I Heart Homeschooling.

Homeschooling is amazing. It brings you these incredible days where you are sure you are a failure one minute, and the next minute you gaze in wonder at the intelligence of your children.

Our school day started out with math (which was surprisingly not painful, considering The Oldest is learning to find common denominators.) Then came English. The Oldest wrote me four synopses about things such as The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere and the parable of the Good Samaritan. Littlest One was doing the same thing she always does: phonics charts, reading from a beginning reader, and then copy work. In two years, she still does not remember that N-E-W spells "new". Nor did she remember the words "would", "oh", or "unto". It was a painful lesson. The kind that convinces you, as a homeshooling mother, that your child will still not be reading when she is entering high school. (Because homeschooling mothers are known for putting undo pressure on themselves, and then buckling under said pressure. It's what we do. We're really good at it.)

But then, life happens. Discussions happen. Over lunch, Galileo's experiment at the leaning tower of Pisa came up. I remember hearing about that in the 8th grade. My teacher telling us that, if we were allowed to climb up onto the roof and drop a bowling ball and a marble, that they would land at the same time. I never did believe him.

Well, we didn't have a bowling ball, but we had a huge bouncy ball and a marble. So we dropped them from the deck, two stories above the ground below, and Littlest One kept watch. Indeed, they did both land at the same time.

From there, I thought I'd be all awesome and explain gravity and terminal velocity. Except that at about that moment, Littlest One (who is SIX!) piped up. "Eventually, everything will go as fast as it can go, and it won't go any faster."

And there's terminal velocity, in six year old terms.

"The balls landed at the same time because they're the same shape. So they push the air away the same."

Right.

So what would happen if I dropped a feather and a hammer?

"They wouldn't be the same, 'cuz they're shaped different. The feather makes more friction."

Seriously? I had to look it up. She was right.

"What would happen if I dropped a feather and a hammer and I was standing on the moon?" (The school book told me to ask that. Never would've occurred to me otherwise.)

"They'd fall the same. 'Cuz there isn't any air on the moon, so there's no friction."

I had to look that up, too. How on earth did she learn that? Her sister read something about it in a National Geographic magazine and told her about it. I Googled the video of the Apollo 15 astronaut demonstrating it. They were fascinated.

Why am I doing the teaching here? Clearly, the ten year old is more capable. Granted, I can claim having taught them about friction. We had an awesome time with that one!

Later tonight, she explained the process of amputating a horse's leg due to infection from a dog bite, and then creating a prosthetic leg and teaching it how to walk again.

Um, seriously? Yeah, it was in a book her sister read to her, one Grammy gave her for Christmas. So they were playing "amputated horse leg" in the living room. Because that's what homeschoolers do for fun.

This morning at breakfast, we used the computer to take a virtual tour of the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art. (We just finished reading aloud the Newbery award winner From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler so it fit in nicely.) Using the mouse to move through the museum, The Oldest pipes up, "Look! There's a model of Brunellesci's dome!" Ehhh... huh? She looks at me like I might be stupid. "Brunellesci. The Renaissance. Remember?" Uh... yeah, no. But apparently I read something about that to her once. Glad to know it stuck.

Homeschool is incredible. Stressful, and difficult, but incredible. They spend so much time delving into subjects that interest them, and then sharing those subjects with one another, playing them and discussing them and pondering them. The teaching that I do hardly touches the amount of learning that they do, through each of those mediums.

So about that trouble with reading? I'm pretty sure it'll come. Some day there will be a book that details the discoveries of some great inventor or scientist, and she's going to be desperate to know what it says, and she's going to read it. The hardest part of homeschooling is letting go of the standards and goals you've got in your mind. Because you can set as many standards as your heart desires, but your kids aren't going to meet them the way you planned for them to. They'll get there in their time, taking their route, and achieving so much more along the way than you ever could have even imagined.

A Big Little Adventure

"Mom, we're going adventuring."

It was the sort of adventure that made them feel like they were very far away, but I could still see them from the kitchen window while I was cooking dinner. It was an adventure to the far side of the hay meadow.

They tromped through the melting snow - Littlest One always trying to hard to keep up with the Big Adventurer.


They stopped to watch the water flowing downhill along the fence line. It's amazing how fascinating a little spring runoff can be to Two Little Girls.



And after as much exploring as cold little noses and hands could handle, they headed back home to tell me all about their Adventure.


Littlest One informed me that there was a Really Big River (trickle of water) that would soon form a Gigantic Canyon on the far side of the field. (We'd been discussing erosion a few days earlier.) I asked how long it would take before the Gigantic Canyon was formed. "A really, really long time," she explained, with wide eyes. "Probably next week."

Oldest one told me about the footprints she saw. "They were probably skunk... but maybe they were cougar prints!" (There are, in fact, occasional mountain lions here, and she knows it. She's desperate to see one... or at least scare Littlest One.)

As for me, I can't tell you the pleasure it gave me to get soup simmering on the stove and watch out the window as my Two Little Girls explored and played together, getting to know their new world.

Little Girl Dress-up Fun

Our home is well stocked with dress-up clothes. My children, however, have been on dress-up hiatus for some time now. I assumed, when I packed them, that the dress up clothes would not be missed between now and the time we move.

I was wrong. The sudden urge to dress up like a princess (or bag lady) came upon my smallest daughter yesterday in a desperate kind of way. And there were no dress up things for her to exercise this adorable, ultra-girly form of creativity.

So I did what I used to do for her big sister, back in the days before we had a great stash of play clothes. I opened up my closet, pulled a few things out, and gave her free reign of my scarves, hats, and jewelry box. (I'd say shoes, too, except that... I packed them.) She took care of her own make-up, and the result was... well, adorable, if not quite "princessy."

Big, flowy blouse-turned-dress with a scarf for a belt; a kerchief-shawl and a crocheted hat...


Complete with dirty old cowboy boots on the wrong feet (I kept out the necessities. She didn't seem to mind the lack of high heels though.)



And lots of "real" jewelry.



All dressed up, she sighed happily and said, "I look like a real Mama now."

Is this really what she thinks I look like every day? Hmm...

Then a change of accessories...



And then it was "I don't feel like a princess now. Or like a Mama. I kind of think I look like... a beggar woman." And then, because in her fairy-tale laden little mind, being a beggar woman is a rather romantic notion, she began dancing around the kitchen in the most beautiful way she knows how.

Proof that fancy dress-up clothes aren't needed at all... and that sometimes Mama's closet is more fun anyway!

This is how I spend my afternoons when all of the stress of the Moving To-Do List gets to be too much for me. :o)

Four!

Littlest One has been four now for nearly a month. You'd think the novelty and excitement of this new age would have worn off a bit by now, but it hasn't. Four is a very big deal to her, and she would like for every person that she comes in contact with to know it.

Every store clerk that has checked us out since August 15th has been notified of this change in age. "I'm four!" she exclaims to each cashier. Of course, this is met with, "Oh, what a big girl you are!" which pleases her tremendously.It doesn't matter who it is - a neighbor we meet while going for a walk; the lady next to us in the cereal aisle; the girl cutting our fabric selections... always, she must announce, "I'm four years old!"

Today I told her that maybe she doesn't need to announce her age to every person we meet, that perhaps she only tell them her age if they ask how old she is. "But," she said, "what if they forget to ask me?"

Ah well. She is four, after all. :o)

In Which I Demonstrate My Sentimentality

Cora and I inspected the peach tree last night, looking for baby peaches that survived the late frost we had this spring.

I found one and pointed it out to her.

The sheer excitement on her face at seeing that little baby peach, and then another, and another, was just priceless. Here eyes got big, her mouth turned into a little pink "O" that was quickly replaced by the biggest, happiest smile. She raced around in circles, barefoot on the grass, singing a song about how much she loves peaches. Then she raced back up to me and asked if we could share a peach with Mr. Tweets, because she thought he would really like just one, and that we could eat the rest. I told her no way! But that we would eat the peaches over vanilla ice cream, one of our favorite summer treats. This set her off racing in circles again, singing and giggling and laughing excitedly at the prospect of peaches and ice cream in her future. Then she came barreling straight at me, threw herself into my legs, wrapped her arms around me, looked up at me, and said, "I love you. You're the best mommy in my whole world."

It was a little thing, a little moment, but one to savor. Little girl excitement over something so simple, but a pure and thorough sort of excitement, sprinkled with love and gratitude for good measure. Is there anything more beautiful?

Life is full of what I think of as "moments to keep." Little, insignificant moments in life that really aren't insignificant at all. They're what make it (almost) bearable to watch our children grow up before our eyes at a rate much faster than we're comfortable with. Life - parenting, especially - is full of stress and worry and frustration. But these little Moments to Keep bring us back from the negative, give us a little piece of happiness to hold on to, remind us that life really is beautiful and lovely and happy... at least, sometimes.

Forts and Hide-outs

The difference between a three year old and an eight year old:

When a three year old builds a fort, she posts a sign that she insists says, "Welcome In!" She walks around the house inviting (begging) anyone and everyone to come into her fort.

When an eight year old builds a fort, she posts a sign on it that says, "Secret Hide Out. No one allowed. Espeshily Sisters."

God is really nice.

Friday afternoons, Chloe goes to visit her dad for the night, and I get to enjoy a 24-hour period of time alone with my Littlest One. While I always hate for Chloe to go, I've learned to appreciate this one on one time with my baby girl. I get to see a side of her that's usually overshadowed by her big sister, and for twenty four hours, I get to be her best friend (usually the role she saves for her sister, who is something of a hero in Cora's eyes, just because she's a Big Girl.)

So we were chopping veggies and peeling hard-cooked eggs at the counter together tonight, me and my Littlest One. And we were chatting, like two girls working together in the kitchen are wont to do.

"It's really nice of God to make little girls," she tells me.

"Yes, it is," I agree.

"Who makes my toys?" she wonders.

"Underprivileged children in China," I answer. She looks confused, so I clarify. "Little children in China are like slaves, forced to make your toys in terrible conditions, and they don't get paid very much money. They are very hungry and sad children." (Nothing like telling it like it is, right?)

So she says, "Those sad little children should talk to God and ask Him to make the toys for them. If He can make little girls, He can make toys. Then the children wouldn't have to be sad anymore."

:-) Do you ever wish we could all be so sweet and innocent when we're searching for solutions to problems?

If you give a kid some puffy paint...

Oh man, what a slacker I've been! My poor, neglected blog. I keep thinking I'll get around to catching up, posting all the millions of things I think about every day to blog about, and then I get busy, and tired, and busier, and more tired, and then I give up.

So I'm not going to try to catch up, because that will never happen. I'll just jump in where we are and try to write more often!

Today's subject: Kiddie Craft Lessons

There are two distinct ways to teach kids art: You can instruct them on exactly how to make something, giving them a specific design to follow and attempt to re-create. Or you can give them a pile of supplies and set them free. Both have their uses. Most of my craft classes fall somewhere in between.

Since we've taken up dance classes (Cora ballet, Chloe jazz, and tap for me) I thought it would be useful to have dance bags we can keep by the door so we can grab them on our way out. We haven't done much in the way of fabric and textile art, and I still recall the true love I had for puffy paints as a small girl. I gave each girl a set of supplies: two stencils, pink and purple fabric paint, silver and white puffy paint, the letters to spell "DANCE", and a canvas bag to put it all on.

Puffy paint is a funny thing. It's really hard to learn the right amount of pressure and the speed with which you lay it down. Especially if you're eight.



So it's a little (lot) gloppy. She's pretty happy with it. I did have to confiscate the puffy paint before it got too out of hand.

Littlest One is my perfectionist. She wants to know how to do it, where to put it, wants help if she feels like she can't do something quite right. From one perfectionist to another, there's a long, hard road ahead of her if she doesn't let up a little bit.



The end result looks... well, like something I'd make. But she had a fabulous time filling in the stencils. :o)

===

Completely unrelated, but I realized how much I love looking back at my Chloe-isms, and now I have Cora-isms too, and I've done a terrible job of recording them. So here are a few:

When I was doing double pull-backs in my tap class (and struggling with them!) Chloe told me, "Mom, um, you kind of look like a flumpy horse." Flumpy? Thanks, honey.

Also from Chloe, while trying to choke down cream of asparagus soup: "This soup is not cooperating with my taste buds."

Me: Cora, did you just splatter soup on the table? Cora: No, I splattered soup at my sister.

Cora, after watching Chloe's dance class: "I wished I could jump over hoopa-loops, too."

Ahh how I love the funny bits my kids come up with. Wish I could record them all!

Germs: In the Eyes of a Three Year Old

Thoughts from a three year old while baking "snowball" cookies:

When she dropped some dough on the floor while she was rolling it, I told her she needed to put it in the trash now because it had germs on it. After inspecting it closely she said, "I don't see any germs, it's okay."

When she dropped another one that only fell to her step stool and I said it should go in the trash too, she said, "It's okay Mama. It only falled on my toes. My toes don't have any germs."

"Why do we need to give some to Mr. Sherman (our elderly neighbor)? We already gived him cookies last Christmas."

"Mama? Can't we please keep some cookies for my belly, too? Our friends don't need lots and lots of cookies."

===
Snowball cookies are an important part of Christmas from my childhood, one of my fondest cookie memories. I even go so far as to buy white flour and sugar when I make them (because if they were made of whole wheat flour, they would look more like dirt balls instead of snow balls.) Here's the recipe my mom gave me the year I moved out of my parents' house:



Russian Teacakes (or Snowball Cookies)
1 cup butter
1/2 cup confectioner's sugar
2 1/2 cup white flour
3/4 cup chopped walnuts
1/4 tsp. salt
1 tsp. vanilla extract
1/3 cup confectioner's sugar for decoration

Combine all ingredients and mix well.

Roll dough into 1 inch balls and bake for 15 minutes at 350 degrees.

Once baked, while still hot, roll in confectioner's sugar until coated. Let cool, then dust with more confectioner's sugar.

Makes 24 cookies.

(If you want to freeze them for later, freeze them after rolling in confectioner's sugar the first time, then dust them with more sugar after they're thawed.)

Cora's Three!

With every birthday that comes to pass, I'm a little bit more amazed at how time flies. How did my sweet Littlest One already get to be three years old?

We had a "leggy bug" party for her, with just a few friends and family. We learned that there really is no limit to how many kids can fit into a kiddie pool...



There was dancing, limbo, Pin the Spots on the Leggy Bug, and the Slip 'n Slide.



And of course, there was a cake.



I should mention that -yes- we did make the lady bug pink on purpose. When we were picking out party decorations, she had to choose between a realistic red lady bug or the pink one. She picked pink. Chloe told her, "Ladybugs aren't pink, Cora." Cora pointed to the one on the plates and said, "That one is." So pink it was.

And of course, if you're a three year old little girl, even the cake must be pink.


She had a grand time picking all the border shells off of the cake and eating them.



When we talked about the party, she was expecting the cake. She was expecting singing and dancing and music and games and friends. There was one thing that came as a total surprise though -



Presents!



She had no idea people would bring presents, and then when they did, she didn't realize they were from her. When she opened the first one, and we said it was from Violet, she opened it, then tried to give it to Violet. Never did it cross her mind that she might get to keep it for her own. It was the sweetest thing - this will probably be the last year that the presents aren't the most exciting part of the party to her. She was just thrilled to have her friends around her and eat a fancy cake, she didn't realize there was anything more coming. Love baby innocence.



So my baby girl turned three, and I just sit here in awe as she sleeps next to me. She's sweet and silly and funny and smart, and I love the little person she's turning out to be.

Camping with The Toddler

Ya know what's kind of funny?

When a two year old little girl wakes up in a tent, peeks into her pillow case, and calls out, "Squirmy? Are you still alive in there?" because she stuck a caterpillar in her pillowcase so she could save it 'til morning.

Bedtime Cuteness

Cora's favorite book to 'read' before bed is a kid's picture dictionary. I always ask if we can read a real story book, but she'd much prefer to look through the dictionary at each picture and talk about them.

We read the 'C' section tonight. It goes something like this:

"That's cat. I like cats. You like cats? Chloe like cats? Daddy like cats? Grammy like cats?"

I answer yes to each of us. And then she says "Awww. That's so nice."

"That's cheese. I lub cheese. You lub cheese? Chloe lub cheese? Daddy lub cheese? Izzy lub cheese?"

If I answer no - because truthfully, I really don't like cheese - she says, "Oh. That's not nice. You not nice to cheese." Then she gives me another chance. "You lub cheese?" I lie. "Awww. That's so nice. You lub cheese now? Cheese your fwaybit*?"

It goes like that on and on through each word. Unless it's something she doesn't like. "Chameleon." "I not like kweelyin. Kweelyin yucky." And that's my cue to move on. If she doesn't like it, she doesn't care what anyone else thinks of it.

I hope this fun bedtime stage lasts for awhile because it's highly entertaining.

*Fwaybit - favorite. In case you aren't fluent in toddler-ese.

Kid's Gardening - Garden Logic

I read somewhere that a child of four is usually old enough to plant large seeds in a garden bed.

I can't see any reason to wait two more years.



Little One has planted a crop of snow peas, some morning glories, and last night, green beans. She completely grasps the idea that if you plant a small thing in the soil and water it, it will grow a plant with something tasty to eat on it.

The other night after dinner, the girls finished off the last of the Easter jelly beans for dessert. We sat around munching jelly beans and talking garden plans. Then we went out to do the usual weeding and watering in the evening, and the girls went to work digging in their little garden space.

I walked over to check on them, and there was my sweet two year old, oh so carefully poking holes in the dirt, pressing a jelly bean in, then covering it. When she was finished (she planted three of them) she dutifully watered them and explained, "I'm plant jelly beans in my garden."

(I realize this would've made great pictures. I was too interested in watching her to run for the camera.)

===

The garden is coming along nicely. It actually looks a bit more like a garden this month instead of The Ugly Plot of Dirt Along the Back Fence, the way it looked all winter. There are still lots of empty spaces as we wait a few weeks to plant tomatoes, peppers, and other warm weather crops. We're harvesting spinach and salad greens daily, and I used the thinnings from some of the Black Seeded Simpson lettuce to make up a salad with our dinner tonight. In fact, we've been eating salad for lunch and dinner for the past three days. I finally made a honey mustard dressing for the girls just to give them something a bit different.

Radishes are scheduled loosely to be picked tomorrow. We may pick a few, but most are still pretty small and need more time. The turnips that I planted all sprouted, the onions are coming up beautifully, and the carrots are getting their true leaves.

Here are a few photos... I realize they're not beautiful. More than anything, they're for me to compare in a few weeks, when it seems like nothing has grown, because watching plants grow is a slow process requiring patience, a character trait I've never really possessed.

The carrot bed. Those big plants are radishes.
If you look really close, you can see the carrots in there too.

Broccoli appears to actually be trying to grow.
(which is more than I could say for it last year.)
Garlic in the background.

One of the lettuce beds - marveille des quatre saisons,
black seeded simpson, and a red romaine - flame? Can't remember.

Kohlrabi - the larger ones are the first planting, the smaller ones are a few weeks younger.

The spinach, which blogger was kind enough
to automatically flip upside down for me. (?)

The mixed greens, quite obviously
overplanted, which is why we're eating
thinnings each day.

Isms.

From Chloe:

"Hey Mom, when you were a kid and you had dogs, did they have wooden dog toys to play with?"

She's under the impression that plastic had not been invented yet when I was a kid. Because the 1980's was a "really, really, really long time ago."

---

From Cora (when she saw me cleaning my ears with a q-tip):

"You clean your ears? You have eye boogers in your ears?"

"No honey, not eye boogers."

"Oh. You have dirt in your ears?"

"I guess, kind of."

"Oh. You been playin' in the sand box?"

Heh.

"Nope, not lately."

"Oh. There ear boogers in your ears?"

Children are so charming.

We will forever call ear wax "ear boogers" in our house now, because that's just kinda funny.

The usefulness of blogging

Mostly, if I take the time to read back on my blog, I find it all seems like self-indulgent rambling. Of course, that's what most blogs are, right? I've convinced myself it's alright for a blog to be self-indulgent, since it is after all, my blog.

BUT I have discovered on several occasions how really glad I am that I have documented certain things.

For instance, when I'm scrapbooking, and I find a picture and know there was some reason I took it but can't remember what that reason is... I can usually find it on my blog. I've printed whole blogs and added them to the scrapbooks, little details and stories I can't remember a couple of months later when I finally sit down to scrapbook the photos. This blog about Chloe's silky nightgown is one that comes to mind, where I just printed the words right out and stuck them on the page next to some photos of her.

The other great reason for blogging is that I have detailed notes of things in the garden. For instance, in this post from March 20, 2009, I can see that my daffodils were blooming. I now feel slighted because my daffodils are definitely NOT blooming that early this year.

I can look back and see when our first spinach harvest was, how high the peas were at different intervals, and what month it was that we ate our first salad straight from the garden.

Lots of gardeners keep detailed records. I do have some records, particularly of the harvested amounts and the amounts put by for winter, but nothing as detailed as what I ended up finding in my blog, when I was looking for it.

So I'm gonna keep up with the self-indulgent rambling about my garden, and silly family stories, so if for nothing else, I can look back on them a year or two later and smile.

---

The girls were playing outside, with very specific instructions to Stay Out of the Mud! And so I look over, and there is my two year old, up to her elbows in mud. "Hey!" I call. "I thought I told you not to play in the mud!" She looks up and answers, "Not playin' mud, Mom. Playin' dirt. And water."
Heh. Gotta love the logic of a two year old. She makes me smile.

The start of the garden.

I have a dirt under my fingernails and there are muddy footprints tracked all through my kitchen. It was a good day.

It was totally random, not at all intentional, but on today, March first (which my seven year old declares the first day of spring, "because March means spring, Mom,) we got the garden ready for the season, cleaned up, straightened out, and planted the first seeds.

Ah, what a thrilling thing it is, looking across the freshly tilled plot that will (hopefully) provide us with good things to eat in only a couple of months. It makes my heart go pitter-patter, I tell you, just knowing what's in store.

My fantastic, devoted, hard-working and creative husband built me two raised beds for the front yard, where I planted approximately 140 pea seeds. I say I - I mean we. The girls helped, and so at the south end of the beds, there may be a lot more pea plants than ought to be in one place, because toddlers are like that. But it's alright - the peas are in!

The garlic's coming up more and more each day - at least forty sprouts now. I'm not as worried as I was - forty or fifty heads of garlic should get us through the year. More than that will be kept on hand for medicinal reasons, and handed out to family and friends.

To the Littlest One's utmost delight, there are "Baby flowers, Mom! Look! Baby flowers right there!" Tulips and daffodils have poked their cheerful green leaves above the soil. Apparently they believed me when I told them spring was coming.

There is one lonely little lettuce plant sprouted in the cold frame - it was planted last fall and nothing ever happened. I gave the poor thing some water, it was obviously parched. Maybe the extra drink will convince some more seeds to sprout in there, after having hibernated all winter.

I'm a geek. But if you're reading my blog, you might very well be a geek too. Just nod and smile, and carry on.

Charming

I have this thing about dressing my kids well. I'm pretty sure it's a genetic trait that I inherited from my mother. I always looked like I was ready to be entered into a baby beauty pageant. I had a whole jar full of hair bows to match every outfit, and my mother used mass quantities of mousse to make sure a stray hair never escaped my perfectly symmetrical pigtails.

When we go out, I make sure they are wearing something absolutely adorable, their hair is combed neatly, and that their socks match. (Please note that I say "when we go out". We stay at home four days out of the week, and on those four days, you'd have a hard time telling that my kids aren't homeless.) But when we're out, I dress them very nicely, in hopes that anyone who feels drawn to make immediate judgment will assume that my children are well cared for and loved. Thus, I feel that my parenting is a direct reflection of the way my kids look. Which is probably ridiculous.

Today was library day. And my precious youngest daughter looked like a charming little princess in her flouncy plaid skirt, coordinating shoes and hair bows, and funky little leg warmers. And she proved that it doesn't really matter how a child is dressed at all when she proudly announced in a very non-library voice, "Hey Mom! Me farted. Heh-heh."

Potty Talk

"Mom, what's a sphincter?"

It's alright. You can snicker. I did.

Between a potty training two year old and a six year old suddenly fascinated with the process of digestion, my world revolves around Potty Talk.

"Mommy poop?"
"Yes, Mommy poops too."
"Daddy poop too? Daddy poop toilet."
"Yep, Daddy does poop on the toilet. Good job, honey!"
"Izzy poop outside. Izzy poop big."
"Yes, Cora, dogs go potty outside."

In our house, when Littlest One does her business on the toilet, we do the "Poopy Dance." Nope, not kidding. How gross is that? But it makes her smile, and makes her proud. Ah, what a mother won't do to make her children feel successful.

Chloe used a bookstore gift card to purchase a small human body with smooshy organs that can be taken out and explored and put back together. It came with a comic book of sorts that explains all the organs and shares lots of facts about the digestive system in as gross a manner as possible, much to the delight of my first grader.



"Here's the bladder. Did you know it fills up with pee?" she explains, with more glee in her voice than should really be deemed appropriate.
"Mom, what's this word? U-R-E-T-H-R-A."
Nothing like speaking frankly with a child about her body.



Gosh I love this parenting stuff. You just never know what topic will come up next.

The bitches are coming! - Not Me Monday

I won't deny the part about Chloe riding her stick horse down the hall calling, "The British are coming! The British are coming!" That part absolutely did happen.

But I swear a two year old wasn't following her down the hall, galloping along and calling "Bitches are comin'! Bitches are comin'!" Nope, not my sweet Littlest One. That wasn't her.

And I certainly didn't tell her to say "The British are coming!" fifteen times today just for fun. Because it wouldn't be right to find humor in such juvenile things as mispronounced words.

Nope, not me. :o)

The Helpful Toddler: at Bath time

Every once in a blue moon (usually when it's been long enough to forget all the trouble it was last time) I decide to designate half an hour of Mommy Bath Time. You know, that time when Mommy fills the tub up with water too warm for little bodies, smears on some face cream, closes her eyes and relaxes for half an hour while well-behaved little children stay downstairs and watch some television?

Heh. Yeah.

The first thing to consider is exactly what to do with the bathroom door. Do I lock it? If I lock it and there's an emergency, no one will be able to get to me. Inevitably someone will scream as though the house is on fire (though really it'll be because one heisted the other's snack) and I'll have to spring from the tub, sopping wet and naked, and streak through the house to locate the source of the scream.

Maybe I better not lock the door. Only then I face the inevitable fact that one or the other of the children will ignore the closed door, march right in, and start chattering about whatever might be going on in their happy little lives.

I don't lock the door.

Before I'm even in the tub, standing there wrapped in only a towel and smearing European clay all over my face, there's a little blonde toddler standing on the toilet seat narrating for me (in case I didn't know what I was doing.)

"Mom-mom! Mud! Face! Scaryyyyyyyy."

I enter the tub now and lie back, attempting to ignore the Helpful Toddler that is sharing my sacred Mommy Time.

"Mom-mom! Bath! Wash. Wash boobies?" she offers, holding up a wash cloth. Helpful Toddler, always ready to help wash Mom-mom's boobies for her. "Boobies! More! Two boobies! Looooook! Boobies too!"As she lifts her dress to her chin and informs me that she, in fact, has her own boobies.

Now that's homeschool - a great anatomy lesson.

"Why don't you go watch TV with your sister?"
"Noooooo!!!!!!" she screams cheerfully. "Help. Mom-mom. Bath."

I sigh, close my eyes, and resign myself to pretending I'm back in Mexico lying in a hammock in the sunshine.

It doesn't work.

"Shish. Parkle shish. Preeeetty. Shish parkle more. More shish! Look, Mom-mom! More, more, more shish!"

I realize now that she's reading me her bath book. (10 points to anyone who can guess the book. Really, it should be obvious... if you understand Twoyearoldese.)

The chatter continues until I reach for the razor.

A look of terror spreads itself across her face. "Mom-mom! No touch! Owie!!! No touch!"

I put my leg in the air and lather it up with shaving cream. I bring the razor to my leg and slide it along my skin...

"MOM-MOM!!! NOOOOO!!! Owie! Owie! Owie! No touch!" She runs to the hallway. "Sissy! Mom-mom OWIE!"

Her sister is being the well-behaved child she ought to and is so sucked into Bindi the Jungle Girl that she's completely unaware of her sister's frantic screaming, informing her that Mommy is likely about to kill herself with The-Forbidden-Thing-That-Causes-Owies.

She rushes back into the bathroom to check on me. "Owie?" she asks nervously. "Mom-mom bleed?"

I do my best to reassure her that Mom-mom is just fine and what I'm doing is completely normal. She looks doubtful but finally relaxes when she sees that I'm not bleeding and have apparently survived the self-inflicted attack from The-Forbidden-Thing.

I gave up at about this point, deciding that Mommies are definitely not meant to have long, quiet soaks in the bath.

Maybe I'll try again when she moves out.