I can't say that Christmas is ever bad, spending time with family, friends, rejoicing in our Savior, it all makes for a good day but sometimes Christmas is exhausting.
I think part of that is self inflicted. How much can we cram into those four weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas day. How many parties, family events, cookies to bake, shopping to do, caroling to sing, school concerts to attend can one family survive? I'm exhausted just listing it all out.
We had more help this year then previous. I was amazed at how smoothly dinner plans for today went and how easy and relaxed Christmas eve was with my eager beaver teen and tween elves bringing in all the presents from the garage and putting them under the tree. They worked their fannies off cleaning too, so the house could be pleasant and enjoyable Christmas morning.
They were invaluable. Thank you Jane and Kate for making Christmas eve and Christmas day absolutely enjoyable. I am so proud of the women you are becoming.
My plan on simplifying our gift giving didn't work quite like I wanted. We still ended up with more then the kids needed but they really had two bigger gifts and then a bunch of smaller things that were mostly collected over the past year. Books, coloring pads, crayons, pipe cleaners for Kate, that sort of stuff. Then there was a few desperately needed items that were bought dirt cheap and wrapped for Christmas just because unwrapping is fun!
Each of the boys received a set of Angry bird sheets, we were sorely lacking in twin size sheets. They also were gifted the thickest, extra large, fuzzy blankets I've ever seen. Also Angry bird themed.
I'm thinking I should have picked up one for myself!
The girls each received a much needed pillow. Costco had twin size, memory foam cluster pillows. I have loved my memory foam pillows and at $10.00 for two, it was killer price.
Each child had their favorites. Kent scored a Sega gaming system that Ean loves. I think the chance to go and decompress in his room could really help our behavior issues. Then of course the most excitement was the last two gifts opened. We saved the twins cranes for last.
Squeals and shrieks! It was awesome!
What I really enjoyed was my children going to so much effort for each other. The girls especially put in an unbelievable amount of effort into every gift they gave. It was beautiful. Watching them smile as their gifts were opened.
I think for me, that was what pushed a good day into a great day.
Merry Christmas.
Tuesday, December 25, 2012
Monday, December 17, 2012
The Never Ending Romance
Yesterday my husband and I celebrated our eighteenth wedding anniversary. Actually, using the word "celebrated" is a bit generous. Our day consisted of Kent taking the girls to church, while I stayed home with the hacking brothers, after a whole week of one to three boys home from school, they really needed another day off.
Then there was several viewings of "Voyager" by Kent and the girls (daddy, daughter geek bonding). Boys on and off the computer and I cooked a whole lot of bacon for BLT's, around dinnertime.
I also made the the boys help me clean the front room. I told them that I was sick too, and if I could do it, they could do it as well.
So it wasn't a really romantic day for us. That's kind of how our luck has been going lately. About two months ago, my wonderful husband announced the first Monday of the month we were going to a local Bed and breakfast. This place has the most lovely themed rooms and I've wanted to go for years.
In 2000, Kent offered to take me, but I was nine months pregnant and declined. With lots of eye rolling.
Non stop sickness necessitated moving our night to the following Monday. Even more sickness led to canceling the following week. We will try again in January, after the non-stop blur of Christmas and birthdays. It's a teensy bit sad but really, the fact that my husband tried means so much to me. Points for effort!
Then there's the romance of gift giving. After my extreme and unreasonable reaction to a simple request to buy a specific tool sold at a store I despise, hubby bought it himself and gave it to me to wrap. I'm just grateful I don't have shop at the beloved tool store.
What does that say about me?
All this is secondary. Oh sure, it's nice to go places, it's nice to surprise your spouse but is that really romance?
I don't think it is. It's fun. It's exciting. But when I think of romance I think of the moments we have together. Grabbing a few minutes to just talk. My husband lightly stroking his hand across my shoulder as we discuss, anything and everything.
Marriage isn't easy. There is no "Happily Ever After". What's there, is a chance to grow together. To hopefully become better people together. Lets face it, no one is perfect and my hubs puts up with a lot from me. I'm quick to be annoyed, often sarcastic and dang, can I be moody. Yet we're still giving our overnight another shot in January.
Whether we make it our overnight together or not, I'll still turn off the computer when he enters the room, so we can talk.
When you enjoy talking to each other, when you savor your time together, then, THEN, the romance happens.
Happy Anniversary (and one day) to us!
Then there was several viewings of "Voyager" by Kent and the girls (daddy, daughter geek bonding). Boys on and off the computer and I cooked a whole lot of bacon for BLT's, around dinnertime.
I also made the the boys help me clean the front room. I told them that I was sick too, and if I could do it, they could do it as well.
So it wasn't a really romantic day for us. That's kind of how our luck has been going lately. About two months ago, my wonderful husband announced the first Monday of the month we were going to a local Bed and breakfast. This place has the most lovely themed rooms and I've wanted to go for years.
In 2000, Kent offered to take me, but I was nine months pregnant and declined. With lots of eye rolling.
Non stop sickness necessitated moving our night to the following Monday. Even more sickness led to canceling the following week. We will try again in January, after the non-stop blur of Christmas and birthdays. It's a teensy bit sad but really, the fact that my husband tried means so much to me. Points for effort!
Then there's the romance of gift giving. After my extreme and unreasonable reaction to a simple request to buy a specific tool sold at a store I despise, hubby bought it himself and gave it to me to wrap. I'm just grateful I don't have shop at the beloved tool store.
What does that say about me?
All this is secondary. Oh sure, it's nice to go places, it's nice to surprise your spouse but is that really romance?
I don't think it is. It's fun. It's exciting. But when I think of romance I think of the moments we have together. Grabbing a few minutes to just talk. My husband lightly stroking his hand across my shoulder as we discuss, anything and everything.
Marriage isn't easy. There is no "Happily Ever After". What's there, is a chance to grow together. To hopefully become better people together. Lets face it, no one is perfect and my hubs puts up with a lot from me. I'm quick to be annoyed, often sarcastic and dang, can I be moody. Yet we're still giving our overnight another shot in January.
Whether we make it our overnight together or not, I'll still turn off the computer when he enters the room, so we can talk.
When you enjoy talking to each other, when you savor your time together, then, THEN, the romance happens.
Happy Anniversary (and one day) to us!
Thursday, December 6, 2012
We're Playing a Guessing Game
Now I have five children. For simplicity sake, lets number them with a brief description so we're all clear on who's who.
1. The child that would lose her head if it wasn't attached.
2. The child that rightfully earned the title "The Queen of Protest" at eighteen months and still wears her crown proudly.
3. The middle child, with ADHD and impulse issues, has problems interacting with others and is getting processional help.
4. Velcro boy. Intensely honest but will quickly change his story to protect his twin, often blaming the middle child even after his twin has confessed.
5. Vecro boy's twin. He gives hugs and kisses as frequently as he gets in trouble.
So the guessing game... I get a phone call and one of my children was written up at school. So which child was it?
Lets see, the first guess would be number three, the middle child. *buzzer sound*
So sorry, that guess would be wrong. See, middle boy was already home with his sticky note containing two smiley faces! A regular occurrence now, things are going much better at school for the middle child. He's taking control of his behavior, working on not bugging people. He still has bad days but at least it's not a whole week of bad days like it was at the beginning of the year.
Numbers one and two, why they never have behavior problems at school. Various meetings for this or that and when behavior is mentioned, everyone laughs because the idea of either of the girls with behavior problems is ludicrous.
That leaves the twins. Immediately you consider the stinker, number five. Nope, not that kid either.
That leaves number four, Mr. Pure Heart, Velcro boy himself, as the child that was written up today.
It was situation that was inevitable. A new student is in the room and this student isn't fluent in English, a second language for him. Oddly, Velcro boy isn't very good with English either, but his is from a continual language delay that seems to effect his comprehension. Throw in a relentless desire to not only follow the rules, but to have everyone else follow the rules, something was bound to happen.
There's been a few build up incidents. The child that doesn't speak English is not doing *vague waving of hands* something, in class, quite the way he should, velcro boy is compelled to correct him. New kid doesn't speak English very well, Velcro boy doesn't convey his thoughts very well, Vecro boy resorts to physically trying to correct new kid and new kid doesn't appreciate being touched.
Today was the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back and the new kid reacted to Velcro boy by hitting him. Of course new kid had parents called, but Velcro boy also didn't listen to his teacher who repeatedly has told him to not touch other kids. So Velcro boy gets written up as well. Pretty much the consequence was the teacher calling me.
His teacher did say that she thought Velcro boy has finally learned his lesson and finally understands what can happen when you touch people that don't want to be touched.
Lets hope so.
I will admit to giggling when I hung up the phone, grateful my child was guilty of caring and poor judgement rather then something worse, although of course, we talked about this at home too.
1. The child that would lose her head if it wasn't attached.
2. The child that rightfully earned the title "The Queen of Protest" at eighteen months and still wears her crown proudly.
3. The middle child, with ADHD and impulse issues, has problems interacting with others and is getting processional help.
4. Velcro boy. Intensely honest but will quickly change his story to protect his twin, often blaming the middle child even after his twin has confessed.
5. Vecro boy's twin. He gives hugs and kisses as frequently as he gets in trouble.
So the guessing game... I get a phone call and one of my children was written up at school. So which child was it?
Lets see, the first guess would be number three, the middle child. *buzzer sound*
So sorry, that guess would be wrong. See, middle boy was already home with his sticky note containing two smiley faces! A regular occurrence now, things are going much better at school for the middle child. He's taking control of his behavior, working on not bugging people. He still has bad days but at least it's not a whole week of bad days like it was at the beginning of the year.
Numbers one and two, why they never have behavior problems at school. Various meetings for this or that and when behavior is mentioned, everyone laughs because the idea of either of the girls with behavior problems is ludicrous.
That leaves the twins. Immediately you consider the stinker, number five. Nope, not that kid either.
That leaves number four, Mr. Pure Heart, Velcro boy himself, as the child that was written up today.
It was situation that was inevitable. A new student is in the room and this student isn't fluent in English, a second language for him. Oddly, Velcro boy isn't very good with English either, but his is from a continual language delay that seems to effect his comprehension. Throw in a relentless desire to not only follow the rules, but to have everyone else follow the rules, something was bound to happen.
There's been a few build up incidents. The child that doesn't speak English is not doing *vague waving of hands* something, in class, quite the way he should, velcro boy is compelled to correct him. New kid doesn't speak English very well, Velcro boy doesn't convey his thoughts very well, Vecro boy resorts to physically trying to correct new kid and new kid doesn't appreciate being touched.
Today was the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back and the new kid reacted to Velcro boy by hitting him. Of course new kid had parents called, but Velcro boy also didn't listen to his teacher who repeatedly has told him to not touch other kids. So Velcro boy gets written up as well. Pretty much the consequence was the teacher calling me.
His teacher did say that she thought Velcro boy has finally learned his lesson and finally understands what can happen when you touch people that don't want to be touched.
Lets hope so.
I will admit to giggling when I hung up the phone, grateful my child was guilty of caring and poor judgement rather then something worse, although of course, we talked about this at home too.
Wednesday, November 14, 2012
Thanksgiving Thoughts
It's a week and then Thanksgiving.
The big meal.
The beginning of the end.
Oh sorry, the end of November leads four short weeks into the end of December and while I can't say I "hate" the end of December, I can say it's exhausting and I'm not happy, jump up and down excited about the Christmas season. There's just a lot going on but I digress.
Thanksgiving!
For a lot of people, it's the food that matters (pigging out!) and while I take great joy in creating appetizing dishes along with making traditional food that we only have a few times a year, the food is really just a vehicle for much more.
I grew up with Holiday meals being extremely important. You see, the entire experience was filled with family bonding. There was the baking of bread the day before. We helped my mom in the kitchen, cutting, stirring, kneading, braiding and shaping. We had carrot cake, sweet bread and a loaf of regular bread as well.
While we worked there was talking and laughing. My dad would walk in and joke and laugh while we worked but wisely chose to let my mom be in charge. Not because he had some antiquated idea that woman should be in the kitchen, but because he knew my mother was in a different culinary league, not that he'd ever admit that out loud.
One of the funniest moments ever, was the first year that my mom had to work the night before Thanksgiving. My dad entrusted me with quite a bit, bread, stuffing, gravy, potatoes but he did not trust me with the turkey. No matter what I said, he wouldn't allow me to prep the bird. My mom had a couple of a little racks that she placed under the bird, so the drippings would fall into the pan and the bird wasn't sitting directly in the pan. I informed my dad how mom did it and he proceeded to do it his own way (thank you very much).
So into the pan without the racks went the turkey. Dad approved the stuffing and proceeded to stuff the bird, put 'er in the oven and left me to do the rest of dinner. The house filled with mouth watering aromas. The table was set, with style. Holidays were a time for the best, cloth napkins, water goblets for everyone. A lovely lace tablecloth under it all, making our modest dining room feel like a fancy restaurant. Classical music in the background and my dad's wine bottle set out, properly chilled and ready for dinner, it all set the mood.
It was time to carve the turkey.
Except, when dad took the two serving forks and lifted the bird out of the roasting pan, the roasting pan went up with the bird. Dad, preferring to not panic, tried to pry the bird out of the pan.
That didn't work either and dad seemed to not notice the bemused look on my mother's face. After several minutes, dad took matters into his own hands. While sending one of the boys into the basement for a mallet, dad flipped the broiling pan, bird and all, upside down. I think we all held our breath as the bird was flipped, waiting to see if gravity would do what Dad could not.
Nope, bird flipped, still adhered to the pan. So the mallet was brought into play and
BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM
a mere half a dozen whaps later, off came the broiling pan and the bird, laid out on the serving platter, stuffing completely visible in the center as meat and bones, having completely fallen apart, laid there, like some morbid holiday form of art.
There was no carving of the turkey that year. It was already in bite size pieces.
While that kind of belly laughing didn't happen every year, there was still the visiting during the meal. We would sometimes sit there for a couple of hours, just talking to each other. There was no rushing to leave the table, hurrying to answer the phone, we were a family and dang it, we were going to talk to each other. The funny thing, it was something we enjoyed. I remember watching my dad swirl his wine in his glass, classical music in the background as we discussed everything and anything.
There was also a sense of unity as we cleaned up. Now don't get me wrong, as kids, we all grumbled, but as we set into the work, there was a sense of accomplishment as the disaster we created was divided and conquered. Piles of dishes disappeared, all hand washed. Dad's wine glass and the goblets from dinner were carefully washed, dried and put away. The pots and pans scrubbed, all was put away again. Food was saved to snack on for days afterwards and it was all done together.
For me, that is what is magical about Holiday dinners. Thanksgiving, Christmas day, Easter Sunday, all are an opportunity to connect to each other. Having my mom here really helps as well, Christmas day and Easter Sunday are always at her house. Pieces of my childhood are brought forth as cloth napkins are set at the table and talking plays a major roll during our meal. It's not the marathon talk sessions of my youth but for my husband who use to eat and run, it's a step in the right direction towards the family unity I remember as a child.
I hope my children appreciate the chance to be together as much as I do.
The big meal.
The beginning of the end.
Oh sorry, the end of November leads four short weeks into the end of December and while I can't say I "hate" the end of December, I can say it's exhausting and I'm not happy, jump up and down excited about the Christmas season. There's just a lot going on but I digress.
Thanksgiving!
For a lot of people, it's the food that matters (pigging out!) and while I take great joy in creating appetizing dishes along with making traditional food that we only have a few times a year, the food is really just a vehicle for much more.
I grew up with Holiday meals being extremely important. You see, the entire experience was filled with family bonding. There was the baking of bread the day before. We helped my mom in the kitchen, cutting, stirring, kneading, braiding and shaping. We had carrot cake, sweet bread and a loaf of regular bread as well.
While we worked there was talking and laughing. My dad would walk in and joke and laugh while we worked but wisely chose to let my mom be in charge. Not because he had some antiquated idea that woman should be in the kitchen, but because he knew my mother was in a different culinary league, not that he'd ever admit that out loud.
One of the funniest moments ever, was the first year that my mom had to work the night before Thanksgiving. My dad entrusted me with quite a bit, bread, stuffing, gravy, potatoes but he did not trust me with the turkey. No matter what I said, he wouldn't allow me to prep the bird. My mom had a couple of a little racks that she placed under the bird, so the drippings would fall into the pan and the bird wasn't sitting directly in the pan. I informed my dad how mom did it and he proceeded to do it his own way (thank you very much).
So into the pan without the racks went the turkey. Dad approved the stuffing and proceeded to stuff the bird, put 'er in the oven and left me to do the rest of dinner. The house filled with mouth watering aromas. The table was set, with style. Holidays were a time for the best, cloth napkins, water goblets for everyone. A lovely lace tablecloth under it all, making our modest dining room feel like a fancy restaurant. Classical music in the background and my dad's wine bottle set out, properly chilled and ready for dinner, it all set the mood.
It was time to carve the turkey.
Except, when dad took the two serving forks and lifted the bird out of the roasting pan, the roasting pan went up with the bird. Dad, preferring to not panic, tried to pry the bird out of the pan.
That didn't work either and dad seemed to not notice the bemused look on my mother's face. After several minutes, dad took matters into his own hands. While sending one of the boys into the basement for a mallet, dad flipped the broiling pan, bird and all, upside down. I think we all held our breath as the bird was flipped, waiting to see if gravity would do what Dad could not.
Nope, bird flipped, still adhered to the pan. So the mallet was brought into play and
BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM
a mere half a dozen whaps later, off came the broiling pan and the bird, laid out on the serving platter, stuffing completely visible in the center as meat and bones, having completely fallen apart, laid there, like some morbid holiday form of art.
There was no carving of the turkey that year. It was already in bite size pieces.
While that kind of belly laughing didn't happen every year, there was still the visiting during the meal. We would sometimes sit there for a couple of hours, just talking to each other. There was no rushing to leave the table, hurrying to answer the phone, we were a family and dang it, we were going to talk to each other. The funny thing, it was something we enjoyed. I remember watching my dad swirl his wine in his glass, classical music in the background as we discussed everything and anything.
There was also a sense of unity as we cleaned up. Now don't get me wrong, as kids, we all grumbled, but as we set into the work, there was a sense of accomplishment as the disaster we created was divided and conquered. Piles of dishes disappeared, all hand washed. Dad's wine glass and the goblets from dinner were carefully washed, dried and put away. The pots and pans scrubbed, all was put away again. Food was saved to snack on for days afterwards and it was all done together.
For me, that is what is magical about Holiday dinners. Thanksgiving, Christmas day, Easter Sunday, all are an opportunity to connect to each other. Having my mom here really helps as well, Christmas day and Easter Sunday are always at her house. Pieces of my childhood are brought forth as cloth napkins are set at the table and talking plays a major roll during our meal. It's not the marathon talk sessions of my youth but for my husband who use to eat and run, it's a step in the right direction towards the family unity I remember as a child.
I hope my children appreciate the chance to be together as much as I do.
Tuesday, November 13, 2012
Angels Among Us
An alternate title would be, kind people still exist or the stranger that helped me out but those don't have the same pizazz as the title "Angels Among Us". So I'll go with my first thought.
Now the first question might be, what kind of bind was I in and how did I get into that bind? Simple, I let Ean unlock the suburban and he clicked the latch to unlock all the doors, accidentally locked the open door, tossed my keys onto my seat and slammed the door shut so he could go in the back door. He's opened the door tons of times and usually climbs in, plays with the knobs, adjust my mirrors so I can see sky instead of the lanes behind me and then climbs in back.
No, this time he decided to be responsible, grown up even and was going to use the rear door to get into the back. Seriously, I can't fault him for that.
The girls were at home alone, not a big worry, they're old enough. The worst that could happen was Kate forgetting to clean out the cat's litter box.
The twins were a different story, see they are now in the after school program Monday through Thursday from the end of school until 5:00pm. There's a fifteen minute window for pick-ups, so I had until 5:15pm or bad things would happen.
I don't remember exactly what those bad things are, even though I did sign a form saying I understood all those bad things. In general, I figure it's best to just avoid finding out, so since Ean's counseling appointment ends at 5:00pm, I was in a bit of a hurry.
So, in slow motion, I see Ean, click the lock on the car door. I look through the window and see Ean toss my keys into the front seat and then notice his door is actually locked.
Uh Oh.
SLAM GOES THE DOOR.
Now, while I was in the waiting room, I had a lovely conversation with a woman, I'd never actually met but I knew her daughter. Her daughter is autistic and they attend the same Ward as my mother. Recognizing the little girl, I introduced myself, let her know Scott is my brother and we had a wonderful conversation connecting on all kinds of levels.
When I came back in, she let me use her phone. You know, because I still don't have a cell phone, but that's another topic. And then she looked at me, as I confirmed with my husband that the twins needed to be picked up right now, not in 20 minutes (you know, after 5:15 when BAD things happen) and this acquaintance with great friend potential offered to give me a lift.
She drove us to the school and then drove us home, bless her heart she was more then willing to drive me back to our car, but I knew I could get it later with Kent.
I really need to bake her something and have my mom deliver it to her, for me.
Of course the girls were fine, completely oblivious to my troubles and yeah, someone forgot to clean her litter box.
Poor kitty cat.
Now the first question might be, what kind of bind was I in and how did I get into that bind? Simple, I let Ean unlock the suburban and he clicked the latch to unlock all the doors, accidentally locked the open door, tossed my keys onto my seat and slammed the door shut so he could go in the back door. He's opened the door tons of times and usually climbs in, plays with the knobs, adjust my mirrors so I can see sky instead of the lanes behind me and then climbs in back.
No, this time he decided to be responsible, grown up even and was going to use the rear door to get into the back. Seriously, I can't fault him for that.
The girls were at home alone, not a big worry, they're old enough. The worst that could happen was Kate forgetting to clean out the cat's litter box.
The twins were a different story, see they are now in the after school program Monday through Thursday from the end of school until 5:00pm. There's a fifteen minute window for pick-ups, so I had until 5:15pm or bad things would happen.
I don't remember exactly what those bad things are, even though I did sign a form saying I understood all those bad things. In general, I figure it's best to just avoid finding out, so since Ean's counseling appointment ends at 5:00pm, I was in a bit of a hurry.
So, in slow motion, I see Ean, click the lock on the car door. I look through the window and see Ean toss my keys into the front seat and then notice his door is actually locked.
Uh Oh.
SLAM GOES THE DOOR.
Now, while I was in the waiting room, I had a lovely conversation with a woman, I'd never actually met but I knew her daughter. Her daughter is autistic and they attend the same Ward as my mother. Recognizing the little girl, I introduced myself, let her know Scott is my brother and we had a wonderful conversation connecting on all kinds of levels.
When I came back in, she let me use her phone. You know, because I still don't have a cell phone, but that's another topic. And then she looked at me, as I confirmed with my husband that the twins needed to be picked up right now, not in 20 minutes (you know, after 5:15 when BAD things happen) and this acquaintance with great friend potential offered to give me a lift.
She drove us to the school and then drove us home, bless her heart she was more then willing to drive me back to our car, but I knew I could get it later with Kent.
I really need to bake her something and have my mom deliver it to her, for me.
Of course the girls were fine, completely oblivious to my troubles and yeah, someone forgot to clean her litter box.
Poor kitty cat.
Sunday, November 11, 2012
Oh My, How SWEET!
Or not.
So at church, David was drawing a picture. He went into great detail, drawing people, drawing a temple, and writing lots of words on it. Stuff like
I love followed by a list of names. Some of which he couldn't remember and we couldn't read by the time we came home.
I love the temple.
I love church.
Tons of love on that paper. Of course it was a long meeting. So he had lots of time with one sheet of paper and he put a lot of thought into it. So when the meeting was over, he ran down the length of the pew, excitedly telling us about his picture.
"Look, look, the bad guys came"
Oh, that's who the new guys in masks next to the temple are.
"And they had DYNAMITE"
Uh oh.....
"AND IT BLEW EVERYTHING UP!!!!!"
Did I mention it was a long meeting?
It was seriously better then the survey he was taking during the meeting to find out who liked his picture. Which was fine on our pew, but when he started yelling two pews back to the Sisters he knows from Primary, I had to put a stop to it. I will say this.
He takes pride in his work, even when he changes his entire theme, in less then an hour.
So at church, David was drawing a picture. He went into great detail, drawing people, drawing a temple, and writing lots of words on it. Stuff like
I love followed by a list of names. Some of which he couldn't remember and we couldn't read by the time we came home.
I love the temple.
I love church.
Tons of love on that paper. Of course it was a long meeting. So he had lots of time with one sheet of paper and he put a lot of thought into it. So when the meeting was over, he ran down the length of the pew, excitedly telling us about his picture.
"Look, look, the bad guys came"
Oh, that's who the new guys in masks next to the temple are.
"And they had DYNAMITE"
Uh oh.....
"AND IT BLEW EVERYTHING UP!!!!!"
Did I mention it was a long meeting?
It was seriously better then the survey he was taking during the meeting to find out who liked his picture. Which was fine on our pew, but when he started yelling two pews back to the Sisters he knows from Primary, I had to put a stop to it. I will say this.
He takes pride in his work, even when he changes his entire theme, in less then an hour.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
Interesting Discussion with my Teenager
In Utah and in Idaho, kids can take a period out of their high school day for an off campus religious course called release time seminary. My oldest has loved it so far and the kids take a very active part of the course including doing what is called a "devotional" which is a spiritual message to share with the class.
The teenager was telling me about a recent devotional which stresses the importance of being an individual and not letting other people change who you are. Then she looked at me and asked "Why are you and dad always trying to change me?"
Whoa.
Well that opened a door for some serious dialog.
Here's a beautiful, smart teenager that doesn't understand social skills. It was a light bulb moment for me in understanding her confusion on what we, as her parents see as valuable help. So I let her know that we weren't trying to change who she really is, but sometimes in some situations, you need to act a certain way and that's what we're trying to help her with.
We talked a bit and I strongly suspect that we'll be having this conversation again because it is hard to understand. I mean, when you truly don't have that innate sense of social cues, when you laugh to hard in the wrong places, when it's been a struggle to even understand how to take turns in a conversation and how to stay on topic, how do you understand something so abstract?
She has come so far and I don't think she even realizes how far she's come. I think that might be part of the problem in understanding this. Not knowing how socially awkward she's been, she doesn't have anything to compare herself too.
I do need to make sure we keep a balance. I need to let her know when she's done something especially well just as much as I need to correct behavior that is socially unacceptable.
Social skills are so hard to define too. Oh sure you can explain what people do and don't do but you can't explain why things are a certain way. I wonder if that is part of our misunderstanding today. Of course this still doesn't help me in explaining this all to my daughter.
So in true fashion, I cut to the chase. I reminded her that I like to hang around in my underwear, but I certainly don't go to the library like that.
I think it did the trick.
The teenager was telling me about a recent devotional which stresses the importance of being an individual and not letting other people change who you are. Then she looked at me and asked "Why are you and dad always trying to change me?"
Whoa.
Well that opened a door for some serious dialog.
Here's a beautiful, smart teenager that doesn't understand social skills. It was a light bulb moment for me in understanding her confusion on what we, as her parents see as valuable help. So I let her know that we weren't trying to change who she really is, but sometimes in some situations, you need to act a certain way and that's what we're trying to help her with.
We talked a bit and I strongly suspect that we'll be having this conversation again because it is hard to understand. I mean, when you truly don't have that innate sense of social cues, when you laugh to hard in the wrong places, when it's been a struggle to even understand how to take turns in a conversation and how to stay on topic, how do you understand something so abstract?
She has come so far and I don't think she even realizes how far she's come. I think that might be part of the problem in understanding this. Not knowing how socially awkward she's been, she doesn't have anything to compare herself too.
I do need to make sure we keep a balance. I need to let her know when she's done something especially well just as much as I need to correct behavior that is socially unacceptable.
Social skills are so hard to define too. Oh sure you can explain what people do and don't do but you can't explain why things are a certain way. I wonder if that is part of our misunderstanding today. Of course this still doesn't help me in explaining this all to my daughter.
So in true fashion, I cut to the chase. I reminded her that I like to hang around in my underwear, but I certainly don't go to the library like that.
I think it did the trick.
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
Family Home Evening
I admit, I'm not the originator of the idea I used last night but it worked out pretty well. Jane first told me about it from a story in her New Era (LDS magazine aimed towards teens).
First we sat everyone down, had a song, picked by Greg.
We pretty much sing "I am a Child of God" at the beginning of every family home evening and last night was no different. Then we had a prayer.
And then starting with Jane I asked if we were making Brownies, what would be put in them? Well ingredients started flying...
Chocolate
Eggs
Flour
Gummy worms...
?
Yes, Greg had to suggest gummy worms, the secret ingredient to every brownie recipe. Of course David had to then suggest gummy bears, the second best ingredient to a great brownie recipe.
Now I briefly asked Kent before hand to think out of the box, he had no idea what I was going to do. But he caught on and suggested hot peppers. The twins were both repelled and intrigued by the thought of hot peppers in brownies.
We then had a lively discussion on what it takes to make a successful pan of brownies, the key component being a
*list of things that have nothing to do baking* until we reached recipes.
Then we had a comparison to real life and suggestions on what exists here on earth that is a recipe for life. This was a little like pulling teeth but we finally were able to pull out "scriptures, Latter day Prophet, church leaders, prayer" and we talked about how God has given us these things so we can know how to be happier, so our lives can be better.
Now the original story had the mom making the recipe as her family was telling her what to put in, but I'd hate to waste perfectly good food in the kitchen just to make a point. When I had to struggle so much last month to stretch my grocery money, I wasn't wasting anything but I do think the kids understood what I was saying and they had fun.
Of course the lesson was completed with perfect brownies for snack. You know, showing what happens when you follow the recipe.
First we sat everyone down, had a song, picked by Greg.
We pretty much sing "I am a Child of God" at the beginning of every family home evening and last night was no different. Then we had a prayer.
And then starting with Jane I asked if we were making Brownies, what would be put in them? Well ingredients started flying...
Chocolate
Eggs
Flour
Gummy worms...
?
Yes, Greg had to suggest gummy worms, the secret ingredient to every brownie recipe. Of course David had to then suggest gummy bears, the second best ingredient to a great brownie recipe.
Now I briefly asked Kent before hand to think out of the box, he had no idea what I was going to do. But he caught on and suggested hot peppers. The twins were both repelled and intrigued by the thought of hot peppers in brownies.
We then had a lively discussion on what it takes to make a successful pan of brownies, the key component being a
*list of things that have nothing to do baking* until we reached recipes.
Then we had a comparison to real life and suggestions on what exists here on earth that is a recipe for life. This was a little like pulling teeth but we finally were able to pull out "scriptures, Latter day Prophet, church leaders, prayer" and we talked about how God has given us these things so we can know how to be happier, so our lives can be better.
Now the original story had the mom making the recipe as her family was telling her what to put in, but I'd hate to waste perfectly good food in the kitchen just to make a point. When I had to struggle so much last month to stretch my grocery money, I wasn't wasting anything but I do think the kids understood what I was saying and they had fun.
Of course the lesson was completed with perfect brownies for snack. You know, showing what happens when you follow the recipe.
Monday, October 29, 2012
Making Costco Work for You
It's easy to spend a whole lot of money at Costco. Costco is set up, so you will spend money. It is a business and business's exist to fill a need. Your need. Don't ever forget that.
I watched a documentary on Costco and they talked about where money is really made. They confirmed that very little profit is actually made on food. Of course if you're buying everything on your grocery list there, sheer quantity will drive your budget through the roof.. Plus there's fabulous produce, if you can eat it all and the extras, those things that make you squeal and impulse buy, the true source of profit for Costco. So here we go, this mother's tips on how to make shopping at Costco work for you.
1. Get to know your store, know the brands, know what you normally use, know what works in your family, be familiar with what's there. This helps you from being overwhelmed and having those, oh my gosh, I spent a couple hundred more then I meant to, moments.
2. Once you have a running list of what you use, brands you're familiar with, make sure you check out the coupons on every mailing. Then make a list of what you normally use that's on sale. Some of the rebates are instant, some require a coupon, but you have to write it all down so you can keep track.
Most of the coupons and rebates happen on a fairly regular basis, there are items you can always purchase on sale, if you check every flyer for sales. A lot of household products you may get on sale at least half the time or more. The savings really add up.
3. When you have your list, stick to it. Yes samples are fun, my husband loves them but samples are the way to fuel impulse buying. If you're running a strict budget, you cannot fall prey to impulse buys. So if you must sample, remember your grocery lists is your key to staying in budget.
4. No matter what the savings, it's not a savings if you have to throw most of something away. So tread lightly when buying perishables. I buy perishables I can freeze, sandwich meat, chicken breasts, wholly guacamole single snack sizes. I buy some produce but only stuff I know my family will eat before it goes bad. Also think of sizes, the apples are wonderful but it's not cost effective for me to buy a dozen huge apples when little apples from another store are most cost effective for my family.
You will make mistakes and stuff will get thrown out but learn. I only buy the huge spring mix of salad in the summer when my family will eat salad as a meal. Otherwise, it's just me and it's way to much.
5. If you have a neighbor, family or friend that you can split produce with, do so! It's a great way to alleviate the problem of stuff going bad.
6. If distance between the store and home isn't an issue, step away from impulse buy and take a few hours, or a few days if you can and see if there's money in your budget to buy it. I like to walk through the Christmas stuff half a dozen different times before deciding what to buy.
If distance is an issue, have a dollar figure in your head before hand so you already know what you can spend on extras, do a walk through the fun stuff, then do your regular shopping and then go back and look again. This helps take the impulse out of your buy and gives you a time to think if it's really something that's needed and/or if it's worth the cost with whatever budget constraints you may have..
My trip today, armed with my list of instant rebates of our normal needs plus my coupons and my overall list led to enough savings, the cashier gasped after scanning my coupons. With some preparation, anyone can have a good Costco trip.
I watched a documentary on Costco and they talked about where money is really made. They confirmed that very little profit is actually made on food. Of course if you're buying everything on your grocery list there, sheer quantity will drive your budget through the roof.. Plus there's fabulous produce, if you can eat it all and the extras, those things that make you squeal and impulse buy, the true source of profit for Costco. So here we go, this mother's tips on how to make shopping at Costco work for you.
1. Get to know your store, know the brands, know what you normally use, know what works in your family, be familiar with what's there. This helps you from being overwhelmed and having those, oh my gosh, I spent a couple hundred more then I meant to, moments.
2. Once you have a running list of what you use, brands you're familiar with, make sure you check out the coupons on every mailing. Then make a list of what you normally use that's on sale. Some of the rebates are instant, some require a coupon, but you have to write it all down so you can keep track.
Most of the coupons and rebates happen on a fairly regular basis, there are items you can always purchase on sale, if you check every flyer for sales. A lot of household products you may get on sale at least half the time or more. The savings really add up.
3. When you have your list, stick to it. Yes samples are fun, my husband loves them but samples are the way to fuel impulse buying. If you're running a strict budget, you cannot fall prey to impulse buys. So if you must sample, remember your grocery lists is your key to staying in budget.
4. No matter what the savings, it's not a savings if you have to throw most of something away. So tread lightly when buying perishables. I buy perishables I can freeze, sandwich meat, chicken breasts, wholly guacamole single snack sizes. I buy some produce but only stuff I know my family will eat before it goes bad. Also think of sizes, the apples are wonderful but it's not cost effective for me to buy a dozen huge apples when little apples from another store are most cost effective for my family.
You will make mistakes and stuff will get thrown out but learn. I only buy the huge spring mix of salad in the summer when my family will eat salad as a meal. Otherwise, it's just me and it's way to much.
5. If you have a neighbor, family or friend that you can split produce with, do so! It's a great way to alleviate the problem of stuff going bad.
6. If distance between the store and home isn't an issue, step away from impulse buy and take a few hours, or a few days if you can and see if there's money in your budget to buy it. I like to walk through the Christmas stuff half a dozen different times before deciding what to buy.
If distance is an issue, have a dollar figure in your head before hand so you already know what you can spend on extras, do a walk through the fun stuff, then do your regular shopping and then go back and look again. This helps take the impulse out of your buy and gives you a time to think if it's really something that's needed and/or if it's worth the cost with whatever budget constraints you may have..
My trip today, armed with my list of instant rebates of our normal needs plus my coupons and my overall list led to enough savings, the cashier gasped after scanning my coupons. With some preparation, anyone can have a good Costco trip.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
Some Days are Uber Productive
Days you dig in and really accomplish something. Then there are days like today.
Oh I got a lot done. Piddly ante stuff that you can't even tell, unless I list it to you. There was running a few loads of laundry, hanging up Kent's shirts, folding towels and dishtowels, running to Walmart so I could spend my last little bit of money on groceries to finish the month, cleaning up the papers around my desk, filling out a check for Jane's fundraiser, activating my new credit card.
Wait.
Where is my new credit card? I saw it yesterday. Kent handed it to me. What have I done today?
In my mind, I tick through the list and in a light bulb moment I remember cleaning the papers off my desk and putting them in the kitchen garbage. In my head I'm pretty sure I wouldn't do something like that, but what I'm pretty sure I'd do and what actually happened are usually two instances that are at odds with each other.
Sure enough, after flipping through multiple layers of papers carefully set across the muck that was a days worth of kitchen garbage. Another item accomplished.
Then there was the paperwork I had to fill out. You see, I didn't sub last year. Alternating day kindergarten was not conducive to being available for subbing. I only had two bonifide free days a week and I made the choice to stay home. I didn't regret that choice, I kept myself from burning out and was emotionally there for my kindergartners on their off days.
What I didn't know was that the school district would toss my information and that the following year I'd have to start over. Of course I didn't know this until after I actually subbed this year and tried to get paid.
The school district only does hiring one day a week at 3:30pm, so off I went and promptly I figured out I was lacking one of the two required forms of ID. Actually it's pretty silly, they only accept things like a passport, drivers license, social security card. But that meant I needed to drive home and get another form of ID.
Just a little more time to whittle away day.
It all was finished and now I can say, yes, I will finally get that paycheck for the three whole days I've worked.
Then it was picking up the twins from school, getting some semblance of dinner ready, fielding requests from multiple friends....
"Can David play?"
"Can Ean come outside?"
"Could Kate spend the night on Friday?"
"Could I come over early to spend time with Jane?"
And all the responses.
"No, we're having dinner."
"Let me check if Jane is done with her homework, oh she is? Yes you can come over early."
"No, we're having dinner."
"Kate *whisper* Remember, you're already having a sleepover this weekend."
"Noooooo, WE ARE HAVING DINNER!"
You get the picture.
The end result, I feel tired, exhausted almost but not very accomplished. However all my children are accounted for, there's a bunch of junky little things I don't have to deal with and we've established that I do love my children.
Even if I wouldn't let them go outside with friends when I was putting dinner on the table.
Oh I got a lot done. Piddly ante stuff that you can't even tell, unless I list it to you. There was running a few loads of laundry, hanging up Kent's shirts, folding towels and dishtowels, running to Walmart so I could spend my last little bit of money on groceries to finish the month, cleaning up the papers around my desk, filling out a check for Jane's fundraiser, activating my new credit card.
Wait.
Where is my new credit card? I saw it yesterday. Kent handed it to me. What have I done today?
In my mind, I tick through the list and in a light bulb moment I remember cleaning the papers off my desk and putting them in the kitchen garbage. In my head I'm pretty sure I wouldn't do something like that, but what I'm pretty sure I'd do and what actually happened are usually two instances that are at odds with each other.
Sure enough, after flipping through multiple layers of papers carefully set across the muck that was a days worth of kitchen garbage. Another item accomplished.
Then there was the paperwork I had to fill out. You see, I didn't sub last year. Alternating day kindergarten was not conducive to being available for subbing. I only had two bonifide free days a week and I made the choice to stay home. I didn't regret that choice, I kept myself from burning out and was emotionally there for my kindergartners on their off days.
What I didn't know was that the school district would toss my information and that the following year I'd have to start over. Of course I didn't know this until after I actually subbed this year and tried to get paid.
The school district only does hiring one day a week at 3:30pm, so off I went and promptly I figured out I was lacking one of the two required forms of ID. Actually it's pretty silly, they only accept things like a passport, drivers license, social security card. But that meant I needed to drive home and get another form of ID.
Just a little more time to whittle away day.
It all was finished and now I can say, yes, I will finally get that paycheck for the three whole days I've worked.
Then it was picking up the twins from school, getting some semblance of dinner ready, fielding requests from multiple friends....
"Can David play?"
"Can Ean come outside?"
"Could Kate spend the night on Friday?"
"Could I come over early to spend time with Jane?"
And all the responses.
"No, we're having dinner."
"Let me check if Jane is done with her homework, oh she is? Yes you can come over early."
"No, we're having dinner."
"Kate *whisper* Remember, you're already having a sleepover this weekend."
"Noooooo, WE ARE HAVING DINNER!"
You get the picture.
The end result, I feel tired, exhausted almost but not very accomplished. However all my children are accounted for, there's a bunch of junky little things I don't have to deal with and we've established that I do love my children.
Even if I wouldn't let them go outside with friends when I was putting dinner on the table.
Tuesday, October 23, 2012
My Grandmother's Cast Iron
I was discussing with my husband that we need some more cast iron in our kitchen. We currently have two frying pans, one huge and another a bit less huge.
This morning Kent was cleaning the storage room and he pulled up some cast iron that was just sitting on the shelf. One was a smaller frying pan, extremely useful and the other is more like a dutch, but the lid has a handle that mirrors the two quart cooking part. This unique two piece cast iron brought back a flood of memories because it use to belong to my grandmother.
I didn't really know my grandmother very well. She was a quiet woman, plagued with health problems that would eventually take her life. I only remember meeting her a few times as a child and by the time I moved to Utah, she was bed ridden and conversations were almost non existent, it was incredibly hard for her to speak.
At that time my grandfather was extremely loud, very opinionated and during visits he not only monopolized what was discussed but he was a bit of a bully if you said something he disagreed with. Over time I was able to develop a relationship with my grandfather and break into the extremely tough outer shell but it wasn't easy. He could be a complete butt.
I think the moment it clicked for us, was when I finally turned around and told him that I loved him but if he wasn't going to be nice, I was going to leave and I'd come back when he could be nice.
He turned and grinned at me and said it was about time that I stood up for myself. Now I really didn't appreciate that I had to endure months of verbal abuse before this and I had to physically stop myself from rolling my eyes at him but it did open a door for a relationship.
He wasn't ever as bad after that, although he still relished being a pain in the arse.
Announcing my engagement, he was thrilled, so pleased with my fiance, thrilled to have a relationship with me and as a result he put more thought into a wedding present then I had ever seen him do for anyone. My grandmother's silver was in a dilapidated wood box, just falling to pieces. He found someone to rebuild and refinish that box.
It was beautiful.
It's not a complete set of silver. There are pieces missing but the thought and effort that he put into this gift meant the world to me. He also gave me my grandmother's cast iron. My mom and her sister RoseAnn told me about the memories of their mother cooking with that cast iron. RoseAnn explained that the reason the lid was cracked was because her mom used it as a frying pan, which of course it wasn't made for.
For almost eighteen years this cast iron has been stashed away. Every now and then, I would see it, smile and then continue on my way. Somehow it didn't feel right to use and I wondered if I would ruin the already compromised lid. It was enough for me to just have it. A piece of my mother's childhood, a few short years where I fought to build a relationship with a man that I wasn't sure wanted a relationship with me.
As I've spent the day, walking past the dust encrusted cast iron, I've realized that I was mistaken. So tomorrow, I will scrub it out, lightly season the inside and place it where I can use it, every day.
And then, when I pull it out and cook for my family, I can smile and remember the man that thought of me and proudly called me his granddaughter on my wedding day. I can remember the look of nostalgia as my aunt described her mother, my grandmother making dinner for their family.
Most important, I will tell my children. These memories won't mean anything if I don't pass them on. I can't let the meaning end with me.
This morning Kent was cleaning the storage room and he pulled up some cast iron that was just sitting on the shelf. One was a smaller frying pan, extremely useful and the other is more like a dutch, but the lid has a handle that mirrors the two quart cooking part. This unique two piece cast iron brought back a flood of memories because it use to belong to my grandmother.
I didn't really know my grandmother very well. She was a quiet woman, plagued with health problems that would eventually take her life. I only remember meeting her a few times as a child and by the time I moved to Utah, she was bed ridden and conversations were almost non existent, it was incredibly hard for her to speak.
At that time my grandfather was extremely loud, very opinionated and during visits he not only monopolized what was discussed but he was a bit of a bully if you said something he disagreed with. Over time I was able to develop a relationship with my grandfather and break into the extremely tough outer shell but it wasn't easy. He could be a complete butt.
I think the moment it clicked for us, was when I finally turned around and told him that I loved him but if he wasn't going to be nice, I was going to leave and I'd come back when he could be nice.
He turned and grinned at me and said it was about time that I stood up for myself. Now I really didn't appreciate that I had to endure months of verbal abuse before this and I had to physically stop myself from rolling my eyes at him but it did open a door for a relationship.
He wasn't ever as bad after that, although he still relished being a pain in the arse.
Announcing my engagement, he was thrilled, so pleased with my fiance, thrilled to have a relationship with me and as a result he put more thought into a wedding present then I had ever seen him do for anyone. My grandmother's silver was in a dilapidated wood box, just falling to pieces. He found someone to rebuild and refinish that box.
It was beautiful.
It's not a complete set of silver. There are pieces missing but the thought and effort that he put into this gift meant the world to me. He also gave me my grandmother's cast iron. My mom and her sister RoseAnn told me about the memories of their mother cooking with that cast iron. RoseAnn explained that the reason the lid was cracked was because her mom used it as a frying pan, which of course it wasn't made for.
For almost eighteen years this cast iron has been stashed away. Every now and then, I would see it, smile and then continue on my way. Somehow it didn't feel right to use and I wondered if I would ruin the already compromised lid. It was enough for me to just have it. A piece of my mother's childhood, a few short years where I fought to build a relationship with a man that I wasn't sure wanted a relationship with me.
As I've spent the day, walking past the dust encrusted cast iron, I've realized that I was mistaken. So tomorrow, I will scrub it out, lightly season the inside and place it where I can use it, every day.
And then, when I pull it out and cook for my family, I can smile and remember the man that thought of me and proudly called me his granddaughter on my wedding day. I can remember the look of nostalgia as my aunt described her mother, my grandmother making dinner for their family.
Most important, I will tell my children. These memories won't mean anything if I don't pass them on. I can't let the meaning end with me.
Twin Tales
I figure I should just devote some time to what life is like raising multiples. Some parents, with extremely active children can relate to the energy level of twins but really, the humor, twin humor cannot be duplicated by any singleton.
Some humor is found just in watching new twin parents, believe me, I've been there. I know I've said this before but we were so concerned about getting them mixed up that when David was brought home from the nicu, we had a permanent marker initial ceremony, carefully putting a "D" at the bottom of David's right foot and "G" at the bottom of Greg's right foot. Of course all older siblings were appropriately marked because it would be a shame to leave anyone out.
I had a permanent marker in a drawer where I had diaper stuff, so it was easy to remark each boy as needed. We both noticed during diaper changes that someone had a birth mark on his thigh but it took us a few months to actually internalize that Greg had the birthmark. We were just so busy and tired, boy were we tired!
Since my extremely high risk pregnancy had more ultrasounds then most people could imagine (twice a week for hours at a time for months), we saw twin relationships very early on. When I was diagnosed with the TTTS (twin to twin transfusion syndrome) David was stuck to one corner of my uterus, with no fluid and his sack shrink wrapped around him while Greg had the in utero version of an olympic size swimming pool. As we watched and worried about the boys, having learned the odds they had of making them and all the possible things that could have gone wrong, we watched Greg swimming around and then swooping down and laying next to his brother and just staying there for a few minutes.
I was 19 weeks along and I watched in amazement as this little boy, not even viable yet seemed to understand his brother was in trouble and tried to be there with him. It was amazing. He did over and over again.
Knowing personalities the humor in seeing David later on, after he had some fluid and could move a bit, kicking Greg when obviously Greg was infringing on his space. It was hysterical. Note that Dave still does the same thing now. Greg infringes on his space and he lashes out. We've managed after six years to stop the kicking.
I've shared before about the twins switching places. Everyone has heard stories about identicals switching places but usually these stories happen in grade school, high school, dates or what not. Oh no, my itty bitty almost completely non verbal three year olds switched places while getting off the bus at pre school. The really scary part was that Greg had a front tooth go bad and it had to be pulled, so we were using that missing tooth as a way to tell them apart.
Obviously we couldn't tell people to just pull down their pants to look for the birthmark on Greg's thigh.
Well, Greg had this big huge open mouth grin. When they switched places, Greg's teacher looked down at the little red headed boy and said "Hi Greg!" and Dave looked up and smiled a huge smile with his mouth closed tight. Instantly that wonderful teacher (Miss Pam) knew what they had done and that she had the wrong boy.
Hysterical! My then, non verbal boys spontaneously messing with their teachers. They had been going to school for a few months, so they knew what they were doing.
Then there's these little things. Like our Greg always tells the truth. He is the most genuine sweet little guy I've ever met, yet, YET when his twin is in trouble. I mean, we've caught his twin with his hand literally in the cookie jar, Greg will lie to protect his twin! Usually it's the poor older brother that gets blamed. We'll be saying, no no, we know David did (whatever the crime was) and Greg is yelling, "IT WAS EAN!"
Oh MY!
But if we're mad at our twin, all bets are off. We have siblings that fight. The girls have had yelling, screaming but even the girls have nothing on when the twins fight. They fight fierce. They fight dirty. They are flat out meaner to their twin then to anyone else in the world. And then they make up, hug and play trucks for hours. As long as no one does something really naughty. Then all bets are off.
I could go on forever but the beauty of writing a blog is the ability to write more later on. So I'll wrap this up with one small observation. I've heard comments from various people that babies don't have personalities and this is so not true. Anyone with twins in their lives knows that their personalities shine through, even before their born.
My kinded hearted twin swimming down to lay next to his brother is proof of that.
Some humor is found just in watching new twin parents, believe me, I've been there. I know I've said this before but we were so concerned about getting them mixed up that when David was brought home from the nicu, we had a permanent marker initial ceremony, carefully putting a "D" at the bottom of David's right foot and "G" at the bottom of Greg's right foot. Of course all older siblings were appropriately marked because it would be a shame to leave anyone out.
I had a permanent marker in a drawer where I had diaper stuff, so it was easy to remark each boy as needed. We both noticed during diaper changes that someone had a birth mark on his thigh but it took us a few months to actually internalize that Greg had the birthmark. We were just so busy and tired, boy were we tired!
Since my extremely high risk pregnancy had more ultrasounds then most people could imagine (twice a week for hours at a time for months), we saw twin relationships very early on. When I was diagnosed with the TTTS (twin to twin transfusion syndrome) David was stuck to one corner of my uterus, with no fluid and his sack shrink wrapped around him while Greg had the in utero version of an olympic size swimming pool. As we watched and worried about the boys, having learned the odds they had of making them and all the possible things that could have gone wrong, we watched Greg swimming around and then swooping down and laying next to his brother and just staying there for a few minutes.
I was 19 weeks along and I watched in amazement as this little boy, not even viable yet seemed to understand his brother was in trouble and tried to be there with him. It was amazing. He did over and over again.
Knowing personalities the humor in seeing David later on, after he had some fluid and could move a bit, kicking Greg when obviously Greg was infringing on his space. It was hysterical. Note that Dave still does the same thing now. Greg infringes on his space and he lashes out. We've managed after six years to stop the kicking.
I've shared before about the twins switching places. Everyone has heard stories about identicals switching places but usually these stories happen in grade school, high school, dates or what not. Oh no, my itty bitty almost completely non verbal three year olds switched places while getting off the bus at pre school. The really scary part was that Greg had a front tooth go bad and it had to be pulled, so we were using that missing tooth as a way to tell them apart.
Obviously we couldn't tell people to just pull down their pants to look for the birthmark on Greg's thigh.
Well, Greg had this big huge open mouth grin. When they switched places, Greg's teacher looked down at the little red headed boy and said "Hi Greg!" and Dave looked up and smiled a huge smile with his mouth closed tight. Instantly that wonderful teacher (Miss Pam) knew what they had done and that she had the wrong boy.
Hysterical! My then, non verbal boys spontaneously messing with their teachers. They had been going to school for a few months, so they knew what they were doing.
Then there's these little things. Like our Greg always tells the truth. He is the most genuine sweet little guy I've ever met, yet, YET when his twin is in trouble. I mean, we've caught his twin with his hand literally in the cookie jar, Greg will lie to protect his twin! Usually it's the poor older brother that gets blamed. We'll be saying, no no, we know David did (whatever the crime was) and Greg is yelling, "IT WAS EAN!"
Oh MY!
But if we're mad at our twin, all bets are off. We have siblings that fight. The girls have had yelling, screaming but even the girls have nothing on when the twins fight. They fight fierce. They fight dirty. They are flat out meaner to their twin then to anyone else in the world. And then they make up, hug and play trucks for hours. As long as no one does something really naughty. Then all bets are off.
I could go on forever but the beauty of writing a blog is the ability to write more later on. So I'll wrap this up with one small observation. I've heard comments from various people that babies don't have personalities and this is so not true. Anyone with twins in their lives knows that their personalities shine through, even before their born.
My kinded hearted twin swimming down to lay next to his brother is proof of that.
Friday, October 19, 2012
The Farm
Lest anyone thinks my childhood only consisted of "character building" experiences (translation for my kids, life sucked), allow me to share some of my most precious memories.
Let me tell you about my grandparent's acreage in Arlington Vermont. This piece of land was valuable, something that didn't matter to me as a kid, but as an adult, I can appreciate the uniqueness of this property.
Vermont as a state prides itself on it's rural feel. Vermont laws are crafted to allow the state to keep it's rural atmosphere, including laws against the use of bill boards, laws against super sized businesses that protect mom and pop stores and a specific law that doesn't allow buildings to be built above a certain elevation. My grandparents farm was above this magical line, built before the law was put into place and making the property extremely rare.
It exists up at the end of a dirt road, with a narrow driveway on a steep grade snaking up to multiple out buildings and the New England style farm house with a wrap around front porch.
It wasn't a real farm, the house isn't insulated for winters, it's really just a summer home with a distinct metal sign, showing a silhouette of a man, wearing a distinctive Swiss type hat climbing a peak and the words "Swiss Farm".
As children we affectionately called my grandparents summer home "the farm".
The farm had everything a child could want. There was a brook, tons of buildings, fields, a pond complete with frogs, salamanders and a diving board for anyone brave enough to jump in the freezing water. The pond was fed by a freshwater spring guaranteeing frozen toes and ankles on the hottest of summer days. Throw in apple trees to climb in the fall, rhubarb to pick, and antiques inside the house that I use to spend hours exploring.
The whole experience was treasured. We often drove through rural Vermont, passing horses and cemeteries, old fashion stores, churches and a beautiful covered bridge that allowed only one vehicle at a time to cross.
Out of all the cousins, we lived the closest, allowing us to visit the farm before even my grandparents were back from Florida. The house wasn't open but we'd bring a picnic lunch and go swimming. After my grandparents arrived and open up the house, almost every Saturday allowed a visit up. My grandfather listened to whatever you had to say, even when he disagreed. My grandmother would ask my opinion of her sketches, destined to become one of her needlepoints, weighing my opinion as if I was an equal.
Of course the real fun happened when the cousins came to visit. We played for hours together. There was endless talk with the adults, grilled foods, lots of soda, my grandmother fussing about everyone, trying to make sure everyone was happy.
I think of the farm, I picture my grandfather watching golf on his television, that had to be carefully tuned in on the rotating antenna. I see my grandmother's lightning fast fingers working their magic on her self made design, making memories with yarn and stitches. Some of her classics included characters of her and grandpa. I remember climbing the apple tree, filling paper bags with tart apples to be brought home.
I remember the furniture, the old spinning wheel fascinated me. Latch hook rugs my grandmother had made. Every corner of the house held bits of my grandparents from the antique books, crafted works of art of my grandmother placed on walls, floors, couches and beds, to the political magazines and plaques gifted to grandfather from foreign dignitaries.
I miss the farm. I'm in Idaho and my dad's sister and husband own it now. Sometimes I do feel sad that my children will never appreciate that special place that was such a big part of my childhood. Usually though, when I think of the farm, I smile.
It was the embodiment of childhood living on mostly in my dreams and memories. Well and on my wall. On the trip back to Vermont for my dad's funeral my husband took pictures, printed and framed them for Christmas that year.
I bawled when I opened the package and they are in my front room. Whenever I sit and just think, I look over and remember.
Let me tell you about my grandparent's acreage in Arlington Vermont. This piece of land was valuable, something that didn't matter to me as a kid, but as an adult, I can appreciate the uniqueness of this property.
Vermont as a state prides itself on it's rural feel. Vermont laws are crafted to allow the state to keep it's rural atmosphere, including laws against the use of bill boards, laws against super sized businesses that protect mom and pop stores and a specific law that doesn't allow buildings to be built above a certain elevation. My grandparents farm was above this magical line, built before the law was put into place and making the property extremely rare.
It exists up at the end of a dirt road, with a narrow driveway on a steep grade snaking up to multiple out buildings and the New England style farm house with a wrap around front porch.
It wasn't a real farm, the house isn't insulated for winters, it's really just a summer home with a distinct metal sign, showing a silhouette of a man, wearing a distinctive Swiss type hat climbing a peak and the words "Swiss Farm".
As children we affectionately called my grandparents summer home "the farm".
The farm had everything a child could want. There was a brook, tons of buildings, fields, a pond complete with frogs, salamanders and a diving board for anyone brave enough to jump in the freezing water. The pond was fed by a freshwater spring guaranteeing frozen toes and ankles on the hottest of summer days. Throw in apple trees to climb in the fall, rhubarb to pick, and antiques inside the house that I use to spend hours exploring.
The whole experience was treasured. We often drove through rural Vermont, passing horses and cemeteries, old fashion stores, churches and a beautiful covered bridge that allowed only one vehicle at a time to cross.
Out of all the cousins, we lived the closest, allowing us to visit the farm before even my grandparents were back from Florida. The house wasn't open but we'd bring a picnic lunch and go swimming. After my grandparents arrived and open up the house, almost every Saturday allowed a visit up. My grandfather listened to whatever you had to say, even when he disagreed. My grandmother would ask my opinion of her sketches, destined to become one of her needlepoints, weighing my opinion as if I was an equal.
Of course the real fun happened when the cousins came to visit. We played for hours together. There was endless talk with the adults, grilled foods, lots of soda, my grandmother fussing about everyone, trying to make sure everyone was happy.
I think of the farm, I picture my grandfather watching golf on his television, that had to be carefully tuned in on the rotating antenna. I see my grandmother's lightning fast fingers working their magic on her self made design, making memories with yarn and stitches. Some of her classics included characters of her and grandpa. I remember climbing the apple tree, filling paper bags with tart apples to be brought home.
I remember the furniture, the old spinning wheel fascinated me. Latch hook rugs my grandmother had made. Every corner of the house held bits of my grandparents from the antique books, crafted works of art of my grandmother placed on walls, floors, couches and beds, to the political magazines and plaques gifted to grandfather from foreign dignitaries.
I miss the farm. I'm in Idaho and my dad's sister and husband own it now. Sometimes I do feel sad that my children will never appreciate that special place that was such a big part of my childhood. Usually though, when I think of the farm, I smile.
It was the embodiment of childhood living on mostly in my dreams and memories. Well and on my wall. On the trip back to Vermont for my dad's funeral my husband took pictures, printed and framed them for Christmas that year.
I bawled when I opened the package and they are in my front room. Whenever I sit and just think, I look over and remember.
Some of My Worst Mistakes
Since I've been open and frank about other people, it seems only fair that I be open and frank about myself. There are some things that I just never talk about and haven't talked about for years.
Twenty four years to be exact.
I'm going to talk about my exchange. You see when I was a teenager, about 16, I was taking French and decided that I wanted to go to France during the school's three week exchange program that would take place the next year. My grandfather thought it was nonsense.
He never did anything halfway and thought I should go for a year long exchange and he conveniently was chairing the board of directors for an exchange program. I went ahead and applied, going through the process without any extra help from my inside contact. I was accepted to go to Brazil.
I was thrilled, my grandfather wasn't.
So he took matters into his own hands and changed my country to Sweden. I was surprised and a little put out but Sweden it was.
During the interview process, I made a big point of saying how important my faith is, and in retrospect, this was a mistake. An LDS family decided that they should have me when they really shouldn't have ever taken an exchange student, you see, they didn't like Americans. They thought that since I was also LDS, and we shared that, we would have some kind of instant bond.
When I traveled to Sweden, both for my exchange and for mission I suffered extreme jet lag. Mind bending jet lag that left me awake at four in the morning and falling asleep in the middle of the day. My host family was on vacation up north, side note, I got to ride my bike over the border and spent about five minutes in Finland.
I was jet lagged, often falling asleep and I guess because I wasn't ooohing and aaaaahing while jumping up and down (I was tired) my host parents decided that I wasn't really interested in Swedish.
Languages are also a challenge for me. I didn't realize this when I was a teenager, but I have a bit of my mom's learning disability. For me, it comes out in the form of memorization. I have an extremely difficult time memorizing, so of course, words, grammar rules, it takes an insane amount of repetition for me to recall pretty much anything.
This didn't effect me in school as much as it did my mom and does my girls now, for whatever reason, possibly a combination of not having the comprehension problems they have and really good critical thinking skills but regardless, when I was given words, I had a terrible time recalling them. My host parents decided I was not only uninterested in Sweden but I was also lazy.
Nice.
Their experience with Americans learning languages was strictly with LDS missionaries. There are several differences between serving a mission and going to high school. The very first difference is that when you're a missionary, you get spiritual help in speaking a foreign language. Some might call this nonsense but having been a missionary, I can say from my own experience that this is true, I have received spiritual help, finding words I didn't know and a fluency I hadn't yet learned when I needed to share my love and understanding of my Savior, Jesus Christ.
It's a very different experience going to the Swedish equivalent of high school with teenagers that mostly wanted to share their knowledge of American profanity.
Not to mention English was "cool" and Swedish was "boring" to quote every teenage Swede I've ever talked with. It was difficult to learn a language with peers that had no desire to speak to me in that language.
I tried to fit in. I pretended to understand and here lies the great and terrible mistake that labeled me for the remaining ten months I was in that house. I'm pretty embarrassed actually. Even after all these years.
We were eating dinner and had company over, a mother and her teenage daughter. They were super nice and I really liked them. I couldn't understand anything, all the talking was so incredibly fast. Trying to fit in, I picked points in the conversation and pretended that I understood and laughed.
What's so bad about that? I didn't find out until I was asked to leave that home after the end of a very tense school year with horrible, awful misunderstandings that happened over and over again. It all started with that laugh during dinner.
I have an ability, a gift if you will. Its often revealed to me during conversations some specific insights to the situation. About one month before I was suppose to go home, one of my host siblings has a sports event in Stockholm. I was under the impression that we were all going and was extremely disappointed when I woke up and realized most of the family had left without me. Only my host mother was home and she invited me for a walk together.
So I went with her. During that walk, she basically beat me down, listing all my awful faults and what a horrible person I was. Specifically she told me that I was lazy, not learning Swedish like I should, I was unkind, oh the list went on. Then she told me the only two good things she saw in me was that I went to church every Sunday. She let me know that they believed that because I was American, I wouldn't be as faithful. The second thing was that I had such a good relationship with my father, which was a hysterical observation because while my exchange opened the door for the start of a wonderful relationship with my dad, that relationship wasn't in place during my exchange.
She also asked me what I would think if someone laughed during a story where a child was viciously bit by a dog, what kind of person would do that. My gift at work, I instantly understood, with that dinner party pictured in my mind, in my efforts to fit in, I had done just the opposite. *I* was the one that had laughed during a story told by the wonderful lady visiting that evening about an awful childhood injury.
I had no idea that I had set the gears in motion for not trusting me the rest of the time I was in their home. I had no idea I had hurt someone that I admired. That they thought I was cruel, odd, weird and who knows what else.
So why am I sharing now? I'd like to think that I'm grown up enough to admit my mistakes, even if it is 24 years later. Don't feel bad for me though. Compassion and empathy are words that I've learned to embrace along with the life lesson of never trying to be more of anything then who I really am.
So if I give you a completely confused look, it's because I really am confused. I'm pretty sure if you've met me in real life, you've seen it.
Twenty four years to be exact.
I'm going to talk about my exchange. You see when I was a teenager, about 16, I was taking French and decided that I wanted to go to France during the school's three week exchange program that would take place the next year. My grandfather thought it was nonsense.
He never did anything halfway and thought I should go for a year long exchange and he conveniently was chairing the board of directors for an exchange program. I went ahead and applied, going through the process without any extra help from my inside contact. I was accepted to go to Brazil.
I was thrilled, my grandfather wasn't.
So he took matters into his own hands and changed my country to Sweden. I was surprised and a little put out but Sweden it was.
During the interview process, I made a big point of saying how important my faith is, and in retrospect, this was a mistake. An LDS family decided that they should have me when they really shouldn't have ever taken an exchange student, you see, they didn't like Americans. They thought that since I was also LDS, and we shared that, we would have some kind of instant bond.
When I traveled to Sweden, both for my exchange and for mission I suffered extreme jet lag. Mind bending jet lag that left me awake at four in the morning and falling asleep in the middle of the day. My host family was on vacation up north, side note, I got to ride my bike over the border and spent about five minutes in Finland.
I was jet lagged, often falling asleep and I guess because I wasn't ooohing and aaaaahing while jumping up and down (I was tired) my host parents decided that I wasn't really interested in Swedish.
Languages are also a challenge for me. I didn't realize this when I was a teenager, but I have a bit of my mom's learning disability. For me, it comes out in the form of memorization. I have an extremely difficult time memorizing, so of course, words, grammar rules, it takes an insane amount of repetition for me to recall pretty much anything.
This didn't effect me in school as much as it did my mom and does my girls now, for whatever reason, possibly a combination of not having the comprehension problems they have and really good critical thinking skills but regardless, when I was given words, I had a terrible time recalling them. My host parents decided I was not only uninterested in Sweden but I was also lazy.
Nice.
Their experience with Americans learning languages was strictly with LDS missionaries. There are several differences between serving a mission and going to high school. The very first difference is that when you're a missionary, you get spiritual help in speaking a foreign language. Some might call this nonsense but having been a missionary, I can say from my own experience that this is true, I have received spiritual help, finding words I didn't know and a fluency I hadn't yet learned when I needed to share my love and understanding of my Savior, Jesus Christ.
It's a very different experience going to the Swedish equivalent of high school with teenagers that mostly wanted to share their knowledge of American profanity.
Not to mention English was "cool" and Swedish was "boring" to quote every teenage Swede I've ever talked with. It was difficult to learn a language with peers that had no desire to speak to me in that language.
I tried to fit in. I pretended to understand and here lies the great and terrible mistake that labeled me for the remaining ten months I was in that house. I'm pretty embarrassed actually. Even after all these years.
We were eating dinner and had company over, a mother and her teenage daughter. They were super nice and I really liked them. I couldn't understand anything, all the talking was so incredibly fast. Trying to fit in, I picked points in the conversation and pretended that I understood and laughed.
What's so bad about that? I didn't find out until I was asked to leave that home after the end of a very tense school year with horrible, awful misunderstandings that happened over and over again. It all started with that laugh during dinner.
I have an ability, a gift if you will. Its often revealed to me during conversations some specific insights to the situation. About one month before I was suppose to go home, one of my host siblings has a sports event in Stockholm. I was under the impression that we were all going and was extremely disappointed when I woke up and realized most of the family had left without me. Only my host mother was home and she invited me for a walk together.
So I went with her. During that walk, she basically beat me down, listing all my awful faults and what a horrible person I was. Specifically she told me that I was lazy, not learning Swedish like I should, I was unkind, oh the list went on. Then she told me the only two good things she saw in me was that I went to church every Sunday. She let me know that they believed that because I was American, I wouldn't be as faithful. The second thing was that I had such a good relationship with my father, which was a hysterical observation because while my exchange opened the door for the start of a wonderful relationship with my dad, that relationship wasn't in place during my exchange.
She also asked me what I would think if someone laughed during a story where a child was viciously bit by a dog, what kind of person would do that. My gift at work, I instantly understood, with that dinner party pictured in my mind, in my efforts to fit in, I had done just the opposite. *I* was the one that had laughed during a story told by the wonderful lady visiting that evening about an awful childhood injury.
I had no idea that I had set the gears in motion for not trusting me the rest of the time I was in their home. I had no idea I had hurt someone that I admired. That they thought I was cruel, odd, weird and who knows what else.
So why am I sharing now? I'd like to think that I'm grown up enough to admit my mistakes, even if it is 24 years later. Don't feel bad for me though. Compassion and empathy are words that I've learned to embrace along with the life lesson of never trying to be more of anything then who I really am.
So if I give you a completely confused look, it's because I really am confused. I'm pretty sure if you've met me in real life, you've seen it.
Thursday, October 18, 2012
I Love a Little Irony
It's been about a month since I really talked about my dear middle boy's anger struggles so it's high time for an update.
He's really trying to do his part and making an active effort at school, which is such a relief for me as a mother. Two months into school and a good dozen, impromptu conferences after school concerning troubling behavior has really added to my stress. I'm talking, weepy, don't ask me how I'm doing or I'll completely have a meltdown in front of you, type of stress.
Of course meltdowns are out of frustration on how to help him, on what we can do differently and the plain fact that when our child is out of control, I feel like a complete failure as a mother. I know, that's not true. I know I've been there night and day for my children, but feelings are irrational and unable to reason.
Thankfully my husband is an incredible support and has had the opportunity to be right there during some of those meetings, to throw in his insight and ideas to give our son something to work for.
And thus the smiley system was invented.
We started out with an opportunity to earn a smiley each day with one smiley equaling an hour of computer time, which could be saved or used daily, the kid was completely in control. A week of smileys meant computer time on Sunday. Something to really work for.
It quickly became clear that even though the goal to behave for one day wasn't a huge goal, it was still to much. So we divided the day into halves, with the potential of earning two smileys a day. Each smile, which is just drawn on a post-it by his teacher, equals a half hour of computer time. He hasn't ever made it a whole week with ten smiles but he's overall doing so much better then the first of the year. Making an effort to not be mean to other people, is huge for him.
He's also working really hard in counseling to find ways to better cope with his anger.
So I decided it was time for a big reward.
Originally, I planned on a big reward after weeks of smiles with not a frown in sight but that clearly isn't reasonable for this kid. He is impulsive and his effort has to be recognized or he'll figure it just isn't worth while and not even try.
The book fair is this week, so I allowed him to pick a book. His prize for such an extreme effort. He really deserves it.
So my child. What does he choose as an award for keeping his anger in check? Why a book by National Geographic about bonifide angry birds, of course.
Like I said, I love a little irony.
He's really trying to do his part and making an active effort at school, which is such a relief for me as a mother. Two months into school and a good dozen, impromptu conferences after school concerning troubling behavior has really added to my stress. I'm talking, weepy, don't ask me how I'm doing or I'll completely have a meltdown in front of you, type of stress.
Of course meltdowns are out of frustration on how to help him, on what we can do differently and the plain fact that when our child is out of control, I feel like a complete failure as a mother. I know, that's not true. I know I've been there night and day for my children, but feelings are irrational and unable to reason.
Thankfully my husband is an incredible support and has had the opportunity to be right there during some of those meetings, to throw in his insight and ideas to give our son something to work for.
And thus the smiley system was invented.
We started out with an opportunity to earn a smiley each day with one smiley equaling an hour of computer time, which could be saved or used daily, the kid was completely in control. A week of smileys meant computer time on Sunday. Something to really work for.
It quickly became clear that even though the goal to behave for one day wasn't a huge goal, it was still to much. So we divided the day into halves, with the potential of earning two smileys a day. Each smile, which is just drawn on a post-it by his teacher, equals a half hour of computer time. He hasn't ever made it a whole week with ten smiles but he's overall doing so much better then the first of the year. Making an effort to not be mean to other people, is huge for him.
He's also working really hard in counseling to find ways to better cope with his anger.
So I decided it was time for a big reward.
Originally, I planned on a big reward after weeks of smiles with not a frown in sight but that clearly isn't reasonable for this kid. He is impulsive and his effort has to be recognized or he'll figure it just isn't worth while and not even try.
The book fair is this week, so I allowed him to pick a book. His prize for such an extreme effort. He really deserves it.
So my child. What does he choose as an award for keeping his anger in check? Why a book by National Geographic about bonifide angry birds, of course.
Like I said, I love a little irony.
The After School Program
I haven't ever had a child involved in the after school program but it was recommended that the twins go. Mostly for academics but it turns out there's a lot more.
The program happens full days of school (so no program on half days) Monday through Thursday until 5:00pm. The first hour or so is devoted to school work. It's a safe spot kids can do their homework and get help academically.
Greg is slowly falling behind in school and this seems like a good way to get him a little more help, plus there's the chaos at my house.
What?
Chaos?
You heard me. I'd like to invite anyone that's met my middle son, to try and imagine helping other kids with homework with him around. It is that bad. Plus, the girls need so much help with their school work. I have to be available to help and the twins often slip through the parenting cracks. I simply cannot be there for everyone after school when there's so many needs to be met.
Exactly why I never opted to homeschool my kiddos so many years ago when it became clear how many interventions they would be needing.
Now concerning Greg, we did discuss during a teacher/parent meeting that Greg has an IEP where he's being monitored by the resource room. It shouldn't be hard to get another meeting and place and change that already existing IEP. His teacher and I both agree that's not needed at this point, but I wanted her to be aware that if we need to, that's an option down the road.
So back to the after school program, yesterday was the twins first day. Apparently Greg cried for me, just wanting his mother. Even with his twin there, he had a hard time. I know it'll get better, he does adjust but out of all my kids, Greg is my mama's boy.
The teacher asked me if he struggled be away from me and I mentioned his nickname was "Velcro boy." So, er, yes! He has been known to be a little clingy.
Today will be better, now that he knows what to expect. Once he realizes how much fun he'll be having and the guys both have new friends, they'll love it. The older girls especially seem enamored with the six year old miniature red headed twins. So lots of new friends.
And a few admirers. *smile*
The program happens full days of school (so no program on half days) Monday through Thursday until 5:00pm. The first hour or so is devoted to school work. It's a safe spot kids can do their homework and get help academically.
Greg is slowly falling behind in school and this seems like a good way to get him a little more help, plus there's the chaos at my house.
What?
Chaos?
You heard me. I'd like to invite anyone that's met my middle son, to try and imagine helping other kids with homework with him around. It is that bad. Plus, the girls need so much help with their school work. I have to be available to help and the twins often slip through the parenting cracks. I simply cannot be there for everyone after school when there's so many needs to be met.
Exactly why I never opted to homeschool my kiddos so many years ago when it became clear how many interventions they would be needing.
Now concerning Greg, we did discuss during a teacher/parent meeting that Greg has an IEP where he's being monitored by the resource room. It shouldn't be hard to get another meeting and place and change that already existing IEP. His teacher and I both agree that's not needed at this point, but I wanted her to be aware that if we need to, that's an option down the road.
So back to the after school program, yesterday was the twins first day. Apparently Greg cried for me, just wanting his mother. Even with his twin there, he had a hard time. I know it'll get better, he does adjust but out of all my kids, Greg is my mama's boy.
The teacher asked me if he struggled be away from me and I mentioned his nickname was "Velcro boy." So, er, yes! He has been known to be a little clingy.
Today will be better, now that he knows what to expect. Once he realizes how much fun he'll be having and the guys both have new friends, they'll love it. The older girls especially seem enamored with the six year old miniature red headed twins. So lots of new friends.
And a few admirers. *smile*
Wednesday, October 10, 2012
Mowing Lawns
The girls (ages eleven and fourteen) have mowed lots of lawns this summer and fall. They've had the opportunity to mow for a neighbor and have been paid but they've also mowed my mom's lawn, gratis of course.
The paid job started out as just Kate. My husband heard of the job and asked Jane, who was "meh" at the whole idea. My husband then offered the job to Kate, who squealed loudly and started jumping up and down at the thought of earning money. Of course we let Kate take the job.
The first time the lawn was mowed, an expansive area more then twice the size of our yard, it took three trips and several mower repairs. She really earned her money. She gladly paid her tithing and she stuffed the rest away in her savings.
Most of my kids feel money burning holes in their pocket but Kate gets great joy in watching her stack of bills get bigger, and the sum amount increasing every few weeks. She would have had the job to herself the whole summer but her bike wreck sorta wrecked that plan.
We had a talk with her sister, who went to mow while Kate's face was still swollen and stitched and her body was mostly bruises and road rash. We encouraged Jane *cough, cough* to donate half the earnings to her sister, since Kate hadn't relinquished the job willingly. Bless my oldest's heart, she did so willingly, even if she did feel the attention Kate received was a little unfair. The next mowing, Kate's stitches were out and she felt much better, so the girls worked together, splitting the earnings. We went ahead and allowed the girls to do that from then on.
It's been a good experience and after some supervision from their dad, it was confirmed that they were doing a decent job.
It takes a lot to past their dad's standards.
Now my mom's yard, my mom is quick to state that she is perfectly capable of mowing her own yard but why should she when she can have someone else do it? I happen to agree with that. Of course having the girls mow has less to do with my mom getting out of it and more to do the girls learning to give service. It's a wonderful opportunity.
My mom has a preference, one girl doing a much better job then other but I won't share that information here.
They're still learning.
I think this winter we need to send Ean over to his Mormor's house so he can shovel her driveway. He needs to give service too.
Speaking of which, Monday we spent our family home evening at my mom's house. Kent fixed her toilet, it was leaking, Greg vacuumed the living room, Kate helped her dad and the two remaining boys swept the garage.
It was a good night. Helping is good!
The paid job started out as just Kate. My husband heard of the job and asked Jane, who was "meh" at the whole idea. My husband then offered the job to Kate, who squealed loudly and started jumping up and down at the thought of earning money. Of course we let Kate take the job.
The first time the lawn was mowed, an expansive area more then twice the size of our yard, it took three trips and several mower repairs. She really earned her money. She gladly paid her tithing and she stuffed the rest away in her savings.
Most of my kids feel money burning holes in their pocket but Kate gets great joy in watching her stack of bills get bigger, and the sum amount increasing every few weeks. She would have had the job to herself the whole summer but her bike wreck sorta wrecked that plan.
We had a talk with her sister, who went to mow while Kate's face was still swollen and stitched and her body was mostly bruises and road rash. We encouraged Jane *cough, cough* to donate half the earnings to her sister, since Kate hadn't relinquished the job willingly. Bless my oldest's heart, she did so willingly, even if she did feel the attention Kate received was a little unfair. The next mowing, Kate's stitches were out and she felt much better, so the girls worked together, splitting the earnings. We went ahead and allowed the girls to do that from then on.
It's been a good experience and after some supervision from their dad, it was confirmed that they were doing a decent job.
It takes a lot to past their dad's standards.
Now my mom's yard, my mom is quick to state that she is perfectly capable of mowing her own yard but why should she when she can have someone else do it? I happen to agree with that. Of course having the girls mow has less to do with my mom getting out of it and more to do the girls learning to give service. It's a wonderful opportunity.
My mom has a preference, one girl doing a much better job then other but I won't share that information here.
They're still learning.
I think this winter we need to send Ean over to his Mormor's house so he can shovel her driveway. He needs to give service too.
Speaking of which, Monday we spent our family home evening at my mom's house. Kent fixed her toilet, it was leaking, Greg vacuumed the living room, Kate helped her dad and the two remaining boys swept the garage.
It was a good night. Helping is good!
Tuesday, October 9, 2012
Joyful Memories
On a parenting board I participate on, someone asked what our favorite happy childhood memories are. I started writing and quickly figured out that this was a blog post in the making. I also have been extremely serious lately, so here we go.
I was a reader. I learned early on and with my extremely impressive vocabulary, tackled just about any book that came my way. From my recent tales of growing up with Scott, I'm sure you understand the challenge of finding a quiet spot to relax and just soak in a book. I managed.
We lived in town, literally on Main Street with a small house for our family of six with a postage sized yard that struggled to produce grass. However we did have a sugar maple in the back yard. The sugar maple is a beautiful tree, it's slow growing, so the monster in the back yard was decades old. The foliage is second to none, turning a scarlet hue that generously peppers the landscape in the fall.
Our tree was beautiful.
It also had all these incredible branches, just perfect for climbing. You really couldn't swing up the first split in the trunk by yourself, it was a good four feet in the air but we had wood stacked next to the tree and using the woodpile, you could shimmy up to that first split and after that, the climbing was easy. There was one spot in particular where several branches fanned out forming the perfect seat. It was this spot that I claimed as my own.
I always climbed with a jacket on, even in the hottest days. You see, I stashed books in my pockets and carried them up in the tree. Once in my special spot, a good twelve feet in the air, I could take off my coat, drape it over the branch next to me and relax, read, think, watch, enjoy myself in the most decadent manner. See, I didn't worry up there, didn't think beyond where the stories took me.
Sometimes I would hear my brothers calling and I ignored them. You see, if it sounded urgent, I waited until they disappeared to climb down. I didn't want to give my spot away.
I could see into the neighbors yard. I could watch my brothers run through the neighborhood. I could shut my eyes and soak in the gentle swaying of the branches. Even in the hottest days, nestled in the leafy branches, I found relief from the heat.
And of course, I read for hours. That time was precious. Especially in the fall, when I was surrounded by scarlet leaves, sitting above the world.
I was a reader. I learned early on and with my extremely impressive vocabulary, tackled just about any book that came my way. From my recent tales of growing up with Scott, I'm sure you understand the challenge of finding a quiet spot to relax and just soak in a book. I managed.
We lived in town, literally on Main Street with a small house for our family of six with a postage sized yard that struggled to produce grass. However we did have a sugar maple in the back yard. The sugar maple is a beautiful tree, it's slow growing, so the monster in the back yard was decades old. The foliage is second to none, turning a scarlet hue that generously peppers the landscape in the fall.
Our tree was beautiful.
It also had all these incredible branches, just perfect for climbing. You really couldn't swing up the first split in the trunk by yourself, it was a good four feet in the air but we had wood stacked next to the tree and using the woodpile, you could shimmy up to that first split and after that, the climbing was easy. There was one spot in particular where several branches fanned out forming the perfect seat. It was this spot that I claimed as my own.
I always climbed with a jacket on, even in the hottest days. You see, I stashed books in my pockets and carried them up in the tree. Once in my special spot, a good twelve feet in the air, I could take off my coat, drape it over the branch next to me and relax, read, think, watch, enjoy myself in the most decadent manner. See, I didn't worry up there, didn't think beyond where the stories took me.
Sometimes I would hear my brothers calling and I ignored them. You see, if it sounded urgent, I waited until they disappeared to climb down. I didn't want to give my spot away.
I could see into the neighbors yard. I could watch my brothers run through the neighborhood. I could shut my eyes and soak in the gentle swaying of the branches. Even in the hottest days, nestled in the leafy branches, I found relief from the heat.
And of course, I read for hours. That time was precious. Especially in the fall, when I was surrounded by scarlet leaves, sitting above the world.
Friday, October 5, 2012
Four Day Weekend
Reason to celebrate?
If you're fourteen and under then yes, it's wonderful! If you're the mom that's been laid up all week with severe allergies, not so much so. It's all good, I've just been pretty much useless the last few days.
Useless meaning I've been blowing my nose, popping allergy pills and closing myself up in my room watching "Grey's Anatomy". Although I did make cookies with Greg last night.
Mostly Greg stirred and he did a good job stirring. There wasn't the usual puff of flour I get when children stir, that enthusiastic blow the powder out of the bowl. It's a lot like the huge puff that happens when I load to much flour into the kitchen aid while kneading bread.
I'm rambling.
Not really, not on the paper but in my head, it's ramble city.
Right now I'm trying to get Kate out the door so she can mow my mom's lawn. It's not working very well. She's suppose to take Greg for a play date. Ean's grabbing his bike, I 'm not sure my mom agreed to take him but he just left.
It's like I left the door open on the monkey cages.
Speaking of which, I just read a "Curious George" to Dave. Appropriate, no? He was thrilled, just thrilled. Gosh, remember when the littlest thing made you happy? Life was so easy. Okay, maybe it wasn't that easy but I'm grateful that even if I feel crappy, I can do little things like make a batch of cookies or read a story and I get to see my children light up and be excited.
I often write about our difficulties and while I try to keep a sense of humor, life isn't easy and my kids, as wonderful as they are, do have specific difficulties that I've shed tears over, they've shed tears over. So my crappy week, with allergy snot and pills aside, something special happened.
Magic.
Smiles.
Joy.
It was beautiful. Cookies and Curious George. Who would have thought cookies and Curious George.
If you're fourteen and under then yes, it's wonderful! If you're the mom that's been laid up all week with severe allergies, not so much so. It's all good, I've just been pretty much useless the last few days.
Useless meaning I've been blowing my nose, popping allergy pills and closing myself up in my room watching "Grey's Anatomy". Although I did make cookies with Greg last night.
Mostly Greg stirred and he did a good job stirring. There wasn't the usual puff of flour I get when children stir, that enthusiastic blow the powder out of the bowl. It's a lot like the huge puff that happens when I load to much flour into the kitchen aid while kneading bread.
I'm rambling.
Not really, not on the paper but in my head, it's ramble city.
Right now I'm trying to get Kate out the door so she can mow my mom's lawn. It's not working very well. She's suppose to take Greg for a play date. Ean's grabbing his bike, I 'm not sure my mom agreed to take him but he just left.
It's like I left the door open on the monkey cages.
Speaking of which, I just read a "Curious George" to Dave. Appropriate, no? He was thrilled, just thrilled. Gosh, remember when the littlest thing made you happy? Life was so easy. Okay, maybe it wasn't that easy but I'm grateful that even if I feel crappy, I can do little things like make a batch of cookies or read a story and I get to see my children light up and be excited.
I often write about our difficulties and while I try to keep a sense of humor, life isn't easy and my kids, as wonderful as they are, do have specific difficulties that I've shed tears over, they've shed tears over. So my crappy week, with allergy snot and pills aside, something special happened.
Magic.
Smiles.
Joy.
It was beautiful. Cookies and Curious George. Who would have thought cookies and Curious George.
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Timber! Fire! Scott!
There are tales worth telling. Tales that still bring a smile to my face.
Sure there was the frustrating stuff. Scott rearranging all the dishes right after they were put away. Obsessively mailing everything he could find. Asking permission fifteen times in a row if he can eat a sandwich.
I mentioned before about Scott biting and pinching and the bruises we all had. Before I share the funny, I need to mention the turn around in Scott's behavior. When I was in sixth grade, a man came to live in our house for a solid week. My mom could share the details on what department he was from and how it came about but my memories are just of him living in our house. His job was simply to give us ways to deal with Scott.
We learned how to physically put Scott to the ground, in a way that wouldn't hurt hurt him when he was raging, so he couldn't hurt other people. We rewarded Scott with bacon bits, the one non sugar item that he liked, for good choices.
I don't remember all the details but I do know this single week changed our home. My parents were facing this awful decision of putting my brother in an institution, a decision no parent should ever have to make. That week turned it around for our family. Scott stayed in our home, right where he belonged.
Learning to live with Scott doesn't mean that life was suddenly easier. You know Scott's OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder), well Scott can obsess and be compulsive like no one's business. He would constantly arrange, everything. So it was just as he pictured it should be. He drove us crazy.
Anyone commenting to my parents, that our house must be spotless were greeted with giggles and guffaws. My mother called it "order in chaos." See, if Scott saw a pair of socks on the floor, he didn't pick them up. He stretched them out parallel and wrinkle free, still on the floor. Scott's sense of order was unique.
So what did my non-verbal, OCD brother obsess about the most? He loved chainsaws and fire. How scary is that??? So as a tween, when he disappeared, the first thing we would do is run outside and stop and listen. If we heard the distant purr of a chainsaw, that was the direction we headed. Sometimes before we found him, a neighbor kid would run and tell us that he saw Scott in a police car and we knew he'd come home soon.
It helped being good friends the officer that lived next door.
What do you do with chainsaws? Why chop down trees of course! What would you use if you didn't have a chainsaw? Logically any saw from the basement, which Scott was sneaking out to cut down a sapling, a very tall sapling on the edge of our property. My dad figured it out and locked up all the saws. Scott was maybe a quarter of the way through, it should have been all right.
Did I mention my brother is resourceful?
One day I was in the kitchen, and I heard the familiar swoosh of a tree falling. A tree falling very close to the house. I knew that swoosh because we had spent the last two summers cutting trees down for wood to burn up at my grandparent's farm. I ran out the back door and there stood my brother with a steak knife, I kid you not, a freakin steak knife and the downed sapling on our neighbors porch.
My brother had been sneaking out of the house every single day, every chance he could to work at that tree. It took him all summer. But he did it! He was lucky he wasn't hurt. He was lucky dad saw the humor and the neighbors were understanding. I've been told it isn't possible, to cut a tree with a steak knife but it is. I saw the aftermath.
Which leads to the next obsession.
Scott loved fires and we burned wood to heat our home. Summer was hot and humid in Vermont. Miserable by anyone's standards so when my mom told Scott, after he asked for the fifteenth time if she'd start a fire, she rather meant it. It was July! In the nineties, in the humidity.
So Scott took matters in his own hands.
My brother Malcolm has a speech impediment. When he was six and seven, he still could not be understood. The words "Slow down Malcolm, speak slower" were pretty common in our home. There we were, watching tv and Malcolm had walked up the stairs and was standing on the landing. There was pointing and yelling, not a single one of us could understand him. We all said "SLOW DOWN." He continued to yell and point and act very unreasonable.
Show off that I was, I sauntered upstairs while telling my parents, that "I" would figure out what was going on. Up the stairs I went only to be greeted by the sight of flames, licking the outside of my parents bedroom door.
I screamed "The HOUSE IS ON FIRE!" Malcolm glared at me like I was the biggest idiot on the planet, that "No DUH" glare that only a sibling can give. My mom yelled for us to get out of the house and ran into the kitchen to call the fire department. My dad ran upstairs, only to find Scott standing in the hall cheerfully watching his handy work. Scott was very upset when my dad shoved him down the stairs and had me drag him out of the house.
It was his fire and no one was letting him watch! Scott was mad.
Bennington had a volunteer fire department with half a dozen little fire houses across the area. Once a month there was a big meeting with all the volunteers and as luck would have it, that day all the firemen in town were meeting at the fire house across the street. The parking lot was packed and a couple of firemen were walking to the building.
We hollered and yelled at them "THERE'S A FIRE IN OUR PARENTS BEDROOM!" repeatedly, as they briefly stared at us dumbfounded. It was just to absurd. Then they sprang into life and thirty volunteers tore across the street, the fire truck pulled out to park in front of our house and all these men streamed into the house. Smoke was pouring out the second story window.
In the meantime, my mother was still on the phone, she was still giving our address when the firemen ran in. My dad had already, mostly put the fire out but oh my did he have a tale to tell. First lesson he learned, you should never stomp out a fire started in a plastic garbage can. Did you realize the burning plastic will stick to your shoe and then your foot will be on fire?
The second lesson was that having a fire extinguisher near by can save not only your shoes but your foot too.
His description of his burning foot is the sort of story telling that lives on in family legends. It was hysterical.
I took two hours to confirm that the fire wasn't in our walls or floors, so after the initial excitement, the wait was kinda boring. But the volunteers did leave some really cool holes in my parents bedroom wall that went well with the burnt wall paper.
I think that gave my mom the courage to tackle re papering the walls herself a few years later. That in turn, led to Scott stripping wallpaper in little bits and pieces all over the entire house.
Oh yes, there was lots of laughter with Scott, but mostly after the fact. And luck, there definitely was luck growing up in Scott.
That house still stands today.
That had to be luck. *smile*
Sure there was the frustrating stuff. Scott rearranging all the dishes right after they were put away. Obsessively mailing everything he could find. Asking permission fifteen times in a row if he can eat a sandwich.
I mentioned before about Scott biting and pinching and the bruises we all had. Before I share the funny, I need to mention the turn around in Scott's behavior. When I was in sixth grade, a man came to live in our house for a solid week. My mom could share the details on what department he was from and how it came about but my memories are just of him living in our house. His job was simply to give us ways to deal with Scott.
We learned how to physically put Scott to the ground, in a way that wouldn't hurt hurt him when he was raging, so he couldn't hurt other people. We rewarded Scott with bacon bits, the one non sugar item that he liked, for good choices.
I don't remember all the details but I do know this single week changed our home. My parents were facing this awful decision of putting my brother in an institution, a decision no parent should ever have to make. That week turned it around for our family. Scott stayed in our home, right where he belonged.
Learning to live with Scott doesn't mean that life was suddenly easier. You know Scott's OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Disorder), well Scott can obsess and be compulsive like no one's business. He would constantly arrange, everything. So it was just as he pictured it should be. He drove us crazy.
Anyone commenting to my parents, that our house must be spotless were greeted with giggles and guffaws. My mother called it "order in chaos." See, if Scott saw a pair of socks on the floor, he didn't pick them up. He stretched them out parallel and wrinkle free, still on the floor. Scott's sense of order was unique.
So what did my non-verbal, OCD brother obsess about the most? He loved chainsaws and fire. How scary is that??? So as a tween, when he disappeared, the first thing we would do is run outside and stop and listen. If we heard the distant purr of a chainsaw, that was the direction we headed. Sometimes before we found him, a neighbor kid would run and tell us that he saw Scott in a police car and we knew he'd come home soon.
It helped being good friends the officer that lived next door.
What do you do with chainsaws? Why chop down trees of course! What would you use if you didn't have a chainsaw? Logically any saw from the basement, which Scott was sneaking out to cut down a sapling, a very tall sapling on the edge of our property. My dad figured it out and locked up all the saws. Scott was maybe a quarter of the way through, it should have been all right.
Did I mention my brother is resourceful?
One day I was in the kitchen, and I heard the familiar swoosh of a tree falling. A tree falling very close to the house. I knew that swoosh because we had spent the last two summers cutting trees down for wood to burn up at my grandparent's farm. I ran out the back door and there stood my brother with a steak knife, I kid you not, a freakin steak knife and the downed sapling on our neighbors porch.
My brother had been sneaking out of the house every single day, every chance he could to work at that tree. It took him all summer. But he did it! He was lucky he wasn't hurt. He was lucky dad saw the humor and the neighbors were understanding. I've been told it isn't possible, to cut a tree with a steak knife but it is. I saw the aftermath.
Which leads to the next obsession.
Scott loved fires and we burned wood to heat our home. Summer was hot and humid in Vermont. Miserable by anyone's standards so when my mom told Scott, after he asked for the fifteenth time if she'd start a fire, she rather meant it. It was July! In the nineties, in the humidity.
So Scott took matters in his own hands.
My brother Malcolm has a speech impediment. When he was six and seven, he still could not be understood. The words "Slow down Malcolm, speak slower" were pretty common in our home. There we were, watching tv and Malcolm had walked up the stairs and was standing on the landing. There was pointing and yelling, not a single one of us could understand him. We all said "SLOW DOWN." He continued to yell and point and act very unreasonable.
Show off that I was, I sauntered upstairs while telling my parents, that "I" would figure out what was going on. Up the stairs I went only to be greeted by the sight of flames, licking the outside of my parents bedroom door.
I screamed "The HOUSE IS ON FIRE!" Malcolm glared at me like I was the biggest idiot on the planet, that "No DUH" glare that only a sibling can give. My mom yelled for us to get out of the house and ran into the kitchen to call the fire department. My dad ran upstairs, only to find Scott standing in the hall cheerfully watching his handy work. Scott was very upset when my dad shoved him down the stairs and had me drag him out of the house.
It was his fire and no one was letting him watch! Scott was mad.
Bennington had a volunteer fire department with half a dozen little fire houses across the area. Once a month there was a big meeting with all the volunteers and as luck would have it, that day all the firemen in town were meeting at the fire house across the street. The parking lot was packed and a couple of firemen were walking to the building.
We hollered and yelled at them "THERE'S A FIRE IN OUR PARENTS BEDROOM!" repeatedly, as they briefly stared at us dumbfounded. It was just to absurd. Then they sprang into life and thirty volunteers tore across the street, the fire truck pulled out to park in front of our house and all these men streamed into the house. Smoke was pouring out the second story window.
In the meantime, my mother was still on the phone, she was still giving our address when the firemen ran in. My dad had already, mostly put the fire out but oh my did he have a tale to tell. First lesson he learned, you should never stomp out a fire started in a plastic garbage can. Did you realize the burning plastic will stick to your shoe and then your foot will be on fire?
The second lesson was that having a fire extinguisher near by can save not only your shoes but your foot too.
His description of his burning foot is the sort of story telling that lives on in family legends. It was hysterical.
I took two hours to confirm that the fire wasn't in our walls or floors, so after the initial excitement, the wait was kinda boring. But the volunteers did leave some really cool holes in my parents bedroom wall that went well with the burnt wall paper.
I think that gave my mom the courage to tackle re papering the walls herself a few years later. That in turn, led to Scott stripping wallpaper in little bits and pieces all over the entire house.
Oh yes, there was lots of laughter with Scott, but mostly after the fact. And luck, there definitely was luck growing up in Scott.
That house still stands today.
That had to be luck. *smile*
Friday, September 28, 2012
Scott
Scott was born in March of 1969. A full decade before the disabled were really seen as people. The child that made my parents, parents. Perfect to look at, a beautiful boy with his dad's eyes. As a first child my parents had no reasons to believe that Scott was anything less then perfect.
There's five weeks out of the year that Scott and I are the same age. During that five weeks my mom likes to mess with people and cheerfully announce she has two *insert whatever age I just turned* year olds just so she can get told "I didn't know you had twins!" and she can say "I don't."
Mom's told me how she went in with her newborn and asked about birth control and was told she didn't need birth control, she was pregnant. In complete shock, my mom told her doctor, she already had a baby, newborn Scott being proof.
I was unplanned and unexpected but that doesn't mean God didn't have a reason for sending me immediately to my family. You see, I was precocious. I walked at ten months, I was speaking sentences at 18 months, I potty trained myself, having learned just from watching my mother struggle teaching Scott. As I developed, my parents were able to see that something wasn't right with Scott.
A pre-schooler in the early '70's with undiagnosed delays was pretty much living the nightmare. At that time doctors blamed mothers. It was my mother's fault her son didn't speak and didn't interact with others. One time mom was told that it was my fault. I was hindering my brother and we should be kept apart so Scott would have a chance to develop on his own and not be intimidated by his baby sister.
Now we know, it's nobody's fault and it doesn't seem possible that a mother seeking help could blamed for something completely out of her control but happen it did. My parents had the sense to not let some doctor's ignorance hinder their search for answers. By the time Scott was six, they finally had a diagnosis.
Autism.
I didn't realize this until I was an adult but there were other issues at this time my parents dealt with, like a seizure disorder. Before my memories, Scott had seizures. Scott also has severe OCD.
When I was five, I remember riding the bus to Kindergarten. What I didn't know was that my mom was fighting to get my brother in school. Mid seventies teachers still tested kids to make sure they were ready. You had task to complete in a certain time or your parents were told sorry, no school for you. So here was my mom, with a child desperately needing help, more help then any one person could give and they didn't want him at school.
Anyone with special kids needs to know that it was people like my mom, that attacked school policies and paved the way for every child to have the right to be educated.
I've been trying to recall what I remember from those early years. I have snippets of pictures in my head. Making mud pies on the steps of our trailer with Scott. Running and yelling in the yard. Being so close in age, as Scott's younger sister, he was my friend and I had no idea that it should have been different. He should have been different.
My dad told me a story once, classic autism at work. When Scott was two, the Christmas tree was set up. Sparkly lights and pretty tinsel all shiny and bright. Scott pointed to the tree and said to my dad in a very loud voice "Christmas tree" and then never spoke again.
Kids that don't speak act out in frustration. For Scott that morphed into severe pinching and biting. When he pinched he would grab hold of a solid inch of flesh and squeeze while twisting with great tenacity. Biting was the same, griping with teeth and biting down with pressure like a nutcracker cracking nuts. I grew up with bruises on my arms and legs, we all did.
Fifth and sixth grade I went to the same school as Scott.
It was mortifying.
You know the click you hear right before the PA system goes on. I dreaded that click. You see, that click would happen, a moment of silence would envelop the classroom as everyone would pause, waiting to hear what would be said. Then this awful shrieking would fill the building, coming from the PA, echoing down the halls of the entire school. This urgent voice would loudly (you know, so it could heard over the awful shrieking) say "Mr. Charest, please come to the office, Mr. Charest, please come to the office."
I dreaded that voice.
I never said, oh that's my brother out of control but the kids knew. I remember once walking to school, there were kids in front of me and behind me. There was as sweet little bouncy girl that started skipping by me, I said hi and she said hi back. Her brother and his friends hurried forward with the brother speaking to his sister while glaring me. He said "Don't talk to her, her brother is retarded, she's probably retarded too."
Devastating.
For middle school my mom had me walk my brother to and from school. It was isolating. No one wanted to walk with me. What was really tough was the adults that didn't understand. There was a separate door for the special education kids, if that door was locked, I had to go in the building. Students weren't allowed in the building before the bell rang but I just couldn't try to keep track of Scott in the yard with all the other kids. They wouldn't understand him.
They would tease me.
So I would go in the front door, tell the secretaries I was taking Scott to his room and they would smile and wave. They understood. I dreaded meeting any teachers in the hall because they were always hostile, demanding to know why I was in the school before the bell.
It wasn't all tough. There was humor and laughter. The absurdity of the situation. Crazy Scott stories that are worth retelling a thousand times. I'll save those for the next post.
As for this one, it wasn't easy growing up with Scott.
There's five weeks out of the year that Scott and I are the same age. During that five weeks my mom likes to mess with people and cheerfully announce she has two *insert whatever age I just turned* year olds just so she can get told "I didn't know you had twins!" and she can say "I don't."
Mom's told me how she went in with her newborn and asked about birth control and was told she didn't need birth control, she was pregnant. In complete shock, my mom told her doctor, she already had a baby, newborn Scott being proof.
I was unplanned and unexpected but that doesn't mean God didn't have a reason for sending me immediately to my family. You see, I was precocious. I walked at ten months, I was speaking sentences at 18 months, I potty trained myself, having learned just from watching my mother struggle teaching Scott. As I developed, my parents were able to see that something wasn't right with Scott.
A pre-schooler in the early '70's with undiagnosed delays was pretty much living the nightmare. At that time doctors blamed mothers. It was my mother's fault her son didn't speak and didn't interact with others. One time mom was told that it was my fault. I was hindering my brother and we should be kept apart so Scott would have a chance to develop on his own and not be intimidated by his baby sister.
Now we know, it's nobody's fault and it doesn't seem possible that a mother seeking help could blamed for something completely out of her control but happen it did. My parents had the sense to not let some doctor's ignorance hinder their search for answers. By the time Scott was six, they finally had a diagnosis.
Autism.
I didn't realize this until I was an adult but there were other issues at this time my parents dealt with, like a seizure disorder. Before my memories, Scott had seizures. Scott also has severe OCD.
When I was five, I remember riding the bus to Kindergarten. What I didn't know was that my mom was fighting to get my brother in school. Mid seventies teachers still tested kids to make sure they were ready. You had task to complete in a certain time or your parents were told sorry, no school for you. So here was my mom, with a child desperately needing help, more help then any one person could give and they didn't want him at school.
Anyone with special kids needs to know that it was people like my mom, that attacked school policies and paved the way for every child to have the right to be educated.
I've been trying to recall what I remember from those early years. I have snippets of pictures in my head. Making mud pies on the steps of our trailer with Scott. Running and yelling in the yard. Being so close in age, as Scott's younger sister, he was my friend and I had no idea that it should have been different. He should have been different.
My dad told me a story once, classic autism at work. When Scott was two, the Christmas tree was set up. Sparkly lights and pretty tinsel all shiny and bright. Scott pointed to the tree and said to my dad in a very loud voice "Christmas tree" and then never spoke again.
Kids that don't speak act out in frustration. For Scott that morphed into severe pinching and biting. When he pinched he would grab hold of a solid inch of flesh and squeeze while twisting with great tenacity. Biting was the same, griping with teeth and biting down with pressure like a nutcracker cracking nuts. I grew up with bruises on my arms and legs, we all did.
Fifth and sixth grade I went to the same school as Scott.
It was mortifying.
You know the click you hear right before the PA system goes on. I dreaded that click. You see, that click would happen, a moment of silence would envelop the classroom as everyone would pause, waiting to hear what would be said. Then this awful shrieking would fill the building, coming from the PA, echoing down the halls of the entire school. This urgent voice would loudly (you know, so it could heard over the awful shrieking) say "Mr. Charest, please come to the office, Mr. Charest, please come to the office."
I dreaded that voice.
I never said, oh that's my brother out of control but the kids knew. I remember once walking to school, there were kids in front of me and behind me. There was as sweet little bouncy girl that started skipping by me, I said hi and she said hi back. Her brother and his friends hurried forward with the brother speaking to his sister while glaring me. He said "Don't talk to her, her brother is retarded, she's probably retarded too."
Devastating.
For middle school my mom had me walk my brother to and from school. It was isolating. No one wanted to walk with me. What was really tough was the adults that didn't understand. There was a separate door for the special education kids, if that door was locked, I had to go in the building. Students weren't allowed in the building before the bell rang but I just couldn't try to keep track of Scott in the yard with all the other kids. They wouldn't understand him.
They would tease me.
So I would go in the front door, tell the secretaries I was taking Scott to his room and they would smile and wave. They understood. I dreaded meeting any teachers in the hall because they were always hostile, demanding to know why I was in the school before the bell.
It wasn't all tough. There was humor and laughter. The absurdity of the situation. Crazy Scott stories that are worth retelling a thousand times. I'll save those for the next post.
As for this one, it wasn't easy growing up with Scott.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
My Mother is an Amazing Woman
I posted on facebook that my mother is the best. And she is. She's amazing in many different ways. This statement is not a challenge, I really don't want anyone trying to one up my statement. In the same way I love each of my children and think they're wonderful, there are multiple wonderful women that are fantastic mothers.
SO clam it.
Back to the point, my mother is the best!
A little background on my mom. My mom was born in Pocatello Idaho, and stayed here until she turned 18. Life wasn't easy. My grandfather was a hog farmer that picked up produce that supermarkets couldn't sell anymore. That's how he fed his family for many years and what was too spoiled or rotten to eat was fed to the hogs. Hogs are smelly creatures that permeates your hair and your clothes.
Being a kid is rough.
Being a kid that goes to school after slopping hogs is cruel. Kids are cruel.
Remember my girls learning disabilities. Well those are inherited, my girls got them from me. I can't memorize worth squat, never could but I was able to compensate in other ways, not needing the interventions my girls have needed. My inability to memorize comes from my mom.
Schooling in the 1950's was very different then schooling now. The disabled were stashed away, not to be seen. Understanding of learning disabilities just wasn't there. Kids, with real reasons that were unable to learn were labeled. My mom called it the dummy chair. Said she was always placed in the back, so she wouldn't disturb the smart kids. Raising hogs, getting passed from grade to grade while being functionally illiterate, teased mercilessly and then being raised by a hard nosed father that didn't know how to give my mom credit for any accomplishments. My mom left her home with no idea what her potential was.
To understand my grandfather, you have to realize he didn't mean to be cruel. He lived a hard life, raising six siblings as a tender teenager in the heart of the depression shaped him.
He didn't know how to be anybody else.
Anyway, back to my mom. Out of desperation, unemployed, living with her older married sister and desperate to do something, anything with her life, my mom joined the army.
That's where she met my dad. Talk about opposite worlds. My dad was the son of an Ambassador, son of a diplomat. And when my dad met my mom, my dad saw something in my mother, saw her potential, saw her beauty, inside and out. Saw her worth and fell hard for her. She needed that. He gave her confidence, lifted her up.
My mom was able to reveal her soul. With my dad's encouragement, mom started learning how to read. She started with children's books and worked her way up to classics. She decided she wanted to be a nurse and took the admissions test three times before she passed. She worked like hell in between, strengthening her skills, doing what needed to be done. And she did it. Tenacity, that's my mother. Grabbing hold and not letting go. Trying over and over even when it's hard. So hard it hurts.
Having the four of us was no picnic either. My oldest brother is non-verbal, his autism and OCD crippling. Then there was me (haHA!) smart alec kid I was and my younger brothers, one with severe health problems as an infant and speech so severe he lived in a foster home for three years, in another town so he could attend another school, a special school that helped him learn to talk. I can't imagine needing to make that choice for my child.
We weren't easy.
And when I as Kate's age, my mom was a nursing student to boot.
So maybe the background is the story. My mother has strength. The hog farmer's daughter educated herself, went back to school, loved life, raised children, raised hard children with medical issues, so draining, so incredibly draining.
Yet she still found time to teach me to bake. Taught me, through loving my dad, what a real marriage looks like. How to stick with a spouse through thick and thin. She taught me how to persevere, how to keep going forward. She taught me to be a better person, gave me a reason to be a better person. Taught me to love my Savior.
When I say my mom is incredible, I'm not just saying that. In my mind I'm thinking of everything I know about her, every obstacle she's overcome. I'm picturing the uneducated farm girl that fled at 18 and comparing her to the refined, world traveler that educates herself in the gospel, in politics, in things that interest her.
I'm seeing the brave woman that didn't drop the photography and writing class she was a week into, when my dad died. She took those classes believing my she would have my dad to help her. She could have dropped them, she didn't know how she would pass, up to that point my dad always edited and helped her write her papers. My dad was the photography buff. When my mom passed those classes a mere 3 1/2 months after his death, she passed on her own. The daughter of a hog farmer.
So let me repeat, My. Mother. IS. AMAZING. I love her.
SO clam it.
Back to the point, my mother is the best!
A little background on my mom. My mom was born in Pocatello Idaho, and stayed here until she turned 18. Life wasn't easy. My grandfather was a hog farmer that picked up produce that supermarkets couldn't sell anymore. That's how he fed his family for many years and what was too spoiled or rotten to eat was fed to the hogs. Hogs are smelly creatures that permeates your hair and your clothes.
Being a kid is rough.
Being a kid that goes to school after slopping hogs is cruel. Kids are cruel.
Remember my girls learning disabilities. Well those are inherited, my girls got them from me. I can't memorize worth squat, never could but I was able to compensate in other ways, not needing the interventions my girls have needed. My inability to memorize comes from my mom.
Schooling in the 1950's was very different then schooling now. The disabled were stashed away, not to be seen. Understanding of learning disabilities just wasn't there. Kids, with real reasons that were unable to learn were labeled. My mom called it the dummy chair. Said she was always placed in the back, so she wouldn't disturb the smart kids. Raising hogs, getting passed from grade to grade while being functionally illiterate, teased mercilessly and then being raised by a hard nosed father that didn't know how to give my mom credit for any accomplishments. My mom left her home with no idea what her potential was.
To understand my grandfather, you have to realize he didn't mean to be cruel. He lived a hard life, raising six siblings as a tender teenager in the heart of the depression shaped him.
He didn't know how to be anybody else.
Anyway, back to my mom. Out of desperation, unemployed, living with her older married sister and desperate to do something, anything with her life, my mom joined the army.
That's where she met my dad. Talk about opposite worlds. My dad was the son of an Ambassador, son of a diplomat. And when my dad met my mom, my dad saw something in my mother, saw her potential, saw her beauty, inside and out. Saw her worth and fell hard for her. She needed that. He gave her confidence, lifted her up.
My mom was able to reveal her soul. With my dad's encouragement, mom started learning how to read. She started with children's books and worked her way up to classics. She decided she wanted to be a nurse and took the admissions test three times before she passed. She worked like hell in between, strengthening her skills, doing what needed to be done. And she did it. Tenacity, that's my mother. Grabbing hold and not letting go. Trying over and over even when it's hard. So hard it hurts.
Having the four of us was no picnic either. My oldest brother is non-verbal, his autism and OCD crippling. Then there was me (haHA!) smart alec kid I was and my younger brothers, one with severe health problems as an infant and speech so severe he lived in a foster home for three years, in another town so he could attend another school, a special school that helped him learn to talk. I can't imagine needing to make that choice for my child.
We weren't easy.
And when I as Kate's age, my mom was a nursing student to boot.
So maybe the background is the story. My mother has strength. The hog farmer's daughter educated herself, went back to school, loved life, raised children, raised hard children with medical issues, so draining, so incredibly draining.
Yet she still found time to teach me to bake. Taught me, through loving my dad, what a real marriage looks like. How to stick with a spouse through thick and thin. She taught me how to persevere, how to keep going forward. She taught me to be a better person, gave me a reason to be a better person. Taught me to love my Savior.
When I say my mom is incredible, I'm not just saying that. In my mind I'm thinking of everything I know about her, every obstacle she's overcome. I'm picturing the uneducated farm girl that fled at 18 and comparing her to the refined, world traveler that educates herself in the gospel, in politics, in things that interest her.
I'm seeing the brave woman that didn't drop the photography and writing class she was a week into, when my dad died. She took those classes believing my she would have my dad to help her. She could have dropped them, she didn't know how she would pass, up to that point my dad always edited and helped her write her papers. My dad was the photography buff. When my mom passed those classes a mere 3 1/2 months after his death, she passed on her own. The daughter of a hog farmer.
So let me repeat, My. Mother. IS. AMAZING. I love her.
Monday, September 24, 2012
Talar Jag Svenska?
In American vernacular that means "Am I speaking Swedish?"
Yesterday, I had this odd occurrence happen repeatedly over the weekend. As I stated yesterday, I spent the weekend with a stomach bug. Saturday after Kent came home, I dragged myself to the store, buying white bread for toast and ginger ale so I could have something easy to drink. Of course I stated, upon entering my home that the purchased soda was mine, it was not meant for general consumption.
Sunday was spent napping, eating toast and slowly sipping ginger ale, as it should be.
I figured I needed something more for dinner. It was time to eat a real meal, so I made a real meal. I put the children to work running for stuff because I still wasn't up to par. We had spaghetti with garlic bread. Everyone enjoyed dinner, some more then others. Missy picky pants managed to eat spaghetti while leaving oddles of sauce and the minced veggies they contained. She's amazing.
We had leftovers, enough for dinner tonight. Kent prefers spaghetti with cheesy garlic bread. Actually Kent will only eat spaghetti with cheesy garlic bread. Whatever works. I used a huge loaf of Italian bread. We only used half it, I thought to myself "PERFECT" because we can have it for dinner Monday night.
I made a point to tell the kids to put the sauce and bread away and not to touch anything, of course I included our plans too. It's all for dinner tomorrow night, which is now tonight tonight.
Clear as mud, right?
Now after dinner I felt a little queasy. It was my first meal after a very long weekend and I was looking forward to a glass of ginger ale. The sweetness, plus the bubbles, hopefully would settle my stomach. I go to the fridge, open the door and there's about quarter cup of ginger ale at the bottom of the two liter bottle.
Excuse me?!!
Someone drank my ginger ale! Missy tween said she only drank a few sips and then when I started to chew her out and she got very defensive saying she was always being blamed and I'm going, hey, you've CONFESSED, you can't play victim when you've confessed!
If that wasn't enough, shortly after that I discover my nice half a loaf of Italian bread is not a quarter loaf of Italian bread. Really?
Truly head banging frustrating.
Which leads me to my first question, "Talar jag svenska?"
Yesterday, I had this odd occurrence happen repeatedly over the weekend. As I stated yesterday, I spent the weekend with a stomach bug. Saturday after Kent came home, I dragged myself to the store, buying white bread for toast and ginger ale so I could have something easy to drink. Of course I stated, upon entering my home that the purchased soda was mine, it was not meant for general consumption.
Sunday was spent napping, eating toast and slowly sipping ginger ale, as it should be.
I figured I needed something more for dinner. It was time to eat a real meal, so I made a real meal. I put the children to work running for stuff because I still wasn't up to par. We had spaghetti with garlic bread. Everyone enjoyed dinner, some more then others. Missy picky pants managed to eat spaghetti while leaving oddles of sauce and the minced veggies they contained. She's amazing.
We had leftovers, enough for dinner tonight. Kent prefers spaghetti with cheesy garlic bread. Actually Kent will only eat spaghetti with cheesy garlic bread. Whatever works. I used a huge loaf of Italian bread. We only used half it, I thought to myself "PERFECT" because we can have it for dinner Monday night.
I made a point to tell the kids to put the sauce and bread away and not to touch anything, of course I included our plans too. It's all for dinner tomorrow night, which is now tonight tonight.
Clear as mud, right?
Now after dinner I felt a little queasy. It was my first meal after a very long weekend and I was looking forward to a glass of ginger ale. The sweetness, plus the bubbles, hopefully would settle my stomach. I go to the fridge, open the door and there's about quarter cup of ginger ale at the bottom of the two liter bottle.
Excuse me?!!
Someone drank my ginger ale! Missy tween said she only drank a few sips and then when I started to chew her out and she got very defensive saying she was always being blamed and I'm going, hey, you've CONFESSED, you can't play victim when you've confessed!
If that wasn't enough, shortly after that I discover my nice half a loaf of Italian bread is not a quarter loaf of Italian bread. Really?
Truly head banging frustrating.
Which leads me to my first question, "Talar jag svenska?"
Sunday, September 23, 2012
Pet Freedom
What is pet freedom? It's that awful realization that you like not having pets in the house. What makes it awful? Having children that want the complete opposite, that is what makes it awful.
See, we got a pound dog twelve years ago. Bless that animal, he loved me. As in, barely acknowledging anyone else in the house when his big brown doggy eyes saw only me. I do mean big. Beastie dog was over eighty pounds at the end of his life. We had to make the difficult decision to put him down last February.
He was at least a year, maybe two when we got him, that put him thirteen or fourteen when he was put down. Poor thing could not keep his footing in our kitchen or the back deck. I had a traumatic experience as a teenager, when our dear family dog fell on the back steps. He broke his leg and he was so heavy (he was a golden retriever, so big dog) my mom and I had to carry him on a blanket to get him to the car. He wimpered and whined, he was in so much pain and I cried the whole way.
Well our big beastie was falling with his hind legs splaying open. I was terrified of him breaking a hip, while Kent was at work and worse, while the kids were home.
It wouldn't have been fair to him, to me or to the kids.
So we put him down. It was hard, hardest for the kids but it needed to be done.
We spent the summer without a dog and I'm almost embarrassed to admit how nice it was to not worry about dog care during trips. Not have dog fur everywhere. Not have the expense of feeding the animal. It's been so nice. I don't think I want to go back.
I'm really more of a cat person.
I hope the kids forgive me for not dog hunting right now.
See, we got a pound dog twelve years ago. Bless that animal, he loved me. As in, barely acknowledging anyone else in the house when his big brown doggy eyes saw only me. I do mean big. Beastie dog was over eighty pounds at the end of his life. We had to make the difficult decision to put him down last February.
He was at least a year, maybe two when we got him, that put him thirteen or fourteen when he was put down. Poor thing could not keep his footing in our kitchen or the back deck. I had a traumatic experience as a teenager, when our dear family dog fell on the back steps. He broke his leg and he was so heavy (he was a golden retriever, so big dog) my mom and I had to carry him on a blanket to get him to the car. He wimpered and whined, he was in so much pain and I cried the whole way.
Well our big beastie was falling with his hind legs splaying open. I was terrified of him breaking a hip, while Kent was at work and worse, while the kids were home.
It wouldn't have been fair to him, to me or to the kids.
So we put him down. It was hard, hardest for the kids but it needed to be done.
We spent the summer without a dog and I'm almost embarrassed to admit how nice it was to not worry about dog care during trips. Not have dog fur everywhere. Not have the expense of feeding the animal. It's been so nice. I don't think I want to go back.
I'm really more of a cat person.
I hope the kids forgive me for not dog hunting right now.
Not much to write about this weekend
Unless anyone wanted me to go into the glorious details of the stomach bug I woke up with yesterday. Which, because I was raised a certain way, I will not be sharing. I mean, some people believe in full disclosure, but some of us were raised right and believe that sordid details should remain buried.
Seriously, Kent was gone all day yesterday doing a Scout service project and hike and I didn't tell him the sordid details either.
And he's my husband!!
So this weekend could have definitely gone better.
Bonus, I woke up, ate toast and went back to bed. When I woke up again, it was noon and the house was empty.
To bad I didn't reel better so I could enjoy the silence more.
It could be worse. Yesterday was worse. Lets leave it at that.
So in twenty minutes or so, the quiet ends. The rug rats will be back from church and I may need to take another nap.
Good plan.
Seriously, Kent was gone all day yesterday doing a Scout service project and hike and I didn't tell him the sordid details either.
And he's my husband!!
So this weekend could have definitely gone better.
Bonus, I woke up, ate toast and went back to bed. When I woke up again, it was noon and the house was empty.
To bad I didn't reel better so I could enjoy the silence more.
It could be worse. Yesterday was worse. Lets leave it at that.
So in twenty minutes or so, the quiet ends. The rug rats will be back from church and I may need to take another nap.
Good plan.
Thursday, September 20, 2012
LOVE our local High School
There's a lot of rivalry in our town. In particular out of the three schools in town, the biggest rivalry is between the school my oldest is at and the school my cousins went to. Ironically the school missy is at is the same one my mother graduated from. I think that's pretty cool my daughter is going to the same school her grandmother went to. Although there's been a lot of additions and remodeling so it looks very different then it looked fifty years ago.
The rivalry is so great, that when asked what school our daughter attends, we're met with hostility because there's no way THIS school could be as good as THE OTHER school.
It's really silly.
Contrary to all the naysayers, we're having a fabulous experience with missy's high school. Off the bat there's the math switcharoo. Last year in middle school, we fought all year over math. The school was determined to leave girlie in mainstream math despite all the obvious troubles she was having. Two days into high school and she's switched into a lower math. A week after that and she's moved to a fabulous classroom aimed at drilling the basics.
When meeting with her teachers last night, everyone was so quick to do everything they could to help her. She has an arrangement to take tests in a small room with her school counselor. She needs extra time for test and few distractions, so this is wonderful.
Her math teacher explains that she'll be in her class as long as she needs to be there. If it takes all four years of high school to learn the information, then it takes four years. Of course the goal is to prepare her for mainstream math but it's so good to know that the school is keeping track of her. Every week her classes are reviewed and her counselor made it clear that she will go to bat for missy, to make sure her IEP is followed.
The difference over the amount of involvement with my child is night and day over our previous experience at the other school.
The absolute best part of High school is that missy has matured so much. The past two years has been a battle to keep her up with school work. Miserable for her, miserable for us making most of the school year like house arrest. Suddenly it's clicked with her and she's trying to keep up. Her effort, seeing her trying is such an incredible experience. My heart was just filled with love and pride for missy, as I could see how much she's matured.
To heck with the High School rivalry. My teen is exactly where she needs to be.
The rivalry is so great, that when asked what school our daughter attends, we're met with hostility because there's no way THIS school could be as good as THE OTHER school.
It's really silly.
Contrary to all the naysayers, we're having a fabulous experience with missy's high school. Off the bat there's the math switcharoo. Last year in middle school, we fought all year over math. The school was determined to leave girlie in mainstream math despite all the obvious troubles she was having. Two days into high school and she's switched into a lower math. A week after that and she's moved to a fabulous classroom aimed at drilling the basics.
When meeting with her teachers last night, everyone was so quick to do everything they could to help her. She has an arrangement to take tests in a small room with her school counselor. She needs extra time for test and few distractions, so this is wonderful.
Her math teacher explains that she'll be in her class as long as she needs to be there. If it takes all four years of high school to learn the information, then it takes four years. Of course the goal is to prepare her for mainstream math but it's so good to know that the school is keeping track of her. Every week her classes are reviewed and her counselor made it clear that she will go to bat for missy, to make sure her IEP is followed.
The difference over the amount of involvement with my child is night and day over our previous experience at the other school.
The absolute best part of High school is that missy has matured so much. The past two years has been a battle to keep her up with school work. Miserable for her, miserable for us making most of the school year like house arrest. Suddenly it's clicked with her and she's trying to keep up. Her effort, seeing her trying is such an incredible experience. My heart was just filled with love and pride for missy, as I could see how much she's matured.
To heck with the High School rivalry. My teen is exactly where she needs to be.
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Tweens
Today I watched my friends two kids after school for a few hours. My tween is very good friends with her tween, so I thought this will work out great. They don't get to see each other often during the school year, since they go to different schools and have different schedules.
My friend's tween (the brunette) arrives at my house a good half hour before my tween gets out of school. I told her she could walk over to the school and meet my tween. (the blond)
So off brunette tween goes. Twenty minutes after school was let out, I get a message from brunette, who texted my house phone, to ask when school is let out. I told her, twenty minutes ago, she must have missed the blond tween, come back to my house.
So then five minutes later, in comes the blond tween with her bike helmet on. I sent her out the door to go find her friend, the brunette tween. Low and behold, twenty minutes after that, in walks the brunette tween and who knows where my blond tween is.
Brunette tween bolts out the door, and I have to call her back because obviously they were not going to find each other. You know, the whole three blocks and grassy field between our house and the middle school.
I put the brunette tween into my car and drive to the elementary school parking lot, which gives an excellent view of the field and we look. No blond tween in sight.
What the heck? How did she bike to the school?
So back to my house we go and some time later in walks the blond tween, extremely upset. Sure enough, she biked *around* the field because she didn't want to bike on the grass. I asked her how she thought she'd find her friend if she biked a different way then people walk? She got crabbier.
Both tweens were able to spend a little time together but seriously, it was a like a bad sitcom as they rotated in and out of the house trying to find each other.
It was far more amusing then the blond tween hiding tonight to watch tv instead of taking a shower like she was told.
My friend's tween (the brunette) arrives at my house a good half hour before my tween gets out of school. I told her she could walk over to the school and meet my tween. (the blond)
So off brunette tween goes. Twenty minutes after school was let out, I get a message from brunette, who texted my house phone, to ask when school is let out. I told her, twenty minutes ago, she must have missed the blond tween, come back to my house.
So then five minutes later, in comes the blond tween with her bike helmet on. I sent her out the door to go find her friend, the brunette tween. Low and behold, twenty minutes after that, in walks the brunette tween and who knows where my blond tween is.
Brunette tween bolts out the door, and I have to call her back because obviously they were not going to find each other. You know, the whole three blocks and grassy field between our house and the middle school.
I put the brunette tween into my car and drive to the elementary school parking lot, which gives an excellent view of the field and we look. No blond tween in sight.
What the heck? How did she bike to the school?
So back to my house we go and some time later in walks the blond tween, extremely upset. Sure enough, she biked *around* the field because she didn't want to bike on the grass. I asked her how she thought she'd find her friend if she biked a different way then people walk? She got crabbier.
Both tweens were able to spend a little time together but seriously, it was a like a bad sitcom as they rotated in and out of the house trying to find each other.
It was far more amusing then the blond tween hiding tonight to watch tv instead of taking a shower like she was told.
Re-vamping Goals.
Met with the middle boys teacher today after school. She made a point to tell me that she could tell that he's trying but a day is an awfully long time. Apparently there were a few small things at the end of the day and she hated to not reward him when he was obviously trying.
So we're splitting the day into two segments. A note can be earned each segment, so effort will be acknowledged, even if there is a few bumps during the day.
Middle boy helped brainstorm on this with his teacher, so he's taking ownership of the process, you could say.
Revamping how smileys are given means revamping the rewards. I haven't talked to my husband yet, but my mom suggested that middle boy get a half hour of computer time for each smiley. I think I like that. That gives him a possible five hours he could earn during the week and I think we'll throw in an extra hour for the weekend if it's a perfect week.
He adores the computer so this is a big big motivator for him.
*whew*
So that's where we stand.
So we're splitting the day into two segments. A note can be earned each segment, so effort will be acknowledged, even if there is a few bumps during the day.
Middle boy helped brainstorm on this with his teacher, so he's taking ownership of the process, you could say.
Revamping how smileys are given means revamping the rewards. I haven't talked to my husband yet, but my mom suggested that middle boy get a half hour of computer time for each smiley. I think I like that. That gives him a possible five hours he could earn during the week and I think we'll throw in an extra hour for the weekend if it's a perfect week.
He adores the computer so this is a big big motivator for him.
*whew*
So that's where we stand.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
The Art of Baking with Natural Yeast
By Caleb Warnock and Melissa Richardson
My wonderful mother picked up this book from Costco for me. I'm so excited, it's fantastic!
There's a ton of useful information in this book. It discusses the importance of natural yeast in our diets, how natural yeast actually turns wheat into the healthy staple that God intended for it to be. It aids in the digestion, makes it so the nutrients in wheat are more easily absorbed into the body.
There's good information on how to feed and grow your yeast, the author has a sparkling whit as she describes naming her yeast in the hopes that she'd remember to feed and nourish it. She also tells you where you can acquire natural (also called wild) yeast. There's even directions on how to start from scratch.
I'm already a baker and I know how to make lovely wheat bread with my own ground wheat, so maybe learning to use natural yeast is a natural step. It doesn't sound hard, it just takes planning and the extra long raising time that natural yeast requires actually seems like it would lend it's way to a busy lifestyle because you can mix, knead and prepare your dough the night before and then cook in the morning.
Heck, I drive to Idaho Falls and go shopping, have lunch and go to the movies before the dough will be ready to shape.
I also found it interesting to see different techniques that the author uses. She recommends testing the elasticity in your dough by stretching a segment out and if it doesn't shred or rip while looking fairly uniform then your dough is ready. My mom taught me to poke the bread and see if/how it bounces back. Really springy dough shows that it's been kneaded sufficiently.
Oh and the kneading! Her kneading techniques were completely foreign to me. Her instructions were very clear, it's just not how I do it. I do a continuous smooth motion that involves flattening, folding and turning while folding so you're constantly working different parts of your dough. If you have a method that works for you or even prefer to use a machine like a kitchen aid or Bosch mixer, it's all good as long as the end results are smooth and elastic.
I highly recommend this book, if you have any interest at all in checking out natural yeast. It's the perfect balance between the how to guide, showing how to make, get a hold of, care for your natural yeast and recipes to use your new found knowledge. There's even instructions on how to adapt family favorites to use with natural yeast.
I can't wait to get my hands on some natural yeast and start experimenting!
My wonderful mother picked up this book from Costco for me. I'm so excited, it's fantastic!
There's a ton of useful information in this book. It discusses the importance of natural yeast in our diets, how natural yeast actually turns wheat into the healthy staple that God intended for it to be. It aids in the digestion, makes it so the nutrients in wheat are more easily absorbed into the body.
There's good information on how to feed and grow your yeast, the author has a sparkling whit as she describes naming her yeast in the hopes that she'd remember to feed and nourish it. She also tells you where you can acquire natural (also called wild) yeast. There's even directions on how to start from scratch.
I'm already a baker and I know how to make lovely wheat bread with my own ground wheat, so maybe learning to use natural yeast is a natural step. It doesn't sound hard, it just takes planning and the extra long raising time that natural yeast requires actually seems like it would lend it's way to a busy lifestyle because you can mix, knead and prepare your dough the night before and then cook in the morning.
Heck, I drive to Idaho Falls and go shopping, have lunch and go to the movies before the dough will be ready to shape.
I also found it interesting to see different techniques that the author uses. She recommends testing the elasticity in your dough by stretching a segment out and if it doesn't shred or rip while looking fairly uniform then your dough is ready. My mom taught me to poke the bread and see if/how it bounces back. Really springy dough shows that it's been kneaded sufficiently.
Oh and the kneading! Her kneading techniques were completely foreign to me. Her instructions were very clear, it's just not how I do it. I do a continuous smooth motion that involves flattening, folding and turning while folding so you're constantly working different parts of your dough. If you have a method that works for you or even prefer to use a machine like a kitchen aid or Bosch mixer, it's all good as long as the end results are smooth and elastic.
I highly recommend this book, if you have any interest at all in checking out natural yeast. It's the perfect balance between the how to guide, showing how to make, get a hold of, care for your natural yeast and recipes to use your new found knowledge. There's even instructions on how to adapt family favorites to use with natural yeast.
I can't wait to get my hands on some natural yeast and start experimenting!
Sunday, September 16, 2012
Clean Slate Monday
For the whole family. I'll remind a certain young man of his new goals. We're trying a new tactic. What we're trying to do is instead of fielding the disaster after it happens, we've given the child two day goals.
His teacher will be sending home a daily note, good days will warrant a smiley face. Two smiley faces in a row means that afternoon, after a few small chores he can have computer time. A week of smileys and the boy gets to use the computer over the weekend.
Up until this point, it's been taking away computer time, the one thing he really loves, after the deed is done. That worked so well last week, as he managed two really good days, two days his teacher noticed his efforts and then blew it the next two days. Epic failure.
I'm hoping in the morning, someone with red hair will wake up in a good mood. Get ready for school and then I can gently remind him of his goals. Mainly, earning a smiley face! After all he only needs two for an afternoon of computer wonder. He is capable of that and hopefully he remembers what he's capable of.
I also hope I hear from a certain missy's history teacher. It would be nice to know if the mystery missing assignments have been resolved.
I'll be official to sub soon, that's my clean slate. Tomorrow I have to go in for a TB test. Dang I don't like those but it's not a biggie. It's a little way I can earn a little money, hopefully enough to make a difference for Christmas.
So, onward and forward, as always.
His teacher will be sending home a daily note, good days will warrant a smiley face. Two smiley faces in a row means that afternoon, after a few small chores he can have computer time. A week of smileys and the boy gets to use the computer over the weekend.
Up until this point, it's been taking away computer time, the one thing he really loves, after the deed is done. That worked so well last week, as he managed two really good days, two days his teacher noticed his efforts and then blew it the next two days. Epic failure.
I'm hoping in the morning, someone with red hair will wake up in a good mood. Get ready for school and then I can gently remind him of his goals. Mainly, earning a smiley face! After all he only needs two for an afternoon of computer wonder. He is capable of that and hopefully he remembers what he's capable of.
I also hope I hear from a certain missy's history teacher. It would be nice to know if the mystery missing assignments have been resolved.
I'll be official to sub soon, that's my clean slate. Tomorrow I have to go in for a TB test. Dang I don't like those but it's not a biggie. It's a little way I can earn a little money, hopefully enough to make a difference for Christmas.
So, onward and forward, as always.
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