Remember I'm your kid?

Cote is having a wonderful time in her imagination, as she frequently does.  A few minutes ago she asked to borrow a real pan for her play kitchen and made me some soup.  She took my order, served me and offered a blanket to keep my baby warm.  She also complimented me on how cute he was and asked his name, smiling sweetly as I told her, with the socially appropriate, "Aw.  That's a nice name."

After a while, she spied the bean bag and a wrap and suggested we go to sleep.  She covered herself and told me to rest well.  Then she paused as she did the last time I was invited into her world, "You remember I'm your kid?"

"Yes, I remember," I giggled

That was enough, apparently.  A little touching base with reality?  

She tucked herself in and pretended to snooze.  She roared, told me there was a ghost and announced she would have to go fight as she was a power ranger (wanjaire) and she had a sword.  

In her purple, fluffy Easter dress she danced toward the front door, looked at me with a wink and said, "But first I hafta pick my wedgie."

Cue epic one-person battle on my front porch.  

Later she came in telling me something in an affected English accent about a tea party.  She also told me how she died out there and I should cry.  But she only died one day, not two days.  Then she wondered aloud, also with an accent, if I had any raisins and if she could get them by herself since she was a big "sisser".  I agreed, thinking we'd bridged back to reality for a moment but apparently not, because she put her stuffed bunny in the stroller and is going for a walk.

Yep, I definitely remember this little mighty ball of awesomeness is my kid.  

Blood Work

I walked into Labcorp for my blood draw, wielding my HSA card and wearing a baby. Hannah eagerly danced through the door and immediately located and utilized the hand sanitizer dispenser. I'm not sure if she's developing OCD hand washing tendencies or if she's addicted to pushing buttons and playing in aromatic alcohol-based gel.

John slinked in behind me, hood up, arms elbow-deep in his sweatshirt pocket. He is usually the one there for blood level checks. He is not a fan of the process. In fact, he complained how his arms were already aching on the way there because they knew where we were going. He settled down in the waiting room chair, reading a book, desperately trying to disavow all knowledge of where he was.

I approached the reception window and began filling out the requisite paperwork. Hannah flitted over, excitedly jabbered about the Cinderella calendar in the office behind the window and flitted back toward the sanitizer dispenser. I strongly encouraged her through clenched teeth to be satisfied with the amount of cleanliness her hands already possessed.

Cote, whom I was wearing and trying to fill in papers around, suddenly noticed the Cinderella calendar as well. She had no words for the joy she tried to express to me but I recognized the exuberant attempt at a back flip off my chest to gain a better view. "MOMMY!!!!!"

Then she took my face firmly in her two hands, which might have actually needed a dose of wall-dispensed antibacterials, and tried to establish eye contact. "MOMMMMMMMMYYYYY!!!!! Wook!"

A tiny arm fished its way out of the deep recesses of the mei tai to fling itself in the direction of the Disney icon. I nodded, despite my understanding it would not be an acceptable level of acknowledgement, and returned to the paperwork. Then she tapped on my chin approximately fifty times in a half second and tried a two-year old whisper, "Mommy," eyes darted pointedly to the left, "wook..."

"Yes, Cote, wow, it's Cinderella, isn't it? She's so pretty!" I mustered a convincingly enthusiastic grin and eye twinkle. I was released long enough to retrieve my insurance card and sign the paper.

I asked Cote if she'd like to be out of the carrier before I sat down. No, she wanted "wap on Mommy." I took breath and sat down. Immediately, "I wan down. I wan out da wap." I stood up and granted her request. Just as I sat back down the phlebotomist, or Guy in Scrubs, called my name.

John continued to read with a ferocity, stopping long enough to explain his arms hurt from the last time he was there and it was decidedly unnecessary for him to accompany me to the lab.

Wide-eyed, the girls followed me through the Door into the Unknown. A million questions from Hannah began. Cote wordlessly climbed into my lap for security. I extended my arm and tried to answer as many of Hannah's questions as possible. "Why is he pushing that blood into your arm?!"

"I know it looks that way. He's actually taking a little bit of blood out."

"Why?! Why would he do that? John says it's HORRIBLE. I'm keeping ALL my blood."

"He's going to take the blood and do some tests, like experiments with it. He's going to look at it with a microscope and let Mommy know how healthy I am."

Guy in Scrubs interrupted quietly, "We'll need to get some urine as well, ma'am."

Hannah bought into the secrecy and matched his tone mixed with five year old awe, "What does that mean?"

"I need to pee in a cup." There, how's that for taking away all the mystique.

Hannah still whispering, leaned in and giggled, "You did that when you were pregnant!"

Guy in Scrubs deftly removed the needle and tied the cotton ball in place, then indicated the direction of the restroom while handing me a container. Hannah eyed the jar gleefully.

I had lost my dignity a long time before this day; embarrassment exchanged for amusement at novel moments like this. Once inside, Hannah backed up to the bathroom door and watched like a child anticipating the circus. Cote went about her usual routine of inspecting every surface visually and pointing out where the toilet paper was located. And then, I peed in the cup.

Cote froze. Her eyebrows tried to arch right off her face. A smile spread involuntarily as far as her mouth would allow. Astonishment, intrigue, no, pure, unadulterated admiration of my brilliant creativity settled on her being. "Mommy! Pee IN cup!!!!" She looked around for confirmation from Hannah and pointed back toward me, "Mommy. Pee. CUP?!"

Hannah was silent but her smiling nod was all "I know! Isn't it great?!"

I finished urinating, holding the container in my hand. Hannah said, "I'm gonna tell the doctor you put some of the pee in the toilet."

"Hannah, he doesn't need all my pee, just enough to do some tests."

I put the lid on the container, cleaned it up, and started to wash my hands. Hannah stared reverently at the amber liquid. "Can I touch it?"

I paused.

My knee jerk response was to ask her what the heck she was thinking and tell her absolutely not. But then, some other part of me, irrevocably broken by the process of motherhood said, "Why, what's wrong with it? Some stranger is going to touch it. It's clean on the outside. It's just weird. Get over yourself."

I sighed, indicated my assent, and immediately realized why the knee-jerk response existed as Hannah extolled the virtue of my jarred accomplishment. "Mommy, it's warm! It's sooo warm! Good job! You made warm pee!"

My Automated Car Unloading System

We came home from a camping trip a few weeks ago. Since John is 12, we expect him to help us unload the dirty clothes and groceries. It's not a lot of work. If everyone helps we get done in about 10-15 minutes. We have light things Hannah can carry and even Cote gets in on the action.

But wow, John did an amazing job of making it a miserable for everyone. He complained and berated us. He spent five minutes getting himself a glass of water and even sat down to play video games. He was upset because he didn't think Hannah was pulling her weight so he took her stuffed animal from her and placed it above the curtain rod in her room because he thought "it was a distraction to her."

I got to thinking that every time we bring home groceries, it is the same thing, but not as intense as a camping trip. My mother and I did some John brainstorming that night. We talked about how groceries were not as routine as just coming home on a normal day and camping was even more out of the normal. We talked about how it wasn't really much work and he always imagines it's way worse than it actually is. I recalled my own aversion to having to unload in those instances too. Together, we came up with a new plan.

Now, the kids have each been assigned 2 or 3 cloth grocery bags and special loading/unloading laundry baskets for more bulky items. Their items have been color coded with pieces of duct tape.

They love the new system. I don't even forget my cloth bags when we go to the store anymore because they each want to carry their own.

There are no timelines on how quickly they need to unload when we get home but they know they aren't supposed to go past the kitchen until their bags are back in the van. Each child carries in his or her bags and unloads them *gently* onto the counter or the table in the kitchen and takes the bags back outside. Then, I put all the groceries away.

John is more comfortable because it seems equal to him that Hannah has the same number of bags as him, even if they don't contain as much. He knows that no matter how slowly she moves, she's not manipulating her way out of work. He also isn't afraid I'm going to keep him working for hours or doing ungodly amounts. He knows he has three bags, no more than that.

It has worked very well. No one is jealous of the other. When I was in college, we talked about giving children ownership. I didn't even think about this when I was doing it, but those little pieces of colored duct tape have given them more than a new assigned task. They've given them ownership in the process. We've even used the duct tape to label eye glass cases and their favorite sword fighting sticks.

What kinds of things have you done to stream line having the children participate in the responsibility side of the family equation?

Historically, I've always hated history

My father is a history buff. When he discusses history, it comes to life. His passion is contagious and I learn more than I ever did from a text book or a history class in high school or college.

I'm familiar with all the reasons everyone spouts about how those who don't know history are doomed to repeat it. And so with the heavy obligation of preventing my son from repeating regrettable history we dutifully studied it in our homeschooling.

I've read more philosophies of education in my college career and in my quest to be the best home educator possible than I can count. Some say history should be studied in chronological order, creating a time line for the children to gain perspective. Others say one should start social studies by exploring out from the child's own experiences, moving from families to neighborhoods to city to state to American history and eventually world history.

I didn't have to do all this research to teach my children to read. I ADORE reading, so I did what came naturally, I read to my children. Later we've danced between whole language and phonics using moves from both as was dictated by the learning styles and needs of my children.

History is different for me. It is a study I embarked upon with reluctance and foreboding and, dare I say, great ignorance. I can not tell you how many times I've approached a new history lesson and have been amazed at how little I know.

The reason I am so baffled by this is because I was an exceptional student, yes, even in history. I was a National Merit Finalist which meant the state university I attended was eager to grant me a full academic scholarship. I don't say that to brag. I say that to make a point. In theory, that puts me in the category of students who got the most out of their educational experiences. I was not a slacker who didn't pay attention.

I'm not faulting teachers, I'm faulting the way education as a whole perceives the study of history and then projects that to the students. I viewed it as a collection of trivial information which had no impact on my current life. As an A student in my middle school history class, I embarked on a personal study of the Ancient Olympics for my history fair project. I did it well. I learned a lot. I also learned, after I submitted the project, that the class I had been taking for months was American history therefore my project was disqualified. How does a student with an A in a class not even know what the class was about?

In high school, I had a combined studies class that endeavored to combine the time periods of history and literature. They had fantastic aspirations but those studies were never combined. The history teacher had a love of Chinese dynasties and the literature teacher a love of Shakespeare.

As I've escaped the need to ensure progress with tests and my special needs child has helped me to remember to tailor education to the individual, I've tried to redeem the combined studies program's lofty goals. We study literature from the time period in history or historical fiction about that period as we study the history. We also travel with my husband on his business trips and try to cement the information by visiting historical sites like we did this month when we visited Boston and reviewed our Revolutionary War studies.

I recall from my teacher training that children (and adults, for that matter) need to be able to connect new information to prior learning in order to retain that information. I look at John's interests and experiences as a framework for attaching new information. I've come to see history as a way of making connections.

He recently expressed an interest in the atomic bomb. Part of me recoiled, thinking it was too macabre a subject. But the other part of me said this was a chance to attach a lot of other learning. Since then, we've studied WWII, read some great historical fiction, discussed the human aspect and effects of the bombs, the decisions which led to the bombings, the Holocaust and on and on. John keeps a journal in the form of writing only one sentence a day of something important he remembers from what we've read together. Much like a test, it doesn't really demonstrate what he has actually learned. That comes out in meaningful conversations and connections that have impressed me and made me so glad I'm finally understanding the importance of history.

In Boston, we visited a haunting Holocaust memorial. It was the same week John was finishing reading Number the Stars. The memorial consisted of six glass towers which represent the six death camps. Each column has one million numbers etched in the glass representing a Jew who was killed.

We had an amazing time, especially as we were there on the anniversary of 9/11. We talked about both events as we used multiplication to find an area of numbers which was roughly equivalent to 3,000. It was such a small place for so many numbers. We talked about the horrible loss of life on 9/11 and how many people that was. Then I stood with my hands blocking out that space and we tried to view it in comparison to the enormity represented by all six towers. I found it difficult to breathe.

We read the quotes of survivors inscribed on the towers and discussed the tiny lights that looked like stars coming up through the grates below each column. We noted how the columns were beautiful but reminded us somewhat eerily of chimneys.

It has been obvious to me that I'm much better for having studied history with my son. I always have the impression that John is learning and making these connections as well. Today, we discussed Japan's bombing of Pearl Harbor as well as their invasion of the Philippines. We talked about the death march of 80,000 people. a very sober John remarked about the similarity to the Trail of Tears, recognizing the evil despite the difference of time periods and continents.

A chill runs down my spine as I finally realize for myself just how important and fascinating a study of history truly is. I no longer consider it a burdensome obligation to teach my children to learn from history. I consider it an honor and a privilege to learn right alongside them. And any insight we might glean by taking a detour to explore the Holocaust on a field trip intended to study the Revolution certainly won't be disqualified just because it wasn't on the syllabus.

I Defaced the 100 Easy Lessons

This is my second time using Teach Your Child to Read in 100 Easy Lessons. I need it to last at least through one more child. I love the content but the large paperback book is quite cumbersome. I've dreamed about it being an ipad app or at least an ebook. If anyone figures that out, please let me know.

I was just making due until we took a week long trip to Boston recently. I only wanted to take enough lessons for the week, but I couldn't copy it easily on our scanner because of the book's unwieldiness. I lugged that heavy burden to Boston and back. I vowed I would never do that again.

This morning I committed a book-loving sin, I dismantled the entire thing. It's in a binder now, where I can prop it up more easily or take out the pages I need and put them back in again. Plus, if a page starts to get damaged, I can always scan it and put a fresh copy in the binder.

Nothing's Bugging Her Now

I've been meaning to post for a while about why I like camping so much. Sure, I love the great outdoors but I love even more what it does for my children. Campgrounds afford John freedom to explore on foot as well as with his bicycle. He makes friends quickly in a laid-back environment where he isn't having to face prejudices from kids who have experienced his previous social awkwardnesses. Every campground is a clean slate in which to practice interacting with his peers. Cote's curiosity is absolutely sparked by being outside which encourages her cognitive and motor development. But the focus of today's post is Hannah.

She's been hesitantly interested in the world of bugs and critters for a long time. She would look on in horrified fascination from behind my shoulder at some specimen. I was always sure to offer her a chance to touch the bug or frog but it was usually summarily declined. Occasionally she'd extend a quivering hand, only to chicken-out at the last moment amidst squeals of terror.

There is something to be said for desensitization therapy. Apparently living every weekend in a box in the woods since July has worked some magic. A few weekends ago, the kids found an Assassin Beetle and I heard an excited giggle as she said, "Quick, John, you need to catch it!" I knew her interest was increasing as she kept clamoring for my attention to her discoveries, "Mom, look at this little guy!" and "Hey, I wonder if a frog lives in there."

I hadn't realized the gradual disappearance of screams upon encountering wildlife until she found me in the bathhouse after my shower one morning over Labor Day weekend. I had noticed a tiny salamander on the wall. I pointed out my visitor to Hannah. I was a little sad the bug cullecting jar was nowhere near. It didn't bother her though. "Oh Mom, stand back, I'm gonna capture this little baby friend!" With surprise I watched as my previously squeamish daughter cornered that lizard and scooped him up into her bare hands. She beamed, "John's gonna love this guy!" She ran all the way back to the camper. Two days later she was demonstrating to Cote how roly-poly bugs could crawl up her arm. And our library book choices seem to feature a lot more insects.

That's why I love camping.

Pider-Shishies

I've added a new blog. This one will concentrate on sharing insights I'm gaining on living with John specifically and learning how to speak Aspergers.

Pider-Shishies