Homeschooling does NOT suck!

"Homeschooling sucks!"

Hmm. What does a homeschooler say to this statement? A homeschooler who just happens to be a ten year-old girl, cornered in gym class by a bespectacled peer equipped with a very haughty attitude?

Hayley reluctantly relayed the conversation to me as we drove home from gymnastics class Monday night. The girl had been talking about her school and how it was the best school in the area. She asked Hayley where her school was.

"I'm homeschooled."

"Homeschooled?! Homeschooling sucks!"

"No, it doesn't."

"Yes, it does. Who wants to stay home all day? Who wants to do school at home?"

"I don't stay home all day. I go on field trips and I go to co-op once a week."

"What's co-op?"

"It's like a school for homeschoolers. We have really cool classes like Life in Medieval Times and Cooking and stuff."

"Co-op is stupid. I have friends at school. Lots and lots of friends."

"I have friends, too. Friends from co-op and Girl Scouts and 4-H and from my neighborhood."

"Not real friends. Not friends like mine."

"They're real friends to me."

"Whatever. Homeschooling is boring."

"It wasn't boring today. I got to go sledding this morning with my friends."

"Well, I have recess. I could go sledding then if I wanted to."

"And I get to sleep in. And stay up late. And study what I want to. And get on the computer to play even if it's the middle of the day."

Silence.

"And I don't have homework. Ever."

More silence. Then a glare, accompanied by, "Hmph. I still think homeschooling sucks!"

I listened to my daughter's entire re-enactment of the conversation. I'll admit, a tiny part of me wanted to march inside and tell that child in no uncertain terms just how mistaken she was. But the other part of me swelled with pride over how my daughter handled her surly classmate...and how passionately she defended her choice to homeschool. We continued the drive home and I thought to myself, "Well...at least this ten year-old girl doesn't think homeschooling sucks."

And hers is the only opinion I care about.

Leia Mais…

Kindness Is Contagious -- Help Spread It!

Tomorrow is World Kindness Day and I want to celebrate. I want my family and friends to celebrate; I want my city to celebrate; I want the whole world to embrace the ideology of World Kindness Day.

I think about all of the times I am not kind, if not in my actions then in my thoughts. I think about being the recipient of someone who is not kind and how this can give birth to even more negativity -- namely, mine.

Kindness and the act of being kind is essential to peace and harmony -- not just in the world but in your community, in your friendships and in your family. Being kind is not hard and it doesn't have to cost money. All it takes is a willingness to be generous in your thoughts and actions. Kindness breeds kindness. Rapidly.

Try an experiment this Friday. Fill yourself with kindness and, most importantly, share it with others:

Start at home. Offer a smile and a hug first thing in the morning, even if your child (or spouse or roommate) wakes up grumpy or you're running late for work or school. Do something outside of your typical morning routine that helps spread a little kindness: it could be something as simple as feeding the cats or letting the dog out; or snuggling with your kids and reading books before the Getting Ready routine begins in earnest.

When you're driving to work or running errands, let that car pass you on the freeway, the car that has been tailgating you for the past two miles, and do it with grace. Better yet, switch lanes to make it easier for them. Let that other car circling the parking lot pull into the closer spot. Return the abandoned shopping cart to the store, the cart that is threatening to smash into some unsuspecting victim's car.

Hold the door open for someone. Thank a worker -- genuinely thank them -- for a job well-done. Let someone go ahead of you in the checkout line.

Jot a quick note thanking a co-worker or teacher or volunteer in your community to let them know you appreciate what they do. If you don't see them that day, drop it in the mail. Send a letter to someone...just because.

Go out to dinner and leave a bigger tip -- and an even bigger written thank you on the tab. If going out to dinner isn't in the budget or on the schedule, let your kids help out...without complaint. And thank them when they are done.

Tell all the people who hold a special place in your heart that you love and appreciate them, and that you are glad they are in your life.

There are so many simple, easy things we can do to make our world a kinder place. Best of all, kindness is contagious. Think of the impact you could make on World Kindness Day -- and every day -- if you simple take the time to spread a little kindness.

Remember, kindness breeds kindness. Not only in others, but in yourself.

Maybe some day we won't need a World Kindness Day to recognize that.

Leia Mais…

Sweet Samhain

Today is Halloween. For the most part, our neighborhood is decorated for celebration: yards are bedecked with giant inflatable ghosts, houses are strung with blinking orange and black lights, and jack o'lanterns are perched like watchmen on front steps. The kids have been discussing their costumes with their friends for weeks and diligently scoping the candy aisle at the grocery store, cataloging available goodies and deciding ahead of time what they're hoping to receive when it comes time to trick-or-treat.

But there are the few houses that remain unadorned, that the kids will race past tonight, whose porch lights will not be on, whose owners will not be delighting in the clever or cute or frightening costumes, who will not be handing out candy to the eager and anxious neighbor kids. It makes me wonder: why?

Perhaps it's the economy. Times are tough and, when making decisions about which bills to pay, buying a bag or two of candy might seem like a frivolous and unnecessary purchase. I get that. Or perhaps those people have plans for tonight and know they will not be home to celebrate; maybe they chose not to decorate because they don't want kids to assume treats are waiting.

But part of me wonders if it is something else. I wonder how much of it is due to the belief that Halloween is a pagan holiday, something evil, something that shouldn't be celebrated.

Halloween does have pagan roots. I don't think anyone can deny that. Samhain (pronounced "sow-en", the Scottish Gaelic word for summer's end) was the traditional time to celebrate the ending of the Light Half of the year and the beginning of the Dark Half. It was a time of reflection and celebration, a time to spend with family and friends, a time to honor and remember those who had already left this life. The Church melded its own beliefs and rituals to this holiday, creating Hallowmas -- All Saints' Day. Their intention was to have people celebrate this holiday only; however, the original customs persisted.

I'm not going to delve into more of the history here; there are enough websites out there with far more thoroughly researched information than what I can provide. But what I do know, what I do believe, is that Halloween -- Samhain -- is not evil. Nor are its pagan roots.

In our house, we do a variety of things to celebrate this transition in the year. Despite the fact that it is not the meteorological equinox, I do see it as a clear delineator between the two halves of the year. The days are markedly colder and shorter, the trees have all but lost their leaves...winter is imminent. Using apples and pumpkin and other harvest foods, I bake as a way to celebrate: breads and muffins and other delicious treats to freeze and savor later. And I feel the shift inside of me, tiny deaths that always leave me a little melancholy.

At this time of transition, I do believe that the veil between this world and the spirit world is fragile and thin. We remember our loved ones who have passed on by setting up an Altar of Remembrance, complete with photos and notes and small gifts, too, should their spirits pass through during this time. It is a time to reflect, for us to talk about the friends and family missing from this life, gone but not forgotten. It is a heartwarming time, knowing their memories live on within us. And it is special to have a time set aside to do this, to create a beautiful and meaningful tradition that we can look forward to, year and year.

But we dress up, too. And we carve pumpkins and read silly Halloween stories and go trick-or-treating and embrace the new meanings of Halloween, what the old customs have morphed into. We celebrate the fact that it is a time for other barriers to become thin and fragile, the barriers between adults and kids. Think about it: on Halloween night, kids let down their guard just a bit and learn that the nameless neighbors can be OK. Adults let down their guard and learn that the neighbor kids are not always just a loud-mouthed group of hooligans: they can be sweet and endearing, or clever or frightful, in their costumes. And with donning a costume, kids and adults alike can let down the barriers of who they are; for one day, they can become someone or something else. This veil, the one between reality and fantasy, becomes thin and fragile, too.

I like to think that the barrier between Christians and non-Christians becomes thin, too. That people can see Samhain for what it is meant to be -- a time of transition -- and not something wicked or evil. In its purest form, this celebration is simply a way to recognize the turning of the year and loved ones who have left this life. A decidedly sweet celebration, I think.

Leia Mais…

When Life Gives You Apples...

We made apple cider yesterday. We made it the old-fashioned way, using a hard press cider mill, after we collected wheelbarrows full of apples. Every apple -- mottled, dented, even slightly bruised -- was collected. We shook apples from the boughs and picked them up off the ground. We must have collected thousands of them! And we hauled them back to our host's driveway, the owner of the apple trees and the cider mill, a sweet and gracious woman who invited us to collect all of the apples we wanted -- for free! -- and who welcomed us to use her ladders and wheelbarrows and, most importantly, her cider machine.

Making cider is hard work. It takes a lot of apples (we should have counted, but hundreds were involved. Trust me.) to produce a gallon of apple cider. It takes all kinds of apples -- a mixture of tart green Granny Smiths and sweet State Fair, and yellow Golden Delicious -- to make a good-tasting cider. We loaded apples and cranked the wheel to mash them up. We watched the bucket below as it filled with apple cores and stems and pulp and when it was full, we moved it to the press. We hand cranked that thing and pressed down hard and watched as the sweet-smelling amber liquid rushed like a mini waterfall through the open slats of the bucket and dripped into the waiting container below. We took that container and funneled it through a sieve, into our empty containers, filling them to the brim with frothy, foamy, apple cider. And we tasted it, the hard fruits of our labor, the sweetest cider on earth. It was delicious. Divine. Like nectar, the drink of the gods.

After three hours of hard, strenuous work, we came home two gallons richer. I stowed them in the refrigerator and started making dinner. I was physically drained but I felt more alive -- renewed, refreshed -- than I had in a long time.

Because, you see, that afternoon I learned much more than how to make apple cider. I learned that life is a lot like apple cider. You need all different kinds of experiences -- the sweet, the sour and all the flavors in between -- to make a rich life. You don't focus on simply collecting the best experiences, the shiniest ones, the most perfect ones; you collect them all, bumpy, bruised, as ugly as they may be, because all of them are valuable and necessary. All of them are required to make a rich and vibrant life. Just like apple cider.

The past few weeks have been tough. They have been filled with an influx of emotions -- happiness, regret, remorse -- and I am finally at peace with all of them. I welcome them. I embrace all that I am and all that I have experienced because these are the things that make up me. It is my own personal recipe, a blended mixture that, I think, is a pretty sweet brew.

Everyone knows the saying, When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.

I've got a new one: When life gives you apples -- all kinds of apples -- make apple cider.

I'm glad I did.

Leia Mais…

We Walked A Mile...And Then Some

Our family participated in a charity event this weekend, a walk-a-thon to raise money for our sister school in Vietnam. It was a terrific cause with the money raised going towards helping these kids afford school, buy supplies and improve their classrooms. And I didn't want to go.

If it had been any other weekend, I would have been thrilled to participate. Really. But I'd just finished up an all-day homeschool conference -- you know, the kind you go to and volunteer at, where your feet ache from standing all day, directing foot traffic, and your mouth feels all stretched out from smiling so much? -- and I was beat. Exhausted. I didn't think I could walk five steps, much less a mile. But we had signed up and the kids were excited and I was not about to let the other families down who had invested so much time and effort in setting this up. I would go and I would somehow find my smile. And I would leave the 3 year-old home with Daddy; even though he'd had the kids the day before while I was at the conference, I figured he could handle the youngest while he stayed home and watched football. She'd have a much better time playing cars than traversing the trails in the Refuge.

My hope of leaving her home was looking a lot less promising as she followed me around the house, scrambling to put her own shoes on as I laced mine up.

"Don't you want to stay home and play with Daddy?" I asked, my voice much too hopeful.

Her lip quivered. "I wanna be wif you." And then her eyes welled with tears. "You were gone all day."

Yesterday. The conference. Guilt flooded me and I relented. It was an easy walk. Just a mile. She could do it. She'd hiked all throughout Yellowstone and the Badlands, hadn't she? Besides, it would be good practice for our trip to California later that week -- and all of our day-long visits to Disneyland.

So we headed out. I tried to be in a good mood as we drove -- late -- to the Wildlife Refuge, the location of the walk. I tried not to grumble as the wind whipped about and the skies darkened. I tried to smile as the clock ticked and we still hadn't started, waiting for those who were even later than me. And I tried my hardest not to complain as we finally started the walk and Julia decided she much preferred being carried than walking on her own two feet.

"Just let her walk," someone suggested as I lifted her into my arms. "She'll catch up."

Yes...shrieking at the top of her lungs. Since I didn't want to a) leave my child wandering aimlessly through the wildlife refuge or b) listen to her blood-curdling screams, I adjusted her on my hip and followed the trail. After all, it was only a mile.

I voiced this out loud and someone corrected me. Apparently, the title of the walk was slightly misleading. The coordinators decided Walk a Mile In My Shoes flowed a little better than Walk Two Point Five Miles In My Shoes.

"For real?" I asked. "It's really two and a half miles?"

Yep. Did I also mention we were hiking to the highest point in Sherburne County? On a steep and narrow dirt path? Single-file, with people going up and down at the same time? With poison ivy lurking dangerously close to the trail? And wild pumas just waiting to pounce?

OK, so I'm being dramatic. There were no wild pumas. But there was poison ivy -- and I was still carrying 35 lbs. of extra weight squarely on my hip. I was not a happy hiker.

But I did it. No, I didn't carry her the whole way and no, the hike wasn't that miserable. The scenery was beautiful and I was hiking with good friends, which definitely sweetened my rather sour deal. Still, I was happy to reach the parking lot. I was happy it was almost over and I could set the preschooler down, gather my belongings and go home.

I was heading to the car when the two older kids reminded me of the raffle.

"There are going to be prizes!"

"And we could win them!!"

So I heaved a big, heavy sigh and we stayed for the raffle. Which meant, of course, that we had to wait for everyone to get back from the hike. I thought I was the last one to finish but apparently some brave (i.e. foolish) souls had decided to hike the longer loop -- as if 2.5 miles wasn't long enough?? -- and were slowly trickling back in to the registration area.

Finally, everyone returned and we were ready for the raffle. The first ticket was being pulled from the box when we all noticed the dark clouds racing across the sky and the winds picking up in intensity.

"Let's hurry up with this," someone said. "Looks like it's going to storm."

No sooner than the words were out, the skies opened with a heavy downpour of ice-cold rain. The wind whipped furiously, hurricane-strength gusts that tore the tarp off of our tent and threatened to upend tables. Kids were screaming, huddling under tables or taking cover near the bathrooms while the adults raced around, grabbing items and throwing things into any available car.

The storm was an eye-opener for me. You would think, based on my day, that it would be the final nail in the coffin of my bad mood. But it wasn't. Instead, I felt invigorated. It suddenly hit home why we were doing this walk and my earlier surliness melted away with the rain.

I didn't have to do this walk; I chose to. When this was all said and done, I had a car to seek shelter in, a car with a wonderful heater that would warm my chilled bones in a manner of seconds. I had a cozy house to go home to and a microwave that could easily ready a hot cup of tea the minute I walked through my door.

The kids we were walking for didn't have those luxuries. If they wanted to better their lives and have any hope of ending the cycle of poverty they existed in, they had to make that walk. Even if it rained. Even if it was windy. Even if it snowed. Even if they had to carry a book bag or help a younger sibling along the way.

These kids did this walk every day, to school and back home. I doubted they complained and I realized -- rather belatedly, of course -- that I shouldn't complain, either. I should be grateful for walking that two point five miles today, grateful that I had the experience and grateful that, by taking part, my family was taking one small step in making someone else's life a little better.

It was definitely a mile worth walking. Well, two point five miles worth walking...

Leia Mais…

Out of the Mouths of Babes

My house has been filled with heated conversations lately. Passion, frustration and anger have been frequent visitors in the car and around the dinner table as we discuss current events: namely, the country's reaction to President Obama's school address and a certain YouTube video of school children singing a song espousing the merits of our new president. I have been amazed at the uproar and backlash by these things and, more importantly, by the reactions I have witnessed in people.

This post is not going to be about me. It is going to be about my daughter, my kind and wise ten year-old daughter who listens intently when her dad and I discuss issues, who asks questions and tries to understand and vocalizes her own opinions in an attempt to make sense of the world around her.

I told her about the song video. I explained in very neutral terms what had happened -- simply that a school had an assembly during Black History month to sing about our newly inaugurated president. I told her some of the lyrics and asked her what she thought of them. She pointed out that she wouldn't mind singing it, because she likes President Obama. However: "But what about all of those kids who liked John McCain? They probably don't think President Obama is a good president. Did they have to sing it, too?"

Exactly, my dear. Exactly.

I told her that a lot of people across the country were very upset with the Democrats and with President Obama because of the song.

"But, Mom, it was ONE school. And it wasn't like President Obama asked the kids to sing it! I don't see what the big deal is."

Exactly, my dear. Exactly.

A later conversation stemming from the song video involved the president's school address from a few weeks back. Chris and I were discussing it and the reactions it received among conservative parents. Hayley didn't understand why the president couldn't address school kids. We explained that some people thought he would have a political message hidden in his talk. We explained that some people, quite simply, didn't like our new president and didn't want their kids exposed to him.

"Why?" she asked.

We went through all of the reasons. Differing political points of view. He's too liberal. Differing religious points of view. He's not Christian enough. She listened politely. Intently.

We mentioned his ethnicity and she about went through the roof.

"What? People don't like him because he's black? But, Mom, that's what the Civil Way was about. And that was fought over a hundred years ago! Who cares what color his skin is!!"

Exactly, my dear. Exactly.

Leia Mais…

My Day As a Pioneer

I time traveled to the 1800s today. We visited the Laura Ingalls Wilder museum in Walnut Grove, Minnesota. We visited the banks of Plum Creek and saw the location of her sod house and picnicked and played. I didn't wear a bonnet or dress -- shorts and tank top were my attire in the 90 degree heat -- and our picnic didn't consist of 19th century foods -- unless they had Pringles and Chips Ahoy cookies and individually wrapped cheese sticks.

So. How did I time travel? What part of my experience made me feel as though I had left the 21st century behind? Well, see, apparently there is this tiny pocket of land in southwestern Minnesota that receives no AT&T coverage. None. Nada. Zilch. We were driving along through the quaint little towns of Hutchinson and New Ulm and my iphone would drop to a half bar or, even worse, flash Searching. Not that I was checking it while driving, of course. Goodness, no. Only at stoplights.....

I was OK with it at first. I drove past the endless corn fields and prairie, thinking I'd be fine once we got to the next town. But, no, things did not improve. In fact, the closer we got to Walnut Grove, the dicier service became. I think I actually gasped out loud when my phone read No Service.

I'll admit it. I panicked. Completely freaked out. Not because I was alone in the middle of nowhere without cell service -- we'd traveled down with three families, a nice little line of minivans and SUV's. Not because I was afraid of getting lost and the GPS feature on my phone was unusable. No. I was silently (I hope -- kids, did you hear anything?) cursing AT&T because I was out of touch. Unreachable. I had no access to phone...voice mail...text messages...email. Not just for a couple of minutes until we traveled to the next town, mind you. We had arrived. We were at our destination and I was unplugged.

What was I going to do? What if someone needed me? I had edits out; I had events in planning mode; I had Facebook messages! How was I going to survive hours without my connection to the outside world? The two friends who had Verizon (and thus service) were nonplussed. My other friend commiserated slightly; she had AT&T service, too. But her concern was that she wouldn't be able to communicate with the other cars as we were driving (this was valid, since we'd temporarily lost two of the moms on the way down).

I don't think I can count how many times I checked for service as we strolled through the buildings and grounds of the museum, hoping I could find a small spot that a cell service tower might reach. I was convinced it was there -- maybe to the left of the sod house, closest to the telephone line, or maybe in the center of the recreated prairie (yes, I did lift my phone skyward, hoping I might pick up on some random phone waves....). No luck.

We continued on to Plum Creek and I checked there, too. We were in the middle of some farmer's land, folding our $4 per car and inserting it into the tiny mailbox at the entrance of Laura's sod house site. Still nothing.

I gave up. I shoved my phone back in my pocket and settled down for our picnic lunch on the banks of Plum Creek. We spread blankets and munched sandwiches, swatted at bees and drank our lemonade. We chatted, we laughed. And, later, we explored the creek. We waded through the cool water and watched the minnows struggle upstream. We sank our feet into soft, squishy mud and squealed as it squelched between our toes. We found logs to crawl across and vines to swing on, out and over the creek.

We spent hours at the creek. Playing. Laughing. We listened to the birds sing and the bees buzz and the wind as it rustled through the willows and the tall prairie grass that lined the banks. It was beautiful. It was magical. I had the best time with my kids and friends. No distractions except what they and Mother Earth provided. I couldn't remember a better day.

We finally climbed back into the cars, soaked and mud-encrusted, sated and spent. I'd like to say that I kept my phone safely stowed, that I didn't check it until we got home. Um, no. I hadn't time-traveled that far. But, you know what? I'd go back...in a heartbeat. My day in the 1800's turned out pretty darn awesome.

Leia Mais…