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*
Sunday, September 30, 2012
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.
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Happy Happy Joy Joy
It's been one of "those" weeks. The type of week that makes you want to crawl into a hole and hibernate all winter. Three out of the five days school was in session, I've had to talk to teachers. One of those days, it was teachers for two different kids.
Rethinking how to deal with kids is draining and one in particular can't seem to accept fault so changes in behavior can be made. Truthfully I spent a good deal of Thursday crying, I was so overwhelmed. Being an emotional wreck for long term isn't an option and I believe we have some plans in place that hopefully should help the situation.
Another child didn't finish two out of three assignments and since that's all there's been, this child is officially flunking history. We were told this child would be given the assignments and they were to be completed by Monday. No assignments came home and missy says she finished them.
I've emailed the teacher and our weekend marched on. Really I can't do any more then that.
This morning I spent a good deal of time just laying in bed, with the door shut, ignoring everyone. It was wonderful and I didn't feel guilty in the least.
Hopefully next week will be better.
I've had some really good moments too. Yesterday I was able to eat out with my wonderful hubs for lunch. I was a bit strung out on allergy pills (darn benadryl!) but it was still incredibly enjoyable. Kent went with me to pick up the younger kids and it was wonderful to have back up during another impromptu teacher conference.
Then there was the orthodontic consult on Tuesday for a girl that I completely forgot and missed. Oh wait, that would be part of the stressful tidbits of the past six days.
I've done baking today, so were set for breakfast for a few days and stuff to snack on during the week. This is a lifesaver when feeding those bottomless pits we allow to live in the house. Of course the kids wanted to try everything. Make sure it was all good, I guess. They weren't the only was, guilty person here that sampled a little bit of everything.
So much going on. Hoping it calms down soon. Raging children don't help.
Ever.
Rethinking how to deal with kids is draining and one in particular can't seem to accept fault so changes in behavior can be made. Truthfully I spent a good deal of Thursday crying, I was so overwhelmed. Being an emotional wreck for long term isn't an option and I believe we have some plans in place that hopefully should help the situation.
Another child didn't finish two out of three assignments and since that's all there's been, this child is officially flunking history. We were told this child would be given the assignments and they were to be completed by Monday. No assignments came home and missy says she finished them.
I've emailed the teacher and our weekend marched on. Really I can't do any more then that.
This morning I spent a good deal of time just laying in bed, with the door shut, ignoring everyone. It was wonderful and I didn't feel guilty in the least.
Hopefully next week will be better.
I've had some really good moments too. Yesterday I was able to eat out with my wonderful hubs for lunch. I was a bit strung out on allergy pills (darn benadryl!) but it was still incredibly enjoyable. Kent went with me to pick up the younger kids and it was wonderful to have back up during another impromptu teacher conference.
Then there was the orthodontic consult on Tuesday for a girl that I completely forgot and missed. Oh wait, that would be part of the stressful tidbits of the past six days.
I've done baking today, so were set for breakfast for a few days and stuff to snack on during the week. This is a lifesaver when feeding those bottomless pits we allow to live in the house. Of course the kids wanted to try everything. Make sure it was all good, I guess. They weren't the only was, guilty person here that sampled a little bit of everything.
So much going on. Hoping it calms down soon. Raging children don't help.
Ever.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
No no no, I Do Not Like Strawberry Jam!
I've said this many times during our marriage and my husband spent years bringing it up repeatedly because I *gasp* eat "his" strawberry jam. To be more exact, I eat the strawberry jam that I canned for our family. Somehow that translates into depriving my husband of a great treat. He firmly believes the consumption of jam should be left for him and him alone.
He hides open jars in the fridge. Our fridge is crowded, so it can take ten minutes to find if it's been stuffed in the very back.
I do need to clarify that as for my original statement, it would be more accurate to say, I don't like "store bought" strawberry jam. Before I figured out how to can jams and jellies, I had never had homemade.
The difference is extraordinary.
So in the spring I made the coveted red sweet red stuff with Costco Strawberries and the game of hide and seek began in the fridge. My husband's territorial nature is so bad, he will push grape jelly onto the kids. Which of course leads to the grape disappearing and as good as my strawberry jam is, my grape jelly is better.
Don't tell my husband I said that because if he knew, then he'd think I could never eat strawberry.
Even though a change sometimes is nice.
He hides open jars in the fridge. Our fridge is crowded, so it can take ten minutes to find if it's been stuffed in the very back.
I do need to clarify that as for my original statement, it would be more accurate to say, I don't like "store bought" strawberry jam. Before I figured out how to can jams and jellies, I had never had homemade.
The difference is extraordinary.
So in the spring I made the coveted red sweet red stuff with Costco Strawberries and the game of hide and seek began in the fridge. My husband's territorial nature is so bad, he will push grape jelly onto the kids. Which of course leads to the grape disappearing and as good as my strawberry jam is, my grape jelly is better.
Don't tell my husband I said that because if he knew, then he'd think I could never eat strawberry.
Even though a change sometimes is nice.
School News!
After the middle child's continuous behavioral problems, I am so happy to give some great school updates!
I'd like to start by expressing how impressed I am with the older girl's high school. A mere three days into school, I got word from the kid that her schedule had been changed. She was placed in Algebra, took a test, scored low and the placed in pre-algebra.
Now, it's not like I didn't try in middle school to change the girl's math but everyone involved in her education, especially the counselor that was over her wanted her in a higher math. She had rocked math in seventh grade and because of that everyone felt like she wasn't trying. Truth is I don't know why she did so well in seventh grade. It probably helped that she had a teacher that worked with her non stop, gave her extra time for tests, just really worked with her learning disabilities to help her succeed. The next year just didn't work for her.
I knew, with her history, it was time to step back but the school would not co-operate.
So the step to a lower math in ninth grade is good yet it still wasn't enough. She was moved a few days ago to a resource room math. Finally! She's a smart kid, she tries but school is hard and she's got a few things working against her. I see this as her getting what she needs and after all the tears through math last year and even a meltdown just last week over math, it's as it needs to be.
This change was followed up by a call by her adviser. It was a fantastic call. The teen's adviser was completely confused by the wording in the teen's IEP. She said it didn't make any sense and that she was going to rework the wording. I explained how the learning disability works, that when she reads something she can comprehend more but not retain. For fun, when she hears something she retains more but doesn't comprehend as well. Basically girlie needs to both hear instructions and receive instructions written down for the best results.
That is going to be put in her IEP. (I could have done cartwheels when I heard this.)
After her IEP is reworded, I will get a copy to review and sign and we send it back to school.
Other good news, the oldest is in mainstream English and it's in her file that she should go into creative writing next year. She's worked so hard on reading and writing, it will be so good for her. The teachers will just keep an eye on her and makes sure she can keep up in English.
The other good news, Miss Middle School had a back to school open house. Now I've had some really bad experiences with those back to school nights and *cough*theolderkid*cough* but this was so different. I was told that missy was a hard worker by every teacher that we met. I was also told that missy qualified for a remedial reading class, this same class the older kid took and thrived in! Her teacher said that he was working on getting her in that class, knowing the middle school like I do, it won't be easy. Hopefully she can be switched sooner then later.
All in all, good news for the older kids. I'm thrilled! This leaves my main worry, the behavior issues of the middle child.
I may survive this year after all. *smile*
I'd like to start by expressing how impressed I am with the older girl's high school. A mere three days into school, I got word from the kid that her schedule had been changed. She was placed in Algebra, took a test, scored low and the placed in pre-algebra.
Now, it's not like I didn't try in middle school to change the girl's math but everyone involved in her education, especially the counselor that was over her wanted her in a higher math. She had rocked math in seventh grade and because of that everyone felt like she wasn't trying. Truth is I don't know why she did so well in seventh grade. It probably helped that she had a teacher that worked with her non stop, gave her extra time for tests, just really worked with her learning disabilities to help her succeed. The next year just didn't work for her.
I knew, with her history, it was time to step back but the school would not co-operate.
So the step to a lower math in ninth grade is good yet it still wasn't enough. She was moved a few days ago to a resource room math. Finally! She's a smart kid, she tries but school is hard and she's got a few things working against her. I see this as her getting what she needs and after all the tears through math last year and even a meltdown just last week over math, it's as it needs to be.
This change was followed up by a call by her adviser. It was a fantastic call. The teen's adviser was completely confused by the wording in the teen's IEP. She said it didn't make any sense and that she was going to rework the wording. I explained how the learning disability works, that when she reads something she can comprehend more but not retain. For fun, when she hears something she retains more but doesn't comprehend as well. Basically girlie needs to both hear instructions and receive instructions written down for the best results.
That is going to be put in her IEP. (I could have done cartwheels when I heard this.)
After her IEP is reworded, I will get a copy to review and sign and we send it back to school.
Other good news, the oldest is in mainstream English and it's in her file that she should go into creative writing next year. She's worked so hard on reading and writing, it will be so good for her. The teachers will just keep an eye on her and makes sure she can keep up in English.
The other good news, Miss Middle School had a back to school open house. Now I've had some really bad experiences with those back to school nights and *cough*theolderkid*cough* but this was so different. I was told that missy was a hard worker by every teacher that we met. I was also told that missy qualified for a remedial reading class, this same class the older kid took and thrived in! Her teacher said that he was working on getting her in that class, knowing the middle school like I do, it won't be easy. Hopefully she can be switched sooner then later.
All in all, good news for the older kids. I'm thrilled! This leaves my main worry, the behavior issues of the middle child.
I may survive this year after all. *smile*
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
The Sticky Purple Blob
That was living in the kitchen has been demolished.
Where did he come from? Oh just hours and hours of work and one spilled jelly jar. There was the hour and half I spent picking grapes. Then the two hours or so I spent cleaning the grapes, killing earwigs and spiders plus the hour juicing the grapes. Throw in the half hour of preparation, measuring, stirring, washing jars, lids, filling the hot water canner. Plus finding all the ingredients, I wasn't sure exactly where the pectin was at. The jars were *waving hands in vague manner* somewhere in the garage.
Oh and the cooking, this was the second batch so I had already spent an hour stirring a pot of hot juice once, and was on the second batch. That's two hours of constant stirring.
It's very precise, pre-measure juice into large pot. Pre-measure sugar into a bowl, I use a low sugar pectin for a lower sugar jelly/jam. I could go no sugar, but it doesn't store nearly as well as stuff with a little sugar and for my purposes, where I need it for the whole year until the next grape season, sugar is the way to go.
I have to measure pectin and mix with a little sugar, mix into cold juice and add a teaspoon of butter in the juice to prevent foaming. Then there's the washing of the jars, rings and lids. Setting the lids to simmer and filling the canner with water and setting the stove on high.
Then the stirring starts. As soon as the heat starts on, the stirring must never stop. Hot juice can scorch really easily and boy, would that be a waste. You stir until the mixture reaches a roaring boil, that is, a boil that bubbles even while stirring. As soon as the roaring boil happens, you dump in the sugar and stir even more, until you reach a roaring boil again and boil one minute exactly and turn off your heat.
Then the race begins. While your jelly to be is piping hot, you must pour carefully into your clean jars. You have to work fast, you want everything still piping hot when you put it in the canner. Well it was during that working fast stage, while I was frantically wiping the rims of the jars to ensure a proper seal, when my dishtowel hit a pint jar and it fell over causing a spectacular spill on my counter, down my cupboards and onto my floor with a SPLOTCH, speckling my big toe and my jeans with little drops of jelly.
I can say that the remaining jars will definitely gel as they should, since there were jelly blobs all down the cupboard.
So in five seconds, my kitchen was transformed from extreme canning order into a multi layered sticky disaster that was quickly spread by a stream of children that came to gawk.
It's not often they see their mother screw up so spectacular, you can't blame them for making the most of it. Usually I save my biggest goof ups for when I'm in the house alone, choosing to not confess to those little people that could spend decades reminding me of my imperfections.
"Mom, do you remember that HUGE MESS you made when you spilled the hot jelly?"
Oh yeah, it'll happen.
Where did he come from? Oh just hours and hours of work and one spilled jelly jar. There was the hour and half I spent picking grapes. Then the two hours or so I spent cleaning the grapes, killing earwigs and spiders plus the hour juicing the grapes. Throw in the half hour of preparation, measuring, stirring, washing jars, lids, filling the hot water canner. Plus finding all the ingredients, I wasn't sure exactly where the pectin was at. The jars were *waving hands in vague manner* somewhere in the garage.
Oh and the cooking, this was the second batch so I had already spent an hour stirring a pot of hot juice once, and was on the second batch. That's two hours of constant stirring.
It's very precise, pre-measure juice into large pot. Pre-measure sugar into a bowl, I use a low sugar pectin for a lower sugar jelly/jam. I could go no sugar, but it doesn't store nearly as well as stuff with a little sugar and for my purposes, where I need it for the whole year until the next grape season, sugar is the way to go.
I have to measure pectin and mix with a little sugar, mix into cold juice and add a teaspoon of butter in the juice to prevent foaming. Then there's the washing of the jars, rings and lids. Setting the lids to simmer and filling the canner with water and setting the stove on high.
Then the stirring starts. As soon as the heat starts on, the stirring must never stop. Hot juice can scorch really easily and boy, would that be a waste. You stir until the mixture reaches a roaring boil, that is, a boil that bubbles even while stirring. As soon as the roaring boil happens, you dump in the sugar and stir even more, until you reach a roaring boil again and boil one minute exactly and turn off your heat.
Then the race begins. While your jelly to be is piping hot, you must pour carefully into your clean jars. You have to work fast, you want everything still piping hot when you put it in the canner. Well it was during that working fast stage, while I was frantically wiping the rims of the jars to ensure a proper seal, when my dishtowel hit a pint jar and it fell over causing a spectacular spill on my counter, down my cupboards and onto my floor with a SPLOTCH, speckling my big toe and my jeans with little drops of jelly.
I can say that the remaining jars will definitely gel as they should, since there were jelly blobs all down the cupboard.
So in five seconds, my kitchen was transformed from extreme canning order into a multi layered sticky disaster that was quickly spread by a stream of children that came to gawk.
It's not often they see their mother screw up so spectacular, you can't blame them for making the most of it. Usually I save my biggest goof ups for when I'm in the house alone, choosing to not confess to those little people that could spend decades reminding me of my imperfections.
"Mom, do you remember that HUGE MESS you made when you spilled the hot jelly?"
Oh yeah, it'll happen.
Sunday, September 9, 2012
In Loving Memory
I haven't been able to face it but it's time. As of September fourth my dad has been gone ten years. An entire decade. Almost a lifetime it seems.
Since his death, I've had three additional children. He died just weeks after I lost a baby. I got pregnant again about a year after his death. He never was able in this life to meet Ean. He would have loved Ean. His analytical grandson that's obsessed with how things work and spends all his time trying to figure everything out. The kid that taught himself cursive in kindergarten, just for the fun of it. Ean is an awful lot like my father.
Dad would have gotten a kick out of him.
Then there's the miracle boys. I could talk to my dad about everything and anything which is pretty fun because we were polar opposites on pretty much everything. Something I don't talk about, but my dad considered me one of his best friends. Right after mom and his sister. That meant the world to me.
Those three months on bed rest, it would have been so nice to talk to him. Instead I bugged the heck out of my dear friend Maia. I could almost hear her eyes rolling when I called the fourth or fifth time in a day. Bless her heart for putting up with me.
So many milestones where I've turned and thought, my dad would have loved that. All the Ean stories. Watching Jane turn into the beautiful young lady she is. Seeing Kate, who looks so my like me. The twins switching places at school at age three!
My dad, struggled as a father, he was more comfortable with us when we were old enough to discuss politics but he more then made up for it with his grandbabies. He embraced being a grandfather, reveled in it. Jane was four the last time she saw him. My dad was in the backyard, alternating between tossing dog toys to our furry beast and kicking balls for the girls to fetch. It was hysterical and my dad was in his element. Jane is my one child that has a memory of my dad and that's it. She remembers playing in the backyard with my dad.
We have no pictures of him from that last trip because of course, my dad was behind the camera the entire time.
So ten years without him. Ten years and five days to be precise. Gosh I miss him.
He made me think. He encouraged me to make good choices. He helped me weigh the pros and cons of any situation. He also systematically handed the phone off to my mom if she was there because he assumed I would want to talk to her not recognizing how important he was to me.
I will always miss him but this month, I've missed him a whole lot more.
Since his death, I've had three additional children. He died just weeks after I lost a baby. I got pregnant again about a year after his death. He never was able in this life to meet Ean. He would have loved Ean. His analytical grandson that's obsessed with how things work and spends all his time trying to figure everything out. The kid that taught himself cursive in kindergarten, just for the fun of it. Ean is an awful lot like my father.
Dad would have gotten a kick out of him.
Then there's the miracle boys. I could talk to my dad about everything and anything which is pretty fun because we were polar opposites on pretty much everything. Something I don't talk about, but my dad considered me one of his best friends. Right after mom and his sister. That meant the world to me.
Those three months on bed rest, it would have been so nice to talk to him. Instead I bugged the heck out of my dear friend Maia. I could almost hear her eyes rolling when I called the fourth or fifth time in a day. Bless her heart for putting up with me.
So many milestones where I've turned and thought, my dad would have loved that. All the Ean stories. Watching Jane turn into the beautiful young lady she is. Seeing Kate, who looks so my like me. The twins switching places at school at age three!
My dad, struggled as a father, he was more comfortable with us when we were old enough to discuss politics but he more then made up for it with his grandbabies. He embraced being a grandfather, reveled in it. Jane was four the last time she saw him. My dad was in the backyard, alternating between tossing dog toys to our furry beast and kicking balls for the girls to fetch. It was hysterical and my dad was in his element. Jane is my one child that has a memory of my dad and that's it. She remembers playing in the backyard with my dad.
We have no pictures of him from that last trip because of course, my dad was behind the camera the entire time.
So ten years without him. Ten years and five days to be precise. Gosh I miss him.
He made me think. He encouraged me to make good choices. He helped me weigh the pros and cons of any situation. He also systematically handed the phone off to my mom if she was there because he assumed I would want to talk to her not recognizing how important he was to me.
I will always miss him but this month, I've missed him a whole lot more.
Saturday, September 8, 2012
I was teased in Home Economics Class
In ninth grade. See, all the popular girls called me "Betty Crocker" (haha) because I basically already knew everything that was being taught.
Actually I was mad at my mom for a number of years because I wanted to take wood shop and she wouldn't let me. Truthfully, I didn't need the cooking class, although the semester of sewing gave me a few basics that made it so I could read a basic sewing pattern years later.
As it turns out, I should have worn the title proudly because I can do some pretty awesome things in the kitchen. Today was a homemaker type day. I need to cut spending on the food budget and the best way is to bake and can. The more back to basics I go, the better off we are on the budget. Especially since wheat is cheap, the grapes out back are free and my family appreciates what I do.
So today, braving the grapevines, I picked enough to juice about 3 quarts. I was thinking it was five, but it's less. A two quart pitcher plus another container. Not bad, hopefully I have enough to do the twelve more pints of jelly I hope to make tomorrow. There's a bit more juice from last weeks juicing that needs to be used up too.
We had the oldest grind a whole lot of flour this am, which is now mostly used up. Jane made a breakfast cake, one of Kent's childhood favorites, all ready to bake tomorrow before church. Then I made four loaves of cinnamon swirl bread, which my family promptly demolished one whole loaf hot out of the oven but the other three were cooled and wrapped and frozen for later. I also have four loaves of English muffin bread cooling right now. I haven't sampled it, so I may need to leave one loaf out for morning, you know, just to make sure it taste alright.
It was nice to bake. It's nice it's cooled enough so I can bake. When it's 90 and above, I'm not about to heat up the whole house. It would never cool down at night!
So, I guess it's time to finally pull my Betty Crocker title out and wear it with pride.
Actually I was mad at my mom for a number of years because I wanted to take wood shop and she wouldn't let me. Truthfully, I didn't need the cooking class, although the semester of sewing gave me a few basics that made it so I could read a basic sewing pattern years later.
As it turns out, I should have worn the title proudly because I can do some pretty awesome things in the kitchen. Today was a homemaker type day. I need to cut spending on the food budget and the best way is to bake and can. The more back to basics I go, the better off we are on the budget. Especially since wheat is cheap, the grapes out back are free and my family appreciates what I do.
So today, braving the grapevines, I picked enough to juice about 3 quarts. I was thinking it was five, but it's less. A two quart pitcher plus another container. Not bad, hopefully I have enough to do the twelve more pints of jelly I hope to make tomorrow. There's a bit more juice from last weeks juicing that needs to be used up too.
We had the oldest grind a whole lot of flour this am, which is now mostly used up. Jane made a breakfast cake, one of Kent's childhood favorites, all ready to bake tomorrow before church. Then I made four loaves of cinnamon swirl bread, which my family promptly demolished one whole loaf hot out of the oven but the other three were cooled and wrapped and frozen for later. I also have four loaves of English muffin bread cooling right now. I haven't sampled it, so I may need to leave one loaf out for morning, you know, just to make sure it taste alright.
It was nice to bake. It's nice it's cooled enough so I can bake. When it's 90 and above, I'm not about to heat up the whole house. It would never cool down at night!
So, I guess it's time to finally pull my Betty Crocker title out and wear it with pride.
Friday, September 7, 2012
I was reminded today, it's been a while.
So here it is September and I failed to record the end of school, the entire summer and the beginning of school all over again.
Truthfully it's been a hard summer, a really hard summer and it was all I could do to stay sane for three solid months. There were two factors that pretty much summed up summer. The first, our middle child has had some real behavior struggles and while this isn't unusual, the normal acting out and testing limits was replaced with raging, hitting, kicking towards siblings and anyone within reach.
Emotionally it was extremely difficult. I felt so drained through the first half of the summer, just trying to keep our middle boy from beating his little brothers to a bloody pulp.
It was that bad.
Then there was July. Oh lovely July. We planned on visiting family in Utah. See Jane had camp, a wonderful camp that's done so much good for our eldest. The plan, my mom and I driving down to stay with my aunt and uncle (my uncle is my mom's little brother) on Sunday, spend the night and drop Jane off the next day. Then Kent and I could drive the kids back down on Friday, pick up Jane Saturday and play that afternoon with cousins, drive back Sunday.
What actually happened.
Kent had a brainstorm Sunday morning and thought Kate should have a treat and get to spend the week in Utah. I called and it was all okayed, so my mom and I drove both girls down Sunday. We dropped off Jane Monday, left Kate in Utah and headed back to Idaho Monday Afternoon.
Wednesday at four, I get a call from my aunts sister to tell me Kate was hurt in a bike crash. She hit a fence with her forehead hitting the 4X4 post, splitting her forehead just under her hairline all the way down into her eyelid. You could see her eye through the laceration.
After a dozen phone calls, my mom being the wonderful sport she is, stopped by and picked me up and off to Utah we went again. Along the way after about a dozen more phone calls we knew Kate did not have any broken bones and that the hospital she was at did not want to do her stitches. We were headed to Primary Children's Hospital to meet her there.
We arrived at about ten at night and she wasn't there yet.
We also confirmed that I can't be trusted to give directions almost seven years after the fact, but that's another story.
When Kate arrived, it was shocking how rough she looked. Her eye was swollen shut. Actually anyone that remembers her eye infection, the swelling was comparable. It was so bad.
The swelling was all down her face, into her neck and chin. There was also the swelling all along her left side. How the child managed to both keep her eye and not break any bones had to be divine intervention. We could see why the other hospital took so long to release her, they had to make sure she was stable.
Apparently Kate was the talk of all the night shift. One lovely resident came in because she had to see what all the hype was about. She told us after examining Kate that she had seen bigger lacerations but Kate's was "As Billed."
Unfortunately Kate wasn't the only one in the emergency room and the ENT staff had lots of small stitching to do before tackling Kate. It took two ENT's an hour and a half to stitch her up. When the suture kits were being opened my mom was surprised at the number that was opened, dozens in the pile, ready to be used.
I couldn't look until Kate's eye was sewn and the first layer of stitches was down on her forehead, so her skull no longer was visible. The nurses and doctors has a lovely conversation on how blood and stuff didn't bother them, I had to remind them that this was my baby. I think they understood, because when it's someone you love, that changes everything.
Finally at six am, we were released, we'd been in the trauma room all night. We were exhausted. Much to our surprise, Kate was gifted a blanket, rolled up and tied with a white, shiny ribbon. Mom and I both recognized the ribbon from Jane's camp. We later found out that the blankets made for the hospital were delivered right about the time Kate first wrecked, she must have been amongst the very first to receive the new blankets.
When we went to pick up Jane, we made a point of telling the wonderful woman, Barbara Barrington Jones about Kate's wreck and we showed her the ribbon from the blanket. She teared up and thanked us and asked permission to share Kate's story, which she did, right at the end of her talk to the parents. We hadn't planned on Jane finding out about her sister's accident and Barbara is very good at telling stories, with lots of embellishments (she was close enough with the information she had!). I felt bad that's how Jane found out.
It's been about seven weeks since Kate's wreck and she's healed up nicely. Her scar is very noticeable still but it's getting better.
Kate's even riding her bike, although I don't think she'll ever forget her helmet again.
Truthfully it's been a hard summer, a really hard summer and it was all I could do to stay sane for three solid months. There were two factors that pretty much summed up summer. The first, our middle child has had some real behavior struggles and while this isn't unusual, the normal acting out and testing limits was replaced with raging, hitting, kicking towards siblings and anyone within reach.
Emotionally it was extremely difficult. I felt so drained through the first half of the summer, just trying to keep our middle boy from beating his little brothers to a bloody pulp.
It was that bad.
Then there was July. Oh lovely July. We planned on visiting family in Utah. See Jane had camp, a wonderful camp that's done so much good for our eldest. The plan, my mom and I driving down to stay with my aunt and uncle (my uncle is my mom's little brother) on Sunday, spend the night and drop Jane off the next day. Then Kent and I could drive the kids back down on Friday, pick up Jane Saturday and play that afternoon with cousins, drive back Sunday.
What actually happened.
Kent had a brainstorm Sunday morning and thought Kate should have a treat and get to spend the week in Utah. I called and it was all okayed, so my mom and I drove both girls down Sunday. We dropped off Jane Monday, left Kate in Utah and headed back to Idaho Monday Afternoon.
Wednesday at four, I get a call from my aunts sister to tell me Kate was hurt in a bike crash. She hit a fence with her forehead hitting the 4X4 post, splitting her forehead just under her hairline all the way down into her eyelid. You could see her eye through the laceration.
After a dozen phone calls, my mom being the wonderful sport she is, stopped by and picked me up and off to Utah we went again. Along the way after about a dozen more phone calls we knew Kate did not have any broken bones and that the hospital she was at did not want to do her stitches. We were headed to Primary Children's Hospital to meet her there.
We arrived at about ten at night and she wasn't there yet.
We also confirmed that I can't be trusted to give directions almost seven years after the fact, but that's another story.
When Kate arrived, it was shocking how rough she looked. Her eye was swollen shut. Actually anyone that remembers her eye infection, the swelling was comparable. It was so bad.
The swelling was all down her face, into her neck and chin. There was also the swelling all along her left side. How the child managed to both keep her eye and not break any bones had to be divine intervention. We could see why the other hospital took so long to release her, they had to make sure she was stable.
Apparently Kate was the talk of all the night shift. One lovely resident came in because she had to see what all the hype was about. She told us after examining Kate that she had seen bigger lacerations but Kate's was "As Billed."
Unfortunately Kate wasn't the only one in the emergency room and the ENT staff had lots of small stitching to do before tackling Kate. It took two ENT's an hour and a half to stitch her up. When the suture kits were being opened my mom was surprised at the number that was opened, dozens in the pile, ready to be used.
I couldn't look until Kate's eye was sewn and the first layer of stitches was down on her forehead, so her skull no longer was visible. The nurses and doctors has a lovely conversation on how blood and stuff didn't bother them, I had to remind them that this was my baby. I think they understood, because when it's someone you love, that changes everything.
Finally at six am, we were released, we'd been in the trauma room all night. We were exhausted. Much to our surprise, Kate was gifted a blanket, rolled up and tied with a white, shiny ribbon. Mom and I both recognized the ribbon from Jane's camp. We later found out that the blankets made for the hospital were delivered right about the time Kate first wrecked, she must have been amongst the very first to receive the new blankets.
When we went to pick up Jane, we made a point of telling the wonderful woman, Barbara Barrington Jones about Kate's wreck and we showed her the ribbon from the blanket. She teared up and thanked us and asked permission to share Kate's story, which she did, right at the end of her talk to the parents. We hadn't planned on Jane finding out about her sister's accident and Barbara is very good at telling stories, with lots of embellishments (she was close enough with the information she had!). I felt bad that's how Jane found out.
It's been about seven weeks since Kate's wreck and she's healed up nicely. Her scar is very noticeable still but it's getting better.
Kate's even riding her bike, although I don't think she'll ever forget her helmet again.
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