Real Christmas Trees...

Chad: Why don't we get a real Christmas tree?
Me: Because I can't justify cutting down a perfectly good tree just to decorate our house for a few weeks.
Chad: Do they just go out and cut them down from everywhere?
Me: No. They grow them in something called a tree farm.
Chad: So, they buy some land with trees, and cut them down?
Me: No. I'm pretty sure they plant the trees there.
Chad: That's good, right? Planting trees?
Me: Not if they're just going to cut them down in a couple of years. What's the point?
Chad: Oh.
(long, thoughtful pause)

Chad: If they didn't have tree farms, the trees could just grow wild there?
Me: Well.. no probably not. It would probably be turned into farmland.
Chad: With no trees at all.
Me: Right.
Chad: So.. the tree farmers are still kind of helping. They keep planting trees there, and if they didn't, there would be no trees.
Me: I... I guess so.
Chad: So maybe we should get a real tree. You know, so the tree farmers will keep planting them.

Sometimes that kid is so much smarter than I am.

Measels make you bumpy, and mumps'll make you lumpy...

That bitch. All this talk about immunity, and my kids are covered in poison ivy. Covered. Chad is completely red from his toes to just above the knees. Cadence has it from head to toe, on her forehead even. I still appear to be immune, since all the itchy insect bites I keep unconsciously scratching have remained only insect bites.. even after several half-hour sessions each day of applying a baking soda paste to miles and miles of the stuff.

We had a long talk about scratching. The kids are washing with dish detergent. I was thinking since it dries the skin so well, it would help. Just an idea, but it can't hurt them. I've considered a salt soak, but I'm afraid it will sting. Wait it out. Just don't scratch.

Riley doesn't have poison ivy, despite having the same contact with the plants as her siblings. She's suffering from some other weird and scary symptoms that will take us to the doctor tomorrow.

There's this gland in her neck that's swollen. I mean it pops right out, you can see it. It's only on one side, and she says it hurts to the touch. No fever, but on her way to bed tonight, she said her body hurt. I pulled off a tick that was embedded in the middle of her back tonight (weird, and just.. eww), and she has a strange sore on her scalp. The sore could easily be an insect bite she scratched open, but we also found some weirdo bug in the girls' room. Ever seen a grub? Its body was like that, all white and squashy and fat and gross-looking. Only round like a marble, not long like a worm. And it had little red legs and a little red head, which also reminded me of a tick. Only bigger, like a June bug in May. Chad killed the thing before I got a good look at it, so I have no idea what it is. She's also Completely Covered In Mosquito Bites.

So now I'm worrying that it's Lyme disease or some kind of lymphoma or an allergic reaction to all the bites or any number of horrible things that could be wrong with my kid. I'm worrying that I'll end up in the hospital with Chad and Cadence getting cortisone shots. I can't sleep from checking on them.

And my husband says my "job" is easy.

Here I Am Again...

Here I am. Again. Crabby. Bloated. Crampy. Bitchy.

Monday I took Cadence to the doctor and went completely psycho on my kids in the car on the way. Chad and Riley were fighting over some little McDonald's toy. After screaming at asking Chad to give it to her about a million times, and Riley throwing it at him, I said, "Give it to me!" .. and pitched it right out the window of the car. Riley immediately started to cry. I felt terrible. I blamed it all on Chad, telling him if he had just done what I said and left her alone, none of this would have happened. The rest of the ride was very quiet.

Later I apologized of course, because I just couldn't let my kids go on feeling like a) it was all their fault or b) their mom was insane. So, I apologized. And I didn't even use the word "but."

There is no manual, although I'm not sure it would help if there was. I'm trying, and while I usually am doing my best, sometimes I'm not. Some days I feel like the struggle to be a better parent is just that - a struggle. A pushing, wrestling, biting and scratching, fistfight of a battle with myself just to keep from abusing my kids with my words and actions. Screaming and yelling was all I knew how to do when I became a parent. It's the hardest thing I've ever had to do, to sit and make myself be quiet, quite literally biting my tongue instead of saying, "Gah! What is WRONG with you?"

And the hormones don't help. Hormones are my enemy. My little temper tantrum in the car was completely out of nowhere, which was why it slipped through my filters so easily. Normally, I would notice I was getting angry and step on it; just grit my teeth and say, "Please just put the toy away if you can't agree on who will play with it," in my best Sweet Mommy voice.

I used to hope my kids couldn't see through my fake sweetness. I was afraid they would think I spent my days hating them and pretending I didn't. Now, thanks to these outbursts and subsequent apologies, I'm glad they know the truth. I'm not perfect. But I'm doing my damndest to be the best parent I can. Now, my hope is that my children will reach adulthood with the understanding that while my instinct was to beat the living crap out of them, I somehow managed to treat them with love and respect. I made mistakes and then did my best to make it right again. I loved them enough to fight with myself instead of them.

I think the worst part about living this way is the feeling that I'm the only one who has this much trouble. Every other parent I know seems to be a natural at it. When Mom raises her voice, it's because she's Really Mad, it's not just part of a normal day. The parents I know don't have to apologize to their kids because they never hurt their feelings in the first place. I see the awfullest kids with the sweetest parents and I think I can't possibly deserve such great kids when I'm such a psycho. I don't see other parents taking deep breaths and counting backwards from 10. I don't see other parents start sentences with, "Damnit! ---" before replacing the angry face with a nice one and restarting with, "Please." I'm sure they exist. I just don't know anyone like that.

Thankfully, the worst of the hormones are out of the way now. I'm still suffering and grumpy, but I'm past the point of complete insanity. I plan to spend the afternoon reading 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea and drinking homemade cocoa with my kids. May chocolate cure all that ails us.

The apple and the tree...

You know that phrase "the apple doesn't fall far from the tree"? Chad and Riley are both very much like me - so much so that we often butt heads in mutual defiance and determination. But sometimes the apple falls off, rolls down a hill, drops into a river and floats out to sea, ending up on some other continent entirely. Such is the case with my oldest daughter.


For me, raising my kids means reminding myself (and my husband) constantly that they're individual people, with personalities not at all dependent on their upbringing. I guess it could be a source of extreme frustration (well, sometimes it is), but for the most part I am just awe-struck. I'm often amazed at how children raised in the same home can not only be so unlike each other, but so unlike anyone else in the house. One could spend an eternity pondering where our personalities come from and what aspects can alter them.


I'm starting to dread the words, "When I was a kid.." that Vic is so fond of uttering when discussing Chad. He mentions how driven HE was to work hard, and take pride in what he works for. I answer with, "He's not you. He's not like you. He doesn't think like you," etc. Chad must see the big picture and how he personally fits into it before taking any pleasure in work. He's just that way. Then an hour later, I'm complaining to Vic about how Cadence won't stand up for herself. She's the complete opposite of Chad, putting the needs and even wants of others before herself, and often being taken advantage of because of it. She's an alien to me. I cannot possibly imagine that line of thinking. She... Well, I don't... How can she... -- But she's not me. She doesn't think like me.


In their schooling, Chad's Big Picture thinking makes him incredibly perceptive and is a driving force to his learning. Cadence learns everything set before her in a calculated and robotic way, out of a need to please me and earn my praise. Chad always asks why, and many hours each day are spent in discussion instead of "real" schoolwork. Cadence never asks why, and is likely to get several lessons ahead in a subject before admitting she really doesn't understand it. Each child's learning must be approached from a different direction. Countless time is spent reminding Chad to focus on the task at hand instead of wandering off into left field; and also in reminding Cadence that my love is not contingent on her performance.


I think this is one of the most important, albeit hardest, lessons I've learned from my kids. The apple might end up in Timbuktu or resting against the trunk of the tree it fell from, but the soil can still be rich. Give them what they each need, and the seeds can still grow. Help them along the way, and the tree can still be strong and healthy. Even if it eventually bears oranges.

My kids are dirty...

I refuse to take my kids out in public looking like what my grandmother called "crumb bums". (I go into a fit of giggles every time I say that. The kids do too.) One afternoon I left the house in a huge hurry to get to the grocery store before they closed and called the kids from the yard with, "Hurry and get in the car, let's go!" I was so distracted with time that I only glanced in the back to see that everyone was buckled before pulling out of the driveway. I was so focused on the heavy traffic that I never once even did a rear-view check of the kids. After pulling into the parking lot, I turned around to see three filthy children, covered in dirt from head to toe. Mortified at the idea of taking my kids into the store this way, I turned around and drove home. We made a dinner of scrounged-from-the-cupboard stuff and went to the grocery store the next day.

I'm not a clean freak by any means. I don't care if the kids get dirty, as long as they aren't ruining some previously un-ruined clothing. I don't make a big deal out of stains, and the kids have plenty of stuff suitable for dirty activities like camping, fishing, or digging a moat in the yard. I've actually had conversations with the kids that went something like: (Me) What on Earth are you guys doing out here? (Them) We're digging a well. (Me) Oh. Well if you don't find water, fill it in when you're done. I seriously do not care if they're dirty. But the idea of letting the world know that I'm raising a bunch of crumb bums (See how funny that is?) has never sat well with me. What will people think of my parenting if they see my kids looking like filthy little urchins? What kind of gross neglect is that?

I haven't posted too many pictures of the kids themselves here because most of the time they're dirty. I've decided though, that to thoroughly share our lives and experiences, I'm going to have to suck it up. My kids are dirty. Almost all the time. They're not neglected at all, in fact quite the contrary. They aren't models and this isn't a sitcom. They're children, doing what I think all children should be allowed to do. They're free to play as they like, under sufficient adult supervision. And they like to play in the dirt. So without further ado, this is what my children actually look like, about 90% of the time:

And this is what happens when Mom joins in the fun:

The Mother's Day Booty...

This morning I woke to gifts from my children. No breakfast in bed, but they're not allowed to use the stove anyway and I did make that rule about no food in the bedroom, so I guess that was my fault.

First a homemade card from Cadence:

Cadence frequently mixes up "th" with "sh". The inventive spelling is cute, eh? Inside the card was Cadence's very first attempt at poetry (translated below, for those of you who don't fluently speak and read Kid):

"If it is a nice day,

I will tell you what to do.

Go outside and play.

If you have a pool,

Play in it instead.

But you will need a swimming suit."

She signed it with her first and last names, which she often does in her letters and notes.

Next was a box from both of the girls, with this note on top:

Inside the box were oodles of gifts from the garage sale shopping the kids did with Grandma Saturday morning:

Three beautiful necklaces; one with the letter "A", a blue sparkly lightening bolt, and a black flower with a rhinestone center. And two baggies of hair ties. Can't ever have enough hair ties, can we? I loved them! Next was Chad's gift:

A gorgeous mantle clock with only the teeniest chip in the corner of the glass.

I think I liked the notes and poem best, but I was so thrilled that my kids picked and paid for gifts for me all by themselves. On this Mother's Day, I'm the happy Mom of three great kids. Here's hoping your Mother's Day was just as nice.

Surviving High School...

RegularMom had a great post about the high school cafeteria. It got me thinking about how readily (and sometimes openly) people downplay my choice to homeschool. My grandmother, a wonderful and respectable woman that I admire more than anyone else, dislikes the fact that I homeschool. Maybe even hates it. A lot of my friends say they think it's a good idea, but they say it in that uncomfortable way you might tell a good friend, "You're right. Eating dirt IS a good idea. Get your minerals right from the source. Good thinking." and as with homeschooling, end it with, "I could never do it myself, but that's great that you are." In other words, I get the feeling they don't really mean it.

Sometimes though, people are outright critical. They bring up the "S" word. They talk about high school dances and sports, and most importantly, friends. They almost always say, "Well, you and I both went to high school, and we survived just fine." Surviving is something you do when you're involved in a plane crash over the Alps and stranded in a frozen wasteland with nothing to eat but other "survivors." Surviving indicates something you managed to live through, despite the odds against you. Surviving is something that disregards other things like happiness, security and contentment.

What these critics fail to see is that, like other survivors, they remember a lot of the good things and tend to block out the bad things. In the case of institutional schools, it's a pretty successful tactic. In a few short years, long enough to finish college and start having children of their own, people have almost completely forgotten everything but the few good things that kept them holding on through high school. High school dances, sports and friends are how teenagers cope with the trauma of high school. And just like a lot of finely tuned coping skills, they're hard to let go of, and become so deeply ingrained in their brains that they start thinking all kids need to have them. They've forgotten that dances, sports and friends are what they are - coping skills for an unhealthy environment - and that if you're not IN that unhealthy environment, you have no need for a way to cope with them. That's why so few high school friendships last beyond high school. You no longer need them to cope with your life.

I don't suffer from trauma-induced amnesia. I still very clearly remember that hot, sick feeling that starts in your stomach and moves through your head, brought on by someone else's laughter. I remember hearing "slut" and "bitch" coming from the seat behind me, not-so-cleverly disguised in a fake cough. I remember holding my bowels until I thought I would explode so I could use the bathroom at home rather than stink up the school bathroom and people would know it was me (God forbid I poop like everyone else does). I remember what it feels like to have a ball of paper, wet with someone else's saliva, stuck in my hair. I remember the feeling of complete elation at the realization that it was Friday and I wouldn't have to be in this horrible place for two whole days, and the subsequent feeling of depression on Sunday night. I bet if you think about it, you can remember these things, or other horrors, too. Like those critics, I survived high school. Thank goodness for my friends, or I may not have made it. Not everyone does.

My kids aren't involved in group activities, they don't go to many birthday parties, and we aren't involved in any playgroups. They won't go to prom. But my kids don't need coping skills. They possess qualities I never had in my childhood, like confidence, self-respect and a sense of security. My kids are fun-loving, independent and most importantly, happy. They're not just surviving. They're thriving.

And it all started with a friendly game of cards...

I was playing Old Maid with the girls today. Riley asked what an old maid was, and I changed the subject. I could get into a big ole tangent about expectations of marriage and negative biases, etc. but for one thing, she's four and wouldn't follow me past the first few words, and second, I don't think "old maid" is a term people even use anymore. Not that it isn't still worth discussing at some point, I just didn't think it was worth discussing right then. Regardless, it stayed in my mind as cards were dealt and I separated the little cartoon people matches. Two Doctors. Two Teachers. Two Veterinarians. At least there were women in there, being pilots and bakers, and we'll just pretend the Movie Star isn't clearly holding one of those cigarettes-on-a-stick. Still, most of these people are men. And since when did "Witch" become a profession?

I was sitting there quietly, thinking these thoughts when Cadence said, "Why are all the women in these pictures wearing lipstick?" I looked through my cards. She was right. The Police Officer, the Baker, even the Old Maid wore lipstick. Cadence started flipping through her cards too and said, "You don't HAVE to wear lipstick. Oh I guess the witch isn't wearing any, but still." I nodded and said, "I hardly ever wear lipstick myself."

Riley, silent until this moment, spoke up then. "You don't wear lipstick, Mama. You're just like the witch."

"Yep," I told her. Just like the witch."

Death and the facts-centered child...

My son is a deep thinker. He's famous for asking questions that are difficult to answer, or worse, questions that HAVE no answer. He's not satisfied with no answer, and conversations with him can become very frustrating very quickly. Most of the time I'm not smart enough to answer his questions and we have to look it up on the internet. He's become so used to this that he's been known to ask things like, "Can we get on the internet and look up how many kids in China have kites?" Umm.. I don't think we'll find that on the internet babe, but we can try if it will make you happy. It's at least teaching him deductive reasoning, what with kite sales in China and assuming at least 80 or so percent of them were bought for kids, and a small percentage probably have more than one kite, and all that.

He's also a worrier. He worries constantly about so many things that seem silly to me. Often he'll ask if some little twinge or tweak or pain is "okay," as if he might have some terrible disease because he has a "weird feeling" in his arm, or foot, or whatever. It's difficult for me not to just blow off his concerns with, "You don't need to worry about that." (I had an obstetrician that did that and I hated it.) I've told him that the human body is weird, and can do all sorts of weird things, and as long as it doesn't happen all the time or hurt, it's probably alright. What he really wants to know is what is causing this strange feeling? Why do nerves work in such strange ways, when there's no real problem? Stuff there aren't real answers for. The boy is going to give himself an ulcer. So, in order to help reduce the worry, we discuss every single one of his (ridiculous, petty, silly) concerns as thoroughly as possible. He often worries as he lays there in bed trying (not) to sleep, until he's so worked up he couldn't possibly sleep at all. Tonight he came out of his room crying and worrying about death.

Chad has never liked funerals. He becomes very upset just being in a funeral parlor, regardless of whether he knew the deceased. When we visit the cemetery, he doesn't get out of the car. He's not afraid of bodies, but is bothered by the idea of death altogether. Tonight he was upset because there was NO ANSWER about what happens when you die. I offered as many things as I could think of as possible solutions, but none of them comforted him. "You know when you first saw the roller coasters and how scary they looked?" I asked him. "But then when you rode on it, it was really really fun? Maybe death is like that. It seems scary because you don't know what it will be like. But maybe when you die, you'll find out it's fantastic." We talked about Heaven, and how one of the good things about believing in God and Heaven is so you don't have to be afraid of what you don't have answers for. It was a very nice discussion about religion, but it wasn't helpful in making him feel any better. We talked about ghosts and people who claim to speak to spirits. We talked about reincarnation. None of it helped though, because nobody can prove that stuff either. I very firmly believe that even if I raised my son in strict religion, he would grow up to be an atheist. Chad is not comfortable with faith of any kind. He needs good, solid answers.

Being a Just The Facts Ma'am person is great if you're a scientist or mathematician or something. But for now, he's a child. Not knowing is scary. I told him how my grandmother said she was visited by my grandfather after he died, in all seriousness and with a completely straight "I'm not bullshitting" face. Strangely, that calmed him enough to go to sleep. The thing is, I actually believe that story about my grandfather, but I always keep a Nobody Knows For Sure attitude with my kids about stuff like that. I'm starting to wonder if I've done the wrong thing by approaching the unknown this way. I'm not avoiding discussing my beliefs, I just am not too sure what I believe or don't believe myself. And I want my kids to choose for themselves. The problem is Chad can't make a choice unless he has the facts. And there just aren't any facts here.

Cripes. Where's the owner's manual for this kid?

"Fishing" for frogs...

Last night, Chad stayed over with a friend of mine so he could attend a farm equipment auction early this morning. This friend has several acres of a really great yard with lots of trees and a little pond out back. When we picked him up this afternoon, Chad was in the back lot scanning the pond.


I asked what he was doing. "Fishing for frog eggs," he said. I make a joke about frogging instead of fishing, but he was too absorbed and didn't even hear me. I tell ya, nobody appreciates a good smart ass anymore. I guess there's supposed to be some eggs in there. Eggs from some frog my country friend calls Spring Peepers. Looks like a bunch of slime and muck to me. Chad was determined to take some home. He carefully inspected the slime.


After deciding the good stuff was out of his reach, he hunted up an old jug to stand on.


After all that hard work, Chad had a baggie full of pond water and slime, and possibly some frog eggs. As soon as we got home again, he realized he'd left the baggie on the counter at my friend's place. Figures. Tomorrow we're going back with all the kids to fish for some more.

A while ago, I mentioned my pan cupboard and how disorganized it is. The pans seem to follow a general theme of disarray flowing through the whole house. This is why:

Riley decided to organize everything for me. Nice of her, eh? She is just small enough to examine every corner of the cupboard closely and make the most of the space, which I could never do.

Is there an echo in here?...

You know you've said something a million times when you hear it coming from the mouths of your children. This is usually funny, like yesterday when Riley asked Cadence to leave her alone in the bedroom because she needed "a piece of quiet." Not so funny when I hear myself saying things my mother said, but I catch those phrases and weed them out as often as possible.

Today I accidentally deleted the recycle bin from my computer desktop. Not a completely uncommon thing, and I'm wondering why an operating system that's supposed to be so dummy-proof even allows you to do something like delete your recycle bin. I'm not a computer idiot, but I've screwed up my computer more than a couple of times with an accident. One click and your computer no longer works properly. Nice programming.

Anyway, I deleted the recycle bin and realizing what I'd done and that I wasn't sure how to fix it without looking it up, I said under my breath, "Well that was good, you dumbass." I thought I was quiet enough, but Cadence heard me and began the lecture. "You're not dumb, Mama. We don't say bad things like that about anyone, even ourselves." I don't know how many times I've said that exact thing to my kids. It was funny, but it also made me proud that my little lessons about life aren't falling on deaf ears.

10 Things My Kids Learned From Dad...

.. or "Reasons Not to Leave the Kids With a Redneck Ex-Marine Dad All Afternoon" :

1) Hogtying is an art.

2) Old bike innertubes make great slingshots.

3) Cats do not like duct tape.

4) Grubs are abundant when you dig.

5) Grubs make good bait and keep a long time in the refrigerator.

6) Napalm is easy to make.

7) Anything burns with napalm.

8) An air-powered pellet gun produces enough force to penetrate a metal car door.

9) Three sheets of 1/2 inch insulating foam board will support a child's weight in a pond.

10) Coca Cola makes the best burps.


Gotta love dad :)

Four is a magic number...

There's a Bill Cosby comedy bit, I think from Himself, that describes a very long flight with a little boy named Jeffrey. Jeffrey is four years old and tells everyone on the plane, "I'm four years old." During the wedding rehearsal a few weeks ago, the adorable little ring bearer stood shyly by his mother eyeing Cadence by the snack table. Finally he mustered enough courage to approach her, but instead of introducing himself or even saying hello, he said, "You know what? I'm four."

Four is apparently a very important age. Most four year olds will tell you their age repeatedly, in case you forgot. Riley turned four yesterday and spent the entire day saying, "Now I'm four." Not, "It's my birthday," nothing about presents or cake - other than to ask when we'd have them, and only once all day - nothing about being bigger or asking when others' birthdays would be. Nope. Just, "Now I'm four." It's a big deal.

We never make a huge deal out of birthdays here. No Chuck E Cheese or rented hotel rooms or parties at the water park. The presents don't total more than $50 usually. Thankfully this time, the idea of turning four was way more important than presents anyway. Next month, I'll be 30. You can bet your ass I'll be counting on some presents. ;)

The strangest thing happened...

We took the kids to a Des Moines restaurant called Ohana, a teppanyaki restaurant where they cook your food on a grill right at your table. You share a table with other diners unless you have a really large party - I think each table seats 10. They flip knives around and throw stuff, it's very cool. Until this time, this restaurant has been "our" place, meaning neither Vic or I have taken a date there before we were married. Silly, but sometimes silly things are still special. Finally though, our desire to share such a neat place with the kids overcame our silly possessiveness of the restaurant.

While we were waiting for our table, we sat in the lounge next to a biker-type guy with a bandanna on his head, his trashy looking female counterpart, and two young girls. When my daughters crowded around Vic for hugs and kisses, just because, this trailer park family giggled and whispered and hung all over each other saying, "Oh I LOVE you!" in mockery. I guess they thought there was something weird about parent/child affection? When they called our names, we learned we would be sharing a table with Trailer Park Family, and the mom whispered (loudly) to the biker dude, "Great, we get to share a table with the happy family with their little kids." (Hello, Bitch, I can hear you.) I centered myself and refused to let them ruin our meal, even though my first impulse was to punch her.

Vic and I had just been to this restaurant last weekend while the kids overnighted with Grandma and had been disappointed with our chef. He was kinda boring and his jokes weren't very funny and well, he was kind of a jerk. There was a drunk lady harassing him, so that may have had something to do with it. Either way, you can imagine how I felt when I saw the same chef pushing his little cart our to our table on our kids' first trip to this really neat place. Throughout the introductions and preparation of the appetizer, we learned Trailer Park Family consisted of Mom and daughters, 10 and 12, and stand-in boyfriend biker guy. The chef asked some I-really-don't-care questions about school and classes and stuff and the girls responded in the normal way: school kinda sucks, favorite "classes" are recess and lunch, not very good at any subject, etc. Then he turned to my kids and asked what grade they were in. "We homeschool," I told him. He looked uncomfortable, and I almost cringed when he said, "...Oh."

He said, "Um.. I don't want to be rude or anything, but.. well.. are you homeschooling because you don't believe in evolutionary theory?" I almost laughed. "Oh no," I said, "We're not homeschooling for religious reasons if that's what you're asking." He smiled and said, "So you homeschool because the current school system, based on an outdated institutional structure, fails to produce anything but moderately literate individuals incapable of independent thought..." he went on and on like this. I was dumbstruck. "Yeah, that's the one," I said finally. He asked my kids a thousand questions, and when Chad told him his favorite subject was science, the chef turned his cart sideways to show us a sticker that said "Talk Nerdy To Me," and rattled on about the best science magazines and books. He was delighted that we owned some Azimov and told us to look for some of his non-fiction publications because they were fascinating (which I will definitely do). Trailer Park Family squirmed a lot and chatted amongst themselves, and finally started making rude comments like, "I think I fell asleep for a second there." The Chef ignored them and continued serving food and chatting with us. He even went into significant detail about a teaching theory he'd read about, the name of the book, and the basics of the theory, finishing with, "See, I'm homeschooled too, only I'm homeschooling myself."

When we left our table, Chad and Cadence had to stop at the bathroom and Vic took Riley to get the car. I stood at the bar waiting for my older kids, and our chef was there talking to some of the other employees. He told me to keep up the good work, that what Vic and I are doing for our kids is a great thing, and that he doesn't often see such well-adjusted, intelligent kids as ours. I felt so great when we left that place. I know I'm doing the right thing for my kids. I know they're well-adjusted and intelligent. But since most of the feedback we get from family and people we come into contact with every day is negative or completely uninterested, it's great to get some compliments sometimes. We'll be returning to this restaurant with our children, and we might just ask for this chef again.

The Princess and fifteen minutes of fame...

I'm late posting this because of the crazy week we've been having, and because I'm apparently too dumb to figure out how to get pictures uploaded to blogger. I think I've finally mastered it now, thank goodness, so I can finally share more than boring stories with you nice folks. I digress.

The wedding went completely without a hitch, aside from the nasty weather we had. The crazy photographer insisted on getting a few outside pictures, with the poor bride and her seven bridesmaids suffering sleeveless in 30 degree temperatures. Cadence got to wear a tiara and said, "I look just like a princess!" She was so excited and went about mothering the ring bearer, something she does with everyone smaller than herself, telling him where to stand and holding his hand right along with her basket as they walked down the aisle. We had to be at the church early to get ready for pictures, and there were some incredibly sweet shots of Cadence and the ring bearer exchanging cheek-kisses (which were quickly wiped off, of course) that I can't wait to get copies of from my friend.

Here's Cadence before the wedding:

You can't really see the pretty beading and lace on the dress because this was a disposable camera, and I'm still using my scanner, but you can believe it was gorgeous. Her hair is incredibly fine and is normally straight as a stick, so she wore about half a can of hair spray. Here she is waiting to go upstairs for "the show.":

I didn't scan any pics including the rest of the wedding party, since I have no permission to post pics of anybody but my own little family. I'm so proud of my beautiful little brown-eyed princess, and we had a wonderful time with lots of wonderful memories.

The drive home was treacherous and crazy, with sleet and snow and about 4 inches of slushy slick stuff all over the roads. This was the worst storm in several years, but we made it home ok and all got to bed on time - a blessing since the lack of sleep the night before made my kids all a little crazy (and me along with them!).

The Flower Girl and the Rehearsal...

A few weeks ago, I got a formal invitation to the rehearsal dinner following my friend's wedding rehearsal. I've been a bridesmaid in two weddings, but had never gotten an official invitation before. I was impressed.

The rehearsal took way longer than it should have, and poor Cadence was a nervous wreck wondering where to stand and when to walk and how fast. The ring bearer is four, cute as a bug, and he loved Cadence from the second he saw her. He insisted on holding her hand, even though during the actual wedding, Cadence is supposed to hold a basket.

SEVEN bridesmaids and groomsmen. Seven. There was barely room at the altar.

The whole time I felt completely out of place. I had every right to be right where my daughter was, yet I'm not part of the actual wedding party this time. This is Cadence's glory, but it's not really HER wedding. Is it ok to let her think it was her special day anyway? I've been telling her things like, "It's A's wedding, but you're gonna look like the princess and everyone will talk about how cute you are." I'm trying to psyche her up a bit. When she was asked to do this, she agreed but wasn't excited - I discovered later she just had no idea what a flower girl IS, so she didn't know how neat it was. Or how special to be asked.

The dinner was at a pretty nice restaurant and Cadence ordered a burger that was so huge it had to be smooshed to fit in her mouth. When I asked if she liked it, she said, "It's okay. Not at all like McDonalds." She didn't eat much of the burger because this alien child of mine likes salad and had filled up on her first course.

All the kids were up well past their bedtimes tonight. We're supposed to get a bunch of snow tomorrow, so I hope we can make it to pictures on time. I'm so excited for Cadence and can't wait to get some great pictures of her and the wedding tomorrow.

Kids are great...

Aren't kids just the most wonderful creatures in existence? I mean, sure there's the occasional stress, but overall they're just a hoot.

Thursday, the girls raced each other to the kitchen where I was making lunch to tattle on each other. Because Cadence was able to talk faster and get her side out first, Riley promptly turned and punched her in the mouth. I checked Cadence for injury and reminded them both that their issues could be worked out without my support. I released Cadence and turned to Riley for a chat about hitting. I had no more than gotten the words, "It's fine if you're angry but you may not punch people," out of my mouth when I heard Cadence's angry screams and the sounds of shuffling in Chad's room. Let's all just roll with laughter, shall we?

Yesterday, a still-unknown source started an argument between my oldest two in the livingroom. I popped my head in just in time to see Cadence take a swing at Chad's head. (I wonder where Riley has learned such behavior? hmmm) He deftly dodged the blow, and being mature enough to know hitting doesn't solve problems, wisely chose instead to shove his sister to the floor. This gave Cadence a nice angle to kick from, and while my son is apparently very good at dodging, I got a few good bruises in transferring Cadence to a quiet place where she could calm down. I'm still chuckling over the whole incident.

My son has become an avid joke-teller. Today his joke was, "HONK!" This was of course told loudly and punctuated with the poke of a finger, often on the buttocks of the person being told the joke. The girls laughed hysterically, but unfortunately I lack the proper sense of humor to appreciate such obvious comedic genius. I must be too simple-minded for my brain to grasp the joke, as I acquired a monstrous headache which became worse every time it was told. I'm sure, despite my failings, it was indeed a most excellent joke.

Tonight's bedtime ritual was the same as usual, with Cadence first in Riley's bed until their bickering drove her to her own. Riley swore she wouldn't bother Cadence anymore, but I interrupted to tell her that this nonsense had gone on long enough and they both needed their sleep. Riley angrily interrupted me right back with, "Mama, I'm talking to you, and you don't talk when I'm talking!" Brilliant at three, isn't she? Most parents don't have to deal with serious backtalking until their children are teenagers. But my Riley, she's advanced. One might even say she was a prodigy. Ahh.. I'm just so lucky. ;)

Moral lessons and broken bones...

Friday morning Chad's archery practice ended after only a few minutes when one of his arrows ended up embedded in the neighbors' new vinyl siding. The neighbors weren't home, so I told him we would go over later and he would confess what he'd done and offer to make it up to them somehow. I'm not sure what can be done about a hole (crack?) in vinyl siding. Can you calk it? Do you have to replace the whole piece? These neighbors hired someone to do their siding for them, so I'm pretty sure they don't have extra pieces sitting around. I'm really not sure what the rules are for dealing with something like this.

Anyway, at 5:30 I spotted the nieghbor's car in the drive, so Chad and I were heading out the door to go talk to them when Riley started screaming from the bedroom. Chad and Cadence had just come out of that room, so nobody had seen what happened. Riley just told me she had tripped on the fan cord and fallen, and repeatedly chanted, "Ow, my arm!" I put her on the couch with an ice pack and tried to distract her with a book. I asked her to raise her arm, bend her elbow, and twist her wrist this way and that - none of which she would do. I wasn't sure if it was a serious injury or not. Ever smack your funny bone so hard you feel like you can't even move your arm?

After about twenty minutes it was obvious she wasn't feeling any better and it wasn't just a hard bump to the arm. We took her to the E.R. and found out that it was indeed broken. The xrays were excruciating for her, and I was kinda bummed they no longer let you have a paper picture - it's all on computers now - but the staff were all very nice. She must have landed on her elbow, and the humerus is broken right above the elbow joint. The doctor said this was a pretty common break. They constructed a splint out of casting material and wrapped the whole thing up in an ace bandage. She went home with a cute little arm sling and a huge stack of Pooh stickers.

On Monday I have to call the family doctor for a referral to the Pediatric Orthapedic Specialist. Since we have Medicaid, we have to choose a Preferred Provider, and may not see any doctor without that provider's referral. Kind of silly, and if they had people filing claims instead of computers, they might notice that she was just seen for a broken bone in the E.R. on Friday, so it wouldn't be a mystery why she was at the Orthapedic on Monday.

Still trying to figure out how I'm going to wash Riley's hair. She won't stand next to the tub and lean over the faucet, my bathroom sink is too small, and when I tried to lay her on the kitchen counter with her head in the sink she freaked out.

Words to brighten my day...

Riley, from the back seat of the car: "Mama, do you know the sun is a actual star?"

She's three and 1/2. I'm not sure if she partially understands this, or if she's repeating something one of the older kids said. Either way, it really made me smile.