Hobby Lobby

Or is it Lobby Hobby? I don't know. What I do know is Madeleine's school has a display in their lobby and any child who wants to has a chance to display something that they're interested in from home for a week each year. Its name is the Lobby Hobby. Or Hobby Lobby. Whichever the store of a similar name is not. Who cares, right?

This week is Madeleine's big week and she chose to take artifacts from our trip to Folly Beach, South Carolina last July. It contained sea shells that she collected on the beach, pictures of our trip, a picture she drew of us on the airplane prior to leaving and a doll from the Charleston, South Carolina Historical Society store that is modeled after a doll from the late 1700s.

Tuesday she took her class down to show off her display and answer questions.

"What questions did your classmates ask?" I inquired after school.

"I don't know," was her response.

"Madeleine, it was only a few hours ago; surely you remember some of the questions. Did anyone ask any questions?"

"Yes." A regular orator, that Madeleine.

"OK, who asked questions?" Do you see how good I am at badgering my children? I should have been a detective.

"Well, A__ did."

"OK, what did she ask?"

"She wanted to know how long I was on vacation."

"And what did you tell her?" Pulling teeth I tell you, pulling teeth.

"Well, I couldn't remember."

"Oh. Did anyone else ask any questions?"

"I don't know, Mom. Can I have a snack?"

Persuasion

I don't know if I've ever mentioned it before, but I'm a Jane Austen fanatic. I first read Pride and Prejudice about seven years ago and I fell in love along with Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy. I've re-read the book countless times since then, not to mention watched the BBC movie based on the book on a semi-regular basis.

Since then I've paced myself. There are only a finite amount of Austen works in print, you see, and I don't want to have read them all. I want some anticipation, some excitement to remain in the idea of an yet unopened Austen novel. I've managed to limit myself to Emma and Sense and Sensibility but finally, last week, my copy of Persuasion, that had rested on a bookshelf in my home for two years, finally had its way with me and I read it.

Oh, I loved it. Full of Austen wit and nuance, it was delightful. It was a bit darker than Pride and Prejudice. Her heroine, Anne Elliot, is considerably less bubbly and happy than Elizabeth Bennett. Poverty and the realities of the times were not wholly ignored, though most commentary was centered around a wealthy, aristocratic family and their social sphere. But Captain Wentworth is a lovable hero, with none of the reservations that are easy to own regarding Mr. Darcy, the characters are endearing, the storyline involving and interesting and I believe this might be the first Austen novel since Pride and Prejudice that I may re-read.

First Haircut

At eighteen months old Elisabeth's hair had yet to meet the blades of a pair of scissors. Lately, though, we've been noting her hair starting to cover her eyes and mutate into some less than tidy 'dos.


It was time to act; a visit to Ms. L___ was in order.


Fun was had by all. By me, snapping picture after picture, by Elisabeth who was intrigued by the robe, the combs, the chair and Ms. L___ by teasing and playing with another member of my brood.

Voilà! All done!

Movie Review, VI

Are you getting a sense how behind I am on my movie watching? I believe this movie was originally released in 1999. It's actually a convenient defect though because the library is chock full of movies everybody wanted to see eight years ago. I may not be able to speak intelligently about the current cinematic landscape now, but just as today's popular movies fall of the public's radar you can be sure I'll catch up.

Snow Falling on Cedars is a well-known book and, from everything I read, critically acclaimed. I never read it. The movie came out and I transferred all the praise I'd heard about the book over to the movie and decided I wanted to see it. Someday.

Sunday night was this night. I'm quite sure Superdad, while reading this, is feeling like he dodged a bullet by being out of town and missing my most recent movie selection. I put the kids to bed, popped some popcorn and settled in alone. Gloriously and blissfully alone.

The best parts of the movie were the popcorn and the solitude. Otherwise, there wasn't a lot to write home about. The acting was better than average, especially Youki Kudoh's performance, and it was a very visually pleasing movie, but something about it all just didn't connect. There wasn't enough passion, save some forlorn looks every so often, to make the love-of-a-lifetime storyline plausible (for me, anyway) and some parts moved a little bit too slowly to hold my somewhat wavering interest.

Overall, it was a decent movie and decidedly better than something as brain-numbing Talladega Nights but I'd hoped, that after waiting eight years to see it, that it would be better. Oh well.

The Well-Trained Mind

I finished this recently and found it extremely compelling. It follows along the same premise as Dorothy Sayers' essay The Lost Tools of Learning that I posted here, but this is more of a how-to book than a more general book offering support of their educational philosophy (though it does that too).

A comment on my post about Sayers' essay addressed the overwhelming task of implementing a classical education, and I'll confess that I felt a bit rudderless when we were initally discussing whether or not to home school. That is, however, until reading this book which offers some excellent text suggestions and breaks things down into more manageable tasks. Instead of looking at the overall trivium and becoming overwhelming, it breaks the three different phases of the trivium into yearly, manageable doses.

Clearly this book is not for everyone. It's not really the sort of book you curl up with in front of a fire, if you know what I mean, but it's extremely interesting, and considering the growing popularity of the home school movement and, within that, classical education, it's a terribly relevant book if you're interested in keeping up with current education trends.

And, to give equal time, I am also very interesting in reading John Holt's book How Children Learn. Holt is, I think, considered the, or one of the first, pioneers of the "unschooling" movement that's also growing by leaps and bounds within the home schooling movement. I confess I know little about it, but from what little I do know, it doesn't ring as true to me as a classical education does, but I'm still interested in reading the book and seeing how another large segment of children are being taught.

Friday Night

Fun night last night! To start we met two other couples at Cubanitas, a really fun (and yummy!) Cuban restaurant in downtown Milwaukee. Then we were off to the symphony where we saw Garrick Ohlsson perform one of my favorite Chopin piano concertos.

The second half of the concert was a rearranged Brahms piano quartet which was entertaining, but I felt a little weird hearing a piece I'm fairly familiar with have so much percussion and brass added to something that was supposed to be just, well, a quartet. However, it appears there are proponents and foes of Arnold Schoenberg's 1937 arrangement throughout the music world and I'll let the experts duke the ethics and propriety of the issue. For a non-expert like me I'll just say I enjoyed it, but prefer it as it was originally composed.

One last note: we're going through the Milwaukee Symphony's 2007/2008 calendar and would love advice and input from "experts" out there which concerts might be the best in terms of upcoming star performers and wonderful, classic compositions. I have my eye on a few but would love to hear others' opinions.

Virginia Tech Victims

Having not watched TV over the past week I didn't realize how much the Virginia Tech shooting television coverage has been focused on the shooter, Cho Seung-Hui, until hearing other people talk about it. Everyone seems to know his name and something about him, but not of the names of the thirty-two lives he took.

Here's a really nice piece that's solely about the victims. There's a short biography of each and, for most, pictures as well. A nice tribute to those whose lives were cut tragically short.

TGIF

It's Friday. It's warm and sunny. Superdad and I are going out to a fantastic Cuban restaurant for dinner tonight with friends (no kids!) and going to a Milwaukee Symphony concert after. Do days get any better?

IKEA

I love that IKEA offers a wide array of products that are relatively low in price that I generally like. I enjoy visiting their stores and I've bought quite a lot over the past few years on various visits. I'm sure I will continue to do so.

That said, I don't think I've ever dealt with a business, store, restaurant or otherwise, whose customer service was so horrifically awful. I know, I know, it keeps their costs down. Whatever. All I know is it's impossible to get an answer from anyone, talk to an actual person on the phone or buy anything on-line.

Thankfully I found my most recent desire on eBay (two new slipcovers for our Jennylund chairs, if anyone is interested) and will save myself the headache of numerous unanswered phone calls or the trip to the Schaumburg, Illinois store, where they'd probably be out of stock of whatever I wanted anyway. And wouldn't be able to order or hold it for me, and this I'd find out at the remote customer service desk after standing in line for fifty minutes.

Darned IKEA. I wish I didn't love their stuff so much.

Driving

I love to drive. I always have. I especially love it when I'm by myself and I can choose whatever I want to listen to, I can play whatever that is as amped up as I want and I can sing as loudly as I choose (well, except when I'm at a red light or something and people can see me morphing into Axel Rose because that'd just be weird).

But since that never, ever happens (hello, I drive a minivan; there are always passengers!) it's easier for me to remember what I hate about driving. Or, more specifically, what I hate about other peoples' driving, because, well, I'm not going to critique my driving (and I'm sure no one will dare remind me of my most recent stupid run-in, right?).

So, here it is, my list of driving pet peeves. Fun, huh?

1) Turn only lanes. If they're there, shouldn't you use them? Why do people straddle the line between the turn lane and the driving lane thus negating the purpose of having a turn only lane? Thanks, middle aged, Buick driving lady, I wasn't making a left turn but now, thanks to you, I waited along with you for all the oncoming traffic to pass and could've made the turn also!

2) Parking lots. Do you realize that people actually walk through parking lots, not limited to, but including small children, senior citizens and people with disabilities? And furthermore that there are cars that can, and do, pull out at various times and that maybe, just maybe, driving through the parking lot at eighty-five miles an hour to snag one of the last thirty available spots isn't the best idea? Thank you, college-age, Honda Civic driving, Paris Hilton wannabe, I sooo appreciated having to lunge for my four-year-old son while exiting Walgreens as you whizzed by looking for the very best spot in the half empty lot.

3) The highway. OK, quick quiz: if your cruise control is set and you're merrily poking along at a set speed, in which lane do you belong? The left? The center? AAAANNNNNNNNN!!! I'm sorry, wrong answer. No, the correct thoroughfare for someone who is not currently passing another vehicle is the right lane. There are no exceptions to this rule. None. I am so appreciative of the Ford Contour driver that obliviously drove the exact same speed as her neighbor in the right lane for five straight miles while I repeatedly banged my head against the steering wheel begging-- no pleading-- with her in my head to just move over. Just a teeny, tiny bit. Please, please, please. I feel fairly confident in saying that the ten or so cars lined up behind me frantically gesturing and furiously miming were ever so grateful as well.

4) Tailgating. I'm not talking about brats and beer at Miller Park here folks, no, I'm talking about people wanting to ride in the trunk of my car. Can't you see that it's full enough? I assure you, were you to actually gain access to the interior my children peppering you with question after question after question after question after question after question would soon have you begging to get out. And if they didn't, I would because, well, I don't know you and I don't want you in my car, so please, give me a couple car lengths of space, people! Props to you, Chevy Blazer guy, because of you my children now know and love the word "idiot." Isn't that wonderful?

Any I missed? C'mon, I know you've all got some doozys you'd like to share.

Gymnastics

Hank is a gymnast. Have I mentioned that before? Yes, he takes gymnastics lessons once a week, and has since he was two years old. Doesn't that make him a gymnast? No? Oh.

Seriously, this boy has sought to take lessons week after week for over two years now. I'm completely sick of it. I'm sick of the way the gym reeks of sweat the second I walk in the door, I'm sick of locking myself in the viewing room with Elisabeth week after week while trying to prevent her from hurting herself and, most of all, I'm sick of carting us all up there week after week. However, Hank has enjoyed it, so I've persevered (are you feeling sorry for me yet?)

Guess what. Now Hank hates it. He's sick of and thinks it's boring and wants to quit. In fact, he's upstairs throwing a tantrum right now, "But I don't LIKE gymnastics!! It's boring and I hate it and I'm NEVER GOING THERE!!!!" I wouldn't be surprised if my East Coast readers confessed to having heard him.

Well I hate it too. If I hate it and he hates it, do I still have to make him go? Sadly, yes, I think I do. First off, and least important, we already paid for the lessons. And they weren't cheap. Secondly though, and most importantly, we told Hank when we signed up what he was making a commitment to see it through, even if he ended up not wanting to do it. I know, he's four and can't completely understand that concept but generally I still think it's important to help him understand that if you make a commitment to something you have to be responsible and stick it out, if for no other reason than to just, well, be responsible and stick it out.

It doesn't mean I have to like it.

Day at Park

I think the mercury rose to almost fifty degrees this past weekend. Considering only a few days prior we'd been subjected to a winter storm warning and a cumulative snow fall, I felt that fifty was pretty warm. We needed to take advantage.

When Madeleine was a baby we took her to the park incessantly. It didn't matter that she couldn't really do anything, we still took her and enjoyed watching her fascination with all the different equipment and her jubilation at being swung higher, higher, higher!

Elisabeth? I don't think she'd ever been to a park before yesterday. She loved it. She loved swinging, exploring, climbing... she loved it all.

The Lost Tools of Learning

I forget, at times, that life happens outside the blog and what's been decided there doesn't always get conveyed here. To give the following essay context, and also to keep you abreast of our lives, I suppose it's time to share that we're giving home schooling a go next year, for sure.

Last night I ran across a (very old!) essay that sums up how I feel about education. I know very little about the essay's author, Dorothy Sayers, but she articulates so perfectly what I think is missing in education today and she also outlines, for anyone who's interested, the format Superdad and I are interested in pursuing with Madeleine next year.

Following is an excerpt, but if you have kids in school or are interested in education and educational philosophy, I recommend reading the essay in its entirety.

That I, whose experience of teaching is extremely limited, should presume to discuss education is a matter, surely, that calls for no apology. It is a kind of behavior to which the present climate of opinion is wholly favorable. Bishops air their opinions about economics; biologists, about metaphysics; inorganic chemists, about theology; the most irrelevant people are appointed to highly technical ministries; and plain, blunt men write to the papers to say that Epstein and Picasso do not know how to draw. Up to a certain point, and provided the the criticisms are made with a reasonable modesty, these activities are commendable. Too much specialization is not a good thing. There is also one excellent reason why the veriest amateur may feel entitled to have an opinion about education. For if we are not all professional teachers, we have all, at some time or another, been taught. Even if we learnt nothing--perhaps in particular if we learnt nothing--our contribution to the discussion may have a potential value.

However, it is in the highest degree improbable that the reforms I propose will ever be carried into effect. Neither the parents, nor the training colleges, nor the examination boards, nor the boards of governors, nor the ministries of education, would countenance them for a moment. For they amount to this: that if we are to produce a society of educated people, fitted to preserve their intellectual freedom amid the complex pressures of our modern society, we must turn back the wheel of progress some four or five hundred years, to the point at which education began to lose sight of its true object, towards the end of the Middle Ages.

Before you dismiss me with the appropriate phrase--reactionary, romantic, mediaevalist, laudator temporis acti (praiser of times past), or whatever tag comes first to hand--I will ask you to consider one or two miscellaneous questions that hang about at the back, perhaps, of all our minds, and occasionally pop out to worry us.

When we think about the remarkably early age at which the young men went up to university in, let us say, Tudor times, and thereafter were held fit to assume responsibility for the conduct of their own affairs, are we altogether comfortable about that artificial prolongation of intellectual childhood and adolescence into the years of physical maturity which is so marked in our own day? To postpone the acceptance of responsibility to a late date brings with it a number of psychological complications which, while they may interest the psychiatrist, are scarcely beneficial either to the individual or to society. The stock argument in favor of postponing the school-leaving age and prolonging the period of education generally is there there is now so much more to learn than there was in the Middle Ages. This is partly true, but not wholly. The modern boy and girl are certainly taught more subjects--but does that always mean that they actually know more?

Has it ever struck you as odd, or unfortunate, that today, when the proportion of literacy throughout Western Europe is higher than it has ever been, people should have become susceptible to the influence of advertisement and mass propaganda to an extent hitherto unheard of and unimagined? Do you put this down to the mere mechanical fact that the press and the radio and so on have made propaganda much easier to distribute over a wide area? Or do you sometimes have an uneasy suspicion that the product of modern educational methods is less good than he or she might be at disentangling fact from opinion and the proven from the plausible?

Have you ever, in listening to a debate among adult and presumably responsible people, been fretted by the extraordinary inability of the average debater to speak to the question, or to meet and refute the arguments of speakers on the other side? Or have you ever pondered upon the extremely high incidence of irrelevant matter which crops up at committee meetings, and upon the very great rarity of persons capable of acting as chairmen of committees? And when you think of this, and think that most of our public affairs are settled by debates and committees, have you ever felt a certain sinking of the heart?

Have you ever followed a discussion in the newspapers or elsewhere and noticed how frequently writers fail to define the terms they use? Or how often, if one man does define his terms, another will assume in his reply that he was using the terms in precisely the opposite sense to that in which he has already defined them? Have you ever been faintly troubled by the amount of slipshod syntax going about? And, if so, are you troubled because it is inelegant or because it may lead to dangerous misunderstanding?

Do you ever find that young people, when they have left school, not only forget most of what they have learnt (that is only to be expected), but forget also, or betray that they have never really known, how to tackle a new subject for themselves? Are you often bothered by coming across grown-up men and women who seem unable to distinguish between a book that is sound, scholarly, and properly documented, and one that is, to any trained eye, very conspicuously none of these things? Or who cannot handle a library catalogue? Or who, when faced with a book of reference, betray a curious inability to extract from it the passages relevant to the particular question which interests them?

Do you often come across people for whom, all their lives, a "subject" remains a "subject," divided by watertight bulkheads from all other "subjects," so that they experience very great difficulty in making an immediate mental connection between let us say, algebra and detective fiction, sewage disposal and the price of salmon--or, more generally, between such spheres of knowledge as philosophy and economics, or chemistry and art?

Are you occasionally perturbed by the things written by adult men and women for adult men and women to read? We find a well-known biologist writing in a weekly paper to the effect that: "It is an argument against the existence of a Creator" (I think he put it more strongly; but since I have, most unfortunately, mislaid the reference, I will put his claim at its lowest)--"an argument against the existence of a Creator that the same kind of variations which are produced by natural selection can be produced at will by stock breeders." One might feel tempted to say that it is rather an argument for the existence of a Creator. Actually, of course, it is neither; all it proves is that the same material causes (recombination of the chromosomes, by crossbreeding, and so forth) are sufficient to account for all observed variations--just as the various combinations of the same dozen tones are materially sufficient to account for Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata and the noise the cat makes by walking on the keys. But the cat's performance neither proves nor disproves the existence of Beethoven; and all that is proved by the biologist's argument is that he was unable to distinguish between a material and a final cause.

Here is a sentence from no less academic a source than a front- page article in the Times Literary Supplement: "The Frenchman, Alfred Epinas, pointed out that certain species (e.g., ants and wasps) can only face the horrors of life and death in association." I do not know what the Frenchman actually did say; what the Englishman says he said is patently meaningless. We cannot know whether life holds any horror for the ant, nor in what sense the isolated wasp which you kill upon the window-pane can be said to "face" or not to "face" the horrors of death. The subject of the article is mass behavior in man; and the human motives have been unobtrusively transferred from the main proposition to the supporting instance. Thus the argument, in effect, assumes what it set out to prove--a fact which would become immediately apparent if it were presented in a formal syllogism. This is only a small and haphazard example of a vice which pervades whole books--particularly books written by men of science on metaphysical subjects.

Another quotation from the same issue of the TLS comes in fittingly here to wind up this random collection of disquieting thoughts--this time from a review of Sir Richard Livingstone's "Some Tasks for Education": "More than once the reader is reminded of the value of an intensive study of at least one subject, so as to learn Tthe meaning of knowledge' and what precision and persistence is needed to attain it. Yet there is elsewhere full recognition of the distressing fact that a man may be master in one field and show no better judgement than his neighbor anywhere else; he remembers what he has learnt, but forgets altogether how he learned it."

I would draw your attention particularly to that last sentence, which offers an explanation of what the writer rightly calls the "distressing fact" that the intellectual skills bestowed upon us by our education are not readily transferable to subjects other than those in which we acquired them: "he remembers what he has learnt, but forgets altogether how he learned it."

Is not the great defect of our education today--a defect traceable through all the disquieting symptoms of trouble that I have mentioned--that although we often succeed in teaching our pupils "subjects," we fail lamentably on the whole in teaching them how to think: they learn everything, except the art of learning. It is as though we had taught a child, mechanically and by rule of thumb, to play "The Harmonious Blacksmith" upon the piano, but had never taught him the scale or how to read music; so that, having memorized "The Harmonious Blacksmith," he still had not the faintest notion how to proceed from that to tackle "The Last Rose of Summer." Why do I say, "as though"? In certain of the arts and crafts, we sometimes do precisely this--requiring a child to "express himself" in paint before we teach him how to handle the colors and the brush. There is a school of thought which believes this to be the right way to set about the job. But observe: it is not the way in which a trained craftsman will go about to teach himself a new medium. He, having learned by experience the best way to economize labor and take the thing by the right end, will start off by doodling about on an odd piece of material, in order to "give himself the feel of the tool."

Here's the rest.

eBay Etiquette

What is proper buying and selling etiquette on eBay? Is there an established code?

I don't sell things on eBay; I buy them. Not a lot, but I find a good deal on coat here, a book there or some other miscellaneous thing that seems like too good of a deal to pass up. I bid. I win. I pay within seconds of winning the auction and email the seller within a few minutes offering shipping information and a very polite request for positive feedback.

Now, it would seem to be that at this point, or after my Pay Pal payment reaches the seller's account, I should receive my positive feedback. My work is done; I have been a good eBay consumer, no?

Two times within the past few months the seller refused to leave feedback until I'd left mine and with the current item I'm waiting for the seller hasn't even bothered to respond to my email or acknowledge that I won the auction, though they've been paid and contacted.

I'm not going to get too bent out of shape. If I get my item in due time and in good condition I will leave positive feedback for the seller. Shouldn't the same have already been done for me? EBay experts, let's hear your thoughts.

Spring Break

Vacation this week; Madeleine has the week off of school. So, we head south, to a sunnier, warmer climate. No. South yes, sunnier and warmer, no. We're in Silver Lake, Wisconsin, about an hour south of us, and to greet our arrival it snowed.

Instead of enjoying warm spring weather we headed south again-- to Chicago-- and spent a day poking around Shedd Aquarium.

Both kids enjoyed it; the highlight being the dolphin show. While walking to the car I asked the kids if they enjoyed all the Pacific White-sided dolphins, Beluga whales and Anaconda snakes and Hank said, "It was so boring, right Madeleine?"

"Boring Hank? No, it was faaaaaaaan-tastic!" Madeleine exuberantly responded.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," gushed Hank. "It was faaaaaaaan-tastic!"

So there you have it. The Shedd Aquarium is faaaaaaaan-tastic.

Movie Review, V

Another movie Superdad and I watched recently. I remember wanting to see it when it first came out (years ago!) but always forgot about it when at the video store. The other day I was racing past the video section at our library, only focused on herding the kids to the check-out desk and just getting out of the dang library when I glanced up and saw this movie.

It seemed to call out to me from the shelves. "Rent me, rent me," it chanted. I did.

What a fun movie! It was unique, tawdry without being uncomfortable and funny. It's one of those movies that just absorbs you from the first moment and never really lets go.

Recommended!

Weaned

Elisabeth is weaned.

A few weeks ago, nursing just before bedtime and sometimes naps, Elisabeth made it clear she thought it was more fun to latch on for two seconds, laugh and then bite! She was clearly becoming less and less interested in breastfeeding, only really nursing every third night or so.

I had enough. I just stopped offering, instead choosing to sit down with her on my lap and reading a book before laying her down in her crib. I expected tears, fighting and resistance. Instead she compliantly stuck her fingers in her mouth, grabbed her precious fuzzy purple blanket and went to sleep. Since that time she's not made any indication that she misses nursing.

I feel so free. I can leave at bedtime once again! No more pumping! No more leaking! The benefits are numerous.

So why do I feel so sad?

Easter Highlights

Friday night we color Easter eggs. No. That's not right. Superdad and the kids color Easter eggs. I make supper, thus avoiding one of my least favorite Easter tasks.


Poor Elisabeth. Once again, she's forgotten until she makes herself noticed and the task is virtually finished.

Easter morning. A six a.m. photo shoot bears some, erm, interesting pictures but nothing noteworthy.


We're home and success-- the Easter Bunny came and left! The hunt for baskets, eggs and presents ensues.


Madeleine doesn't want to share her booty with her sister. See the annoyed look on her face?


Hank doesn't want to share either. Or, more accurately, doesn't even notice his sister's designs on his present.


The table, prior to eating.


The table during eating.


And that's it. The rest of the day included a lot of mess, cleaning up and passing out (due to fatigue, not the fabulous Spanish red Superdad chose for our Easter feast).

Easter Picture Preview

I just downloaded pictures from yesterday. Turns out I took sixty-four pictures. Sixty-four. Isn't that ridiculous? And do you know how many are good? Zero.

Still though, I'm sure I'll share more later in the week because, well, there are sixty-four pictures to choose from.

This picture though... it kills me. All I wanted was to snap a cute picture of the three kids in their Easter clothes. Just one decent one would have sufficed. Just one.

Instead though, here's one of the highlights:

Wake Up

During the school week I have to wake my kids up just before 7 a.m. daily. I'm always met with groans, someone sticking their head under their covers and lots and lots of attitude. Hank will grumpily stomp into the bathroom after being coaxed out of bed with the threat of punishment after the minutes of cajoling, kissing and trying to be nice have failed. He'll sit on the bathroom rug and turn our space heater on, aimed directly at him, full blast. Then I have to start over with the pleading, cajoling and out and out threats before he'll begin the ridiculously long process of taking his pajamas off sooooooo slllllllloooooowwwwwwllllyyyy that you just want to die. This is a daily event, week after school week.

So you'd think that on Saturdays, the one day of the week he could sleep in that he would, right?

Um, no.

On Saturdays the little darling wakes up at 6:30 or earlier. And this past week, on Good Friday, on which the kids were off of school, Superdad and I thought we'd for sure get to sleep until 7:00, 7:30. It was in the bag. It was a Friday and there was no place to be!

No. Hank was up and rarin' to go by 6:20.

And did I mention that he's not content to go play quietly for an hour or so? No. He tromps into our room, bangs open the door and starts giggling as he climbs into our bed. He doesn't climb in for sleep, though. No, his mission is to tell bad jokes, giggle and get Mommy and Daddy out of bed. Who knows, maybe it's payback for the days earlier in the week.

A Saturday or two ago Hank had made is way to Superdad's side of the bed. Superdad was doing his best to groggily carry on a conversation with Hank and Hank, getting more and more frustrated about Superdad just not getting up said, "Daddy, it's 6 dot-dot two-four (translation: 6:24)."

Superdad groggily responds, "Hank, 6:24 is too early to get up on Saturday."

Hank's face breaks out in a big, wide grin and says, "Not for ME!"

Apparently it's just too early all the other days of the week. Just not on Saturday. Lovely.

Christ is Risen!

He is risen indeed!

Happy Easter, folks!

Enjoying Spot and Dot

Enjoy the rabbits, kids, because babysitting them for five days is the closest you'll ever get to owning a rabbit.

And they are. I've had this stupid fenced in rabbit yard set up in my living room for three days straight and the kids have logged some serious hours with Spot and Dot and are already murmuring about wanting a rabbit. Yeah. Right.

Welcome, Spot and Dot

This is Spot:



And this is Dot:


Spot and Dot are brother rabbits and they belong to Hank's preschool. Believe it or not, being their caretaker over school vacations is a sought after, highly coveted position. We won the lottery this go 'round for half of Hank's Spring Break, and we brought home our prize yesterday.

Only, we had a small mishap. A teensy, tiny, silly little problem.

While carrying their rather large cage down to the basement the bottom of the cage fell out from under itself. Yes, you read that correctly; their cage broke in two while being transported down the stairs. Thankfully we were almost all the way to the bottom stair, but everything went flying: their rabbit litter, their food, their water...and... Spot and Dot!

OK. I'm exaggerating a bit. Spot and Dot didn't really go flying so much as they fell. Straight down. And they're rabbits; they landed on all fours and appeared relatively unaffected. Oh, I'm sure they were scared beyond belief, thinking to themselves, "Who in tarnation picked these people to watch us!?" But physically? They're fiiiine.

And they seem to have forgiven me. They're just as cuddly and playful now as they are at Hank's preschool. Of course, they hid under a shelf in their cage for a couple hours after The Incident, but I'm pretty sure they would have done that anyway, fall or not. You know, new surroundings and all that (nod along, folks, nod along).

Would you forgive me if I told you how awful I felt? And stupid? Yes? Good.

Easter Preperations

It's Holy Week, as I'm sure many of you are well aware. Lots, lots going on.

The scrubbed down, my-life-is stress-free-and-easy breakdown is like this: tonight is Maundy Thursday, which means church for Superdad (too late at night for tired, unruly kids to join what is always a somber, quiet service). Tomorrow is Good Friday, which means church in the afternoon. And Sunday, of course, is Easter, which means a sunrise worship service, breakfast at church and then home to see what the Easter Bunny left while we were gone and a huge afternoon Easter feast, which Superdad and I host (which this year will include my family, Superdad's family and our pastor and his family).

Here are all the nuances that were missing from the edited breakdown: today is grocery shopping, cleaning like a madwoman and cooking. Superdad will be gone. All day. Friday is more cleaning, polishing silver and more cooking. Saturday is last minute errands (fresh flowers, wine, renting The Passion of the Christ [which Superdad and I will watch Saturday night] and all the things I forgot when grocery shopping on Thursday), all the cooking I was supposed to get done Thursday and Friday but didn't and deciding what table linens and china to use for our Easter feast. Sunday is manically cooking, washing up and playing hostess.

Don't fret though, folks. We've been hosting Easter for about six or seven years now and I adore it. I love it all. I love the way the house looks when all scrubbed, polished and picked up, I love having lots of people I love around and I love the challenge of orchestrating a holiday meal.

Or maybe I'm just so thankful for Christ's resurrection and finally being able to say "alleluia" after eight long weeks of Lent and singing "Jesus Christ is Risen Today" that I'm still on a high after church and I just think I love it. But whatever; I'm always happy on Easter.

On this year's menu? We'll start with Borscht (courtesy of Wicky, my mother-in-law, who, as it happens, is 100% Ukrainian, just like the Borscht) and then move on to roast leg of lamb, oven roasted potatoes, ham (courtesy of Diana), scalloped potatoes, oven roasted asparagus, a tossed green salad, Paska (courtesy of Wicky), two Jell-O salads, one with fruit, one without (guess who requested those *cough, cough* Madeleine and Hank *cough, cough*) and then we'll move onto dessert, which is also courtesy of Diana, so I only have a vauge idea what it is, as yet, though I'm guessing trifle. R_____, our pastor's wife, will also be bringing a salad or appetizer. I'll also be contributing a couple pans of egg strata for our breakfast at church on Easter morning.

At some point I hope to sit down for five minutes and reflect on the importance of this holiday and give thanks for the blessings that have been bestowed onto us.

Tough Decision

There are a lot of reasons people will give as an explanation to elucidate why they're done having children. Some of the most common reasons I've heard are "kids cost a lot of money, kids are a lot of work, we don't have the space, I don't know if we could handle it" and so on and so on. They're all understandable reasons.

But I have a new reason. A reason that eclipses all other reasons and I think it's rarely considered when a couple discusses whether or not to have another child.

Laundry.

Have you ever thought about the laundry? The sheer, massive amounts of laundry that will show up in your laundry baskets day after day, week after week year after year? It's mind boggling to me how many dirty clothes a little person can create. Paint here, marker there, grass stain here, leaky diaper there... the justifications for changing clothes midday are ceaseless, it seems to me. I'm not ashamed to admit, right here, out in the open, that I've ordered my older children to just leave their dirty clothes on, gosh darn it.

It's a fact that still befuddles me, but I'm quite sure that the three kids combined have at least double the amount of dirty clothes in the laundry room right now than Superdad or I do. At least. Probably triple.

New parents, take heed. The emotional strain of an additional child? Piece of cake. The money issues relating to the little darling? They work themselves out. But the laundry, oh! The laundry.

I may never recover.

Movie Review, IV

Another weekend, another rented DVD. You might assume Superdad and I don't get out much. You'd be right.

It's a sweet movie, centering on the lives of Irish immigrants trying to make it in America. More than that though, it's a movie about a family; one that's been torn apart by the death of a young son and the aftermath of dealing with that loss. It's a poignant tale and although I liked it I won't say I loved it.

The acting is top-notch; even the young girls, who have to be the two cutest actresses I've seen (and they're sisters in real life, too!) are superb.

Kitchen Adjustment, V

The new kitchen floor project (which also included a small hallway and half bath) is finished and Superdad and I love it. Love, love, love it.


On Friday, when it was finished, and we were given permission to walk on the glorious new floor, even the kids were thrilled. Beyond thrilled. In fact, I don't quite know what came over us; maybe it was the fumes from the newly sealed floor, but before I knew what was happening the strains of Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake overtook us. Before we were aware of our surroundings Madeleine had become Odette, whirling around the kitchen, madly trying to show Hank, consumed by the persona of Price Siegfried, that I was the evil Odile, and not his true love. Unfortunately for us, Superdad, unmoved by one of Tchaikovsky's greatest works, was quick with the camera.

How embarrassing.

Kitchen Adjustment, IV

Are you sick of seeing our kitchen yet?

It's all I can think of. This one measly project has managed to affect almost every room in the house. I have nothing else to give.

So, here it is. The new oak floor has been laid and sanded once. They'll be back today to finish.

Kitchen Adjustment, III

Notice anything different between the pictures in this post and the picture below, taken today?


Let me tell ya, I'm not loving having my kitchen be off limits. No siree, I'm sure not.

And not only is my kitchen off limits, but my living room has been swallowed by flooring supplies and power tools (and apparently my childrens' cast off coats too, but you weren't looking at those, right?).


I'll give you more specifics as work progresses, but more observant readers will probably be able to conjecture what's being put in the old floor's place by using picture clues...

Madeleine's Fashion Journal

I swear, I don't know where Madeleine comes up with this stuff. Really, I don't. If you know me, you know I'm a jeans and tennis shoe kinda gal. Apparently Madeleine is not.

Now though, Madeleine's not content to just want to look beautiful, wear beautiful clothes and surround herself with beautiful things (a daily struggle, I assure you); she's writing books about being beautiful.

Here's her latest. And I'll warn you right off the top, her spelling is beyond horrific. Work with me people; we're looking at the big picture here, right?

Here it is in all its glory.

All Girls Fashion Book and Models
by Madeleine Olson (oh, and she also collated and published it, too)

"Maddy"
Maddy is a kind girl and is fashionable.

"Samantha"
Samantha is a kind girl. She is fashionable!

"Kelly"
Kelly is a kind girl who tries to be fashionable!

"Cristen"
Cristen is a kind girl and tries to keep her hair done.
The End.

Public Service Announcement: Paragraphs

I won't pretend my blog posts are error free. I recognize my writing weaknesses and have come across typos, spelling errors and grammatical errors when later re-reading my posts from time to time. Most of the time I chalk them up to rushing (I am completely incapable of slowly re-reading my posts before tapping the "publish" button) but much of the time there's no other explanation that suits other than admitting I sometimes make stupid mistakes.

Based on that, by all means, feel free to ignore this post.

Surfing around the blogosphere I'm noticing an annoying trend. How many times have you come across a blog whose content looks vaguely appealing only to see this?

blahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blahblahblah.........blah blah blahblah.........blah blah

Can you read that? I can't. Personally, I'd rather have a blog's author err on the side of creating too many separate paragraphs than too few.

Here's the Public Service Announcement: if you find your post looking like the above example try proofreading and break up a single paragraph in multiple spots. I promise that it will make that post, and whereby, your blog, eminently more read-able.

A Tree Grows in Brooklyn

Finishing a good book is always disappointing. In some ways it feels as if you've lost a good and familiar friend and, as such, I was sad to turn the last page of Betty Smith's most famous novel A Tree Grows in Brooklyn.

It's a soft, quiet book, slow moving but interesting in its details and lack of action. It's peaceful. Oh, it's sad and full of injustices, but it's real and in reality sadness doesn't exist in a vacuum. Even throughout the worst of times in life, there's happiness, and the same is true for Francie, the main character.

I hate to delve too much into the book. I am one who never reads the foreword of a book until I'm finished with the book since, all too often, the forward's author, in its attempt to give you a feel for the book, ends up giving away key plot lines and ruins any element of surprise. I can feel the essence of the book, myself, thank you very much, by reading the book. (That said, I did enjoy the foreword by Anna Quindlen that my copy contains but, like I said, I read it after I'd finished.)

But if you're one who doesn't mind having someone give away key plot lines and would rather go into a good book knowing what you're "supposed" to look for, here's a good review from The New York Times.

Movie Review, III

Another movie weekend, one Friday night the other Saturday night. Yes, yes; aren't Superdad and I exciting creatures?

Fun movie, full of exciting visual effects and a decent story. Brandon Routh, the new Superman, was a decent Superman, although his resemblance to Christopher Reeve is almost uncanny and one can't help but wonder if he was cast in the role because of that resemblance instead of his acting ability. The highlight of the movie was Kevin Spacey's villainous portrayal of Lex Luther; every scene with him was riveting. Overall, fun movie, but so far I prefer the old batch with Christopher Reeve.

What a wonderful movie! Terrifically acted and thoroughly entertaining and captivating. Superdad and I both enjoyed it immensely.

Trip to Janesville: A Post by Madeleine

We are going to janesville on Sunday! We are visiting frends for fun. My famly used to live there .I like the frends!

Good Mail

Here is a good example of why I love the mail.

Volvo XC90

You should buy this car. But don't buy it for yourself, buy it for me.

My dad is terrific. My van is now in the body shop, having its dents and dings knocked out and smoothed over because of the accident I mentioned, but purposely didn't expound on, here. Superdad and I were prepared to deal with the situation: he by begging rides to and from work and me by cramming one super large car seat and two boosters into the back of Superdad's Toyota Camry. It wasn't a fun prospect, but we'd survive.

Then along came Dad. Officially retired yet still driving press cars and writing car reviews, managed to snag this bad boy for Superdad and me to have for the week my van is supposed to be in the body shop. Isn't that nice of Daddy-kins? With the Volvo sitting so majestically in my driveway, I don't think I want my van back.

I've already pleaded my case to Superdad. He thinks our Chrysler Town & Country is more practical and spacious. He's right. But I still want the Volvo XC90, impracticality and all.

Personally I think he's still secretly harboring resentment towards me since I talked him into buying the practical and less expensive Camry last spring instead of his top choice: the Volvo S60.

Yeah, I'm pretty sure Dennis Kucinich has a better chance of being elected president in 2008 than I do of owning the XC90 within the next few years.

Littlest Pet Shop Trip

Let's make this simple: Superdad and I have been bribing Madeleine with stickers so that she does a better job focusing when it's time for homework. After earning a certain number of stickers she earned the reward of picking out a small toy. We had to make good on our offer last night since her sticker chart was full and Madeleine was demanding her booty.

She chose a trip to Walmart to pick out a Littlest Pet Shop toy. If you've never seen one before you simply must follow my link. In short, they're homely little cats, dogs, mice and many other types of different animals about an inch or two tall with heads, twice the size of their bodies, that bobble back and forth. They come in various colors: black, white, stripes, brown, et cetera. Madeleine loves, loves, loves these things.

So there we are at Walmart, standing in line with her two newest, homely pets and she's gazing at them affectionately and talking about how this dog also comes in this color and this cat in these other colors and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah. I inquired further about the colors, "Do they come in other colors, Madeleine, like pink and purple?"

Immediately I'm shot a withering look. "No, Mom," she explains patiently. "They're realistic."

Oh. My mistake.

Manic Monday

Last night we returned home from a weekend spent far, far north of here with family playing, chatting and eating. It's always nice to be home, to sink into my own sheets and lay my head on my own pillow. Yet along with those comforts come the nuisances of returning from a weekend away: extra laundry, physical exhaustion and, this time, boxes of Superdad's childhood toys that we were finally hoodwinked into bringing home. Where oh where am I going put a 4'x4' box of G.I. Joe's?

Highlights from the weekend:

• my kids really love their cousins and played with them nonstop
  
• I really love playing cards and, even more so, winning when I play cards
  
• I love a good Brandy Old-Fashioned Sweet. Does this mean I qualify for Social Security?
  

That's about it. Very uneventful, relaxing weekend. But now it's Monday. The time for relaxation is over.

Joke

Time to lighten things up; there are too many life-altering decisions on my plate right now. I need to laugh. I need some frivolity.

Last night Madeleine and her friend B____ spent the entire ride home from church practicing a joke they wanted to recite over the loudspeaker during their school's afternoon announcements (a daily event).

Madeleine: B____, what kind of bow is impossible to tie?

B____: Gee, Madeleine, I don't know! What kind is it?

Madeleine: A RAIN-bow.

Both collapsed into fits of giggles for a minimum of a few blocks. Then they were all seriousness and worked on their oration once again.

And did they perform this afternoon? Nope. They forgot to tell their teachers they had a joke planned. *Sigh.*

The Kids' Education

It's time for me to admit something that Superdad and I have been considering for months now. The revelation is something that will come as no surprise to some of you but to most others I have little doubt that you'd no inkling of our thoughts. I'm sharing it now because even though we've made no final decisions yet, it's something that's been weighing heavily on our minds. And what, pray tell, am I talking about?

Homeschooling.

There. I said it.

"Why!?"

There are numerous reasons that we're so seriously considering this move, but first let me start in a logical spot: the beginning.

I never, ever thought homeschooling would be anything I'd remotely consider. Ever. Homeschooling was for weirdos and loners and losers and certainly nothing I'd ever think of doing. We chose our community primarily because of its reputation for excellent, first-rate schools. We've been pleased with Madeleine's school and, to a greater extent, her teachers these past three years.

Until this past year homeschooling never made a blip on my radar.

And then Madeleine went to first grade; the first serious year of academics. We were prepared to be dazzled. We'd heard glowing reports of the rigorous mental stunts our children would be put through and assured they'd be well trained for any career they might so choose.

Then came home the homework. "Homelinks" is the cutesy term used for their math curriculum's homework. After measuring umpteenth objects in our home, watching Madeleine count tally marks and watching her struggle to subtract six from ten (not on her math homework, I might add, just a mini-mental test from me) we started to get a little concerned.

Superdad and I realized we should probably research and get familiar with her school's math curriculum, both the positives and the negatives. I won't bore you with the details of what we found or get into it too deeply because I know there are people out there who love the Everyday Math program but, I'll be honest, what we found scared us.

We then made the decision to supplement math. That involves bringing a tired six-year-old girl home from a seven-hour school day and having her do, in addition to her regular homework, another twenty to thirty minutes of supplemental homework. There are days I see the other kids on the block whizzing up and down the sidewalk on their scooters and even though I know what we're doing will serve Madeleine well down the road, there are days I want to cry when I see her look up, despondently, at the kids outside before going back to solving a tricky math problem.

And there are all the other things that they don't learn in school that I want the kids to learn: Latin, geography, history (it's touched on so, so minimally), music (I want them to learn who Beethoven was, how to play the piano, identify important periods in music history), art (how to mix colors, who Picasso was, having the freedom to create) and, most importantly, I don't want the kids to feel like they have to walk on eggshells when talking about their Christian faith.

Our day is already filled with seven hours of school, homework, the supplementing we're already doing and then, most importantly, the freedom of being a kid. Something has got to give.

We've checked out every private school within a drivable radius, those with religious affiliations and those without, and none fits our idea of what school should be.

I accept the idea that Superdad and I may have standards that are more stringent than necessary, but I've always regretted not having the same exposure to a great, well-diversified liberal arts education and I want my kids to have better. Isn't that what all parents want? To give their kids better than what they had? I'm now well aware of what's out there that young kids should, in my opinion, be exposed to and taught that I never was. I had to cram it all in, in my adult years, but I feel like my kids should have the opportunity to learn these things now.

To my shock and surprise this past year I've had numerous opportunities to meet lots of homeschooled children, on all ends to the spectrum (classically taught to unschooled) and to my shock and dismay they were... normal. In fact, they were just like I would like my kids to be: happy, polite and smart.

We don't know what we're going to do. Hank will for sure go to the public school next year for Junior Kindergarten. He wants to go and we want him to go. Beyond that we have no idea what our children's educational future holds. Madeleine, however, seems committed to homeschooling her second grade year. I think I'm on board with the idea, but I'm not sure, completely and totally, yet. Selfishly I like having the time away from them, yet, I hear myself say it or see myself write it and I feel like it seems like a thin excuse.

Right now I'm exploring more in-depth the possible curriculum we could use and getting acquainted with the massive amounts of resources out there for homeschooling (overwhelming tasks, both!). Already I've been hooked up with an impressive Latin teacher and a homeschooling mom with a girl Madeleine's age that wants to join with me to encourage the Audubon to offer classes for homeschooled kids. We're also exploring the possibility of a part time college girl coming in a few mornings a week to help with Elisabeth so that I can devote time to Madeleine and later Hank, if necessary.

We might not make the jump. I know it sounds like we don't like our public school but that's really not true. I've just vetted a lot of what we don't like; there's also a lot that we do. We just need to decide which column outweighs the other.

Now you know. If Madeleine is suddenly home with me next year and discussing etymological theory and the wonders of analyzing Latin, you won't be totally shocked. Oh, you might be appalled, and that's fine since if I were you a year ago I would be too, but don't say I didn't warn you.

Watch This

Superdad and I came close to buying a Milwaukee Symphony Orchestra season ticket package for the current season. Ultimately we decided that with finding babysitters and coordinating weekend events it be more of a logistical hassle instead of the fun thing it was intended to be.

However, Garrick Ohlsson is going to be playing with the MSO next month and it's a concert I'd really like to see.

Your challenge right now is to find a quiet spot. Lock yourself in a closet, throw duct tape over your kids' mouths or whatever you need to do and watch this. I promise, it will make your day more upbeat and happy.

Mail

This is so pathetic, but do you want to know what the highlight of my day is? Waking up? Not so much. Lunchtime? Nope. Superdad's arrival home? No, not even that.

No, the highlight of my day is the arrival of the mail. Around noon I start looking out my living room window to see if Rick, our mailman, has pulled up in his trusty USPS van filled with the goodies that have the potential to make my entire day. Sometimes Rick doesn't pull up until after 2 p.m. Those are hard, hard days. And worse, when Rick is on vacation which, given his seniority, is often, the substitute mail person may not pull up until after 3 p.m.--or 4 p.m.! Yes, it's a hard, hard life I lead.

Most days seeing Rick, his mailbag and that hallowed van send me into euphoric states and immediately improves my mood.


What does all this anticipation and excitement bring? Well, folks, let me tell you; it's kind of like being a kid on Christmas morning. Remember the Christmas' in which you spent months in preparation; telling Santa and anyone else who would listen that all you wanted for Christmas was a pony. You wrote letters, you made phone calls. That pony was all you talked about. So, Christmas morning you run downstairs expecting to see that stupid pony (hey, you're a kid, why can't a pony be under a tree?) and all you find is... a Barbie.

That's what the mail is like: bills, junk and more junk. Yesterday I received this lame assortment of bills, a fund-raising letter from John McCain (as if!), the UW-Madison alumni magazine (I'm certain I've never read it and even more certain Superdad doesn't even know we've been getting it for four years) and credit card solicitations.


Wait, though! This is why I love mail: just like Christmas morning, you never know! Some days there are good things in there, perhaps a letter or a card or a trashy free issue of People. Some days the mailbox really does contain the proverbial pony of Christmas morning and it is, quite sadly, my favorite part of the day.