Silent

Sometimes, my house is so quiet that I can hear the hum of the refrigerator from two rooms away. On those days, I drink my coffee while it's still hot. I have time to come here and think of things to say that don't involve the letters SOS.

One kid is at preschool, painting and planting and telling his stories to the teachers and listening to the stories the other kids tell, so he can regale them with us at lunchtime. The other kid is at his desk, writing a story. I asked him two days ago to write a paragraph using the third-person point of view. He asked me if it could be a chapter book instead. Of course it can. It has turned into a chapter book with footnotes and the part of me that loves to write is exclaiming with joy--he loves to write!

There isn't a cat walking around the house, yelling simply to make his presence known. There isn't a dog licking the couch or pacing the floor with her clicky toenails. The hermit crabs aren't trying to tunnel their way through the glass of their cage.

There's just me and a computer and a humming refrigerator and a cup of still-hot coffee. And too, there is the knowledge that this quiet moment is fleeting because without that, the silence might feel lonely and oppressive rather than peaceful and delicious. (And oh, how delicious it is!)

Here and There

This weekend, we went back to the mountain town where McMoose and I went to college and oh, how the mountains feed the soul. Every time we travel (anywhere, really,) McMoose has to endure a constant stream of, "Let's move here because of the way I picture our life unfolding if we were in this exact place." And it's not because of any real desire to leave where we are, but it's just so tempting to imagine all the different lives we could lead.

We could live in DC or New York City or Boston and spend our days on various commuter trains, experiencing life in a throng of humanity. We could live in the a Leave It To Beaver kind of suburb, where the lawns would always be mowed and the picket fences would never become discolored and children would play in groups on the street. (Actually, we might need to do some time traveling and reality-breaching for that one, mightn't we?) We could live on a farm on a mountain with our chickens and our goats (not cows, never cows) and wake up to the fog rolling off our front porch every morning. I can imagine a multitude of lives for us and I want to live them all.

And then, we come home to the cats and the cozy bed and the nooks filled with toys and books and the house that holds our real-lives and I remember that here, actually, is a rather nice place to be. (Though I could do without the snake and its supply of frozen mice and the caterpillars that may or may not still be alive in their little box of dirt. Whose idea was it, anyway, to bring in caterpillars that burrow instead of ones that spin cocoons?)

Some Things

• Ever since the start of this summer, we've been on the go. We've gone out of town several times, we've made last minute plans on a near-daily basis, we've seen friends constantly. And I've been thinking, "Oh, this is because it's summer," or "Oh, it's just this one week that's going to be crazy." And then, as I was staring at my calendar this week, I realized that no, it's not just the summer and it's not just one week. This is just how I structure things (when I'm not planning around a baby/toddler's nap schedule). And finally, I can do it this way again without too much fear of melting-down kids. Hey, it's good to be back.

• There's a pothole on my drive home from...well, almost anywhere, really. I pass it several times a day and it's big enough that I have to swerve around it or risk scraping the bottom of my car. It's been there for months, so the swerving has become second nature to me. Earlier this week, I saw some trucks out there fixing it and I was giddy with excitement. No more worries about swerving into traffic, no more crazy maneuvers! Since it's been fixed, I've driven past this pot hole four times. Each time, as I approach, I remind myself that, happy day, the pothole is gone! And each time, at the last minute, I end up swerving anyway. Ahh, muscle memory, how strong you are.

•  I was packing up for a weekend trip and after watching me skeptically for a few minutes, Luke said, "Um...I don't think that's the best way to pack. I think I'll pack my own bag. And Weston's too, because I think he'll want his bag to be like mine." I was on my way to being insulted until common sense caught up to me and reminded me that this meant I only had to pack for myself. Yes, please.

•  Yellow Cat has placed himself firmly upon my suitcase, determined that this time, this time, we will finally take him with us.

Infinite Conversations

If you were a fly on my wall, this is the kind of conversation you'd hear early in the morning:

L: Hey, Weston, I have an alpha-null dragon.
W: I have a lightning snake.
L: No, Weston, do you know alpha-null? It's the smallest of the infinite numbers.
Me: Aleph-null.
L: Oh, yeah. Aleph-null, Weston.
W: I know infinity.
L: Infinity is not even real. You can't ever count to there, Weston.
W: I can. One...two...three...four...five...[continues counting]
L: Weston, no. Whatever number you go to, there will always be one more and it won't be infinity. And there are lots of infinities, like aleph-one, aleph-two.
W: ....eight...nine...ten...[continues counting]
L: And it's called "infinite numbers," Weston, so it should be called infinitIES, not infinitY. But no one ever says the -ies part.
W: ...thirteen...fourteen...eighteen...nineteen...
Me: I see we need to practice counting again today.

Curiouser and Curiouser

Recently, I've found myself issuing a lot of instructions that seem like they should be utterly unnecessary.  "Don't bite yourself." "Lego's are for building with, not for putting holes in the wall." "Stop sitting on your brother." "No, you may not put the cat in a pillowcase."

I expected to be saying this kind of thing when the children were two and three, but now that they're older and more sophisticated, I was surprised to find that this kind of thing was still a part of our repertoire. And because I half expect that children know all the answers to the mysteries of the world, I decided to take the matter right to them. Instead of telling them not to do things, I sat there and watched them do bizarre things and then asked them why. Their answers are recorded below.

Me: Why did you lick the dog's ear?
L: I wanted to know what it tasted like.

Me: Why are you putting your toes in your own ears?
W: Since I wanted to tickle my own ears.
Me: So why not use your fingers?
W: Since I tried that and it didn't feel tickly.

Me: Why are you opening and closing the closet door?
L: We're trying to make a tornado inside and we need some wind.
Me: Have you considered turning on the fan?
W: That makes me too cold.

Me: Why are you trying to destroy things?
L: There's nothing else to do.

Me: Did you check on the person you ran into?
L: I forgot the words to say to do it.
Me: Do you remember them now?
L: I think I was supposed to say, "I'm sorry, are you ok?" But it's hard to think of the words right when you bump into someone!

Me: What is the liquid on the bathroom floor?
W: A liquid is something that can flow around.
Me: Thank you for defining the word, "liquid." I wasn't asking, "What is a liquid?" I was asking what liquid is currently on our bathroom floor.
W: Water.
Me: It's green.
W: It's green water.
Me: Why?
W: Because I put my marker in the water and it turned green.
Me: Why?
W: I think the marker juice came out.
Me: Why did you put the marker in water?
W: I wanted to see if marker juice would come out.

I've learned a lot from my little experiment: (1) They are curious about every blessed thing; (2) They completely lack common sense; and (3) Given the combination of 1 and 2, it's a wonder any human ever survives to adulthood.

Abacus

So the abacus. Have you ever used one? I hadn't really, but our math curriculum is wonderful and hands-on and one of the many manipulatives that are used is the abacus. And I like it, really. Or...I like the idea of it. I'm sure it helps children learn the math concepts behind the computations that they do and Luke has taken to it with great ease. In fact, every child who passes through our school room has spent some time being fascinated with the abacus. So I like it, in theory.

The reality of the abacus, however, is far less rosy. See, I thought I knew how to use the thing. After all, I had taught the child, hadn't I? Turns out that you can know how to use a thing without actually being able to use it.

Luke: Mama, I'll do the problems on the board and you do them on the abacus and then, we can see if we got the same answers.
Me: Good idea!
L: And we can race!
Me: Sure, why not.
**Several minutes later**
L: Did you get 8,301?
Me: Uhh...no...I got 8,401. Let's check the answer book.
L: Look! It's 8,301! I was right!
Me: Huh.
L: I suspect that what you did wrong was that when you traded a hundred for the tens, you forgot to put the hundred back.
Me: Oh. Right.
L: Maybe you should do a two-handed trade. You told me that would help, remember?
Me: Yeeeessss, I remember. I'll do that next time.
**Several minutes later**
L: Did you get 1039?
Me: No.

After repeating this conversation approximately fifteen times, I have decided that although I am a relatively intelligent individual who can, in fact, subtract large numbers, I simply cannot work the abacus. All the tips and tricks that I told Luke to help him remember fly out of my brain when I try to use the fool thing. It's a humbling moment when your kid looks at you and says, "I can do this and I'm only six. How come you can't, Mama?" (It's also an infuriating moment. A moment that requires you to take deep breaths and work hard to keep the huffiness out of your voice as you explain that people learn things at different times.)

Update

After a long absense--and a couple of pokes from a grandparent--here I am again.

We started our school year at the end of July, so we're about six weeks in now. The five months of homeschooling that we did last year--err, earlier this year--was just enough to show me what I did and did not like for our first full school year. As a result, this year already feels more settled and comfortable.

Weston is going to preschool three mornings a week, which gives me just enough time to do some of the more involved work with Luke without a pint-sized distraction enticing him to "come play with me!" Weston, for his part, is rather grumpy about the whole thing, making it clear that he would prefer to be home, distracting his brother.

At the start of the year, I spent a solid week freaking out about the social interaction aspect of homeschooling. See, we had plenty of interaction last year, but it was...erratic. We saw different kids and did things with different groups and although it was all fun, the kids didn't come out of it feeling like they had a group of consistent friends. So this year, one of my goals is to see if we can maintain a more consistent schedule of events, in the hopes that we will see the same people at these events. So far, it seems to be working and six weeks in, the kids are already feeling like they have friends from each of their co-ops and activities. Hooray!

Last week, as I was eyeing the calendar skeptically, thinking, "There is no way we will be able to accomplish all of those things next week," it suddenly occurred to me that one of the benefits of homeschooling is that I get to schedule our breaks. (Why didn't I think of this last year? I don't know.) So I decided that Early September Break is a thing that should happen. It will consist of the first days of our two co-ops for the year, a field trip to the art museum, a field trip to an apiary, and preparing to participate in our first art and literature fair--think science fair, but with an art/lit focus instead. And earlier today, we went to the library and filled up a very large bag of books. I'm not entirely sure any of this counts as a break, but at least I won't be staring sullenly at an abacus every afternoon. (I'll tell ya that story in another post. Soon. I hope.)