The Reality of Imagination

 Have you ever walked through a crowded store, searching between the shelves and aisles, while calling out the name of your child's imaginary friend?  If you have, you might realize in hindsight that your concerned fellow shoppers were not overreacting when they joined you in the search. Especially when you picture the worried look on your toddler's face, with her eyes stretched as wide as they go, and her mouth slightly open as she holds her breath until you find her missing best friend, Zane.  Also in hindsight, you might understand the strange looks you get when you whisper to the over-reacting shoppers, when they offer to shut the store down until Zane is found, "Don't worry, Zane isn't real."

At one point, I thought I found Zane, hiding between the avocado display and the apples.  But I was wrong.  "That's not Zane," my toddler told me, still half holding her breath.  Eventually, she found Zane, in the toy aisle.  They hugged each other for a full minute, and it almost brought a tear to my eye.  "Zane really wanted to look at the toys, but I told him he has to wait for me next time because he could get lost," she told me as we left the store.

A close friend asked me why I play along with this imaginary game.  When she heard me call out to my daughter that lunch is ready, and to please tell Zane it's time to come in and eat, my friend laughed and said she is not sure she would humor her child to this extent.  She was concerned that I was encouraging a blurring between reality and imagination, and that perhaps my child will not learn to tell the difference.  Honestly, I didn't have time to contemplate her opinion, because Zane wasn't feeling well, and instead of the pizza I gave him for lunch, he needed toast and tea.  And from the concerned look on my toddler's face, I knew that Zane was more real than my friend could ever imagine.

Wine Vs. Treadmill

 http://www.mydaily.co.uk/2015/01/26/a-glass-of-red-wine-is-the-equivalent-to-an-hour-at-the-gym-says-study/

Okay, this might just be the best article I have ever read.  Some scientists had the truly brilliant idea to do a study to determine if having a glass of wine yields the same positive fitness benefits as working out for an hour.  I imagine they came up with that hypothesis after a couple of glasses of wine.  Well, it turns out, drinking a glass of wine is equal to working out for one hour!  They found that resveratrol, a compound in red wine, improves heart function, muscle strength, and physical performance in the same way as exercise does.  This is great news for anyone who comes home after a long day of work and can't decide if she should go to the gym or open a bottle of red.  That has always been a difficult dilemma, but now they are both equally good options!

The article says that this is especially good news for people who are physically incapable of working out.  Now, they can have a glass of red wine and reap the same benefits as an hour long workout!  Which is good, because most people are physically incapable of working out after a few drinks, so it is good to know that a glass of wine at that point is the perfect remedy.

Cheers!

Congratulations, It's a Teenager!

There is a reason people are born as babies.  Not many couples would be willing to take home a newborn teenager from the hospital.  You need a good 12 years investment in a person before you are willing to keep him or her around as a teenager.  Which works out perfectly, timing-wise!  It also helps to have a few years of insane cuteness stored in your memory and in your photo albums before your baby becomes a teenager.  Of course, there is so much joy in raising teenagers.  But I'm just saying, a large part of that joy is very closely tied to the years you invested in them, and also to the cuteness in their past.

 Today is my first newborn's fourteenth birthday.  Fourteen!  Where has the time gone?  It feels like yesterday that I held him in my arms for the first time.  I have watched him grow from infancy into practically a man, and he has done very well and makes me proud every day.  He is determined and kind and wise beyond his years.  He is a wonderful role model for his younger siblings and for his friends.  But mostly, he was the absolutely cutest baby you have ever seen, and the sweetest little newborn ever to be born. 

But How Will they Ever Socialize?

Since it still seems to be the most pressing issue to anyone who hears that I choose to homeschool my children, I think it is time for another edition of "but how will they ever socialize?"

It is quite often that I find myself in a conversation explaining why I homeschool and how I homeschool.  Sometimes it takes one minute into the conversation, but usually it is much less, until the other person suddenly says, "but what about friends?" or something along those lines.  I can be talking about giving children the freedom to explore their passions, or I could be explaining the benefits of a curriculum tailored to each child, or I could be giving examples of how homeschooling allows each child to grow to their fullest possible potential, it doesn't make a difference, I am usually interrupted with some variation of this question: "But how do they socialize?"  That puzzles me a bit, but next comes the even more frustrating part, where I give many examples of ways that my children socialize and meet friends, which by the way are not the same thing, and the questioner will not be satisfied, and will always close with some variation of, "my kids need to socialize, so I would never homeschool."

As a parent of school children, you might be wondering if us homeschooling moms are keeping a tally of how often we have this type of conversation with you and other friends, family, and total strangers.  We don't.  Well, we don't anymore, because our kids have used the tally notebook either for math scrap paper or to create paper airplanes.  In a homeschooling house, paper always seems to find so many uses, and good luck holding onto yours.  But let me tell you, the tally is high.  It is very rare that a homeschooling mother tells someone about her children's education and she does NOT get asked how they socialize and how many friends they have.  It is the default response to the idea of homeschooling.

This makes me wonder, is making sure they have friends the main goal in raising children?  When I think of my goals in raising my children, I think of rising them to be compassionate, to be kind, to be self sufficient, to be true in their religious practice, to choose careers compatible with their natures, to be successful in their chosen careers, to have the confidence and experience needed to socialize as well as interact professionally and in other capacities with other humans of all ages and backgrounds, and to be self aware, and to be strong in their values, and indeed to have strong values.  Those are just some of the top priorities in raising my children.  I can go on for another few pages before "having friends" even makes the list.

People wonder (out loud and often and repetitively) how my kids make friends, and I wonder when this became a parenting goal. I took my children out of school because I felt the goals I had for them would not be reached through the school system.  When I tell this to people, they will usually agree that school does not give children the freedom to follow their passions, or to learn at their best pace, or to develop a sense of self necessary to be a successful adult, or encourage individuality, responsibility, or values.  But, they will argue, what about friends?  Well, homeschooled children have friends, I answer, but even if they didn't, I would still do exactly what we are doing.

"Flying With An Infant" And Other Cliches That Never Took

Piece of cake.  Easy as pie.  On cloud nine.  These are just some examples of cliches that are used everyday.

Just for fun, why not examine some cliches that never quite took, and try to determine where they lost their way.   For example, instead of easy as pie, why not try this saying instead, "easy as flying with an infant."  I am currently on my way back to LA from the east coast, so this particular saying comes to mind.  On the way out, my baby fell asleep at takeoff and woke up during landing.  Flying with her was "easy as pie."  Or maybe "easy as flying with an infant."  But here is where it gets tricky: on this flight, it took her five hours until she fell asleep, and for all those five hours she was, well, a traveling infant, which now that I think about it answers my own question.

Okay, so what about "slept like a baby?"  That one is used to imply "slept very well," but that is not very accurate, is it?  Which makes me wonder why some cliches get away with being inaccurate and yet are accepted and widely used, while others are quickly discarded for the same reason.  For example, when is the last time you used, "flying with an infant" to imply a feeling of calmness and relaxation?  (That one keeps coming to mind no matter how deep I dig to find another saying.)  Why use a double standard for sayings?

Then there is another favorite, "pot calling the kettle black," which is used to call out someone for being hypocritical by accusing others of doing something they are also guilty of doing.  On this one "flying with an infant" might be equally interchangeable, because if ever 300 or so people are guilty of the same thing, it is a plane full of passengers praying that the infant will fall asleep.

And of course, you have "Abandon Ship!" which is, if you gave a flying infant the power of speech, how she would describe her activities during the long, crowded flight.

From The Mouths Of Babes

Studies suggest that at sixteen months of age, babies pick up about ten new words a day.  That sounds about right.  Here in our house, our toddler suddenly started adding new words to her vocabulary every day at about that pace.  Actually, she is adding new words to all of our vocabulary.  Whatever she names something for the first time, that's what we all call it from then on, because it is too cute to call it anything else.  So balloons are now baboons, apple juice is appadut, and cheerios are chooftiot.

Many years ago, as a young and idealistic mother, I was determined to model proper language for my children.  I thought that if a baby hears proper language usage, he will be mature verbally at a younger age, and I believed that if you talk baby talk to babies, that is how they will always talk.  My older kids, now teens, definitely have excellent verbal skills and vocabulary, so at least I was right on the first thing.  But I sure hope I am right on the second thing.  I hope balloons will always be baboons, and shoes will always be shoots, and that da moon will always be absolutely fascinating, and a baba filled with appadut is always nummy.  Because I can still remember another baby, 13 years ago, calling a baba filled with appadut "babajoo," and I cannot imagine why I ever taught him to say apple juice.  Lesson learned.

Peace And Quiet? No, Thanks.

Every parent yearns for peace and quiet.  We crave just a few moments respite from the constant chaos of parenting.  But usually, when we finally do hear the beautiful sound of no noise at all, we fear that silence.  Case in point: my new baby.  I finally moved her into a bassinet so that I can sleep for a few hours straight at night.  But this didn't help me sleep better at all.  Instead, I kept getting up to put my finger under her nose and make sure she is breathing!  I feel worried every minute that she sleeps peacefully, and I am reassured by her kvetching and fussing.  It's good to know she is breathing.

There are other types of breathing too.  For example my preteen boys breathing, which sounds more like wrestling, but is equally reassuring.  When the wrestling stops and all goes quiet, I get really nervous.  My mind starts racing with all the possibilities of what could have gone wrong, and I run to see what is going on.  My boys see my face and ask, "Are you okay?"  Yes.  I'm just glad you are both still breathing.

Most parents can relate to my fear of silence with regard to my toddler.  There is no silence that screams louder than the lack of noise coming from him.  I need to hear his constant breathing, in this case the sound of toy cars crashing into each other, soccer balls being bounced off the living room walls, and all the accompanying breaking sounds that accompany a toddler at play.  When I don't hear any noise from him, I RUN to check on him and make sure he is still breathing.

Then there is my eleven year old son.  Lately he has been acting really strangely, cleaning up his room, not fighting with his siblings, and even completing his school work without any fuss.  Last night, he went to bed the first time I asked.  Jarred alert by the silence, I went to his room to check on him.  There he was in bed, ready to go to sleep.  I was so confused by this behavior, and I worried that something was wrong.  I went to put my finger under his nose, but I couldn't figure it out.  "Mom, are you okay?" he asked me.  I'm not sure, I thought.  He seemed to be breathing, but yet I was still unsettled by the peace and quiet.

As my kids are getting older, it gets increasingly more difficult to check that they are okay, that they are breathing.  I am worried that my finger-under-the-nose trick no longer works for some of them.  I yearn for peace and quiet, but along with that I need a new way to check that they are still "breathing."  And I wonder if I will ever be okay with the calmness I dream of.

I am starting to understand why my mother will call me sometimes in the evening and ask how everything is going even though I just spoke to her that morning and told her everything is fine.  She probably just wants to check that I'm breathing.

Yom Hashoah

Today is Yom Hashoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day.  There is some controversy in the Jewish Orthodox community if today is an appropriate day to commemorate the Holocaust, and I won't go into the details of that debate here.  But personally, I often find myself wondering how every day is not Holocaust Rememberance Day.  Maybe not on an international level, but certainly among Orthodox Jews, the grandchildren of survivors.

I grew up among Holocaust survivors.  Every member of my shul (synagogue) over the age of 50 was a survivor.  They were as varied in personalities as any other group of people.  There were the quiet ones, the boisterous ones, the friendly ones, and the ones who were always shushing the children.  They never discussed their trauma, but they didn't have to, it was in the lines on their faces, in their smiles that turned into a sad, nostalgic, far away look, in their silence.  You could hear their stories loud on clear on the breath of every word they spoke.  You could see it in the lone tear that accidentally escaped their eyes seemingly out of nowhere.

As a child, I knew to never ask them about their pasts.  I read books from those few at the time who published them, but I never asked my next door neighbor how her family was killed, or the people at shul how they survived.  But it came out in stray comments here and there.  For example, the man at the kiddush who refused to drink coca-cola because it tasted just like the bugs in his mouth he woke up to every morning as a partisan in the forest.  Or the lady who lovingly told me I was lucky I looked like a shiksa (non-jew.)  Or the lady who accidentally called me Sarale all the time, then apologized and said I just look so much like her child that was killed.  A tear runs down my cheek as I try to recall her name, but cannot.

And of course there was my grandfather, a survivor of Auschwitz concentration camp.  He survived by the strength of his stoic resolve, and he tried to pass that on to us.  So if we were upset about something, he would ask loudly, "Do you have a roof over your head?  Do you have food to eat?  So sheifele, what in the world is there to complain about?"  He thought he would cure me of night terrors one night when he was babysitting and I woke up crying from a nightmare.  He listened to the tale of my scary dream, then told me, that's nothing, wait till you hear what happened to ME when I was your age!  True, this turned out to not be a good cure for nightmares, but now that he is gone, I cherish those nightmares he shared with me along with the happy memories I have of him.  And while I would never share with my young children the details of the horrors of the Holocaust, I am sad that they don't know them.

It wasn't the details or the events themselves that are etched on my soul.  Surely books will always survive, telling the tale of terror that our ancestors lived through.  But the story will never be complete without seeing their faces, without tracing the numbers on their arms, without hearing the flatness of their voices as they suppress the pain inside them.  I am sad for that part of the narrative that we are losing, for the real, human side of the story.  I am sad that my children will need a specific day to remember the Holocaust, that it isn't on their minds every single day, because they never witnessed that pain firsthand, and it isn't a part of them.

Time To Not Go Back To School Again

So it's that time of year again, and everyone is asking when I plan on starting.  I ask them, "Are you referring to when I plan on starting not sending my kids back to school?"  The response is rarely a laugh, and usually a sincere, "Yes, when do you start homeschool, before or after Labor day?"

This seasonal conversation highlights one of the biggest differences in mindset of a homeschooling mom and a non-homeschooling mom.  Homeschooling is about integration of life and learning.  It is about natural, organic if you will, education.  It is education not defined by any parameters, not least of which is dates and time.  Which is why it is also difficult to answer to the question of "how much time each day do you spend homeschooling?"  It is as if we speak different languages.  I don't have any set dates, or set times, when learning occurs as opposed to not learning.  Vacation and work are intertwined.  We homeschool all year, and 24 hours each day.  And yet none of those hours is anything like school at all.

"When are you starting?" is a question that reminds me how different homeschooling is from regular school.  I don't usually have an official start date for not sending my kids back to school.  In our lifestyle, summer and fall flow seamlessly into each other, as do all the other seasons.  Usually, what will happen is, one day, sometimes well into September, I will notice that all my kids are home, some playing chess while some are coloring.  I might marvel at the temporary serenity and calmness in an otherwise hectic day, and that moment of pause will make me realize that indeed I am homeschooling my kids.  So maybe that is my official start day.  But how do you explain that to someone who wants a quick answer?  I guess the quick answer is, sometime after Labor Day.

Lessons Learned From My Grandmother

It has been almost six months since I lost my beloved grandmother.  My mind has still not completely digested that she is gone.  There are moments when I reach for the phone to call her, to tell her something I know she would appreciate.  It came as a surprise how much I miss telling her every Friday what I cooked for Shabbat.  Less surprising is how bittersweet good news has become, without being able to share it with her.

There were some questions I never got to ask her.  I have always wondered if she was happy with some of her choices in life, and if she would have done things differently if she could do it over.  There are questions that I never would have asked her, because she would have considered them foolish.  She would have said, what is the point of wondering what could have been?  She taught me to accept your lot even while trying to improve it.  She taught me that life doesn't have to be what you want for you to be happy, and people don't have to be perfect for you to love them.  She taught me that love and happiness are a choice  you make, not something that happens to you.

She was the strongest woman I have ever known.  As a young teenager, she escaped Nazi Germany barely in time, and moved with her parents and brother to Australia.  She left everything and everyone she ever knew behind, but she never looked back.  Then, when her idealism brought her to America, she again left everything and everyone she knew behind.  She never expressed any regret, and accepted her difficulties without any negativity.  This is the greatest lesson she taught me, to always forge ahead, with a smile in your heart, and never look back.

There were times when she guided me through my own difficulties.  She would always tell me not to be so emotional, and to focus on what needs to be done.  She would remind me to see the positive in every situation, and to count my blessings.

In recent years, I noticed a hint of questions in her eyes and voice.  But she never let those questions out, and they never affected her actions or her belief.  In her silence, she answered some of my questions. She taught me that you can believe, and you can love, and you can be certain, even while you have unanswered questions.

I wish she was here right now.  She would tell me to stop being so emotional.  And to count my blessings.

Magical Rocks

There are rocks everywhere.  And I don’t just mean all over my house, I mean everywhere.  And did you know that they are magical?  Well, not all rocks are magical, and I am still learning how to determine just how magical a rock is, if at all.  It has something to do with the texture (it should be smooth,) the color (it has to be a cool color,) and the general excitement or lack thereof when spotting it.  

My three year old son is my teacher in these matters.  He is a true expert in magical rocks.  He has an impressive collection of rocks on his dresser, and scattered throughout the house.  There is one in particular that has magical powers only activated in a steamy room, so he keeps it on the bathroom sink.  I dare not move any of the strategically placed rocks, because I am no expert, and I wouldn’t risk ruining any rocks.

One thing that I did notice with my non-expert eye is that the most magical of all rocks are the ones that go on my son’s dresser.  (I am not sure what specific powers the rocks have, and when I asked, I got a loud sigh in response, followed by, “They’re just magical, they have magic powers, it’s magic.  Okay mommy?”)

It took me a while figure this out, but the ones that make it to his dresser are all metamorphic rocks.  Rocks that are two toned, or a combination of two completely different rocks fused together, are the most special and get displayed on his dresser.  I decided that I would turn this into an educational moment, and I pointed out to him that all the rocks on his dresser are not in their original state and have been changed over time.  I explained the three different ways rocks can form, and that he seemed to like the metamorphic rocks the best.  He told me (in a very exasperated why-doesn’t-mommy-understand-rocks voice) that if you have two colors on one rock, it’s REAL magical.  That’s why they have two colors, not because of the impact of pressure and time.  It’s because of their magic.  Well, I guess I am being educated as well.

There is one particular grocery store parking lot where my son loves to find rocks.  We always come home with at least one pocket full of magical rocks when we shop there.   I went there today, without my son, and what I thought would be a really quick grocery run ended up being a real self-discovery  moment for me.  I realized that I cracked the cold to magical rock identification!  As soon as I stepped out of the car, I noticed the most magical, two toned rock lying just a few feet from my car.  I put it in my pocket since my son’s pocket was at home with him, and I shopped even faster than usual, eager to get home and show my son my find and let him share in my excitement.  He was really proud of me.  He stood up really tall, his cheeks turned a bit pink, and he said in a breathless voice, “Wow, Mommy, that rock is really magical!”  I’m thinking of keeping this one on MY dresser.

Pesach Cleaning and Things I'd Rather Do

Pesach (Passover) comes every year, without fail, and this year is  no exception.  And along with Pesach comes a month's worth of spring cleaning in preparation for the holiday.  So now, with a little more than two weeks to go, I realized time is running out, and it is time to more actively procrastinate. 

It started with the thought of which room to clean first.  Then the thought of perhaps looking through the boxes of Pesach dishes and utensils to determine what needs fixing, cleaning, or buying brand new.  Then came the thought that maybe it would be smart to order handmade matzah now.  These thoughts of different tasks to be completed seemed incredibly overwhelming, but I realized that I have to start with something.  So rather than doing nothing, I decided to get back into writing, starting with this blog post.  Because the first step to being productive is to procrastinate more efficiently.

Sure, the toys need to be cleaned and organized, but I'd rather first make that Costco trip I've been putting off for a while now.  I know that I have to deep clean both kids rooms, but I'd rather first catch up on my writing.  The kitchen should be started by now, especially if I plan on going through every single cabinet by Pesach, but I'd rather first practice reading with my daughter.  It would be a great idea to organize all the Pesach recipes that i have scattered though different cookbooks, but first I'd rather spend a bit of extra time with my son in math.

I have realized that over the years, I accomplish a lot in the weeks leading up to Pesach.  And by a lot I mean besides for anything that has to do with cleaning.  Because doing something to prevent me from doing a dreaded task is all the motivation I need to get things done.  Now if only I could find a task I dread more than Pesach cleaning, and I could put that off by first taking care of the cleaning...

Deep Fried Jelly Donuts

December came and went, but not before it left behind a few pounds to remember it by.  I haven't even had time to blog, with all the festivities going on.  It sure has been a festive month!  And I can't speak for everyone, but I CAN say that I have had at least one too many deep fried jelly filled donuts this Chanukah, and at least one too many high calorie cocktails at at least one too many holiday parties.  My scale is not talking to me.  It wants me to make up for my overindulgence with extra exercise and three meals of lettuce a day.  But I have no regrets!  It was worth every joyous calorie!  Who will break first in this standoff?  Only time will tell.....

The New Watch

In order to get a feeling of what I am about to explain, you first have to imagine something else.  So here goes: imagine your 6 year old daughter saying, "Mommy! Look!  In our backyard!  It's a real live flying unicorn!  And it's pink and sparkly!"  Now take the tone of voice she said that in, with all the excitement and wonder and loudness, and apply it to this sentence: "Mommy, it's seven o'clock!" 

My daughter got a watch.  And she is very, very excited to know what time it is all day.  And boy do I mean all day.  I was woken up this morning by the animated proclamation that "It's 7 o'clock!"  Then I nearly spilled my coffee when she startled me with the exciting news that "Mommy, it's seven twenty three!"  Apparently it takes me four minutes to finish my coffee, because as I was putting the empty cup into the sink, I was given the update, "ITS SEVEN TWENTY SEVEN!!!" (accompanied by a really big, proud smile.)

The day progressed, and schoolwork got done, and the watch got forgotten, for half hour intervals.  But in between those half hours the family was treated to exciting real-time updates of what time it is.  And each time it was something different; sometimes it was one thirty, and sometimes it was four seventeen, and there was even a time when it was "ALREADY SIX OH TWO!!!!"  It was a very exciting day, every minute of it, or at least every thirty minutes or so.  Different times of the day elicited different levels of excitement, but perhaps the most surprising time of all was at night, and I 'm not sure what time this happened because it was after my time announcer had fallen asleep, when I did the opposite of what I was waiting to do all day.  After my daughter fell asleep, I picked up the watch from beside her bed, smiled to myself a surprisingly pleased smile, and put that watch right back down for her to find the next morning.

Turkey Day

It's difficult to describe the soft, mushy feelings I feel on my siblings' birthdays.  So instead, I'm going to talk about Thanksgiving.  Because, besides for the fact that today is the birthday of two of my sisters, (yes, they are twins, and yes, we are talking about something else,) it is also Thanksgiving.  So let's talk about how I feel on Thanksgiving.

I kind of feel happy and thankful for the day off.  The normal daily routine is so busy, that a day off with everyone home is like medicine for the soul.  I cherish days off with the family, and I look back fondly to the too few days off spent with my sisters, but we're not talking about them right now...  By late morning, the peace and serenity sound like this:  "Mommy I'm hungry can you make waffles and eggs and hash-browns?  And can we bake some brownies?"  So I say yes, and we have a big family brunch.  Then I get busy with cleaning the kitchen, and sometimes the stress starts creeping back in and I forget how much I love Thanksgiving and turkey dinners.  When I notice this happening, I try to keep my perspective positive.

The afternoon passes quickly until it is time for Thanksgiving dinner.  Consumed with the mundanities of life, in this case the act of using a fork and a knife, it is easy to forget about the deeper, more important things, for instance how delicious turkey tastes.  I start feeling amazed and surprised about how much I really love turkey, and that it is so incredible that there are two of them!  (There really were two turkeys at tonight's dinner, this isn't just a reference to my sisters.)  I feel a moment of clarity in this otherwise unclarified day, and I realize how much I missed those two turkeys.  Okay, this time I am referring to my sisters, so let me end by saying, happy birthday to the two cutest little twins in the world, who aren't that little anymore (although still skinny....) and don't you guys also miss the Thanksgiving dinners we used to have before we got too busy....

"Why Do You Do It?" And Other Praises of Homeschool

I'm noticing a big change in people's perceptions of homeschooling from when I first started a few years ago.  People definitely seem to be becoming more open minded about this nontraditional form of education, based on my observations of my own casual conversation with friends, family, and strangers.  I'm really happy about this, because as a homeschooling mom with an entourage of children always surrounding me, conversations always turn to homeschooling.  And it is really exhausting to constantly be defending what is already a very exhausting job.  So you can imagine what a refreshing feeling it is when strangers, friends and family find merit in homeschooling while grilling you about it.

Just yesterday at the grocery store, a very sweet lady observed verbally how well mannered my children were.  Pleased with how courteously they spoke to her, she asked where they went to school, and was visibly impressed when I said they are homeschooled.  "How will they learn to interact with others," she asked me.  And later that same day, at the library, a mother of a very unruly 8 year old was pretending not to notice as her son began pulling books off the shelf one by one and screaming "BAM!" as they fell.  She looked wistfully at my son, almost the same age, politely asking the librarian for help in locating a specific book, and she asked what school he goes to.  I told her he is homeschooled, and her eyes popped open in curiosity.  "Most of the homeschoolers I know are really weird," she said, clearly impressed with my son.

Even once skeptical family members are coming around.  I recently spoke to a cousin of mine, who originally thought and said that the idea of homeschool was insane, but now was more open to the idea.  "Why do you do it," she asked me, "were you're kids having problems in school?"  I was so happy about this turnaround in attitude that I opened up and told her about how I believe in the more natural setting of the home, and in a closer parent-child relationship, and the individualized learning.  She listened without any judgement, and said, "I could never do it."  Another family member is opening up to the idea as well, and told me during a phone call recently, "how much longer are you going to keep doing this?"

Most of my friends have been pretty open minded about it from the start.  But I've noticed even more openness lately.  For example, a close friend recently asked me what the kids do on a typical day.  As I went through the daily routine, describing how it is different every day depending on the classes they are taking or the trips scheduled, my friend listened very intently.  Her face lit up with interest when I described how after a few busy days in a row we usually take a "lazy day" and do only about an hour of basic learning and then spend the day at home relaxing and reading and baking and playing board games and building lego.  She understood that school children lack this type of family-centered day on a constant basis, and she said, "some of my best childhood memories come from school."  I have a feeling if she had children she would homeschool them too!

A fellow high school teacher whom I used to work with was recently telling me how lucky I am to be out of school and homeschooling my children instead.  She described how, even in the private school where she works, the level of education is rapidly declining.  She lamented about how the classes are getting more rowdy and difficult to control, and she expressed how she was concerned that these students were not learning even the basics of manners and courtesy.  I think she really exemplified this feeling I have that there is more open mindedness towards homeschooling.  I told her that I agree with her perception of traditional school, and that I am very happy with homeschool.  It was really uplifting for me to have a school teacher praise homeschooling, and when she said, "eventually you will have to put them back in school, right?" I knew we've come a long way.

They Grow Up Too Fast

I wish I could go back in time.

Ten years of changing diapers is exhausting.  There are times when I thought it would never end.  But now that my youngest is toilet trained I feel like it all went by too fast.  And diapers is only the beginning.  There is also sleep, and messes, and chocolate-milk-sippy-cups.  How many nights did I longingly dream of sleeping a solid 8 hours without being woken up by a crying baby?  Yet when I woke up rested and refreshed this morning, I realized it is a bittersweet pleasure.  I realize that I didn't fully appreciate the mess of toys all over the living room floor that I would clean up after the children went to bed each night.  This morning no one woke me up to give them breakfast, and when I stumbled into the kitchen, groggy with sleep and curiosity, I found my once-babies serving themselves cereal and chocolate milk.  Are you proud of us, they asked me?  Of course I'm proud, this is what I wanted, isn't it?  Self-sufficient children who let me sleep and who fold their own laundry.  And make their own chocolate milk.  In open cups.  It is exactly what I've been waiting for, for so many years.  And yet, as I smile at them for a job well done, I'm not sure I'm happy to be here, now.

I wish I could go back in time, and to yearn again for today.

"It's Not My Thing"

Life throws us all curve balls.  I actually have no idea what that means, because baseball is not my thing, but I think it means we all find ourselves in situations where our tried and true skills are not helpful, and we have to figure out how to navigate  in new ways which we might not have expected.

That is why I was so surprised today when my son didn't want to calculate the measure of the third angle of a triangle because, in his words, "math isn't my thing."  How could math not be his thing?  I've been a math teacher almost my whole life (not taking into account the times when I wasn't.)   Therefore, all my children have to be math people too.  Otherwise, it just doesn't add up.

So I told him that.  I explained that it is impossible to exist as a function of half my DNA, and not love math.  I told him his love for math should go from n to infinity.  I told him that if math isn't his thing, then he better make it his thing.  Because it is so important, for school, for the SATs, for college, for the process of logical thinking, and for proof that he really is my son.  Then I decided to ask a non-math question: WHY does he think math isn't his thing?

So he said he likes to be more abstract.  He said when he answers a math question, I take him literally and don't take into account the nuance in his answer.  He said he feels that math is lacking in hyperbole and metaphor.  But isn't the unknown variable a metaphor, I asked?  Not really, he said, because there is only one right answer.  He would rather work on subjects that allow him to come to his own conclusion than to the expected conclusion.

Well, all that doesn't really speak to my logical side, but maybe its time for me to embrace my metaphorical side.  Because he is my son, and although he does have my math genes in there somewhere, they are expressing themselves very differently than I expected.  It might not be the outcome I was looking for, but it's a shining star of an outcome nonetheless.  A very welcome curve ball indeed.

Things Are Not What They Used To Be... And They Never Were

Nostalgia is the practice of remembering the good things about the past and forgetting the bad.  I just made that up, but that doesn't mean it isn't true.

Take high school, for example.  Which adult doesn't long for the teenage years, when we could spend all day with our best friends and our skin didn't have the hint of wrinkles yet?  I am constantly amazed at my high school students, who don't appreciate their good fortune of being so young.  I wonder why they seem so tense.  Tests and papers cannot be nearly as stressful as bills, child care and work deadlines.  And they get to spend all day with their group of friends, so why do they complain about cliques and bullies?  Looking back at my high school years, I remember feeling empowered to make the right decisions about my future.  So why do these young high school students seem so lost?

Childhood is another great example of something that looks better when you're on the other side of it.  An early bedtime is a dream for most adults, but not as much appreciated by the children on whom it is enforced.  I remember fondly the days filled with the freedom to do whatever you like.  So why are my children complaining that they are bored?  A childhood memory that stands out the most for me is jumping on the couches in our living room, I can clearly picture my hair bouncing and a big smile on my face.  And although I am sure that episode ended with my mother yelling at me to stop, I cannot remember that part.  The good memories stand out and take over our perspective.

Motherhood isn't always as it seemed either.  I observe my friend's baby crawling on the floor, trying to eat her rattle and stopping every two minutes to give anyone looking at her a big baby grin. I remember those beautiful days when my youngest was that age.  I remember the ecstatic smiles, the joy my baby would have just from someone looking at him. The newness of life, the excitement of bathtime, and the wonder at everything was such a pleasure to behold.  I share these thoughts with my friend, the new mom, and I wonder why she isn't sharing in my excitement.  Why is she nodding in half agreement with a partial smile plastered on her face?  Why she is yawning as I speak, and why does she look like she was too tired to remember to match her clothing?  I don't remember being that tired.  I just remember my baby's bouncy curls and mile-wide smile.

10 Years Ago Today

Has it already been ten years since that beautiful September morning?  When I woke up to the bluest sky I had ever seen, and thought that I would take my seven month old baby to the park when I got home from work?   Ten years since those sweet thoughts turned to horror?  Since I took the crowded subway into Manhattan, a subway that would be empty for the next week?  Ten years since I heard my husband's frantic voice on the phone, saying, thank God you're okay, and then wondered how many husbands and wives never got that relief?  Ten years since I thought for a scary moment that I might not make it home to my young son?  Ten years since I hugged him so tight with relief when I finally made it back to Brooklyn, that it made all those standing around me cry?  Ten years since I cried for all those babies whose parents didn't get back that day?  Since the towers turned into a pillar of smoke before our shocked eyes?   Ten years since I wondered how many people were killed in those buildings?  Ten years since the city was covered in ash?  Ten years since 343 firefighters bravely rushed into the towers?  Since hundreds of volunteers came to ground zero to help search for any possible survivors?  Ten years since the hospital where I worked prepared to accept and treat hundreds of wounded?  Ten years since no wounded ever showed up?   Ten years since every surface in Manhattan was covered with missing person posters for weeks after the attack?  How can it be ten years, when the memories are as fresh as if it just happened?