Where Katie learns that you always start your mixer on the lowest speed.
Bill overheard a conversation between Katie and a non-homeschooled friend.
“Who is the cutest boy in your class?” the friend asked.
Now, I was born boy-crazy (I think my first “marriage” was when I was 5 or 6 to a boy named Scotty, and my handwriting notebook was covered with the names of two boys, Patrick and Joseph, whom I adored in 2nd and 3rd grade), so this aspect of the conversation doesn’t bother me. It does, however, make me thankful that I, as a parent, have been mainly spared, so far, all this love/crush-drama. We don’t have cute or not-so-cute boys to distract from our studies, just the constant din of an active household, which is quite bad enough.
I did, later and without referencing Katie’s overheard conversation, ask Katie if her friend knew she was homeschooled…I mean, really knew what that meant. She knows, but I think she doesn’t really know. Sometimes it’s hard to visualize a completely foreign lifestyle.
Bill lingered to hear how Katie would respond. Would it be Fritz, the oldest whose jaw is starting to pop out in a masculine way? Would it be Peter, the imp, who has a mischievous spark in his eye and cheeks that you just want to squeeze? Surely it wouldn’t be Billy, who is so close in age that they tend to be rivals more than friends.
After some pondering, Katie answered, “Well, my dad, I guess.”
Good girl! Good answer! All is right with the world if Daddy is the cutest “boy” in your life.
And I’m partial to him myself.
“Mommy, do you know where the pliers are?”
This question, from Katie, is not a normal occurrence. I wasn’t sure whether I should be proud…or very very worried.
“Why do you want pliers?”
“Oh, we’re making necklaces and we need them for the ends.” Of course. Silly me for getting a bit excited at the prospect that she was spending her summer delving into electric circuitry.
“Did you look in the toolboxes?” I suggested.
“Oh,” She said, “OK.” With a shrug that seemed to say: I’ll give it a try. I’ve looked in all the reasonable places I could think of, why not the toolboxes.
She hasn’t returned, so I assume that she found one.
Maybe we’ll do circuits next summer.
The girls were moaning because their friends had gone to their grandparents’ house. I explained that they had gone to do yard work and other helpful things. “When I’m an old woman, won’t you come to my house and do my yard work?” I asked. “Won’t you drag your children and make them help?”
Katie said she would, but she said she would live next door to help all the time. I suggested that perhaps her husband would not be interested in living next door to his mother-in-law.
“Then I won’t have a husband,” she declared.
“You’d best not have any children either,” I reminded her.
So she thought perhaps all would be well if her husband’s parents lived on the other side.
“That would be a cozy neighborhood,” I said. “Can I pick your husband based on who I’d like as a neighbor? How about the M** boys?”
“Oh,” she practically gushed, “Thomas and Anthony are nice boys! They would make good husbands. They won’t beat us.”
Such high standards. I shall remind her in 20 years when her husband is working 2 jobs so she can stay home with their growing family, and she complains that he never buys her flowers or writes romantic poetry, that all she cared about when she was 9 was that he wouldn’t beat her.
“We don’t get to pick our husbands,” said Jenny.
“Yes, we do!” insisted Katie.
“No,” Jenny said firmly, “They have to propose.”
True, that it is something you have to work around. And Thomas and Anthony’s mother has declared her boys all future priests (although her daughters are available for marriage, a point which I have mentioned is grossly unfair to those of us with girls). Perhaps though, if I assemble a suitable dowry, they can be persuaded…
Given the long list of things I have to do to prepare for an impending vacation (laundry, putting away Christmas decorations, calling the kennel), it was with amusement that I discovered myself vacuuming the garage. I’m sure there are many who will think that vacuuming the garage ever is sheer lunacy, but for every one of you, there is someone else nodding her head in agreement.
And for every one of those, there is someone else saying, “What’s the big deal? I vacuum the garage weekly.”
Another really important task that absolutely had to get done before vacation was dropping off the various bags of items I’ve been assembling to give to Goodwill. As I furtively loaded the car, I impulsively grabbed the exersaucer and loaded it up too. I’m not sure if this means I’m (a) admitting I am done having children, (b) thumbing my nose at Murphy and his laws, or (c) sick and tired of the bulky thing taking up space in my garage. I’m leaning toward the last one.
When I stopped at the recycling center, I learned that they no longer took glass. I rarely have aluminum cans, but always have some glass to recycle. When I bemoaned this fact to a long-time resident, her response was, “What recycling center?” I will never again feel guilty about tossing a cereal box in the trash bin.
I don’t get 9 year old girls. They are foreign creatures, and I deny ever being one. Case in point:
“Katie, would you please play Play-Doh with Mary instead of doing your school work?”
Moan, whine and wail: “But then I have to clean it up! Why do I always have to clean it up? I don’t want to play Play-Doh with Mary!”
“OK, then. Fritz, would you please play Play-Doh with Mary instead of doing your school work?”
“Oh, sure!” For a 12 year old boy, the choice between Play-Doh and schoolwork is obvious.
Moan, whine and wail: “But I want to play Play-Doh with Mary! How come I never get to play Play-Doh with Mary?!”
Sorry…I thought “I don’t want to” meant “I don’t want to.”
My husband has explained to me that this behavior is typical of all females of every age. When you see him, ask him if he gets a good night’s rest on the couch.
The 3 year old girl is doing her best to exhaust me. Frequently she interrupts my day to announce, “I have to go potty.”
“Then, GO,” I will say.
She will start to leave, but then will tum back and say, “You’re not coming, Mommy!” And she’ll wait for me to get up and come. If I’m not fast enough, she’ll do a little dance to show how urgently I need to move.
When there, I’ll try to help her pull down her pants. “I DO IT!” Fine. I’ll try to help her up on the pot. “I DO IT!” Fine. I’ll try to help her wipe. “I DO IT!” Fine. Pulling up her pants, washing and drying her hands: “I DO IT!” Fine.
But that’s only half the time. The other times, she needs me to do everything for her, and there’s no telling which mood she’s in. If I leave her independent self alone in the bathroom, she’ll call me back in. I’m beginning to think she just wants the company. Katie and Jenny tend to go to the bathroom together, another behavior I just don’t get. I generally manage to hit the restrooms without a partner. Maybe I can get Mary to ask her sisters to tag along instead of me.
But then I’ll probably hear moaning, whining and wailing. “I don’t want to!”
It’s been a long time since I had a little 5 year old boy to school. Peter, who has always charmed me with his brilliance, is nevertheless still just a little boy. He’s not too happy with school, because I actually want him to sit down and do it. I watch him squirm and fidget and move up and down and all around, and it drives me nuts. For the first few months of the school year, I seriously thought there was something wrong with him. Jenny wasn’t like this; Katie wasn’t like this. But then I stopped to think. Jenny isn’t a boy; Katie isn’t a boy. Billy? Fritz? Oh, yeah, wiggles and wriggles big time.
I pity kindergarten teachers.
Fritz had to write a ~700 word essay. He chose to write about the Greek gods.
Editing that paper was…painful.
I pity middle school teachers almost as much as I pity kindergarten teachers.
And since I feel bad if I mention only 4 children in a random post, I have to add a few things about my other 2.
We did a morning chore swap, and now Katie and Jenny are emptying the dishwasher instead of Fritz and Peter. While I no longer have to help Peter differentiate between the big and small forks (which have different receptacles), I now have to guess in which drawer Jenny decides various utensils belong.
A friend loaned me the complete Harry Potter series, and I’ve worked my way up to the 4th year (I had read books1-3 previously, but I re-read them so I could remember what happened). Billy discovered the stash and dove right in. He now disappears for hours on end, and is up to the 3rd book (I need to get moving!). Unfortunately, I have to hide the book in order to get him to do chores, schoolwork, eat, go to the bathroom, play outside in the sunny, mild weather, etc. It’s a good thing breathing is an automatic thing.
And now, back to work.
I have been blessed with a daughter who likes to dust. Yesterday we were all tidying up the house, and I asked Katie what she wanted to do. She offered to dust, as I knew she would, and I told her that was a great idea. I do not prefer to dust.
I have also been blessed with a daughter who likes to clean sinks. Jenny enjoys swishing the water around. I have sent her off to clean sinks many times before and not been overly impressed with her efforts. She is only 7, and I haven’t been there showing her how. By the time I check up on her work, she’s off and playing. I keep forgetting that “next time” I need to supervise her.
Yesterday, again, I asked her to clean just the downstairs bathroom sink. I had cleaned the upstairs bathroom during bath time the night before and had spot wiped the downstairs toilet. The sink area, though, really needed attention. I asked Jenny to do it, and she readily agreed because she likes this chore.
“Just the sink?” she asked for clarification.
“Yes, honey, everything else is fine. It’s just the sink that needs to be cleaned.”
I was busy elsewhere, and forgot to supervise her, again. When I checked later, the sink looked like it hadn’t been done at all. Yet I had seen her in there, running water and having a great time. I stopped and looked closely.
The porcelain, the bowl of the sink, sparkled and shone like a jewel. It was the counter area that looked deplorable. But I hadn’t told her to clean the counters. I told her to clean just the sink. So she did.
It’s a talent I may be able to use in the future. I see professional looking invitations for the most mundane of events (“Mom’s playdate, my house, 3 pm, BYO Margarita glass”).