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Monday, October 30, 2006Grape Nuts With a Serving SpoonThat's how my morning began. It wasn't me eating the Grape Nuts. (Nasty things, those.) It was Eric. And "eating" isn't the right word. It was more like "pulverizing rock-like particles of soluble fiber at a decibel level inconsistent with normal human consumption." I can't believe the boy has any teeth left. Mind you, Eric is one of those Weird People who refuses to pour milk on his cereal. He eats it bone dry -- and usually with his fingers. Not this morning, though. Grape Nuts are too small to effectively pick up with one's fingers. So he stepped outside of the box and used a spoon. Not any old spoon, though. A serving spoon. I didn't notice at first. I was too busy wincing at each crunch of his teeth. But then I saw it -- the serving spoon. And I asked him why he felt compelled to eat his Grape Nuts with a way-too-large-for-the-average-mouth spoon. "It was the only spoon out there." Is that a Man Response or what? I have a perfectly good set of eight spoons that I keep in a separate drawer (since most of my other spoons mysteriously disappear via Children Using Them For Unlawful Outdoor Activities). Eric knows this. I've told him a dozen times about my secret spoon drawer. So this morning, I reminded him once again where I keep the spoons. "Oh. Yeah. I forgot about those." So. Grape Nuts with a serving spoon. I wonder how he'll deal with his macaroni and cheese tonight. Labels: parenting Thursday, October 26, 2006Don't Be Sad, JerryAnd please, please, PLEASE don't stand in awe. I agree with your (colorful) analogy. The public school system is a broken machine, despite scores of dedicated, diligent teachers out there. I liken it to a dance company. You may be the most brilliant dancer to yet join, but if all of the other dancers have broken legs, your skill won't go very far on the dance floor. Nothing can diminish your talent, but you will be handicapped by everyone around you. There will be no Swan Lake, no Sleeping Beauty. You will have to compromise your talent and lower your "dancing standards" to those of your colleagues. But Jerry, there is nothing innately special about me because I homeschool. I am not a particularly patient person (as my children will attest to); nor do I have any special skill as a "teacher." And your children would not receive any sort of "special educational blessing" by sitting next to my own children. In short, you and your wife are just as "skilled" as any parent needs to be in order to homeschool. For you see, it's not about systematically pouring information into their little heads. It's about facilitating their own, inborn ability to learn. And that begins with making sure they can read. Simply put, the most important "educational" thing I've ever done for my children is teaching them to read. A child who can read is a child who can learn. Anything. Before we moved to Tennessee, Eric and I had never heard of homeschooling. Once we learned about it (through meeting a family of fairly impressive children), the Lord laid it on our hearts to homeschool our own children. Mind you, we didn't even have children yet. It was one of those "this is what we are going to do" things -- and we barely knew a thing about it. Sometimes I'm frustrated. Sometimes I'm burned out. Sometimes I feel like a complete failure. In fact, I know that I couldn't do this if it weren't for the grace of God. My perfectionism, my anxiety, my divergence all work against me. Yet every day I watch my children following their passions, growing in their faith and in their knowledge of the world around them. I see Jonathan designing web sites and excelling at Physics; I see Maggie writing novels and learning to dance en pointe; I see Rachel blossoming as a photographer and learning to write stories; I see Spencer teaching himself math (yes, teaching himself) and reading his first chapter book (The Boxcar Children, of course). Best of all, I get to spend every day with them. Not each passing minute -- we'd drive each other beyond the brink of sanity. But I'm an active, vibrant part of their lives. They entrust their hearts to me instead of to a faceless peer group. They express to me their dreams, their desires, their hurts. I am honored and blessed beyond measure to be the mother of these four awesome children. In all my imperfection, they love my unconditionally. I am supremely thankful that I am able to homeschool them. I have met women who have longed to homeschool their children, only to have their husbands refuse to allow it. There are also women who want to homeschool but are forced to work outside the home to make ends meet. I do not take my blessing lightly. What it takes more than anything else to homeschool, Jerry, is the desire. Desire, followed by dedication. Not classes on "educational psychology," not a degree, not a teaching certificate. In fact, my "teacher training" did nothing but work against me when I first started homeschooling. I had to "de-program" myself before I started to become truly effective as my children's educational "coach." And I'm still learning. Thank you, my cyberfriend, for your words of affirmation. But do not be sad, and do not be awestruck. Instead, ask the Lord to show you what means He may have for an alternative education for your children. You may be joyously, wondrously, immeasurably surprised by what happens. And one more thing. From everything I've extracted from your writings, I sense that you are a loving, devoted dad. And that will remain true regardless of where your children are receiving their education. Remember that. Labels: homeschooling Wednesday, October 25, 2006Surely He Must Be Quite Thirsty
 Bear with me; this is a Writing Rant. My regular readers know that I'm homeschooling my children. This year, I've begun to use an excellent grammar series for my twelve- and fourteen-year-olds. I love the series because it's thorough, it's advanced, and it teaches sentence diagraming. (Yes, I spelled diagraming correctly. I promise.) Today, Jonathan's lesson included the identification of gerund phrases and infinitive phrases and the diagraming thereof. Super lesson. (Can you tell I love grammar?) However, as is often the case, some of the sentences used as examples are, simply put, weak sentences. Yes, they're grammatically correct. Yes, they make sense. But from a writing standpoint, they're weak. And it drives me absolutely bonkers. Case in point is the sentence in my title: Surely he must be quite thirsty. (Attention grammar aficionados: This sentence was in the review section, not the main lesson. Hence the absence of either a gerund or an infinitive phrase). The sentence is easy enough to decipher; "thirsty" is the predicate adjective that modifies "he," the subject. Like I said, it's grammatically correct. The problem? Adverbs. A six-word sentence should not contain two adverbs. Nothing weakens a sentence like a preponderance of adverbs. So we've got surely and quite in the same sentence when we could do with either one alone: "Surely he must be thirsty." "He must be quite thirsty." Or if it were in the context of dialogue, we wouldn't need either one: "He must be thirsty." See my point? Of course, Jonathan has the benefit of a writer-mom who is careful always to point out weak sentences and encourage her children to do the same. Some things are hard-and-fast and should not be questioned, such as a verb is a verb is a verb (unless it's a gerund, in which case it's a noun). But other things are more subjective, like Too Many Adverbs. And it isn't just professional writers who need to worry about such things -- it's everybody. Imagine writing a cover letter to a resume that sounds like this: "I am really interested in pursuing employment with your very progressive firm. My experience is very extensive and I've carefully and diligently outlined my employment history in the quite detailed, enclosed resume. Thank you so very much for your time." Yep. If it were up to me, I'd throw it in the garbage without checking the resume. Let's try: "I am interested in pursuing employment with your progressive firm. I have outlined my experience and employment history in the enclosed resume. Thank you for your time." I know, I know...I've just spent more than a month doing heavy-duty revisions. This is the kind of thing that, after you've weeded it from your own writing, sticks out like a festering thumb. So, to all you writers out there: STOP USING ALL THOSE ADVERBS. There. I feel better now. Labels: homeschooling, writing Tuesday, October 24, 2006BirbirthdaybayThat's "birthday" in Ubby-Dubby language, in case you didn't know. Rachel turns 11 today. Thus the hasty post. The last two days have been infused with birthday-and-then-some. Ask me about making four dozen cupcakes with exactly ONE twelve-cake tin. Ask me about Eric's fourth day in a row in pain from some sort of shoulder injury (the jury's still out). Ask me about Eric being HOME for four days in a row in pain from some sort of shoulder injury. Ask me about being tempted to take one of Eric's mega pain pills. Ask me about waiting until the last minute to wrap presents. Not just me -- everyone. Except Spencer. Ask me about my feet. Or better yet -- offer to massage them (I'll wash them first). Then again, don't bother asking me. So many people have it so much worse. I'm just a bit tired. Life is good, my daughter is a gift from God, and I can hardly wait to sink my teeth into the cupcakes (carrot cake with cream cheese frosting). Back to "regular posting" tomorrow. I promise. Friday, October 20, 2006200th Post!Hold your applause, please. Small gifts of chocolate will suffice. We're kicking off our Friday by having a young German friend over for dinner. The last time he visited us, we grilled something, and I made an all-out attempt to create a very "American" supper for his cultural enjoyment (scary, isn't it?). I was especially proud of my plate of deviled eggs. Of course, when Jorg asked me why they're called "deviled eggs," I couldn't answer him. So much for the cultural experience. Tonight, we'll be feasting on Eric's gourmet pizza (a word of Italian origin) and a salad of spring greens with my homemade soy-ginger dressing (soy and ginger both hailing from the Orient). Hopefully I won't have to answer any difficult questions about the food. Rachel made her World's Best Fudge for dessert, so I'll have my chocolate fix. Candles, freshly grated Parmesan, lipstick, and a crisp, autumn evening. Check. Have a wonderful weekend, everyone! Thursday, October 19, 2006Prince Charming in TrainingIt was almost 10:00 p.m. Eric had just returned from picking up Maggie and Jonathan from Youth Group. At the top of the stairs I greeted Jonathan with a whispered, "Hello," in an attempt to keep the mood hushed (siblings-in-bed and whatnot). My son looked at me and his eyes grew gentle. "Aw, you look pretty." Understand me. I was wearing a long, floral nightgown and my hair was wet from the shower. And my fourteen-year-old son told me that I looked pretty. They were the first words out of his mouth. "Thank you," I said. What else could I say? Rolling my eyes and saying, "Oh, for heaven's sake, I'm in my pajamas!" would have wounded his loving spirit. Wrinkling my nose and saying, "Ugh, I look absolutely horrible and my hair is wet," would have taught him the fine art of self-loathing. No. I thanked him. And I felt like the most beautiful woman on the planet. Lithe, graceful, floating on the warm air of his compliment. I don't want to hear about how horrible teenagers are. Don't whine at me about their moods, their attitudes, their inability to act like human beings. Sure, it's tough being a teen. And yes, Jonathan has his moments of Ultimate Butt-head. Sometimes I could kick him. But you know what? That's not the "real" Jonathan. That's just junk, and we're working on it. My Jonathan is a sensitive, witty, bright young man who thinks his mother is pretty in her nightgown. He is a treasure; he's going to be an incredible Prince Charming for a lucky bride some day (if she survives my hazing). Today I am beautiful. And it's all because of a fourteen-year-old who wasn't afraid to speak his heart. Labels: parenting Wednesday, October 18, 2006Excited? Or Obsessive-Compulsive?Question: How many times can a writer check her email in one day? Answer: Take the number of agents that she has e-queried, multiply by 520, increase by a factor of two for every passing hour until bedtime. Then, check once more. It's ridiculous; really, it is. I know the response times. I know that some agents (grumble grumble) completely ignore the queries they're not interested in. And I know that I'm neurotic. I know, I know, I know. Yet I check my email. And I check it again. What I want to do -- what I mean to do -- is to begin work on Book Two. I've got the premise laid out and I'm raring to go. This is the third day in a row of Attempting to Write The Opening Scene. I've gotten as far as typing "1." at the top of the page. It's much easier to just give up and check my email. One...more...time. Snail mail is easier to deal with. The mailman comes once a day, you check for rejection letters, and then you go about your business. Why didn't I use snail mail, you say? Ugh. Such a lot of bother and expense, just for a form rejection in the end. And you won't believe what a hot button it is in the agenting world. Some agents are completely anti-email query, as though their computers might explode if they were to even consider it. Other agents will only accept e-queries and nothing else. Ever. E-queries are awesome. Snail mail is yesterday. But that's just one writer's opinion. I'm going to work on my new novel. After I've checked my email. Labels: writing Monday, October 16, 2006Wedding Number OneIf you happen to know two couples who are planning to get married in the same year, the odds that the two weddings will occur on consecutive weekends are eclipsed only by the odds that the weddings will take place on exactly the same day. Fortunately, ours have fallen on two consecutive weekends. We just got through -- ur, I mean attended -- the first. I haven't been to a wedding since my sister was married almost four years ago. It's that phase of life when most people your age are already married, and their children aren't yet old enough to be. I guess I've been spoiled. Just ask Eric; I've been bellyaching about these weddings for months. At any rate, we ended up having a lovely time on Saturday. Imagine a small, stone courtyard with a fountain in the middle; a live jazz duo in one corner; glasses of champagne each containing a single, red raspberry; warm hors d'oeuvres served on round silver trays. Classy! Of course, Eric and I didn't know a single person. Yes, that's right. Not. One. Single. Person. Which was kind of nice, because it was like being on a date that somebody else paid for. The cocktail hour was followed by a lovely dinner beneath a tent, with live jazz and a dance floor. It felt almost strange to dance with my husband. That's how rarely it occurs. So we survived the evening and my new shoes didn't give me blisters. And now we have to do the same bloody thing all over again this coming Saturday. I hate weddings. But I love champagne with raspberries, and I love seeing a woman so excited to marry her man that she's in tears as she says her vows -- and gives a big "thumbs up" when it's time to kiss the bride (I've never seen anything like it). Something tells me that, if I'm not careful, I'm going to turn into one of those crotchety old ladies who never smiles. Especially at weddings. Ugh. Thursday, October 12, 2006Speaking of Google...Here's a stumper for you techno-computer-geeko types: Google will not come up on my browser. I get "page not available" every time. My web capability is otherwise unaffected. I've been traveling hither and yon without any trouble. I just can't go to Google. Eric spent way too much time on the phone last night with a Comcast Phone-a-Geek. Nobody seems to know why we can't access Google. I mean...Google is my HOME PAGE. I am an avowed Googler! What have I done wrong? Eric can access Google from work. Readers of this blog are obviously accessing Google and finding me there. But I can't go there, and neither can anyone else in our household. My daughter each have a g-mail account. Things are not pretty around here when females are denied email access. It's a DNS problem, but that's as far as Eric's gotten. He's my Prince Geek, and if he's stumped, then I get really concerned. Yes, I'm concerned. And annoyed. And on the brink of spewing out all kinds of repressed venom against the Kingdom of Google. Want to be my hero? Solve this mystery! I don't know much longer we can hold out without Google access. Wednesday, October 11, 2006Never Ceases To AmuseConstant searches for "air ferns" and "granny panties" notwithstanding, I have a new, Top Three Favorite list for recent searches that landed folks here at The Write Way Home. Considering the content of the searches, I don't think I'll speculate on whether or not these readers actually found what they were looking for. Third place: cursed parrot Second place: Life-sized foam female dolls First place: Can unborn babies fart? There you have it. If you're looking for bewitched, farting manikin fetuses, I'm your woman. Ain't Google grand? Monday, October 09, 2006Books, An Endangered SpeciesPrepare yourself for a Monday Afternoon Rant. I was standing in the check-out line at Kohl's department store. Nothing too exciting, just a pair of pantyhose for some upcoming weddings (yes, it's true; until this past Saturday, I did not own any pantyhose). Kohl's always has some kind of gimmicky, five-dollar, buy-it-for-your kid display near the check-out registers. Right now, it's a display of "Collector's Edition" hardcover Dr. Seuss classics, along with some cheesy stuffed characters from each story. Front and center was one of my favorites, How the Grinch Stole Christmas. Yep, that one's almost older than I am. So a woman with two children took her place in line behind me. Her daughter, who looked about nine or so, gasped and pointed emphatically to the nearest Grinch book. "Mama! They have a book now!" I continued to eavesdrop despite the loud noise of my jaw hitting the linoleum. "Well, I think there was a book..." Mama didn't sound too sure. "NO." Daughter knew Everything. "There WASN'T." That did it. There was no possible way I could keep my mouth shut for another nanosecond. "Yes, there was," I said in my most Educated Voice. "That was a book when I was your age." The child simply gaped. Really, it was an all-out gape. "I thooooought it was a book," said Mama in her lazy drawl. "I don't remember if we got it or not..." No, madam, you most certainly didn't "get" it. You didn't "get" the fact that children should read books first and enjoy the videos afterward. You didn't "get" your daughter to realize that books are treasures, wonders of the imagination; that they're an integral part of every child's education. A child who can read can learn anything. A child who watches videos will become a passive learner. Yes, my children have watched How the Grinch Stole Christmas. Heck, it's one of my favorite Christmas specials. But you'd better believe we've read the book, too. Same goes with Narnia, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and The Secret Garden. Book first, movie second. I know we live in a "click the remote" society, but I'll admit that I'm flabbergasted. It blows me away that a child would be completely unaware that The Grinch is a classic Dr. Seuss book. That she's never read it, okay. But that she didn't know it existed? That she insisted this was a brand new phenomenon, ready for the taking at the incredible price of five dollars? Oy. And the worst part? Her mother wasn't even sure! How can you be thirty-something years old, live in the USA, and not know that Dr. Seuss wrote a book about a Grinch? That scares me. Okay, I'm a writer. Writing for youngsters is what I do! One day, when my wildly popular fantasy series hits the big screen, I will shrivel up and die if I hear a child say, "You mean this was a book?" A. A. Milne and Beatrix Potter are rolling in their graves. Labels: books Friday, October 06, 2006On A Sweeter Note....I didn't want to end the week with a piece about poop. (Not to be confused with a piece OF poop.) So I'd just like to say...I'm thankful. I'm thankful for my precious husband, who loves me unconditionally, makes me belly laugh, and works his way through every tangled, undulating sentence of my manuscript with grace and a sharp eye. I'm thankful for my children, who give my life fullness, purpose, and joy. I'm thankful for the stunning weather this past week. I'm thankful that the wee babe in my sister's belly is growing, healthy, and HEAD DOWN! I'm thankful for Dave's fabulous critiquing skills. He's really in the trenches with me. I'm thankful for my hairstylist, who just turned my hair a delicious shade of brown. I'm thankful for my parents...that they're still here, still healthy, and still loving me despite my quirks. I'm thankful for chocolate. And I'm thankful for you, dear readers, for allowing me to be a small part of your lives. Have a glorious, autumnal weekend! Thursday, October 05, 2006Mexican PoopI love Mexicans. Everyone who knows me knows this about me. My heart bleeds for Mexican men, women, and children, and my tongue longs to speak fluent Spanish. All right, that was my disclaimer. There is a bunch of Mexican lawncare guys who take their lunch break in the small park by the river where Jonathan fishes. I dropped Jonathan off the other day, and there they were -- sitting in clusters at picnic tables, kicking a soccer ball around in the field, and pooping under the trees. Yes, I knew they pooped in the woods. Sometimes nature calls when there's not a bathroom nearby, and squatting beneath a well-concealed tree is sometimes the only option. I'm not that prudish. Except, these particular Mexicans seem to have a problem with their aim. Right along the narrow path that leads to Jonathan's fishing hole were two separate piles of...used toilet paper. On top of excrement. Coated with fat, gluttonous flies. Hello? Did these pooping people stop to think that maybe folks walk on the narrow path leading to the fishing hole? That hapless children might step in their taco-scented piles of doo-doo? And how, exactly, does one approach a problem like this? I could call the lawn care company: "Hello, this is Mrs. Boehme from Fieldstone Farms. I just wanted to let you know that your employees are pooping on the nature trail." Or I could brush up on my Spanish and approach the exhibitionists myself: "Hola, muchachos, y eschuchen, por favor. No me gusta el POOP dentre los arboles." Perhaps a large sign would suffice: "WARNING: NO POOPING ON THE PATH" (In both languages, Spanish first.) Maybe I could get all the soccer moms and nearby residents to sign a poop petition. With enough signatures, we could lobby for a port-a-potty next to the basketball court. I'm still asking myself if this is real. I mean, we've all dealt with small neighborhood problems like barking dogs, loud parties after midnight, and the guy who keeps parking his Suburban right in front of your mailbox. But pooping Mexicans? It's got to be a first. I'm open to suggestions. Tuesday, October 03, 2006I've over-undulatedStrange, the words we overuse without realizing it. Eric caught on first, and I did some further investigation. As it turns out, I've used the word undulating six times in my novel. Six times! Lest you think I'm a thesaurus-wielding ninny, I must point out that "undulate" is simply a part of my vocabulary. Kids used to make fun of my vocabulary when I was young. I've always been a lover of words. Not that "undulate" is such a fancy-schmancy word, but...well, obviously I like it on an unconscious level. Things should never undulate six times in the course of 290 pages. Currently, I've gotten rid of three undulatings. At least one more needs to be expunged before the Undulation Level can be considered satisfactory. I'm looking on the bright side, though. If my revisions have dwindled to the point where I'm getting rid of extraneous and repetitive words, that's a good thing. It means my plot is solid, my dialogue is un-dorkified (mostly...still have a few doozies to deal with), my writing is clean. The question is, when do you stop? I could clean up like this on a regular basis and never truly feel "finished." It's like doing laundry. What a thought: "Writing a novel is like doing laundry. No matter how much you clean up, there's another dirty bit waiting in the basket." That's enough to make me run screaming from my office. Okay, now 'fess up. Did you have to look up the word undulating? (Insert evil grin here.) That's okay. I didn't learn what it meant until I was in college. The theatre major in the dorm room next door used to do this odd characterization, which she called "The Undulating Witch." I remember standing there thinking, "What the heck does undulating mean?" Now I'm thinking, "How the heck could a witch undulate?" And thanks to Mary Beth the theatre major, I ended up with six undulatings in my novel. Back to work. Can't wait to see what bizarre, repeated word I'll fish out next... Labels: writing Monday, October 02, 2006Watching My Baby Fly
 Last Tuesday, I threw Spencer's bike into the back of the van and made my way to church, where I dropped the girls off for their ballet classes. Then I brought my Little Guy to the lower parking lot, unloaded the bike, and let him go to town. The poor kid sold his training wheels last autumn, but never had a chance to learn to ride without them. And, well, we live on a hill. I'm not about to let my wee dude test his biking prowess on an incline. Thing is, he turned seven in March. The bike was a sixth birthday present. How sorry is that? Eric spent some time with him a few days before our Tuesday riding date. They went to a park and did the dad-holding-onto-Spencer's-neck-and-running-alongside-the-wobbling-bike thing. It was definitely what Spencer needed. By the time I took him out on Tuesday, he was ready to roll. "I'll hold your neck and run with you," I said. I was serious -- I had my sneakers on. I was prepared to be a Super Mom. We did one, brief pass with the neck-hold, and it wasn't too successful. Then Spencer exclaimed, "I'm just going to do it by myself!" And he did. He just sort of...took off. Wow. There went my "baby." The exhuberance on his face was beyond description. My son was riding his bike, all by himself. After an initial round of cheering, applauding, and shouting instructions, I did what any self-respecting mom would do. I grabbed my Nikon. In a couple of years, I'll be dealing with Firstborn Holding Car Keys syndrome. Somehow, the bike riding seems easier, less threatening. Oh, how quickly our little birdies fly from the nest! It's a good thing I have post-fulltime-mom plans -- like traveling to Italy, learning to speak French, and publishing bestselling novels up until I'm a doddering old woman. Still. A five-minute trip to the past, just so I could cuddle a six-month-old Spencer or a two-year-old Jonathan one more time, would be equally thrilling. Motherhood. Ain't nothing like it. Labels: parenting |
About Me
I am: Mother to five stunningly individualistic children... Writer of young adult fantasy... Passionate advocate for Women At Home... Madly in love with my husband... In need of Organic Gourmet Chocolate on a regular basis. I've got a Paypal account if you'd like to contribute to the cause....
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