.  I'm far more coordinated than any previous point in my life, with better balance to boot.  Excellent instruction from my instructor in Tang Soo Do, my own hard work, and encouragement from friends at the dojang all contributed.  My body is stronger, and for this I give thanks.

Strong spirit.  Emotional strain and pain forced me to look inward more intently than ever.  I sought and summoned inner resources previously unrecognized, and I found a connection to the universe that brings me a sense of wholeness.  I continue on a spiritual journey, but I've made many steps this year.  Personal struggles, support from family and friends, and dedication to truth seeking paved many stones on this path.  My spirit is stronger, and for this I give thanks.   

To all of you who have supported me during this time, thanks for sharing your strengths so mine may grow. 

Namaste. (which, for this writing, means may the strength in me recognize the strength in you, and when we recognize the strength in each other, we are one)

Sore, Striped, and Strong

A recent Sunday morning found me achy from hips to head and a bit bruised in between.  Two hours of Tang Soo Do testing left me rather battered and quite aware that fifty push-ups and lots of bodily contact including takedowns and a few kicks to the abdomen from some powerful black belts took their toll on my 40-year-old body.  Just rolling out of bed challenged me, and coughing or laughing was amazingly painful. Bring on the heating pad and the ibuprofen (holistic types, advice welcome).

A week later, my pain only a memory, I'm back in the dojang, sitting on the floor for an hour of promotions. I'm finding myself less than thrilled at the prospect of 30 minutes of names being called followed by applause, and I'm feeling a bit guilty about my attitude.  The newest members are up front, all in white aside from a few with a splash of yellow or orange across an otherwise white belt.  I flash back to my first few months of Tang Soo Do:  every punch, kick, and turn took all my concentration and effort.  Just landing on the correct foot seemed to take divine intervention.  With my coordination, it probably did.

Receiving a yellow belt, that first bit of color to my conspicuously white uniform, was a major triumph. I was on my way, and, more importantly at the time, I wasn't at the very beginning anymore.  I was moving ahead.  Fast forward to orange, green, red, and all the stripes in between to this promotion.  Red with a stripe.  No longer in the first few groups called to promote, I'm now in the last row to be called forward.  As my instructor places the coveted stripe on my belt, the first of four before black belt,  I warm to the moment at hand and beam with pride.

Quite honestly, the test a few weeks back gave me pause.  I was rather discouraged with my conditioning (those push-ups!) and rather concerned about the intensity of the testing itself, especially as I continue to progress.  Two-on-one sparring lies ahead:  two black belts on one testing red belt, with fresh pairs of black belts swapping in every few minutes.  Yikes.  But two years ago, so much about red imtimidated me.  How would I ever be able to perform all those complicated-looking forms, one right after another, with my coordination?  How could I learn to throw people much larger than me, dodge punches and kicks while dishing out my own?  How could I learn it all? 

Somehow, I did manage.  Not somehow.  Classes twice a week, some practice at home, an amazingly patient instructor, and two in-home helpers with better memory than I:  those played more than a small role.  I'm stronger and more coordinated than ever before.  My body responds with instinct and confidence -- a first for me. My martial arts work and the focus required have certainly aided my ability to cope with the life changes I've confronted these past two years.  Making new friends on the same path and having the chance to work long-term on a goal with my kids are bonuses.  The strength, focus, and confidence I've gained?  They're worth the days of aches -- completely.

It Takes a Year or Two

I'm not generally prone to holiday blues, but this year holds some special challenges.  I've read that it takes a full year or two of holidays after a divorce or death to form new rituals and settle into new patterns that truly feel comfortable.  While I've spent a Thanksgiving with my boys and without my spouse, this will be my first without either.  I've planned well, albeit late, and will be cooking and thanking the universe with dear friends.  I'm covered.

Still.  A lump come to my throat when the divisions of the next six weeks come to mind.  I don't care for change, and divorce is change in spades.  As a talisman against grief, I remind myself and recite the boys' holiday plans to others who ask .  Thanksgiving with their Dad (after all, I add, I had them last year), Christmas Eve with his family, Christmas Day at home.  My younger asks for the litany every few days while my older continually reminds me of the importance of waking at home on Christmas Day.  The ritual holds back my tears.

Sort of.  They threaten to bubble forth at inconvenient times.  At church. When discussing the timing of buying a tree.  In Trader Joes.  When listening to Christmas music (yeah, the boys pulled it out already). In the quiet of the night, when sleep eludes me. You get the idea.  My mind threatens to twirl out of control, spiralling into worries about loneliness I might experience without the boys and despair about my failed marriage. If I let myself go long enough, I can return to the self-blame about my marriage's failure.

Breathe.  My recourse is simple but not easy.  Reeling myself out of the abyss of loneliness, self flagellation and sadness takes my breath.  Okay, it takes many of them.  But eventually, staying with my breath, letting my feelings just be without judging or directing them, I can come back to the present. I can return to the song at church, the decorating discussion, the frozen green beans, Oh Holy Night, and restorative sleep.  Acknowledged, those painful feeling pass when ready, leaving me with peace. 

Usually.  As they say, it takes a year or two.  And that's a lot of breaths.

Dragons are About

I have dragons on the brain. Specifically, I'm imagining a scarlet-backed, small-winged beast about 4 feet tall. He's a bit grumpy at times, but we've been living together for awhile now, and I'm gradually learning the art of sharing my life with him.

A recent sermon by Alex Riegel, Feeding the Purple Dragon, crystallized my process of coming to terms with my separation from my husband of 15 years and upcoming divorce. To briefly summarize the 30 minute sermon, dragons are those people, events, and situations we face that, if ignored, grow larger and more troublesome. We often do just that, pushing the issue away from our minds in an attempt to avoid pain and conflict within our selves or with the dragon itself. Or we try to slay the dragon, but this is a rather messy and ineffective way to go through life. The radical alternative? Learn to accept the presence of the dragon: learn its habits, its feeding needs, and live accordingly.

The divorce process itself is one of my dragons. He's not my ex-husband-to-be. He's divorce and all it's layered meanings to me. My first head-on encounter occurred when the papers arrived. Sword in hand, I railed against him, but he joined my household anyway. Dealing with the legal end of this process, face-to-face or from my home, can leave me in a cold sweat. Impatient claw clicks grow louder as the Judgement of Divorce statement sent from my lawyer sits in my inbox, needing comments and revisions from me. Once I look at him head on, read the papers, fill in the necessary blanks, and send them off, he retreats, returning to his spot in the house.

At points, my sadness about this divorce overwhelms me, tears flow and sobbing leaves me exhausted. Following my honest acceptance of my feelings about this life change, he actually shrinks a bit. When fear of the future floods my system, he feeds heartily, growing more threatening as my anxiety deepens. Only when I can face his gaping maw, brimming forth with smoke and oppressive heat, does he back away, having seen the strength I possess. He requires honest acknowledgement and forward motion to maintain an even temperment.

My dragon's not leaving. Divorce is forever with me and my children. Living with it peacefully, repecting it's reality and responding honestly without excessive anxiety is the choice I've made. I've layed down my sword and face my newest resident accordingly.

Flu Blues

Two kids, nine consecutive days of fevers and coughs, and one mom losing her mind.  It's the flu.  The real McCoy, no "severe cold" or other such beast.  It's pretty nasty, too. The fevers are high and the chills are bone shaking.  Their coughs are gut-wrenching.  They've had achy bodies and touchy tummies.  I really feel bad for them.  And I feel bad for me.


Don't get me wrong. My empathy for the boys runs deep.  But right now, I'm having a pity party for me. I've had too little adult contact, even less sleep, and way too much whining exposure to be healthy for anyone. Almost every night for over a week, I've shared a bed with a sweaty child, moaning, coughing, and waking early as his body battled the viral villain.  I'm tired and rather cranky.


These are the times that try this mom's soul.  The internal push-pull between the mom-me and that me-me part.  As an attachment parenting type with five cumulative years breastfeeding two kids who has been homeschooling these offspring for the last five years, I'm wholly committed to mothering and family.  I chose to have these amazing creatures, and I believe in deep, impassioned, committed motherhood.  Some would say I drank the Kool Aid, giving up my own identity to parent my kids, but I'd wholly disagree.  It's a new dimension to me, and I've grown in ways I don't believe I would have without it.  It's also exhausted me, frustrated me, and sucked me dry at times.  Like now.

I need some regular time to just meet my own needs, not in a way that neglects the real needs of children but that respects that my own mental and physical health is essential to the well being of this family.  If I swallow the message that all should be about my children, 24/7, I miss some essentials to being a healthy woman.  This often is referred to as putting on one's own oxygen mask first, but that creates a sense of "emergency only" self care and consideration.  Ask any person who relies on the ER for all her medical care and you'll quickly realize most emergencies wouldn't exist if it weren't for neglect of routine care.  Regular nurturing of me keeps the oxygen mask need to a minimum.

So I'm feeling sorry for me.  With barely a breath without interruption for the past week and a half, I've missed that time to attend to me-me, and that portion of me screams for attention when neglected for long. It's all been oxygen masks for awhile, and I'm in need of some routine care, just enough to restore and strengthen this weary woman.  It's coming.

Tween? Not Buying That!

I despise the term "tween." Did we honestly need another designation for a period of childhood? Back when I was a kid (my boys know to tune out NOW), at 12 years, one was a preteen. Nothing more, nothing less. "Tween," it seems, refers to kids from 8 to 12, or nine to 14, or the 10 to 14 set, depending on the user. Eight? Really?!? My eight-year-old is a kid. Early elementary, if we must use school labels. He's no where near teen, and, therefore, certainly not a "tween".


My 12-year-old son is no "tween" either. Sure, he's on the cusp of adolesence, at least by the numbers. Aside from his odor, he's decidely prepubecent physically. He still loves stuffed animals, Pokemon, and building forts with couch cushions. He's also a Rachmaninov fan, a TIME magazine reader, and Google Earth devotee. One moment, he's logically discussing mathematics and then next he's making annoying random sounds. He's transitioning, gradually, in fits and stops, from childhood to adulthood. It's a long process, one, according to brain maturation studies, that continues until at least age 25. By that point you've theoretically been "adult" for 7 years. Or perhaps then one would be a twadult? Hmmm.

The term is widely used by the marketing folks who discovered a niche for a wide variety of products. This is my main objection. The tween term seems to have it's main use in marketing. I'm strongly against marketing to children, who, after all, still are developing their critical thinking skills and have less ability to see the line of garbage they're fed by those who see them with dollar signs only. Am I angry? You bet.

According to Tolkien's The Fellowship of the Ring, a tween is a hobbit between the ages of 20 and 32. Better origin, but still not particularly useful when describing my boys. I'll stick to kids, thanks, and you can hold the advertising.

What We Learned Today

Here's a sampling of what the boys and I learned today.  Feel free to guess who learned what.

Complement means "that which completes something".  Compliment is something nice we say to another.
The subject complement takes a noun, adjective, or subjective pronoun.
In Spanish, there are eight articles, as opposed to the three in English.
Complementary angles are two angles which add up to 90 degrees.
Supplementary angles are two angles that add up to 180 degrees.
Tofind the area of a rectangle, multiply the length time the width.
To find the perimeter of a polygon, add up all the sides.
Aedifico (Latin) means "to build".
In "Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes," Sadako contracts leukemia after exposure to radiation from an atomic bomb.
Plant cells have chloroplasts.  Animal cells don't.
How to play measure 73 through 76 in "Hopak" by Modest Mussorgsky on the piano.
It's hard to read the Encylopedia Britannica.
The pretzel with the bong (bo staff in Korean martial arts) is tricky and takes flexibility. 
How to spell "blew".
How to beat mom at "Settlers of Catan."
Trimming rear claws on kittens is harder than cutting front claws.
The letters "s" and "b" in cursive aren't really that hard.
Acorn squash makes great yeasted bread.
Kittens can  be a bit gassy.
Yellow Tail Shiraz is still okay after a week in the fridge.
Encouraging a friend is uplifting.
Refusing to unlock the house until the garbage is taken out is an effective method of delegating chores.
We can get ready for Tang Soo Do in 5 minutes.

We're really all learning all the time.  Nice to know, huh?

Universe in a Shoebox (Part II)

In the end of “Life as a Strategy for Life,” we were asked to look back on life as an experience and consider how we want to be eulogized. While I haven’t thought of it those terms, I have thought about my goals of living, and they step from my sense of connection to humanity as I discussed in Part I.

I want to have loved deeply, not just when I feel like it, not just when the other pleases me, not even only when I truly know the other person. I want to feel the compassion that goes alongside love for those with whom I share the planet. After all, we have all either been mother, we’ve all loved and lost, we’ve all laughed with delight and wept in sorrow. We all experience what it is to be human, what it means to be alive. Loving others, feeling compassion, deepens our connections to humanity, and, I believe, brings peace to ourselves and others.

This is a goal, a strategy to life. Working for that goal is work, and I miss the mark every day. As a bit of a perfectionist, examining my life for my shortcomings is second nature (and loving myself can be quite difficult, although as the cliché goes, it’s the place to start). As human, I constantly fall short. As human, I continue to strive for growth and that currently popular business term, “continuous improvement.”


Included in the sermon is this poem:
Adrienne Rich: Transcendental Etude
No one ever told us we had to study our lives,
make of our lives a study, as if learning natural history
or music, that we should begin
with the simple exercises first
and slowly go on trying
the hard ones, practicing till strength
and accuracy became one with the daring
to leap into transcendence, take the chance
of breaking down the wild arpeggio
or faulting the full sentence of the fugue.
—And in fact we can't live like that: we take on
everything at once before we've even begun
to read or mark time, we're forced to begin
in the midst of the hard movement,
the one already sounding as we are born.


— Adrienne Rich, 1984.


So I study my life, make gradual if stuttering progress, loving the life this earth contains.

Universe in a Shoebox (Part I)

A recent sermon by Rev. Alex Riegel left me thinking back. At the start of the sermon, Alex asks the congregation to remember moments of our youth when we felt in sync with life and taken with the mystery and wonder: to recall our natural philosophical disposition. A few points came forward in my mind. First, I remember wondering often about my uniqueness in the universe. After I understood just how many people inhabited this planet but before I knew anything about genetics, I mulled over what the chance was that I was the only one with my name, at my age, with my physical appearance, likes, and dislikes. Was there another me? What would the chances be that mundane me could really and truly be unique? I don’t recall judging whether having a duplicate would be a plus or a minus, only the recurring thought.


My second preoccupation as I’d lay in bed waiting for sleep was the uniqueness of the universe. Could the universe I knew be simply in a shoe box in the corner of someone’s closet, and could that closet-containing universe be in another box? Could the pattern, perhaps, never end in either direction, universes upon universes contained and containing this one, like an infinite set of nesting dolls? These were my early philosophical meanderings of the mind when young.

Honestly, they’re not too different than my meanderings now. I return to my shoebox theory of the universe when the thought of a single universe with nothingness beyond me seems either to simple or too distressing. It doesn’t keep me up nights anymore – that honor is reserved for so many distracting and usually uncontrollable minutiae in my life. And while I no longer wonder if my double resides in some small town in Iowa, I instead see the commonalities I have with the rest of humanity. I am a mother, thus share “mother” to greater or lesser extents with all mothers that are, that have ever been, or that ever will be. I have loved and lost, and share that experience with most of the world as well. I have known joy and sorrow and recognize these emotions as far from unique. They are, in fact, part of the human condition. These shared experiences ground me and connect me to the humanity.

It's the Yarn Talking

I swear I just went to look. Well, perhaps to touch and fantasize a bit, too. It's been about six months since my last trip, and the holiday season is coming, eventually. So I really need to go. In fact, it's more an obligation than... Oh, who am I kidding?

I love yarn shops, but fibers have a way of seducing me to bring them home. To avoid temptation, I only occasionally treat myself to an hour or two wrapped in the sensory indulgence of my favorite local knit shop, Neighborhood Knits. I haven't been there since it changed hands earlier this year, and I'm delighted to see the store maintain its cozy look and intimate feel. New yarns grace the shelves, layed out in a way that I find intuitive (grouped by fiber and weight). Sandy, the new owner, is welcoming and helpful without being at all invasive. For me, yarn shopping is personal. I need some time to see and touch before I can ponder the options aloud.

I came in to look at yarn choices for prairie boots, a pattern I've mulled over for a few months. As the weather cools and the idea of boot-like slippers doesn't make me sweat profusely, I'm ready to consider yarn for the project. After a cruise around the store, I not only find the yarn (Lamb's Pride Bulky, by Brown Sheep) but a pair of the boots knit up in a tweedy brown, my first choice of colors for the project. Before I commit to a color, I take a gamble at finding a pattern I'd considered last visit. It's still there, but picking four colors for it proves a bit more challenging. I tend towards shades of the same color, barely a step beyond my usual monochromatic or monochromatic-with-a-stripe-of-something-else choices.

Enter Sandy. She starts pulling skeins out of the artfully sorted bins, lining them up on the floor, narrating her thought process. At first, I'm only an observer, still overwhelmed by the options in color and texture even within the worsted wool section. Tentatively, I pull one of her selections out and add my own. Hmm. That's not too bad. She continues to demonstrate combinations, and soon, a dozen or more skeins are on the floor and couch, we've arranged in sets designed to complement each other.

Eventually, with much encouragement, I find a combination I like and make my purchase. I thank Sandy both for her help and patience with my indecision and head home new pattern and yarn in tow. I'm happy with my choice and with the comfort of a long project ahead of me and delighted a favorite local business is in such caring and competent hand. Oh, and the boots? I'll save that purchase for my next visit.

Garden On

I'm really ready to be done with the garden and yard. Not ready for the snow to fly, not even ready to rake leaves, but I'm yearning to break up with my reel lawn mower, pruners, and weed picker. Well, at least we need some time off from each other.

I know come February (okay, January)I'll be pining for those implements while I plan the vegetable garden whose bed will be buried under snow, but right now I'm just done. I'm sick of mowing grass that shouldn't be growing so much in September, tired of pulling the same weeds again, and saddened by pruning spent blossoms with no new blooms in the making for months.

Aside from a few beets lining the front of the garden and some volunteer cherry tomatoes that seem ripen way too slowly, there's little left but the herbs for food. The only flowers remaining are the autumn joy sedum. They're a personal favorite, with lovely succulent leaves in spring and summer and pink flowers deepening to russet as summer turns to fall. Along with the petal-free remains of the purple cone flowers and black-eyed susans, they add much-needed winter interest and landing pads for smaller birds. They also will give me hope when winter days drag on - spring will return.

My negative yard maintenance attitude abates a bit once I don my garden gloves and hit the dirt, pulling weeds, beating back the buttercups and bee balm, and removing dead day lillies. Cleaning the vegetable garden remains reminds me of the pesto I plan to make and freeze and the potatoes out of sight but still under the soil. Along with those beets and a few more carrots in my younger's garden, there's still some harvest remaining. After an hour of sweat-producing labor, my attitude about the yard is markedly brighter and my mood is lighter. Guess I'll keep the mower and garden on.

Holy Days

It's the International Day of Peace, one of the only, well, created days that I can get into. Except I forgot it this year. I saw it on the calendar when scheduling an appointment for my younger a few weeks back. It was announced from the pulpit in church yesterday, along with Eid-al-Fitr, the end of Ramadan, and Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New Year, both actual Holy Days. The real schmeal.

Since becoming a Universalist Unitarian, I feel a bit like a woman without a Holy Day. Our church mentions all the big ones and many I'd never heard of before attending UUCF. Since our congregation's focus has been on the six sources from which we draw our living tradition, I've added Holi, Budda's birthday, and Darwin's birthday to my awareness. Since so many of these are announced at services, along with the more familiar Easter and Christmas, perhaps I'm a woman of many Holy Days.

But I'm not. Those Holy days are not mine. Not as truly holy. My boys and I celebrate Christmas with songs, a tree, and gifts. We talk about the birth of Jesus and the message of love Jesus brought to the world. At Easter, we discuss rebirth and celebrate life, but I know for both we're somewhat co-opting the days, celebrating them in a way that works for us because they're big deals in this country. We celebrate Hanukkah with my mother, a Reformed Jew, the lights of Hanukkah next to the advent candles we still use to mark the coming of Christmas. The boys know the stories of these Holy Days and many others, and while we fall prey to American Holiday Greed disease, I try to balance it with plenty of homemade giving and time with loved ones.

Still, I have my doubts. These aren't my Holy Days, and I'm loathe to misappropriate customs and practices from religions not my own, but I feel a bit short of Holy Days as a Unitarian Universalist. Perhaps this explains my draw to the International Day of Peace. I'm not taking it from anybody, it's celebrated around the world, and it's in concert with my UU belief system. Not a bad Holy Day, in my opinion. I wish I hadn't forgotten this year.

Peace be.

Getting Gauge

Knitting for gauge: Knitting a swatch with the needles and yarn you plan to use for a project to assure you are knitting the same number of stitches per inch as the pattern dictates.

I've never knit for gauge. Not once. I'm not morally opposed or inordinately lucky, just a bit lazy and not that particular. Admittedly, most of my knitting doesn't rely on gauge. Afghans and dish cloths don't need to be precisely sized, and hats and mittens can be sized by regular fitting to a convenient and somewhat-similar sized head or hand. A felted bag (a personal favorite--more on that in another post) reveals its mysteryafter a trip through the washing machine, gauge be damned, and scarves stop when they are scarf-length. Baby sweaters are likely to be grown into, which hopefully happens in season, and the one sweater knitted by me for me could be adjusted as I went. So why knit for gauge?

With this lassez-faire attitude toward knitting precisely, it seems a bit odd how much fuss I've made this year regarding curriculum planning. I spent too much time in July and August searching websites, reading reviews, and ordering books. Creating lesson plans on Homeschool Tracker Plus became my obsession as the fall approached, reducing courses into bites neither too big nor too small. With the parts determined, I attempted scheduling. I soon ditched the idea that certain subjects would happen at predictable times on particular days, instead just assigning a number of days a week for each subject with deadlines for some assignments.

Whew. I'd never attempted that level of homeschooling organization , and I must say I really hated the process. Instead of offering me peace of mind with the certainty I thought a schedule should deliver, I started dreaming about forgetting subjects (Remember those dreams from college -- going to the final exam when you'd forgotten to attend the course? That's the genre.). I woke at 2 am to ponder the necessity of daily Latin -- or of Latin at all. I was a woman possessed by the clock and the calendar, or maybe I was simply possessed.

As our first day of homeschooling for 2009/10 approached, I printed off the boys' schedules. Nice looking product but still, to my highly critical eye, full of inaccuracies. Why Tuesday to start Critical Thinking? That day was far too busy for all but the basics. What math assignment for Friday -- review or a lesson? My mind continued to race. Week two was a bit better. I made a few changes (read: simplified with assignments labeled "math" and "reading" rather than by chapter and page). Week three has been simpler yet. I've left more spots blank and allowed myself to (gasp!) cross things out that aren't happening.

A bit of slacker mom feeling nags at me, but I'm starting to relax. I can see the basic pattern of the year unfolding, but just the rough sketch. I'm altering the pattern as I go, spending longer on the factoring process my younger forgot and eliminating the Latin repetition my older doesn't need. I'm moving back to my more flexible ways, although the boys and I do like the nifty chart from the planning software, since checking off boxes is fun. However, I'm more comfortable just picking up our books and beginning with the end in mind, checking for fit along the way, making changes as we go, and delighting in the wonder of our path while keeping our eyes on our destination.

Opening Day

By 7:30 this morning, I knew delay of game was inevitable. My fantasy of an 8:30 a.m. start faded quickly as my younger and I read yet another chapter of his current favorite Avi book, one of the beloved Poppy series. My older had a late night, I mused, and he'd be a more enthused about learning after more sleep. And, after all, our schedule was light this week. Not to mention, a benefit of homeschooling is NOT being ready for the all-too-early bus.


I hit the shower by 8:00, sealing the certainty that our start would be at least a half-hour late. I woke my older after my shower, we ate breakfast together, and still we dallied. Coaxing the boys through teeth-brushing, bed-making, and dressing brought us to 9:30, although my Facebook visit probably influenced our speed for the worse.


Our start was anticlimactic, at best. No special breakfast, opening words, wishes for the new year or the like. My older helped picked a quote for our homeschool (Thoreau Academy, not that we needed a name after four years of homeschooling.). The Thoreau selection: "If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined, he will meet with a success unexpected in common hours." After deciding on that, we moved on to geometry, Latin, handwriting, and more.

No extra innings and the rain held off -- the boys move fairly quickly through their lists, with whining kept to a minimum and limited to the younger son. To him, the best part of our opening day was the delay itself. Through a snuggle and a story, he found happiness in the common hours of our first day back to homeschooling. Sounds like success to me.

Hair

Last March, I started growing my hair out, a process I generally despise. It's awkward, messy, annoying, and, come summer, hot. Too short to put up but too long to be on the neck when the temperature soars. Yuck.

Why bother? When, in her mid-thirties, my mother cut her hair, , she explained that she was too old for long hair, that long hair was for younger women. I digested this bit of adult-lore, grew mine out (painfully) only to cut it off a few years later, tired of all that, well, hair. I repeated the process in college, this time after a socially crippling perm-- think brunette Bozo.

After the birth of my older son, each haircut found me with less and less of the stuff. It reached its shortest at the start of 2008, right before I started the growing process for a third time. Why'd I bother if it's such a pain? Partially, it was a last-ditch attempt to save my marriage. "Grow out your hair," and, "Dress up more often," were the only concrete ideas I brought out of marriage counseling. Despite knowing neither would save the day, I tried both. And I liked the results. Sure, the hair was hot on my neck last summer, and barrettes did little to tame growing out layers that threatened to turn me part Yeti, but I liked messing with the stuff and the progress visible in the mirror. Besides, between growing hair, encouraging the holes in my ears to once again accept earrings, and trying some more feminine duds, I felt, well, attractive.

There. I said it. I'm enjoying some of the societal trappings of femininity. Skirts, dangly earrings, long hair, clothes that suggest a woman is wearing them. Girl stuff, or, more correctly, women stuff. No high heels or make-up, mind you. Comfort trumps fashion for me, and it likely always will. But the hair? I like it!

The Best Laid (Lesson) Plans

I'm definitely conflicted this time of year. Despite 16 years having passed since fall meant a return to school, fall means a fresh start. New notebooks, paper, and binders. Anticipation, both enthused and anxious about new classes. And, notably, unlike the rest of life, a beginning with a definite ending in sight.

About this time every year, I find myself surrounded by scrawled lists of curriculum plans and piles of books. I've planned in notebooks, on calenders, on computer-generated planner pages, and in my head, all with moderate initial success that diminished come October or so, where recording what we actually did took the place of planning what we would do. That's fine for my younger guy, since he generally takes us further than I would have planned, but with my older at age 12 (7th grade age), it's really not enough for either of us. I need to know that a course will get finished in the span of our school year. He needs a path to follow with signposts telling him how far he's been and how far there is to go. He needs me to make a plan.

So here I am, surrounded by the papers and the books, slowly scheduling out Geometry, Latin, Biology, and more. I'm trying out some scheduling software this time around, Homeschool Tracker Plus, and (as I was warned) the learning curve has been fairly steep. It allows homeschoolers to share lesson plans with others, which can be quite the time saver, but I'm not sure that time savings will be evident this year, given the amount of work I've put in learning how to make the program work best for me and my family. I'm not one to schedule down to the hour, and that seems to be one of the program's strengths. Right now, my favorite feature is the library function. With a swipe of my neutered Cue Cat (bar code reader turned ISBN reader), I can catalogue my books. Using the resource function, I can sort these by course as well. Hooray! It's too soon to tell if this software will meet my needs, but the latent librarian in me is deeply satisfied.

Musings as the Decade Changes

I'm just days from 40 and mighty pleased about it. Really. Reaching 30 was pretty pleasing as well. I had a beautiful three-year-old, a fulfilling career at half-time status, and best of all, I finally had an excuse. Turning 30 gave me the excuse I'd been looking for since the age of 12, at which point I was beginning to realize that I didn't spin in the same direction as most of the kids around me. Age 18 and 21 didn't find me any closer to the norm, but I found plenty of others whirling with the universe in their own pattern. At 30, though, I felt free. Free to not know the names of the latest songs and their performers (never had anyway), free to continue to be puzzled by fashion trends, free to be, basically, out of it. Whew.

As 40 approaches, my rhythm no longer feels out of sync with the world but rather in sync with the beat of my heart and the song of my soul. I still can't list popular music groups or identify TV and music stars, and my wardrobe is defintely not up-to-date, but I know myself more deeply than I did at 30. In the past decade, I've nursed a child to age 4, embraced the world of homeschooling, left two faiths and found one to call home. I've found strength in mind and body through martial arts, brought compassion and knowledge to new mothers, and reveled in the friendship of others. I've fought for a crumbling marriage that was not to be saved yet retained my dignity and sense of humor. Most importantly, I've loved, laughed and learned with two free-thinking, bright, generally kind sons, the delights of my life. I'm reaching 40 and feeling fine.

What did you learn today?

Some days I feel like we spin our wheels, making it to the end of the day intact but with little or nothing learned. This list, from a very ordinary day, is my proof for future blah days that we're all always learning.

Today, someone in the house learned:

Red cabbage juice turns magenta in the presence of an acid and blue/green in the presence of a base.
Red cabbage juice stinks.
Adding the base gradually to the acid neutralizes the acid, returning it's color to normal. More makes a basic solution (back to that blue/green!).
Sympathy to the injured child is more credible to the child when one abstains from a dissertation on the carelessness that went into obtaining the injury. Being kind again trumps being right.
To bring a gram of water from 1oo degrees C to water vapor requires 2255 J of energy, and the temperature does not change.
How to memorize more of Giga, by J.S.Bach, on piano.
How to beat the first gym leader on Pokemon Platinum.
Geysers are basically erupting pressure cookers.
"Incredulous" means full of disbelief.
Semicolons often go outside of quotation marks, unless they are within the quote itself.
Cold but not frozen shredded mozzarella can be safely warmed to room temperature in the microwave (level 2, 20 seconds).
Napoleon would not have made a good friend.
A litter box left uncleaned for 36 hours is pretty nasty.
Ruling with a five-person Directory doesn't always work, at least not in post-Revolutionary France.
It's hard to beat a Pokemon champion.
Fractions can be simplified if the denominator and numerator have a common factor.
In probability, if all outcomes are equally likely, then the probability of success is the number of successful outcomes over the number of possible outcomes.
A flame extinguishes in the water vapor from the spout of a tea kettle.
A.A. Milne felt strongly about the high quality of The Wind in the Willows, so strongly as to use appreciating it as a judge of a person's character.
Facebook comments pop up on one's homepage quite a bit before the notification occurs in one's email.
April snow in Michigan melts quickly on the pavement.
A list is an easy way to create a blog entry but feels a bit like cheating.
We're learning all the time. Whew!

Jeans Fit

The hole broke through a few days back, my right knee poking though one of the last pair of intact jeans in my closet. No surprise, given their age and the floor time they see from me, but disappointing. They weren't favorites (that pair is threadbare but intact), they weren't fancy (Lands' End basics from a few years back), but they were without holes, and they fit. I've been a few years hoping jeans that fit would magically appear in my closet, but no luck. My mail-order solution of ordering a new pair each year broke down when Lands' End changed their styles to ones that must fit the rest of women in the Northern Hemisphere but don't fit me.

I'm not a shopping fan. There was a point in my life when I sought opportunities to get to the mall, but no longer. A dear friend agreed to accompany me on this quest, a shopping task I ranked lower only than shopping for bathing suits and bras. After trips to Eddie Bauer (too long and wide), Ann Klein (how low can jeans go?), and The Limited (lower, I guess!), we ended up at GapKids. On the boys' side.

It's time to admit that I'm shaped like my father, straight up and down, no hips. No problems birthing babies, but no hips to hold up those low pants that fill the racks these days. I'm not looking for sympathy, but it's been a frustrating few years in the pants department for the straight-yet-female set, thus why my need for jeans has grown so acute and my desire to shop is lower than usual. The girls' department works to some degree, but I'm not the embroidered-flower-around-the-ankle-type, so the choices are limited. The clerks were helpful with sizing but somewhat bemused. I, however, was relieved to have found Jeans That Fit, my holy grail. I left with just one pair, carpenter jeans with rather cute front pockets, no holes, and a great fit. I am slightly curious whether I'll see my son's friends in identical pants(and rather certain they won't notice), and fully delighted to have found jeans that fit this hipless chick.

Mass Effects (Part III)

I thought I'd prepped the boys for communion, but it's a challenge to adequately prepare a seven-year-old for a ritual like that without his memory of communions past to assist him. Last summer's water communion at our UU church bore no resemblance to the Catholic Church's version!

As the priest invited up those helping serve communion, I bent toward my younger, explaining that we'd sit down while the others processed forward to receive the bread and wine.

"Why do they get bread and we don't?" my constantly hungry and fair-minded child inquired.

"Catholics believe in transubstantiation -- that the bread and wine transforms into the body and blood of Jesus. We're not Catholics, so we're not invited to join since we don't believe the same thing," was my initial response, drawing a curious look from my son. Encouraged by his interest, my whispered lesson continued,"Other Christians believe the bread and wine simply remind one of Jesus, and most will allow others outside their faith to join in communion."

He continued to search my face for more information. "Sit down, and let the others go by." This seemed to be the information he needed most. He sat, and we let others pass by into the communion line.

While I'm not sure he gave a whit about my delineation between the variations of Christian beliefs and bread, body, wine, and blood, he did learn that we were to watch, and he was okay with his role as observer rather than participant. I sat back, sang along with the congregation, and joined him as observer. Since my movement away from Catholicism through the Episcopal church and on to Unitarian Universalism, I've attended only a few other masses, and those were funeral masses. Those times, most of the congregation sat through communion, and those times, I had my grief as my focus and communion was in the background. Explaining the sacrament clarified for me how complete my movement away from Catholicism is. I no longer identify with that tradition, yet its presence in my past shapes and colors my present faith. I sense nothing lost by my conversion yet so much gained by the richness of my past.

Mass Effects (Part II)

It's like riding a bike. The prayers and responses rolled off my lips, and my limbs recalled the rhythm of sitting and standing. My friends' church choir brings sacredness to the room throughout the service, drawing a holy presence that I felt in my heart. I do appreciate the mystery of ritual in the Catholic church.

While moved by the music, I found myself listening closely to the words, wondering if their meaning would resonate in my soul as they had many years previous. Music is a path to the spiritual for me, and despite holding different beliefs that directly expressed by the songs, I found the music lifting me to a higher plane. Further into the Mass, however, I hit the curb and lost my balance.

The RCIA (Rite of Christian Initiation of Adults) group were to be presented to the bishop later in the day, but they also appeared with their sponsors during this Mass after the homily. While appreciating the dedication these men and women were making to their faith and Church, I felt acutely uncomfortable hearing their sponsors questioned as to their charges' commitment and efforts. How can anyone else know what dwells in one's heart? How can one attest to the faith of another? While I've seen this ritual many times, one year as a sponsor, I hadn't witnessed it since leaving the Catholic church about five years ago and don't recall questioning it previously.

Indeed, how can another person validate anyone's belief system, sanctifying it beyond what the individual and his or her Ground of Being can do? Why is a person, lay or clergy, needed for a person to make that leap? Initially, I thought the public nature of the event was my sticking point, but further reflection led me to my struggle: how could another human be a mandatory conduit between a person and the divine?

I don't question that people and all of creation can and do facilitate links between the individual and the divine, but I fail to reconcile with that being as a requirement for connection, salvation, or fulfillment. Not even as a practicing Catholic did I feel certainty in that bit of doctrine, but only now outside of the Church does the thought discomfort me so much.

I firmly believe in the divine, in something beyond me that encompasses the universe. I rest peacefully knowing my vision of the divine need not be the same as the men and women in the RCIA program, yet feel certain we share a spiritual truth beyond creed and doctrine. Back on my bike, and on to communion. Stay tuned.

Mass Effects (Part I)

This afternoon, the boys and I arrived home from restorative visit with some dear friends from Ohio. I caught up with a companion from seventh grade onward while our children furthered their skills in Rock Band II and Monopoly. We spend Saturday at the Air Force Museum in Dayton, a destination desired my my guys for quite some time and generally enjoyed by all. While I remain a champion of peaceful conflict resolution, I was repeatedly amazed at planes in the museum's three large hangers.

This morning, we attended their Catholic church, a change of pace from our usual UU experience. Raised a mixture of Catholic and Methodist (attending both many Sundays of my youth), I chose Catholicism at age 12 and continued with the Catholic church until about six years ago. A few years of a liberal Episcopal experience led to a few years without a church and deep questioning about my beliefs. I found a home in a Unitarian Universalist community a year and a half ago and have never felt more truly at peace in a religious community.

After a bit of prep with the boys on Lent, Mass, and why we wouldn't be taking communion, I decided we'd join our friends at Mass today. While both boys were baptized Catholic, only my older recalls any of his time in the church. Our friends' church is university-based with a large non-student congregation at the service we attended. The sanctuary, while large, is non-imposing and quite spare and not at all like the century old meeting house my boys know so well. Despite the size, the room exudes warmth and community, very much like our religious home base. We all settled into our seats and waited for the service to begin.

War and Peace

My younger son is a war fanatic. For the past two and a half years, not so coincidentally starting when we began our study of history, he's obsessed over the wars throughout recorded time. His first true passion was the ancient Romans, specifically in the Punic Wars. I knew nothing of the Punic Wars before our year of ancient history, on of many blanks in my shoddy history education, while he was well versed in the years of that conflict at age 5. I can see the appeal of Hannibal crossing the Alps with a herd of elephants, but this wasn't but a small part of the interest to him.

So why does he love to read about, talk about, act out, and discuss war? I believe the answer is three-fold: weapons,conflict, and power. Those parts of history enrapt him, and war embodies all three.

Weapons. While I'm a pacifist by nurture and nature, I can see why a small child would delight in weapons. The catapult and trebuchet are pretty fascinating machines, but even the spear in all its simplicity captivates my son. Longbows, crossbows, swords, maces, cannons, guns, and bombs hold endless delight to him, in structure and use. All allow one to reach beyond the self with greater force than can be created by a small human body alone.

Conflict. My younger lives in conflict with his world. He's still quite convinced that he is indeed the center of the universe (aren't well all, really?) and dares anyone to oppose. He creates conflict with his brother when bored, hungry, or fatigued; holds firmly to his view of the world in spite of evidence that contradicts his view; and can't stand his own human imperfections, preferring to blame personal shortfalls on the wrongs of others. He's been at conflict with the world and himself since soon after birth.

Power. Nothing like being the youngest in the family with a streak of perfection to create a quest for power. Feeling powerless clashes with each person's ego, and while some of us either gain perspective then peace regarding our place in the universe or learn to struggle less overtly, meeting this powerless feeling head-on suits my younger's mindset right now. Warring with the world and his own fallible human nature, he searches out weapons with which to settle the conflicts resulting from his feelings of powerlessness.

Weapons, conflict, and power. Whether our weapons be words or wealth, our conflict internal or external, or our power quest overt or subtle, we all share the elements of war. As I watch my younger reach for his duct tape sword or home-made armor, I know I'm seeing him play with struggles we all face and know he's relating to history and the world as works best for him now. I also have faith he'll move beyond this obsession and can see progress in this area as he notices patterns through our studies that brought nations to war and the patterns of his own behavior that bring him into conflict with others. I have faith that we all can grow right along with him.

Seeing Red

Valentine's Day brought three inches of snow and our Tang Soo Do testing day. The boys and I have studied this form of Korean martial arts for almost two years, and this test brought us to the next level of our karate studies, moving us from 4th Gup to 3rd Gup, green belt with two stripes to the long-awaited red belt. It was a proud day as well as another milestone I never would have anticipated before 2007.

We began Tang Soo Do as a "promotion" of sorts from my younger's nine months OT and PT. Faced with the choice of twice-weekly swimming or martial arts, both sports increasing core strength and midline-crossing skills, my then five-year-old elected to avoid getting his face wet. He took "Tiny Tiger" karate classes at our local rec. center with other young ones for the first three months, and he really didn't care for the sessions. After all, he was expected to speak loudly, acknowledge an adult he hadn't known for the past three years, and generally do what the group was doing in front of a bunch of parents. It was hardly a smooth transition, and I'll admit I found the "Yes, Sirs" and push-ups uncomfortably militaristic.

A few months in, our instructor invited us over the dojang for a class. My older joined in reluctantly and under a bit of duress, truth be told, but whispered, "I love this!" about halfway through that first session. Before we left for home, we had our uniforms and white belts in hand and were swelling with enthusiasm.

I'll freely admit the sport truly has pushed the limits of my coordination, but by pushing at those limits, it's moved them further out. I've never felt so strong, flexible, and able. I even almost know my right from left. We've worked together, supporting, encouraging, and correcting each other along the way. It's not all been pretty. Perhaps 39 is a bit too old for mastering a jump spinning crescent kick, or perhaps I'm just not there yet. There are days the boys fight going, and there are days I'd rather not make the drive, but we end up there, twice a week, continuing our Tang Soo journey. Stay tuned!

Practicing

For the last few years, I've struggled to develop a regular spiritual practice. Intellectually, I'm quite drawn to meditation, but I've not successfully integrated it into my daily life. I have the usual excuses -- lack of time, fatigue, two kids who are continually present when I'm conscious, but deep down I know the issue is priorities. I'm loathe to wake at 5:00 a.m., although I know I'd be uninterrupted at that hour, and I'm pretty beat at the end of the day. I guess that leaves all that time in between... Hmm.

This week, I've returned to the strand of prayer beads I made last winter. I was raised Catholic, among other things, and while rosaries weren't in use in my home, I knew how they facilitated prayer and focus on the divine by adding some structure and repetition to a contemplative time. Some online searching brought me to a page on ideas for UU prayer bead use. (http://www.uua.org/religiouseducation/curricula/tapestryfaith/spiritpractice/workshop2/workshopplan/handouts/59197.shtml). A trip to the craft store, a painstakingly long examination of the beading materials, and another trip to google "making prayer beads" and I was on my way.

Creating the strand was prayer in itself, and for awhile, I was using the beads as a meditative tool, sometimes based on the structure delineated at the above UUA site, sometimes just holding them during meditation. Over a few weeks, my attempts at quiet prayer time dwindled and faded. I've spent time on my cushion here and there over the last year, but mostly it waits faithfully by my dresser, calling quietly, while my beads sat a few feet away on the dresser, beckoning gently.

This week, I'm back on the cushion, beads in hand, quiet time with my breath between more "cognitive" meditation. I'm making it my own, finding time because it's important. I like it, and, for now, it's just right. Present moment, only moment...

Religious Tolerance and the Crusades

This morning began slowly, partially out of cold-winter morning inertia, partially due to my weekend lesson-planning and work-checking avoidance measures, which were highly successful. After checking my older's math, we sat down together over my cup of coffee to discuss his weekly work on his Connect the Thoughts Religious Intolerance unit study (http://www.connectthethoughts.net/upper--current-events.php#course-21677). Four the last four weeks, he's studied definitions of religion, information about a variety of belief systems, and the general issue of religious intolerance.

The study ends with an exploration of the United Nations' declaration on elimination of religious intolerance, a sweeping document challenging countries to speak and act with respect to those of all belief systems. We spent about twenty minutes discussing the ramifications of befriending a country intolerant to other religions and possible ways to avoid war when neighboring countries have opposing views on religion. While we didn't solve the world's problems, we had meaningful dialogue about the issues, starting at the level of individuals, gradually moving to communities and nations. The course complements his world religions study at our UU as well, a big plus.

While my older and I were having a fairly erudite conversation about the advantages of religious tolerance, my younger built a costume from duct tape and fleece for his passion of the week: the Crusades. The day brought us his incarnation of a Teutonic knight, complete with armor and shield. His outfit was his own design, and it shows the versalitity of duct tape as well as his creative side. Toward the end of the costume making, he asked, "Why do the crusaders wear all those crosses?" Somehow he missed the crux of the events -- religious intolerance. I reviewed the basics again (my version being why the wars were fought in the first place), he nodded in understanding and then proceeded to his reinactment portion of the program. Obviously our conversations are just beginning.

Awakening in Rome

My younger son performed his filial duty of waking mom at 6:30 this morning. Earlier than I would have liked, given some insomnia last night, but later than other awakenings. He's 7 and wakes with fear, sure something is under the edge of the bed or peering down from the empty top bunk, ready to, well, I don't really know what. He won't move til I'm there but will yell from under the covers should I try to pretend his holler was a dream. Once I arrive, he creeps out from his covers and changes his jammies, a necessary action when you aren't yet dry at night and your pj pants are a bit damp despite precautions.


Within two minutes, he's snuggled up next to me, allergic-kid morning breath paired with the softest skin on earth, all warmth and love. Before I can revel in the moment, I'm barraged with the history of ancient Rome, his current passion. "Mom, did you know why Hannibal chose elephants when attacking Rome in the Punic Wars? Do you thing it would be worse to be a slave or a gladiator?"


I'm still trying to maintain a position of sleep, closed eyes and all, but he's warmed to his subject and oblivious to my fatigue. "Will you read me some history, Mom?" he queries.

I give up on sleep, accept the Usborne History Encyclopedia he offers, and find Rome. Again. We've read these sections before and will read them again. He reads them to himself, but nothing's better than hearing them aloud. As we read, I pause periodically to make a comment or listen to his consolidation of information. He makes new connections every time we go through these pages, and it's fascinating to listen to his ponderings and conclusions. It's a privileged view into his incredible brain at work as well as a view of history through the eyes of a child.

These moments are homeschooling at its best. Curiousity aroused about Rome two years prior (when we were actually studying Rome as a family) returns. With much more history under his belt, he has new ways to look at Caesar, Octavian, and Hannibal. His view of the world, two years older, allows him to turn the history around and around, mixing it with all he's experienced since he's last played with that part of the past.

I know this affair with Rome won't last forever, but I'm just as certain this interest will return down the road, taking on the shades of knowledge not yet aquired and life not yet lived. And I'm hoping to awaken in Rome with him, although maybe just a bit later in the day.