Mother's Day Card

5x7 Folded Card

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'Tis the Process, Not the Product

It is difficult to keep in mind, or sometimes to even believe, that art expression is more about the process than the product.  It is still a concept with which I struggle--but I suppose it is a process.

Feeling like I was going to be caught any minute, I stood rummaging through decorated cardboard boxes full of thread and ribbon and glue.

Going to the yard sale of someone you know is at best awkward. I found myself in that situation this morning, looking through art supplies which had belonged to the mother of my friend. The mother had recently been moved to assisted living at age 92, and no longer had need for the medium of self-expression.

I couldn't help but think how just last night I myself bought new decorated boxes and filled them with art supplies for my latest project. Would someone be digging through these someday, looking for a bargain? The simplest things sometimes make us face our own mortality.

I felt a kindred spirit with this woman whom I had never met. The boxes told the story of her passions. Annie was a needle-worker and a painter. There were rolls of counted cross-stitch fabric and pads of canvas paper, waiting for inspiration. There were paint tubes and skeins and needles and half-completed projects. One of these projects caught my eye.

It was a patchwork-sized cloth, a blue horse on white fabric, looking like it belonged on the side of an English bone china soup tureen. I found it stunning, but was saddened to see the tea stains in the corner. I was about to toss it back in the box when I started to think about how much work went into this piece.

When I was first living on my own, I would stitch in front of the television for hours. I made wedding samplers and baby samplers for friends, waiting for my own time. My then-boyfriend would lean against me, engrossed in watching me stitch as we cuddled. I never did take the time to make our own wedding sampler.

I haven't stitched in years, but have moved from one medium to another in my expression of self. Having children opened a whole new world of making crafts, or rather teaching crafts. Somehow doing the craft myself was off-limits because I did not want to show up my kids. I wanted them to build their own confidence in creation. Once they became over-saturated by crafts, I turned to scrapbooking, which suddenly was an outlet for many previous mediums. Hundreds of dollars and hundreds of hours later, the children's first year albums were quite the overkill.

My husband is a kind man. He is also an honest man, and sometimes the two qualities conflict. One day in his frustration, I don't remember about what, maybe it was the money spent on supplies or the forgotten chores, he said to me about my scrapbooks, "Nobody cares about those but you!" It was probably the least kind thing he has ever said to me, and he immediately regretted it. It took me a long time to get over it, but even longer to understand it. In a way, I appreciate the statement now, because it helps me get my head around why I do what I do.

I was fortunate to have grown up at a time when Art was still a subject in school, paid for by public monies. I remember everything I did in junior high Art class. We did batik and paper mâché and plaster of Paris and charcoal drawings. I loved my teacher and she loved me and everything I did. It was always about what I could create, and how beautiful I could make it. For as much as a perfectionist as I am, I am fortunate to have the talent or maybe just the patience to live up to my own perfectionism. Usually. Sometimes I screw up, but I have become a master at turning the mess-up into something better. A little gold leafing here, or a pretty ribbon there, covers a lot of flaws.

Full of my own fixed mind-set talent and determined to see if my daughter had any, we were in a mommy-and-me art class the first time I heard the statement, "It's the process, not the product." Over the weeks, I heard the teacher repeating this stupid sing-song phrase over and over, and I completely disagreed. I was thinking, what the hell, lady, why do art without a product? I thought she was insane. But God bless that woman and her annoying voice. She bent one of my beliefs, back-and-forth, back-and-forth, until it finally snapped.

In the years since--years of parenting and homeschooling and Sunday school teaching and craft parties--I have helped lots of children express themselves through the process of art. My own children are just about done with anything involving the word "craft," but they spent years being encouraged to do what felt right to them, and not being judged for the outcome. My favorite art lesson is putting out loads of supplies and saying Go-to-Town. I witnessed so many children in these situations ask what are we supposed to do, or worse, "Is this right?"

I could tell where this inhibition comes from when the mothers would say in front of their children, "Oh I am not at all creative. I can't do art." I was torn between wanting to hug these women and wanting to slap them. Someone at some point in their lives let them know that it was the product and not the process, and they were passing this legacy on to their children.

The biggest hurdle in exalting the process over the product has been to let go of all the product. There is a shelf-life on the refrigerator door of somewhere between two weeks and might as well keep it up because St. Patty's Day is just around the corner again. I still had boxes of decoupaged toilet paper roll penguins and curled up paintings, until the kids went through it one time and did not even remember making much of it. I suppose since I have nothing but a needlepoint turtle on brown canvas from my childhood, I felt for my children. But I have learned to take a digital photo and chuck it.

So why do I feel so strongly about this neglected horse? Why does it matter so much that this old woman who has not even passed on yet is having her things gone through as if her passions no longer mattered? Maybe because these things are not what ever mattered; rather the energy of her spirit's potential at a moment in time is what remains. Perhaps that energy is passed on, igniting in another the love for the smell of paint or the pull of a needle.

I bought the horse, along with several other items. I tried to bleach out the tea stains, but only made it worse. No matter. I plan to memorialize the passion behind this horse in my latest project: an art book which houses pages of imperfect passion. A book that, in my best of intentions, is made completely for myself.  I am the only one who cares about the fate of this book, and that's just the way I want it.  I created the horse's page with a backdrop of decoupaged blue-and-white tissue made to resemble the side of an English bone china soup tureen. The theme of the page is kindred spirits, and I have done my best to absorb and pass on the energy of Annie's passion--complete with a little gold leafing to fix up those tea stains.

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Christmas Letter 2009

Dear Family and Friends,
We are happy to report that we are ringing in the new year happy and in good health. Our lives and children keep us busy and full of joy.

Our “teenage” daughter is so happy in her new school as an eighth-grader at the Academy. She works very hard, but plays well too. She is enjoying all her new friends, and just finished up varsity volleyball. We are so proud she made honor roll her first quarter in traditional school. (Really validates Mom!) She stays busy with piano and choir, becoming quite the accomplished musician.

Our son is ten now, and in the fifth grade. He just started a few weeks ago at public elementary, just because it was time. Even though he is the new kid, he takes it all in stride. His favorite subjects are lunch and recess. Lots of transition to go through, but it will all be well. He continues with his piano and ukulele, and is hoping Santa will bring him an electric guitar.

Hubby is working very hard as always, and traveling some, but not too much. He continues with his love of Lego, and is quite accomplished in architectural design. His many hobbies and all the friends that come along with them (and now helping with junior high homework) keep him quite occupied.

I am now redefining myself after nine years of homeschooling. Curriculum planning is swapped out for taxi service and lunch packing. Helping with homework is just transferred to the evening. I am still teaching Sunday School. But it is a dream to be able to focus on the vocation of being a great homemaker in support of the family, instead of being stretched so thin. We had a good run, and now we embark on a bright future! All the best to you and yours this holiday.

Hugs and Kisses,
Smith Central

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Labor Day BBQ Humor

Long weekend to ketchup on what I mustard do. Not relishing it, but if I don't, then I mayo get myself into a pickle.
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Tracking Santa

Ever tracked Santa online? Or your loved one's airplane as it flew across the country? (I forget which airline does that on a map...very cool.) Well, my daughter just finished Social Studies and is heading to lunch. Been giving my son the blow-by-blow all day. Eerily fascinating to us.
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Winning the Race

This day has finally come. It has been much anticipated, and deeply feared. I have been urging it to come quickly in much the same way I would wish for Root Canal Day to get here--just so it would be over. The drama is done. At least for me. My daughter has finally started school.

I am pushing back the little voice in my head that is saying, "You failed." I step on it, and slam the door. But still, every now and again I hear, "You failed at homeschooling." My rational mind comforts me with reminders of all of our successes over the last eight years, and the very proof in the pudding of my lovely young daughter. But still, I wonder if we stopped the race before we crossed the finish line. Forfeit.

The morning started like no other morning in this household. It was dim. I had to actually put on a light while showering. The skylights need a replacement bulb, I'm thinking. Also, there was no familiar yelling to get the children up as there is much later every other morning. They seemed to sense the urgency in the dimness and they responded without much prompting. It felt like there was a plane to catch, but with no vacation at the other end.

I quickly made scrambled eggs and put them in the oven to keep warm. This morning I insisted on at least five minutes for all of us to sit down together before we went our separate ways. My husband was driving our son to his school (as he attends school only one day a week), and I was to bring our daughter to her first day of Kinderg...uh, eighth grade.

I set the table in the backyard, and was greeted with "Ugh!" when they saw the Book. It is a well-worn, thin, colorful paperback called "Miss Bindergarten Gets Ready for Kindergarten." I had it propped up at the table on display. I have read it to my children on the first day of school every year since they actually were in Kindergarten. Each year gets progressively more ludicrous, but someday I know that they will see that book somewhere and pick it up and exclaim to whomever is nearby, "Oh! I remember this book! My mother read it to us every year!" Their eyes will tear up, and they will get a warm, fuzzy feeling inside.

"Mom! I already had my first day! I already had to listen to that this year!" Fast forward to the present moment. My son had a point. Poor kid.

"Well, I'm reading it to your sister now." At least she knew better than to protest past the eye-rolling. I began, "It is the first day of eighth grade, and oh! oh! oh!..." At least I got the slightest smile at that. I rushed from Adam Krupp (the alligator) through Zach Blair (the zebra), and we were all relieved when Mrs. Beighthgrade was finally all ready for Eighth Grade.

Daddy came out with the toaster waffles and I tossed one on each kid's plate. My son's landed center on his plate, but went skidding off onto the concrete. Daddy started to protest my tossing skills, until I picked it up and flung it into the yard. It arched beautifully across the lawn like a latticed Frisbee. More giggling. It was my attempt to make up for force-fed picture books.

After a few minutes, I noticed my daughter had stopped eating. Feeling my own nausea from eating so early, I sympathized. Despite all the silliness, she summed it up well, "I feel nauseated."

Like most children, I always had "butterflies" in my stomach on the first day of school. It wasn't until about third grade that I realized it was a figure of speech. I just assumed they digested somehow. In fifth grade, I had the usual butterflies on the first day. And the second day. And the third. By the fifth day, my mother was getting worried because I actually had to run out of class and spew on the gravel. Fortunately, her investigative mind figured out it was the new horse-pill vitamins that we were taking since school started. No more purple pills for Pam.

This morning, our nausea subsided quickly and we got on the road in record time, yacking about anything but school. The early morning fog and traffic were foreign to us. We parked and carried the huge bags with all of her supplies. I think we were both relieved to see that everyone else had huge bags lined up along the walkway too. Amanda was greeted with a few hugs, and I said hello to a few moms, and then I was pretty much dismissed. I still decided to pull my daughter around the corner and give her a hug. Rather, I hugged her but didn't feel the love back, so I let it pass. I envied all the other parents of younger children snapping photos and taking videos. This was not happening over by the junior high children. Then a girl said to my daughter, "Tuck in your shirt! Quickly! You'll get a ticket!" Heavy sigh.

Since my daughter wanted nothing to do with me (understandably), I went to my car. With nothing better to do, I sobbed for a bit. Then I sobbed some more. I know just how long I can cry before my eyes turn red. Fortunately I had one Kleenex left in my purse and faked myself all better.

As I sat there, I noticed all the children lining up for assembly. There were multitudes of parents watching, so I said, dadnamit, I'm there. I even brought my camera and snapped a picture of my daughter from behind. No flash, of course. We all said a prayer and the Pledge (with God and everything). They even called up the new students for a special bag they had prepared for each.

Then I went into the hall for the parent coffee. I spent a little while chatting with other parents, and felt very welcome. As I penned my name in for volunteering, I realized that I am as much a part of this small private school as my daughter. After all this lovely chatter and grand welcome, I went into the school to be fingerprinted so I could volunteer. I have been assimilated.

Walking back to my car, I noticed the eighth graders by now were out by their lockers organizing them. I went to sit with another mom to spy from a distance. We had a nice chat. She was hanging around because she had a new Kindergartner. We had a lot in common. Finally it was time to leave well enough alone.

So I sit here this morning, with both of my children in school for the first time. I know I need to get ready to teach my son tomorrow, and I am thankful to still be homeschooling, but our family is forever different. Or rather, we are now the same. We are the same as everyone else: rushing around in the morning, carpooling, volunteering, and doing homework at night. Homeschooling is a lifestyle, but now we are a mixed home and need to live also by the outside rules. No more morning dental appointments, or long weekends on vacation. No more unilateral decisions about what or how to teach my daughter. I have passed the baton. The high blonde pigtails have become one low independent ponytail.

I'm going to keep working on that little voice that is taunting me about forfeiting the race. I'll keep stomping on it with every step towards the finish line.

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Endings and Beginnings

I am hoping to retain my composure enough to write this as I sit here tonight. This monumentous day has come, and is already over without fanfare. In fact, it was barely acknowledged with more than a comment. I think that it deserves more laud, so I sit and write this letter to my beautiful daughter on her last official day of homeschooling.

My dearest daughter,

It has been eight years now since we first took up crayons and pencils--nine really, if you count preschool. I think back over those years with great fondness, as I allow myself to grieve that they are over. It is bittersweet tonight, but the bitter will fade and the sweet will remain.

So long ago, I bucked the system. No Kindergarten was good enough for you. How could they be, when in my heart of hearts all I wanted to do was have you with me? I wanted to teach you to read and count and draw and paint. I loved the smell of Play Doh and new workbooks, and was so excited to share my love of numbers and words with you. You were such a bright little girl, and so easy to teach. Our days were blessed.

We had a little bump in the beginning, as your first few weeks of Kindergarten were marked by the tragedy of 9/11 on your fifth birthday. We protected you as best we could, and continued on. It was not long before we were back on track again. What a pleasure to have your best friend join us in our little schoolroom. You and she were full of giggles and joy, as you remain today. I am so glad she was able to be with us the first two years.

Our classroom was my pride and joy. Remember the jungle of the rainforest hanging from the ceiling? And then there was the time we had planets orbiting around the room. I look up and still see the hooks on the ceiling that I never took down. I remember beans straining to burst from their casing as they were pummeled by the afternoon sun in their little baggies. We had actual bean plants from them, I believe, out on the ledge. I stopped that when I got too afraid of one of you girls falling from the open window trying to water them.

We used to have one day a week as field trip day. I was a mother-on-a-mission in those days. I figured all one had to do was ask, and I was right. I asked at the library, and we got a behind-the-scenes tour of how books are checked in. At the fire station, and we toured the entire upstairs, and you children got to spray a fire hose. At the hospital, a candy-striper took us all around. I asked as we passed an ambulance, and you got to tour inside. You received a blown-up latex glove with a face drawn on it. I asked at the sheriff's station, and you got your own sheriff giving you a full tour of the inside of a police car. Brother even got to turn on the siren.

I wonder if you remember the day that we experienced five modes of transportation. Besides the car and bicycle, we walked to the bus stop, took the bus to Palomar Airport and had lunch while watching the planes take off. I remember a pilot enjoying showing off his airplane to us. Another day we took the train to San Juan Capistrano. We almost lost little brother as the doors to the train started to close unexpectedly. Recently we joked about it on the terminal trains at the Denver airport, but I still held onto you and your brother's hands tightly while disembarking.

I am guilty of craft abuse, and for that I am sorry. I made you jaded by the time you were ten. You did your quota of crafts by third grade, and it ruined you for future summer camps, art classes, or Klutz gifts. I have backed off for the last few years, so I hope it has given you the time and space to heal. I hope so, because you are so very talented in that arena.

I liken this journey to a downhill ride on a gently sloping hill. We started out so full of enthusiasm and motivation. I was re-energized when brother started school, but I realize that the change was not necessarily too wonderful for you, now that you had to share my attention. Or fight for it, really, as I tried to give my son the same amazing early experience that you had. No wonder you still punch him.

As the years went by, the Play Doh dried up and was tossed. The art projects gave way to essays, and the math manipulatives were replaced with a calculator that could do inverse sine. Sadly, for a couple years I allowed myself to be replaced by a DVD teacher who had more time to explain things. But you loved the fact that you could "pause" your teacher.

This year you moved from the classroom to your own room, after we painted it bright pink and got you a mammoth executive corner desk and hutch that would make Donald Trump envious. With the supersize monitor on your new computer, Internet access, a telephone, and a bunk bed for kicking back and sleepovers, you were set to enter preteendom. We even left behind those DVD teachers, after we could no longer stomach those shoulder pads. You were in your element just given the computer, your books, and your iPod, left to yourself to figure it all out. I would get the occasional "Mommy! I need help!" but for the most part, you did it on your own this year. I am proud of your independence.

And I forgive you for all the abuse I received when I tried to explain math problems to you. Heaven forbid I speak longer than one minute when you asked me a question. Someday as you sit in a hard plastic chair in a stone-dead boring college lecture as you try to keep your eyes open over the T.A.'s droning, you will realize just how damn good you had it.

You're my bright, shiny penny. You are brilliant in my mind, and I am so very proud of you. You excel at whatever you put your mind to, and you will be successful in whatever endeavor is blessed enough to get you. You now need more that I can give you, because you need more from your friends than from me. I accept that, and I encourage it. I actually look forward to redefining our relationship to one where I am less of a task master and more of a support for you as you become a young woman.

I have a feeling, though, as you attend eighth grade this fall, that one day not too long after school starts, I am going to hear, "Mommy, I need help!" I'm not so sure this is the end. In fact, I think this is just the beginning.

Forever yours,

Mommy

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Refried Beans Revisited

Well, it is official. Our daughter attended a screening day at the church school, and had so much fun that she decided she wanted to go. And when she decides something, it usually happens. There is no person I know who has such positive intention when she sets her mind to something. She repeats her intention as if it were already true, and it happens.

Last year, it was, "I am going to meet Richard Dean Anderson." She had it written on small bits of paper in her room. She repeated it often. She was convinced that she would meet MacGyver. The only problem was that the tickets went on sale on the Internet at 5 a.m. PST one day in January, and they sold out in two minutes. But by August, we had a photo of her with the biggest grin imaginable, squeezing the breath out of the poor guy.

Since her screening day at the school, she's been saying, "I'm going to the Academy next year." Her father and I were still discussing options and deciding about private school, but she kept repeating her intention. Of course, her desire played the biggest role in the decision, but the expense was a consideration that she did not control. Yet she kept repeating her intention.

One day I happened into the school office while I was at church, mainly to tell them that we were still seriously considering. The receptionist mentioned that there was another screening next week. I was shocked. I thought I had an understanding with the principal. Here they were, letting someone else test drive my new car when I had already shaken hands with the salesman. I panicked at the possibility of losing our option.

"Let me write you a check," I said.

After filling in the final paperwork and handing her a $300 non-refundable deposit check that secured the spot, she happened to mention that another child was intending to leave and open up a second spot. I smiled through my annoyance. She would have made a good car salesman.

Well, at least the decision is made. One more positive intention come true. Well, at least until the novelty wears off. We'll see if a lifelong homeschooling night owl can make it to school by 8 a.m. every morning after an evening full of homework. Hopefully we won't be hearing by Christmas, "I am going back to homeschooling. I am going back to homeschooling."

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Refried Beans

It's like deja vu all over again. Twice baked potatoes. Refried beans. I feel like I did years ago, as a mother approaching Kindergarten with her firstborn. Only this time we stare down the barrel of high school.

There are more comparisons with my preteen daughter's early years than I like to admit. All she wants to do these days is sleep. She eats all the time, or is fussy about what I try to feed her. She whines when she does not have enough sleep or food, and cries often. Music soothes her. She likes a nightlight (emanating from a computer screen as she sits in front of it). She has colic in the form of hormones, and giggles at the least provocation. At least she is potty-trained.

Unlike when she was a toddler however, I find that I am no longer able to provide for her all that she needs. Where once I was the center of her world, she now has expanded her domain to include best friends and boys, teen idols and yahoo groups. She has grown into a lovely, strong, no-nonsense young lady, and I find that I admire her. Instead of looking back wistfully and missing my little girl, I look forward to witnessing the young woman she is becoming.

Just as when she moved from preschool to school, this transition from preteen to teen is not without its decisions. We have multiple paths in front of us which we can take, any of which would be acceptable. But somehow the "best" path must be found, without being able to travel down it first. We must squint into the underbrush, trying to detect the thorns and brambles. We try to climb to the highest hill to see which path leads to the most generous pot of gold.

These multiple paths are similar to the questions that we had at the turn of the millenium. Is there any school good enough for our daughter? Should we start our fall-birthday child this year or next? Should we homeschool? We researched and toured, and attended open houses and put in applications, just to keep our options open. The ultimate decision came with a phone call from an excellent preschool which was very difficult to get into. The director was offering my daughter a position in their "gift of time" program for five-year-olds waiting to start school.

It was during this conversation that out-of-the-box thinking won the day. We decided to send our daughter to this lovely afternoon preschool after a morning of homeschooling Kindergarten. It was brilliant. (The director thought the idea so brilliant that she called me in a subsequent slow year to ask if I knew any other mothers interested in doing the same thing.) We repeated the plan with our second child, since the underbrush was already cut away. The teacher and I worked together, where I was the primary teacher and she was my support.

Once we made the decision to homeschool our daughter, I knew we were in it for the long-haul. To satisfy doubters, I would say, "We are taking it a year at a time." Yet in my heart I could see our path straight and clear for many years ahead. My son followed in his sister's footsteps, with adjustments made for him as necessary. We have worked for years with a wonderful teacher at a homeschooling charter school, where I am the primary teacher and she is my support.

I saw this new multiple fork in the road from far off, but I ignored it as we continued along picking poppies and letting butterflies land on our fingers. But it looms closer now than ever. The word I find in my mind and on my heart is this: discernment. To be able to perceive that which is obscure in order to judge wisely and objectively--this is my perseverent prayer.

Just when we thought we started this discernment comfortably early in the process, we have added a new urgency. Our K-8 church school had a second open house to attract students in this belching economy. This second open house prompted some out-of-the-box thinking. What if my daughter were to enter eighth grade in the fall at this lovely little school? She already knows half the children in her class from church and choir. It would be the softest place for her to land into the school system. Just for grins, I popped into the eight grade class to talk to the teacher. Turns out there is one spot in the eighth grade, with no one waiting.

With some consideration, I see many advantages to this eighth grade option. I would remain her primary teacher, if only in spirit, choosing to take advantage of the curriculum and offerings this school provides, in exchange for compliance to their schedule and requirements. I am used to being accountable to our charter school. Teaching my daughter would not stop; in fact, it may ramp up given the demanding nature of middle school. Another advantage is that this school feeds into the local private high school, which feeds into the local prestigious private university which my daughter knows she want to attend. It is tempting.

I ended up putting in the application to the church school, just to keep our options open. As active parishioners with an excellent student, the spot is ours if we want it. My daughter's first response was to sob, and her second to blink, and her third to see the bright side and smile. Much like when she was two. This is a serious consideration to ponder for us, as it would be life-changing in this household. But a soft place to land it is. A single class of nice kids whom she knows already, with no substance abuse or open romance. People tell me these children are more like siblings than anything, since they have been together for years. They support and tease, and play and cajole. They even wear uniforms to level the playing field. It would be a place for my daughter to belong, fully accepted and absorbed into their group. They have asked her for years to go there. The principal insists that prospective students spend a day on campus with a buddy, and my daughter is looking forward to that in a few weeks. Only she can't decide which of her friends she wants to be her buddy.

If we made this decision, I would continue to homeschool our son, mainly because he needs the personalized attention right now and I am not ready to completely give up my life. His class level at this school is full anyway, with a wait list. But in the spirit of keeping our options open, I put his name on that wait list just in case I get a phone call in a few years when the time is right. For now, the principal told us to take our time deciding about our daughter, and she promised to call us first if she got any other offers for that one eighth grade spot. We could then decide to put in our deposit or not. So the ultimate decision may come in the future with a phone call from an excellent school which is very difficult to get into. Refried beans.

Etymology moment: Refried beans are only fried once. The Spanish term "frijoles refritos" actually means “well fried beans." The error in translation comes from assuming re- is a prefix and frito means fried (which it only does in Frito-Lay land).

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The Life of Cycles

Apparently, God thought cycles to be a good plan. Day, night. Winter, spring, summer, fall. Evaporation, condensation. Life, death, rebirth. Mankind has taken God's concept of cycles and run with it. Bicycles. Chain saws. The calendar. Cycles are all around us, and as part of our everyday life as breathing. Yet sometimes we resist these cycles and cause ourselves pain. The cycle of homeschooling is not exempt from these natural laws, and acknowledging the many inherent cycles can give peace to an otherwise discouraged outlook.

I recently attended a talk at church given by an old friend whom I consider wise. I hadn't seen Diana in fourteen years, but we've been exchanging Christmas cards across the country all this time. As former head of catechetical ministry at my church, she was the first person I met there when I went searching for community. At our first meeting, she spoke to me in her confident Southern accent about the liturgical year. Diana showed me a colorful wheel with the seasons of Lent, Easter, ordinary time (the "long, hot summer"), Advent and Christmas. I will never forget how wide my eyes became as she explained the big picture of the cycle of the Church calendar, suddenly giving meaning and place for all the holidays and traditions that I so haphazardly celebrated. She gave me cycle.

In her recent talk, Diana focused on preparation for Lent, the Church's springtime. She spoke of our own seasons of generation and retreat. In looking through the viewfinder of an entire life, there are years when we are more generative, making children and making plans. Then there are later years when we may retreat to be closer to God, letting others make the children and the plans. Zooming in more closely to shorter periods of time, generation and retreat are built into our calendar. We generate during the day; we rest at night. We generate on the weekdays; we retreat on the weekends. We generate during the school year; we retreat during summer and holidays. As long as we follow these cycles without resistance, we are open to feelings of peace and contentment.

It is when we resist these generative and retreat cycles that problems arise. Too much work and no play make Jack a dull boy. Too much play and no work make Jack a jerk. Consistent generation without break causes burnout, depression, fatigue, and a desire to quit. Extended retreat without production causes chaos, guilt, shame, and resentment. Honoring our cycles and rising above our mood-driven nature allows us to stay balanced on the generation-retreat cycle, and remain balanced in our emotions and surroundings.

There are cycles that occur in the background of our lives that affect our outlook as well. Long ago I recognized a cycle of excellence that permeates my teaching. Sometimes I was spot-on with planning, preparation, execution, and results. Other times it is all I can do to produce the minimum required. It is at these minimalist times that I am tempted to feel discouraged, outraged at myself, guilty, and desirous of quitting. Fortunately, I have a free token that I am able to use at times like these. It is called, "This too shall pass." I was given this wisdom as a child, and it has served me well in my life, bringing a token of optimism when it is needed most.

Homeschooling as a form of education does not have a monopoly on this cycle of excellence. Every school child has good years and bad; good weeks and bad; good days and bad. Every teacher is subject to the same. The difference is that homeschooling can feel like running a marathon alone. If there is no support, or someone to validate you (including yourself), then it can be easy to fall into discouragement during the low ebbs in the cycle of excellence. A homeschooling teacher can feel so singular in the huge responsibility of raising up a child in the way he should go, that it can be overwhelming.

In the eight years that I have struggled and succeeded and struggled again, I have learned two things about the ups and downs: respect the generative-retreat cycle, and accept the ups and downs in the excellence cycle.

I recently spent two weeks staring at the wall. I had no motivation to do much of anything outside of my own interests. The laundry piled up; the schoolwork stacked; and dirty dishes appeared as food disappeared. I beat myself up for my apparent laziness, and I was as discouraged as I can get. I knew it would pass, but it sure was taking its sweet time. One day as I was writing to a friend about how busy my life had been the last four months, I realized the problem. I had run for months with too much going on, and had worked evenings and weekends to get it all done. Instead of using evening and weekends to regenerate, I was using them to generate more. As soon as my projects let up, I let down. I had burned myself out, and my body and mind were forcing me to take a long overdue break. Unfortunately, that break caused more chaos and it took much longer to pull out. I had not respected the generative-retreat cycle over a period of several months, and the outcome was burnout.

Of course, my excellence was impacted hard by this burnout. But even with a balance of output and rest, the cycle of excellence goes on with a mind of its own. As a teacher, I know that when I accept the times that I do not shine, I more quickly get back in my game. Accepting a student's ups and downs presents more challenges. It is so difficult to accept a mediocre paper from an outstanding student. But sometimes mediocre papers happen, and pushing for perfection each and every time is going to impact the psyche of the student. Conversely from the student's perspective, expecting perfection from himself can also cause problems. When a 98% is failing according to the child, it is time for a good chat. Teaching acceptance of cyclical excellence and mediocrity (i.e., not every test will be 100%) will do more for the perfectionist child than the extra effort to keep the wind in their idealistic sails.

Respect and acceptance. Works for more than cycles. It reminds me of a homily that I heard at a friend's wedding. The priest said, "All you must do is treat each other with love and patience. Love and patience. Nothing more is required, and nothing less works." Respecting your natural cycles is a form of loving yourself. Accepting your natural ups and downs is a form of patience with yourself. The system seems to work when I follow it. Apparently, God thought cycles to be a good plan.

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Just Amazing

I am used to the comments by now. When people hear that I homeschool, the response is either "I could never do that. I don't have the patience." Or "How do you find the time? I don't know how you do it all." I reply humbly to the comments describing me as "amazing" or "awesome" and hide the truth as best I can. I hide it because I enjoy the momentary bliss of being thought "amazing" by someone, despite the hypocrisy of the compliment. I want to shout at the top of my lungs, "Stop! I'm a loser just like you!

Sometimes I retort, "You should see my toilets." That gets a laugh, but they don't believe me. They go on complimenting, needing to believe that I am the Martha Stewart of prepositions, clean toilets and all. I remember my father introducing me one time to an associate. I was in college, and he introduced me as his "4-oh daughter." I gave him a strange look, and started to protest, but he cut me off and continued talking. He may have remembered that I only had a 4.0 my freshman year when I was barely taking a full load in anthropology, with no job and no boyfriend. As soon as I switched to engineering, and got a job and a boyfriend, my GPA went the direction of mercury on a cold winter's day. It did not seem to matter to his urban legend. He needed to believe I was amazing.

Maybe I deserved the title when I first started homeschooling. I was full of enthusiasm, idealistic dreams, and my own abilities. No one hated math, and I had only two small Kindergarten students, my daughter and her friend. I painted the classroom butter yellow, and collected books and games and memories. I changed the bulletin board every five weeks, painstakingly creating a vision of what we would learn the following weeks. I took pictures of our day, and pasted them into a log that I wrote each afternoon. I spent evenings planning the details of the next day, complete with full-color worksheets often created by me, and lots of hands-on manipulatives. I actually planned what we would have for snack, and stocked it beforehand. We had story time and calendar time and said the Pledge of Allegiance, God and all. We had one day each week that we called field-trip day, and we fully took advantage of them. There was a period of time when we had passes to every conceivable park within an hour's drive. Considering we live in Southern California, that is no easy feat.

I'm not sure when things changed. The friend went public, but my son graduated from his crib, so there was no net change in enrollment. My son had a good Kindergarten experience, but then something happened. Maybe it was coincident with bringing in DVD teachers. Maybe I burned myself out the first four years. Initially, the DVD teachers were there to allow me a break at times, but then my children were watching television more than I taught. The bulletin board stayed the same all year, just a U.S. map and a multiplication table. I stopped taking pictures. The park passes began to expire. Math was exposed as the enemy.

I kept having dreams that my purse was being stolen, after I had left it in a vulnerable place. The only thing I had inside was my wallet and my camera. I read somewhere that repeated dreams should be interpreted by determining what the objects mean to you. My wallet and my camera. My identity and my memories. I was giving my identity away to DVD teachers, and cheating myself of memories. The day I figured that out was the day that I stopped relying on women with large shoulder pads to teach my children.

With that phase over, I was renewed. I began taking advantage of parent classes at our charter school. I was always the one in the room with my arm up the longest as they asked, "Who's been homeschooling over three years? Four? Five? Six? Seven?" But as an old dog, I was surprised to be learning new tricks. The best one was the "lap book" which is like unit-study-meets-scrapbook. It was the adrenaline that I needed to revitalize our schooling. We made amazing lap books, and enjoyed ourselves immensely that year. The more classes I attended, the more I started sharing my own discoveries, and I found that pretty soon I earned a reputation of being amazing even among my peers who were teaching too. But I was behind the mask of longevity and beautiful lap books. You should see my toilets, I would say, to the utter relief of the other moms to whom I was speaking.

Every year has a theme. There is a flow not unlike the ups and downs of a child in public school. One thing has stayed the same however, and that is the reason that I am amazing and the reason that I have time to do it all.

My toilets are truly cleaned about once a school year, if my husband is up to it. (Hey, he's the one who does not want to pay a housecleaner. Whatever.) The upstairs is usually off-limits to all but the most indiscriminating friends. Beds are made on a whim. There are stacks of clutter, some of it waiting to be unpacked from trips that were taken two seasons before. We used to have an agreement that the kitchen would always be clean, but that has fallen by the wayside too. There is usually an archaeological dig by the phone, getting deeper by the month.

I rarely wear makeup, except to church. My hair has been wash and wear for years, despite my sister begging me to do something with it. I don't iron except on holidays. I do shower every day, however; even I have my limits.

I go through phases with making dinner. One night on, two months off. Dinner is usually Jimbo's hot deli and salad bar (hey, it's organic). My son is great at making pasta (and messes). My daughter is great at begging me to go to Jimbo's to get food. The other night we had sweet potato shepherd's pie from the deli. It was yummy. We're not suffering.

My car has been washed once in the last year, by my neighbor who claimed to be thanking me for some forgotten kindness. I still wonder if they were just getting embarassed by the layer of filth on it. When we carpool, we have to throw everything into the trunk and cover it. I still have something back there that I hear rolling around when I turn corners. I've even been known to spread a towel on the seat for these poor unsuspecting carpool children. Oh, and gas only happens when the car beeps at me.

Clean underwear needs the same alarm. When more than one person is complaining about needing clean underpants, then something happens. Usually that something is that a third person starts complaining. After everyone has gone through their swimsuits and borrowed underwear (same gender, please), there's usually a trip to Target to buy more. And the dry cleaning bin is uni-directional. I'm not even sure where there is a dry cleaners nearby since we moved (eleven years ago). We keep getting new clothes, but no one is cleaning out the old clothes. Every once in awhile my son comes out wearing pants that are four inches too short. Everyone thinks he's "growing so fast," but it's just time to do laundry.

We recently added fish and rabbits to the equation. I don't know what we were thinking. The fish gave us false security that we could handle the bunnies. Let me tell you, fish poop stays in the tank. Sometimes if you don't clean out the tank often enough, the fish eat the poop and it kills them. But you don't step in fish urine in your own kitchen in stocking feet. Fish don't make little yellow circles on the same carpet that you once asked people to remove their shoes for. Now we warn people to keep their shoes on their feet when entering our home.

I think what is amazing about me is that I have not been committed or arrested yet. Committed because of the insanity within my home, just this side of chaos, moving from one urgency to the next--no time to do it all, or even half of it, or even a tenth. Arrested because of the yelling that has to be heard from our open windows on a breezy day--yelling from the frustration and impatience and insanity and chaos and urgency. Stubbed toes. Left open mayonnaise. Bunnies running amok. Chaos and impatience and not enough time. Just like any other suburban American home. Only we homeschool. But I wouldn't trade it for the world. I guess that truly is amazing.

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First Place!

We would be remiss as parents if we did not toot this one really loudly. Our daughter has won First Place in the school science fair. Her project is entitled, "Microwave Radiation from Wireless Devices in our Homes." Out of 106 entrants, there were 10 finalists. Among those ten were chosen one 1st, 2nd, and 3rd place for each of the grades (7th and 8th). We attended the reception for the winners. The ten finalists also presented their projects as mentors to the 4th, 5th and 6th grade classrooms.

She received a score of 26 out of 24 (2 bonus points). The judge's comments included, "Wow! Fabulous board and notebook. Articulate and knowledgeable presentation. Great experimental design. Important timely topic of great interest to the public. Just sorry I couldn't give more points." Our daughter has become very interested in educating others about wireless radiation, and will continue on a related topic for next year. (They encourage continuing with similar topics.)

This has been an incredible confidence boost for her, and as our dear friend says, we need to help our children "manifest the passion for learning and excellence."

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Fourth and Seventh Grade Here We Come

We have entered sacred ground. We tread where we have never dared go. We crossed the line. We started Junior High.

It sounded so ominous before we started. A few weeks into it, we find 7th Grade not so daunting as we first anticipated. Yes, there is Science Fair. Yes, there are higher academic expectations. Yes, there are hormones and mood swings. There is the 7th grade standardized writing test and the solo trip to Catalina Island. There's Youth Group and LifeTeen Mass and choir. There are junior high activities at the school. And then there's the boys. Taller boys with deeper voices. Words like "hot" and "cute" replace "yuck" and "ewww..."

I suppose it is a bit daunting after all for a mother and a teacher the first time around! Fortunately, 4th grade has those well-worn ruts. But my son is a different child, and I have a feeling that he will be bouncing out of those ruts in no time, carving his own path.

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