tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-66870649573251104232024-03-14T01:42:25.826-07:00MamaHolly's MonogramMy life behind the letters.MamaHollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13320744187879453302noreply@blogger.comBlogger145125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6687064957325110423.post-80003732797658292172014-04-27T19:38:00.000-07:002014-04-27T20:19:43.999-07:00A Tale of GoExciting, new challenges in the world of driving a 32' motor home were faced on Friday. On Sunday, we took a completely different route because I NEVER want to do something like that again. Apparently, even the campground website posted a warning to follow their directions, not the GPS.<div><br></div><div> I did not visit that website.<br>
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But let's a have a healthy sigh of relief and hearty chuckle now that it's over.<br>
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I was happily be-bopping down the road in my enormous land sail, following the GPS to Desoto State park. I'm always happy when the GPS and the brown state park road signs concur. And concur, they did. <br>
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Suddenly, in the monitor, I noticed a new symbol indicating something more like a crazy u-turn than a right turn as my next move. I peeked at the line tracing my intended route and noticed it completely doubled back on itself for a bit.<br>
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Slightly louder than a whisper, more self-talk than conversation, I uttered, "Girls, I'm a little concerned about whether we are going to be able to make the next turn."<br>
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Hannah waited a beat, "Mom, are you teasing us?"<br>
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"No. Look at the GPS. That's a crazy-tight turn. I'm not really sure if the camper can do that."<br>
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I think I heard her gulp. (I editorialize now that I think it's good they see their mama face challenging situations with honesty.)<br>
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The electronic voice cut through the noise of the 20,000 pound vehicle bullying it's way down the small two-lane road, "Turn SHARP right in 440 yards." Almost simultaneously, I saw the 360 degree turn on a seemingly 45 degree angle incline. <br>
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In a split second, I reasoned that the brown signs indicated they agreed with the authoritarian box on my windshield. Surely, the state had accounted for the ability of RV's to follow their signs to the campground.<br>
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Nope. They lied. <br>
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I paused, the nose of my recreational beast of burden at the edge of the pavement on the wrong side of the road, staring directly into the face of a rock wall. The mirrors showed half a dozen miniature vehicles positioned precariously under our dangling bicycles.<br>
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I swallowed against the slightly acidic sensation rising in my throat and clanged the shifter into reverse. The tiny suburban behind me had to know it was inevitable before he even saw my reverse lights illuminate. I forced a handful of cars to shift uncomfortably closer together in their line as I spun the giant steering wheel for about two minutes to cut the angle necessary to proceed. I backed a few inches and gave it another go. <br>
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Ha, triumph. <br>
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I smiled tightly, and waved apologetically as I passed back above the remainder of my own newly-assembled parade and lumbered up the mountain. Before my blood pressure could return to baseline and my seven-year-old could regain her breath, I noticed my new environment.<br>
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I found myself on an entirely too-narrow road, without even the benefit of painted lines. My quadriceps burned as I held the accelerator to the floor and the engine moaned. The trees swatted the roof and then the camper sides as we climbed above their branches.<br>
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The edge of the road met the edge of the earth.<br>
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The trees swayed below us. I saw only blue out of the corner of my eye and noticed the utter absence of berm or guard rail. I also noticed the rock wall on the left would prevent oncoming vehicles from making way. <br>
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Hannah nervously contributed, "Whatever you do, don't look down."<br>
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In about three miles and the gradual loosening of the clutch in my heart, we finally saw the campground office. I parked, un-strapped, and stood on my jelly legs. I tied my one-year-old to my back and announced our adventure had begun. We walked to the office.<br>
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About an hour later, I was finishing hooking up to our site when my husband and son arrived in their two-seat, hybrid vehicle. We greeted one another and my husband started assisting in the job. <br>
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Before I could even begin to share with him my harrowing story, he raised his eyebrows, gave a nervous laugh and asked if I had followed the GPS.<br>
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I affirmed, "So, you must have also come that way..."<br>
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<br></div>MamaHollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13320744187879453302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6687064957325110423.post-61813484641727256792013-11-27T18:23:00.001-08:002013-11-27T18:23:33.749-08:00Rubbed us the Wrong WayYesterday afternoon, we drove over the hills and through the woods to Grandmother's house, 500 miles away. It was a long day. About 10:30, somewhere north of where we started and far too south of where we were headed, it was time to gas up the van. <div><br></div><div>Of course, stopping the van meant various individuals stirred and needed trips to the bathroom. When it was finally my turn to rush through the freezing whether in my thin, Southern clothes, the three-year-old also needed to go. I scooped her up and we hustled into the gas station. She was all sweet and sleepy and disoriented. </div><div><span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;"><br></span></div><div>She and I finished <span style="font-family: 'Helvetica Neue Light', HelveticaNeue-Light, helvetica, arial, sans-serif;">our business and approached the sink area. There were about five basins and I paused when I didn't see soap anywhere. At last, I spied dispensers on the walls at boths ends of the counter. As I reached toward the closest wall, I noticed two dispensers. One was closer to the outside of the counter and bigger. I decided it was obviously installed later as some sort of greater convenience for the customer.</span></div><div><br></div><div>I pushed the lever and got a palmful of soap. Cote held her hand up as I swiped some of the soap onto her hand. She knows the drill. We do this all the time. I rubbed my hands together and then stopped. </div><div><br></div><div>I looked down at my hands, finally registering the gray color and the bizarrely gritty feel. In my hesitation, I glimpsed Cote's tiny, innocent face looking, for all the world, like Cindy Lou Who catching the Grinch stuffing the Christmas tree up the chimney. She tentatively slid her palms together, jaw clenched against the confusing, abrasive sensory input. Her head tilted ever so slightly as she pulled them back apart and gazed at the liquid concrete I had put in her hands. In silence, she pondered what must have become of this once familiar ritual of hand-washing. </div><div><br></div><div>I slowly tore my view from the messy-haired preschooler and back to the soap dispenser which read, "Super Cherry heavy duty hand cleanser." I looked back at her and commented matter-of-factly, "Oh, I don't think our hands were quite dirty enough for this kind of soap."</div><div><br></div><div>I rinsed my hands for a seemingly ridiculous amount of time to remove the sludge and dried them with paper towels while Cote just dutifully waited, hands slightly apart elevated above her waist. I scraped the paste from her hands under the never-hot water. She dried and placed the paper towel in the bin. Like so many other times, she turned and placed her tiny hand in mine and we walked out of the bathroom in a travel weary, pumice-assaulted daze.</div><div><br></div><div>The spell broke when we entered the gas station store. Her little, freckled pixie face tilted to look up at me. "Mommy," she said, "that was weird." </div><div><br></div><div>I agreed. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>MamaHollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13320744187879453302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6687064957325110423.post-22628981601484857242013-11-17T21:13:00.001-08:002013-11-17T21:13:25.500-08:00Welcoming CommitteeI left Theo and the three bigger children for a week to visit a friend in another state. First time ever. It was a much needed momcation. I relaxed and recharged and got motivated about coming home to spend more time doing things that matter with my family. It was a chance to breathe and gain perspective, to be inspired by another family's evening worship time, to cook with renewed creativity, to tincture all the herbs. <div><br></div><div>So it was with a stirred spirit I deplaned and walked through the terminal with my fellow passengers. I caught a glimpse of my family standing together. My heart swelled. My smile widened. My six-foot-tall teenager was holding a bouquet of flowers and my little girls were holding homemade signs. I sighed happily and walked a little faster.</div><div><br></div><div>Then, I noticed their faces were decidedly apathetic. They looked bored, almost. At first I thought I must be too far away for them to recognize me. My husband made eye contact and encouraged me with a thin, weary smile. The children's faces remained stony. </div><div><br></div><div>No one broke free and ran toward me. No one shouted a gleeful, "Mommy!" They stared me down like I was an unwelcome invader, while they held flowers and signs. I considered turning around and hopping the next plane out of there.</div><div><br></div><div>Flowers were thrust in my direction. They deigned to hug me. I raised my eyebrows at Theo in question and mentioned my thoughts of fleeing the country.</div><div><br></div><div>He said he understood as we took the escalator to baggage claim, my preschooler's tiny hand matter-of-factly holding mine as if it were her assigned chore. John began telling me loud stories while standing too close. Hannah ran around in manic circles. Cote repeatedly pulled on the baby carrier, trying to get Zane's attention. </div><div><br></div><div>Later, Theo told me that Hannah had made the signs and the girls had bickered about them and other things all day. Hannah had held all four signs and the flowers at one point and they decided that she should spread the wealth. Theo explained that I wouldn't even be able to read the signs all piled up in her hands. He doled the flowers to John and asked the girls to divide the signs. Since the three-year-old had gotten distracted with other things, all four signs had been made by the seven-year-old. She chose to keep the two she made with popsicle stick poles. </div><div><br></div><div>Hannah was mad she had to share. Cote was mad she didn't have sticks. John was upset he was holding the flowers because he felt like he looked like he was waiting for his "Long-lost Hunny Bunny." Theo was exhausted. </div><div><br></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Yep. Reality. It didn't land quite as easily as that American Airlines regional jet. We scraped the belly all the way in and got sprayed with fire-retardant foam. The ice finally cracked and we enjoyed a nice dinner and evening together. We didn't crash. We just came in a little hard. </span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">And I think despite the trauma, we were all relieved to be safe and back together again. I only regret that I didn't whip out the camera and take a picture of my welcoming committee.</span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>MamaHollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13320744187879453302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6687064957325110423.post-39140047358678037722013-11-12T21:28:00.001-08:002013-11-12T21:28:10.315-08:00Exploring mediocrity and thinking aloud.<span style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">I think maybe my sentiment didn't quite get through on my last post... ;). What I was saying is that my perfectionism is sometimes a little crippling and gets in the way of even doing things I love, like writing. I enjoy blogging, but when I get good responses, I feel pressure to make the next entry awesomer and awesomer. I've got a real hang up with performance. </span><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">I tend to think if I can't do something all the way, I shouldn't do it at all. Mediocre isn't meant to be self-deprecating but freedom from comparing myself, freedom from performance anxiety, freedom from perfectionism. To experience the extraordinary, one must be familiar with the ordinary. Practice is mundane. To be better and have a chance at some epic posts, I need more time producing work, period. <div><br></div><div>Learning the violin is fabulous for me. I treasure the fact I've started as a mom of four in my late thirties. Why? Because the chances of my becoming a virtuoso is pretty much non-existent. I can play and enjoy it and share my progress with others without ever feeling the pressure to have it become more than a joy for me. </div><div><br></div><div>There was so much "I can't wait to read your first book" early in my life that the pressure took the wind out of my desire to write. Even my successes were evidence I had only gotten older and had not yet written my first book. </div><div><br></div><div>With Mary's comment today, I realized my writing could be like playing my violin. It doesn't have to be virtuosic. If a book gets written, woohoo, retirement money! If not, I won't be a failure, and I will have had the joy of the process. </div><div><br></div><div>I can use my writing to extend myself and share in a dialogue and connection with others. I think believing I can be extraordinary while giving myself permission to be mediocre, means I can focus more on the task at hand, than on some extrinsic trophy. I can hone my craft, rather than serve my critics.</div></div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); ">I know the word mediocre is a challenge for many. It was intended to be provocative. It means it's ok to say I had a day that wasn't good or bad. Nothing remarkable happened except that I am still alive, which is, in fact, as remarkable as the sun rising each morning. I love and have been loved. It is well with my soul. </div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0976563); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br></div>MamaHollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13320744187879453302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6687064957325110423.post-55091223198997049272013-11-12T12:29:00.001-08:002013-11-12T12:29:06.350-08:00Guess what, I'm Mediocre.I am having a great time visiting a very dear friend. We help each other see ourselves for what we are sometimes and it's a beautiful thing, this friendship. The more we get to know each other, the more we find we have in common and the more we find we have differences.<div><br></div><div>It's what I love about relationships. Each one is a connection that changes and challenges and reaffirms me. I'm here on this planet with billions of people, I must be meant to know some of them, right? Out of all of the people alive right now, I only really know a few, which means those friends are even more special than one-in-a-million. </div><div><div><br></div><div>But that's all beside the point. This is about what my friend said to me this morning. It was an aside in the middle of a wandering, meandering conversation. </div><div><br></div><div>"By the way, you need to blog more." </div><div><br></div><div> I grimaced. I know. I want to. And then I confessed I haven't found a way to integrate blogging into my life, to successfully manage with my other activities and priorities. When I get a bee in my bonnet, I'm not terribly patient with the kids and I get too focused for too long on trying to make a post.</div><div><br></div><div>Very pointedly she said, "Not every blog has to be epic."</div><div><br></div><div>Crap. Bullseye. </div><div><br></div><div>Then relief. No pressure. Like Facebook, I can just live, share, be real. I can be mediocre, which is a relief. And sometimes, I can be epic, which is exciting. </div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div></div>MamaHollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13320744187879453302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6687064957325110423.post-271883418063183822013-06-13T11:49:00.001-07:002013-06-13T11:49:43.503-07:00High as a Kite<div><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-H6sBMAV6kfs/UboUNw0dBPI/AAAAAAAAAho/offwHY_UatM/s640/blogger-image-547873295.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-H6sBMAV6kfs/UboUNw0dBPI/AAAAAAAAAho/offwHY_UatM/s640/blogger-image-547873295.jpg"></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I've been getting excited about our new foray into learning without limits. Sometimes, the kids just piddle around the house doing their own things and watching videos, but sometimes they come to me with a question. And this is where my life has changed. I've decided, for the most part, my job is to say yes. Sure, there are times I need to say no and I do. Funny thing is that since I've said yes more frequently, they take no for an answer more easily. The relationships have improved. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">I wait. I have more time to do my own things. I have more time to clean (more messes are made though), more time to read and do puzzles but what I have to remind myself is that I have decided my work is interruptible because I really want to make myself available as a facilitator. Before, I think I had a hard time stopping my activities because my moments of peace were so rare. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Today, I got really into the idea of making a savings chart for Hannah. It was my project totally, but it was about her. So I found myself slightly annoyed when she walked up and asked if I knew how to make a kite. I told her, "Not really..."</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">There is where it would have ended before. I didn't have the energy after working toward my own agenda (even if for her best interests) to help her with hers. I'm not proud of it. It is just what it is. It certainly wasn't in line with how I dreamed of being as a mother.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Today, I heard a switch flip in my brain as I started to issue a maybe later, so I continued, "...but we could see what we can find on the Internet. Maybe YouTube." She pulled up a chair and we watched a lovely video about making a kite with a plastic shopping bag. I was enthralled. (In fact, I might make one myself.) She was interested but it didn't quite hit home. She was encouraged to continue the search, "Let's search 'homemade *paper* kites." </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">We did and I suddenly have time to blog. She comes in every once in a while to show me her progress. I am not feigning excitement for what she's creating, it is very exciting. She already did some amazing things before she put one marker to paper, including working on clarifying her criteria in order to solve a problem. </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Plastic Bag Kite</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19px; white-space: nowrap; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">http://m.youtube.com/#/watch?v=IdiJiByyqP0&desktop_uri=%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DIdiJiByyqP0</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19px; white-space: nowrap; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;">Simple paper kite</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19px; white-space: nowrap; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); ">http://m.youtube.com/#/watch?v=Bf-J9l1C5jM&desktop_uri=%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DBf-J9l1C5jM</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 15px; line-height: 19px; white-space: nowrap; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.296875); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(175, 192, 227, 0.230469); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(77, 128, 180, 0.230469); "><br></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div>MamaHollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13320744187879453302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6687064957325110423.post-9858164873386842562013-06-11T15:07:00.001-07:002013-06-11T15:11:53.886-07:00Putting a band-aid on the Problem<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-0-5VllStscs/UbegqH4iUYI/AAAAAAAAAhY/G9e42SKrLrE/s640/blogger-image--1517644668.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh6.googleusercontent.com/-0-5VllStscs/UbegqH4iUYI/AAAAAAAAAhY/G9e42SKrLrE/s640/blogger-image--1517644668.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div>I've been struggling today. I have a summer cold. I've been grumpy. The baby is clingy. Hannah is a little agitated. Maybe they are all struggling with what I'm struggling with. Who knows. <div><br></div><div>I was feeling overwhelmed but I realized there was a lot of great work around here today: </div><div><br></div><div>Hannah practiced a little violin but stopped when she decided she just wasn't up to it.</div><div><br></div><div>I realized the kids were grumpy and, instead of yelling, took measures to calm myself and decided to feed them, hoping full bellies might help. I talked to Hannah about both of our moods and asked for her suggestions. She agreed maybe she was hungry. </div><div><br></div><div>Hannah worked for a really long time with the new cricut cartridge.</div><div><br></div><div>I did a load of laundry and *blogged*! </div><div><br></div><div>Cote painted. She played in the bath with a tea set. She made a water park on the back porch. </div><div><br></div><div>And after they ate, suddenly moods were better and I got some time to myself, making me feel a little better. Apparently during that time, they were under the kitchen table creating what you see in the picture. There were many, many giggles and about 45 minutes of cooperative, intense work to make the bandaid mask. </div><div><br></div><div>No one but me even stopped to think about turning on the TV this afternoon. I have a headache and watery eyes but it seems like not such a bad day after all. Band-aids really do make you feel better! </div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div>MamaHollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13320744187879453302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6687064957325110423.post-90110393317221274502013-05-30T22:21:00.001-07:002013-05-30T22:23:10.685-07:00What I Want to be When I Grow Up<div><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-JDMzlIWqBf8/UagzvUBVIeI/AAAAAAAAAg8/YkLKw7rR4EY/s640/blogger-image-500965462.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-JDMzlIWqBf8/UagzvUBVIeI/AAAAAAAAAg8/YkLKw7rR4EY/s640/blogger-image-500965462.jpg"></a></div><br></div><div><br></div><div>I have wanted to be many things and I've succeeded in many of them. I always wanted a whole slew of children: nineteen, if I recall. I have four so far. Being a mother was my life's ambition. I also wanted to be a writer. I wanted to be a life guard. I wanted to be a speaker. I wanted to be a teacher and I want to become a lactation consultant. </div><div><br></div><div>Heck, at the age of 37, I'd like to be a grown-up. Grown-ups see something they want to do or have and find ways to make that happen. Children can do that too, but they aren't usually given that power. I am good at seeing my goal but I want to just miraculously end up living that goal. I think I must be a grown-up now because I'm finally admitting if I want to achieve goals, I need to do something about them. I need to make my dreams and my reality meet up a little better.</div><div><br></div><div>I dreamed about homeschooling before I even had my first child. I envisioned a delighted child exploring interests with me by his side, delving deeply into topics and creating amazing projects, learning like a sponge. </div><div><br></div><div>But I was worried. My biggest fault, even officially articulated on my Individualized Education Progam (IEP) for giftedness, was that I needed to develop follow-through. I now know that the truth is that most educators just don't know what to do with gifted students and since they require IEPs (in my state), they must therefore identify goals, which I interpreted as deficits.</div><div><i><br></i></div><div><i>I don't know why, but I've adopted that somewhat appropriate and timely goal to define myself ever since: I am Holly. I lack follow-through, which must mean I am lazy. </i></div><div><br></div><div> What if I don't lack follow-through? I gave birth three times, adopted a child through foster care, earned a college degree and have been married nearly eighteen years. I think I might have a little bit of what I've been telling myself I've been missing.</div><div><br></div><div>Perhaps, there are other reasons I don't always complete projects or attain goals. Perhaps, my child has outgrown the pants I began crocheting and the goal is no-longer relevant. Perhaps, I've lost interest in the goal. Perhaps, I've needed to reprioritize. I realized this evening, one reason is that I sometimes don't know how to proceed. </div><div><br></div><div>Maybe my failure is not a character flaw, a lack of perseverance. Maybe it's simply an indication some problem solving is necessary. I was a member of a creative problem solving team (geek alert) in high school. One of the required steps was to identify potential problems and select one underlying problem. I think the key to achieving my goals may be in identifying what is holding me back. </div><div><br></div><div>So now, I'll apply this to my homeschooling. I've been trying to record keep or devise some system that works for me and my children for years out of a fear that I wouldn't have the follow-through to be competent. While my heart has desired unschooling, my brain has said I am too lacking in sticktoitiveness to pull it off. I've put restrictions on myself and purchased curricula and told myself I'd teach the core academics more traditionally and let joy lead the learning in all other areas. I hedged my bets. I robbed my energy with the opposite of my true goal. I had no desire to help them experiment in the kitchen or play in the woods or find out the answer to some random question. I shot my dream in the foot. </div><div><br></div><div>This summer, I'm planning to make my days more like my dreams. I plan to listen to my children for questions and help them navigate to their answers even though it's a lot more convenient to have them answer <i>my questions</i>. I want to facilitate. I want to inspire. I want my children to learn to solve their problems without convincing themselves they aren't up to the task. I don't want to lose my energy meeting some self-imposed requirement before I allow my children to do what my heart believes is really learning. </div><div><br></div><div>My plan as of now:</div><div><br></div><div>Pray more. Read the Word. Be inspired and encouraged.</div><div><br></div><div>Read inspiring unschooling stories, blogs, articles.</div><div><br></div><div>Persue more of my own goals instead of distracting myself with meaningless tasks. That means the meaningful ones will need to be more organized.</div><div><br></div><div>Listen and respond to my children. Stop the unnessesary "maybe laters". Be present with my whole self. </div><div><br></div><div>Drop the half-hearted attempt to get in the core academics.</div><div><br></div><div>Share more of our story here. This will help me to become more aware and evaluate whether I'm progressing or listening to a lie that is holding me back.</div><div><br></div><div>Make more fairy crowns and roll down some hills.</div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div><br></div><div> </div><br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><br></div>MamaHollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13320744187879453302noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6687064957325110423.post-23562542690140396052013-05-13T11:59:00.000-07:002013-05-13T12:13:49.953-07:00Remember I'm your kid?<br>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">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."</span><br>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">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?"</span><br>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">"Yes, I remember," I giggled</span><br>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">That was enough, apparently. A little touching base with reality? </span><br>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">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. </span><br>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">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."</span><br>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Cue epic one-person battle on my front porch. </span><br>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">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.</span><div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span></div><div><span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"><br></span>
<span style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Yep, I definitely remember this little mighty ball of awesomeness is my kid. </span><br>
<br>
<br><div class="separator" style="clear: both;"><a href="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-vlD4H3k5W_8/UZE7bEkZhMI/AAAAAAAAAgg/Yd1tRgmmRGI/s640/blogger-image--840426501.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-vlD4H3k5W_8/UZE7bEkZhMI/AAAAAAAAAgg/Yd1tRgmmRGI/s640/blogger-image--840426501.jpg"></a></div></div></div>MamaHollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13320744187879453302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6687064957325110423.post-45183305516082545192012-02-16T10:44:00.002-08:002012-02-16T10:55:01.045-08:00Blood Work<div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div> 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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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!!!!!" </div><div><br /></div><div>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!" </div><div><br /></div><div>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..." </div><div><br /></div><div>"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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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?!"</div><div><br /></div><div>"I know it looks that way. He's actually taking a little bit of blood out." </div><div><br /></div><div>"Why?! Why would he do that? John says it's HORRIBLE. I'm keeping ALL my blood."</div><div><br /></div><div>"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."</div><div><br /></div><div>Guy in Scrubs interrupted quietly, "We'll need to get some urine as well, ma'am." </div><div><br /></div><div>Hannah bought into the secrecy and matched his tone mixed with five year old awe, "What does that mean?"</div><div><br /></div><div>"I need to pee in a cup." There, how's that for taking away all the mystique.</div><div><br /></div><div>Hannah still whispering, leaned in and giggled, "You did that when you were pregnant!"</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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?!" </div><div><br /></div><div>Hannah was silent but her smiling nod was all "I know! Isn't it great?!"</div><div><br /></div><div>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."</div><div><br /></div><div>"Hannah, he doesn't need all my pee, just enough to do some tests."</div><div><br /></div><div>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?"</div><div><br /></div><div> I paused. </div><div><br /></div><div>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."</div><div><br /></div><div>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!"</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div style="font-family: Noteworthy; font-size: 18px; font-weight: bold; line-height: 24px; -webkit-tap-highlight-color: rgba(26, 26, 26, 0.292969); -webkit-composition-fill-color: rgba(130, 98, 83, 0.0898438); -webkit-composition-frame-color: rgba(191, 107, 82, 0.496094); "><br /></div>MamaHollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13320744187879453302noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6687064957325110423.post-88136135587518734642011-11-17T10:07:00.000-08:002011-12-15T08:35:18.363-08:00My Automated Car Unloading System<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hhyaZYgJBLI/TsVOPu1q1jI/AAAAAAAAAf4/ln4qBGKz5g4/s1600/DSC_4869.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-hhyaZYgJBLI/TsVOPu1q1jI/AAAAAAAAAf4/ln4qBGKz5g4/s400/DSC_4869.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5676028937548518962" /></a><br /><br />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. <div><br /></div><div>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." <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-t52dQZDaKic/TsVOlwNsjGI/AAAAAAAAAgE/AsRZTtk1byA/s1600/IMAG1886.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-t52dQZDaKic/TsVOlwNsjGI/AAAAAAAAAgE/AsRZTtk1byA/s400/IMAG1886.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5676029315874851938" /></a><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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 <i>hours</i> or doing ungodly amounts. He knows he has three bags, no more than that. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>What kinds of things have you done to stream line having the children participate in the responsibility side of the family equation?</div>MamaHollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13320744187879453302noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6687064957325110423.post-15426929971695198392011-09-29T08:06:00.000-07:002011-09-29T10:23:52.827-07:00Historically, I've always hated history<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5_zy5RN_FtA/ToSkIRdvQjI/AAAAAAAAAfw/_tAXuGgAkIo/s1600/312531_10150319846219236_784909235_7718410_662848415_n.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-5_zy5RN_FtA/ToSkIRdvQjI/AAAAAAAAAfw/_tAXuGgAkIo/s400/312531_10150319846219236_784909235_7718410_662848415_n.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657827493918229042" /></a><br />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. <div><br /></div><div>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.<div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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 <i>American </i>history therefore my project was disqualified. How does a student with an A in a class not even know what the class was about? </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>In Boston, we visited a haunting <a href="http://history1900s.about.com/od/holocaust/a/bostonholocaust.htm">Holocaust memorial</a>. It was the same week John was finishing reading <i>Number the Stars. </i>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>MamaHollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13320744187879453302noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6687064957325110423.post-45171821477804733282011-09-28T07:24:00.000-07:002011-09-28T07:35:54.136-07:00I Defaced the 100 Easy Lessons<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2RVNzzEw3TU/ToMwXpWzIdI/AAAAAAAAAfo/2DknemWG4t8/s1600/easy%2Blessons.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 252px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2RVNzzEw3TU/ToMwXpWzIdI/AAAAAAAAAfo/2DknemWG4t8/s400/easy%2Blessons.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5657418739704078802" /></a><br />This is my second time using <i>Teach Your Child to Read in 100 Easy Lessons. </i>I need it to last at<i> least </i>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.<div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div>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. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>MamaHollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13320744187879453302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6687064957325110423.post-54578698305818910062011-09-09T09:54:00.000-07:002011-09-09T11:05:48.440-07:00Nothing's Bugging Her Now<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V_k2M45pPBM/TmpRLY6rooI/AAAAAAAAAfQ/SRGWbaasMJ8/s1600/IMAG1524.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-V_k2M45pPBM/TmpRLY6rooI/AAAAAAAAAfQ/SRGWbaasMJ8/s400/IMAG1524.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5650417938598699650" /></a><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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."<br /><br />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. <br /><br />That's why I love camping.MamaHollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13320744187879453302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6687064957325110423.post-76105030948255150362011-06-02T10:03:00.001-07:002011-06-02T10:09:20.602-07:00Pider-Shishies<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-R5l3TfyM5ZY/TefCW703LcI/AAAAAAAAAcU/YAK3Y1sSSkI/s1600/PS%2Bblack%2Bback%2Bdesign-1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 218px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-R5l3TfyM5ZY/TefCW703LcI/AAAAAAAAAcU/YAK3Y1sSSkI/s400/PS%2Bblack%2Bback%2Bdesign-1.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613669159812935106" /></a><br /><div><br /></div><div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>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.</div><div><br /></div><div><a href="http://learningaspergers.blogspot.com/">Pider-Shishies</a></div></div>MamaHollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13320744187879453302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6687064957325110423.post-6068800549063645472011-04-21T10:29:00.000-07:002011-04-21T12:06:20.150-07:00Asperger's SyndromeWhile John was in the hospital several weeks ago, he was diagnosed with <a href="http://www.aspergersyndrome.org/Articles/What-is-Asperger-Syndrome-.aspx">Asperger's Syndrome</a> in addition to the <a href="http://mamaholly.blogspot.com/2011/03/explaining-bipolar-disorder-to-children.html">Bipolar diagnosi</a>s he's had for years. Those two words have been a Godsend to me. Being as I was trained as a special educator, I knew what those words meant immediately. They explained so many of the quirks that Bipolar didn't exactly encompass. It meant he really didn't get it (<i>whatever the particular it of the day was) </i>even though I'd explained it a million times. It meant I hadn't failed as a mother or a teacher and that he wasn't being disobedient in the ways I had presumed. It was a big moment for me and it changed so much about our relationship without ever changing anything about John.<div><br /></div><div>Immediately, my school teacher mode kicked in and I went to work. Unfortunately, I kind of left a few people in the dust as I ran ahead. I think some of them understood some of why I was relieved but didn't quite understand why I was so different in my interactions with John as well as my greatly increased hope. (And my new busy infatuation with scheduling.)</div><div><br /></div><div>At one point, a dear friend who also has a newly diagnosed Aspie, questioned me, "How do I know when he's being disobedient and when he's doing something due to Asperger's?" I tried my best in the moment but I think my attempt at helping her understand fell flat.</div><div><br /></div><div>Two weeks later, my husband asked nearly the same question. But I'd been mulling it over for a while and realized the problem wasn't my answer but that the question was leading us all in the wrong direction.</div><div><br /></div><div>You see, you will never be able to separate what is Asperger's and what is the individual child. The truth is that whatever is inappropriate behavior, is simply inappropriate behavior. It needs to change into an appropriate behavior. The diagnosis helps me to understand that the way I've been trying to train my son on appropriate behavior was never going to work. I could consequence till the cows come home (trust me, they had been mooing loudly and milling around my kitchen for years). Dealing with him as one would expect to deal with most children <b>doesn't work</b>.</div><div><br /></div><div>I think, at first, my husband felt like I was excusing a lot of John's behaviors. No, just because I stopped yelling, scolding, removing privileges and sending him to his room, doesn't mean I was choosing to let him get away with it. </div><div><br /></div><div>Since I've known John, I've seen the same pattern repeat. He makes a simple, normal mistake. (Or sometimes not so normal, but seemingly innocent enough). I then try to correct or steer him in the right direction and he then PANICS. He reacts in such bizarre and over the top ways, breaking 15 other rules and endangering himself and those around him in the process. </div><div><br /></div><div>Nowadays, I tend to notice a problem area and think, "<i>Hmm, he doesn't get this. I need to find a way to teach it to him.</i>" So I do what I can to calm him down. Or just wait out what is going on. Or simply non-emotionally try to explain it in the frankest and most simple of terms. He's a smart boy. He grasps certain things so easily and it was frustrating before because one had to assume he was not doing what other children naturally do on purpose. <i>I mean, at least have the decency to act sheepish when I catch you in the act. </i>Maybe, sometimes, it was on purpose. Either way, he needs to be taught an appropriate behavior instead.</div><div><br /></div><div>Since his diagnosis, I've worked on his panicking and running out of the room when I say something he doesn't like. Fifteen times one afternoon, I walked calmly to wherever he ran and silently and gently and strongly took his hand. I pulled him back to where we had been talking and said, "It is rude to run away when someone is talking." Then I continued where I had been interrupted. </div><div><br /></div><div>The fifteenth time (after doing this his entire life and my punishing him repeatedly and explaining) he took three panicked steps away and came immediately back. He said, "Running away is rude." I smiled and continued whatever it was. Whenever he runs away I repeat the process. Never again has it taken 15 times in a day and most days it doesn't even happen anymore but sometimes it does. He does, after all, have a lifetime of the habit and still suffers a great deal of anxiety. </div><div><br /></div><div>In special education, there is a concept called remediation and accommodation. Remediation says you work on the parts where there are deficits. If they are behind in math, you go to the highest level they have mastered and work to help them develop new skills. You don't get angry because they are in fifth grade and haven't yet mastered simply addition, you just keep working at whatever pace is necessary to help them continue to move forward. In the meantime you offer accommodation. For a child who cannot walk, you offer a wheel chair, walker or crutches while you may still offer physical therapy to help them support their body weight on their legs, and so on. In John's case, remediation comes in the form of explaining what behaviors are unacceptable and showing what to do instead. And accommodation comes in the form of making his environment as predictable and safe to him as possible. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now, a rigid schedule and very explicit rules are frequently preferred by children with Asperger's Syndrome, but it is obvious that you don't want to always give into that inflexibility and need for routine because they will never be able to handle any changes. So it is a balancing act. You hold as many things as possible in a predictable manner while you make small incremental changes. He feels safer and less anxious and many of the behavior issues are lessened just for that fact.</div><div><br /></div><div>In the meantime, when I notice something is not right, I try to find out the reason. Because John thinks so differently than myself and most people, I'm usually surprised to find out why he's doing something. He was tilting his head back and forth in a sneering, disrespectful manner when I said something he didn't like. It was very easy to assume he was just being rude and nasty. </div><div><br /></div><div>But he probably saw a teenager in real life or on TV and saw it as the way you respond when someone says something you don't like. He was executing it perfectly and in the right context but had no idea of the meaning behind his actions. And when I got angry at him, it bothered him and made him panic and usually run away. Suddenly, it dawned on me one afternoon. "John," I said in my non-judgmental, teacher voice, "tilting your head back and forth like that is just as rude as sticking your tongue out at someone." He looked shocked and then regretful. Sincerely and sweetly he responded, "I wasn't meaning to be rude, Mom." I told him I knew that now and thought I should explain that it wasn't appropriate. We are still working on polite ways to show you disagree with what someone is saying.</div><div><br /></div><div>I'll probably have more examples to share as John and I continue to learn how to communicate with one another and I try to help him navigate the social world that eludes him so. For now, I hope that this might help some of you see a new way to interact with children on the Spectrum. </div><div>And maybe have a little sympathy for that mom who has a stressed out kiddo and is choosing to deal with that behavior in a way that will change it for life as opposed to "making" them apologize to the kid they threw sand at or whatever consequence seems appropriate to our experience with neuro-typical children. In fact, maybe those kids could use the same kind of teaching rather than punishing consideration. </div><div><br /></div><div>I'm having to rethink all sorts of things these days. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>MamaHollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13320744187879453302noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6687064957325110423.post-9310532399498446102011-04-20T06:59:00.000-07:002011-04-20T07:28:34.630-07:00Emergency MailYou may recall Hannah's roller coaster experience with the U.S. Postal Service. You can read about it <a href="http://mamaholly.blogspot.com/2010/03/birds-were-singing.html">here</a> and <a href="http://mamaholly.blogspot.com/2010/04/ps.html">here</a>. She has remained utterly fascinated with the magical silver box that brings good tidings of great joy. <div><br /></div><div>Today, as on many days, she doodled across several pages and stuffed them in an envelope. She's been working on writing names and wrote completely unassisted "Hannah" and "Audrey" to indicate the letter was intended for her cousin. She slapped a huge Tinker Bell sticker (from her dental visit the other day) in the upper right corner. Then she asked if she could put it in the mailbox. </div><div><br /></div><div>I agreed and she skipped out to the garage while John and I completed math. Breathlessly, a few minutes later she ran back into the house. "Mom! We have a problem! The mail lady turned off her car. She wants to help me but she doesn't have the number it goes to." </div><div><br /></div><div>Wow, that girl has quite an imagination, I thought. Nevertheless, I stood up and peered at the end of the driveway. There sat the car with a flashing yellow light on top. </div><div><br /></div><div>OH NO! Well, I couldn't let Hannah down. I slapped a tiny looking address with what I hope is the correct zip code under the enormous "AUDREY" and a return address in the proper place. I put a stamp on the corner and gave her the envelope. </div><div><br /></div><div>She ran back out and handed her envelope to the carrier. The woman smiled and said, "Alright! Now I think I can help you. It has a stamp and I know where to take this."</div><div><br /></div><div>I stepped out the front door and called a thank you to her. And she waved and grinned and said, "Don't worry, we'll take care of her!"</div><div><br /></div><div>I LOVE the U.S. Postal Service and that sweet lady who sat during her busy and demanding schedule and waited for five minutes to make a little girl's whole day. </div>MamaHollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13320744187879453302noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6687064957325110423.post-28236013491207106172011-04-13T12:42:00.000-07:002011-04-13T12:53:49.411-07:00A friendly letter?Today's writing assignment was to write a friendly letter. Specifically, this letter was to ask one family member for a gift for another family member. The student was to detail why the recipient was deserving of said gift.<div><br /></div><div>Here is John's letter. He seems not to have lost his touch since the tales of <a href="http://mamaholly.blogspot.com/2009/08/john-writes-tragic-story.html">Thunderblot</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>4/13/11</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Dear Grandma Missy,</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>I'm asking for money for comic books for Uncle Ben because I missed his birthday. I would love to do it myself but I don't have any money.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>He can't buy it himself because Aunt Stefi took all his money. He needs to get out of the house a little while. There's a new comic book he really wants. I am asking you because I trust you better than anyone else. </i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i>Love,</i></div><div><i>John</i></div>MamaHollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13320744187879453302noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6687064957325110423.post-17647784124577650602011-04-06T15:36:00.000-07:002011-04-06T16:43:26.829-07:00Life Lessons at the Learning Lab<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rWU2eRDtZNY/TZztkjFW51I/AAAAAAAAAaI/C2ta6V8ZT3E/s1600/DSC_4794.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-rWU2eRDtZNY/TZztkjFW51I/AAAAAAAAAaI/C2ta6V8ZT3E/s400/DSC_4794.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592606049436100434" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Here, at Laughner Learning Labs, we believe in tailoring an educational experience to the unique cognitive and developmental needs of each student. We are willing to work with any age student, espousing a wholehearted commitment to the full spectrum of life-long learning.<br /><br />Student Profile: COTE LAUGHNER<br /><br />Cote is a lovely, inquisitive child (Age: 14.5 months) who has recently demonstrated a keen interest in art. She has been given access to appropriate art supplies and the freedom to create without criticism. Her art seems to be broadening in scope both cognitively and physically as she acquaints herself more fully with the medium. Her instruction also includes proper usage of tools and care of one's personal workspace.<br /><br />Photographs are shared below from a lesson when Miss Laughner learned that markers are only to be used while standing properly at the easel. These are rare educational insights directly from our lab. They are realistic depictions of the learning experience, which certainly isn't always easy. Prepare yourself. These photos may be too graphic for sensitive viewers. Rest assured, in the end, Miss Laughner successfully learns her lesson and blooms creatively and artistically while submitting to the rigorous standards of her elite learning environment.<br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NnBo-q92v6c/TZzy7b8JFVI/AAAAAAAAAaQ/plCLdAOHCJw/s1600/DSC_4782.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-NnBo-q92v6c/TZzy7b8JFVI/AAAAAAAAAaQ/plCLdAOHCJw/s400/DSC_4782.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592611940213527890" /></a><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Student is given instruction to leave markers at the easel station for the fourth time.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BPfuAKD9XSk/TZzzmjaKyHI/AAAAAAAAAaY/hi0h0BVu7lE/s1600/DSC_4783.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-BPfuAKD9XSk/TZzzmjaKyHI/AAAAAAAAAaY/hi0h0BVu7lE/s400/DSC_4783.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592612680952891506" /></a><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Student looks in anxious denial to classmate for support.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tE15wTzUmlU/TZz0TcoD_MI/AAAAAAAAAag/RSaIR_1irqE/s1600/DSC_4784.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tE15wTzUmlU/TZz0TcoD_MI/AAAAAAAAAag/RSaIR_1irqE/s400/DSC_4784.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592613452226231490" /></a><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Student demonstrates sudden awareness of the instructor's commitment to proper marker storage.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GlSf7oNy6Cc/TZz1w0DcT4I/AAAAAAAAAao/-zAjOK-HyZE/s1600/DSC_4785.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-GlSf7oNy6Cc/TZz1w0DcT4I/AAAAAAAAAao/-zAjOK-HyZE/s400/DSC_4785.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592615056242921346" /></a><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Student experiences momentary crisis of faith in her ability to meet the standard.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AHhCebWYhKQ/TZz3heauKxI/AAAAAAAAAaw/YWEosNssdvY/s1600/DSC_4787.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-AHhCebWYhKQ/TZz3heauKxI/AAAAAAAAAaw/YWEosNssdvY/s400/DSC_4787.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592616991760198418" /></a><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Student resigns herself to compliance with a tear in her eye.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2x-ihEU9H0E/TZz4ZyKlRVI/AAAAAAAAAbA/H-ckHhVdDwI/s1600/DSC_4798.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-2x-ihEU9H0E/TZz4ZyKlRVI/AAAAAAAAAbA/H-ckHhVdDwI/s400/DSC_4798.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592617959133889874" /></a><br /><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BVBHJI7OhmQ/TZz4ZhloP0I/AAAAAAAAAa4/jqupljELEb8/s1600/DSC_4795.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-BVBHJI7OhmQ/TZz4ZhloP0I/AAAAAAAAAa4/jqupljELEb8/s400/DSC_4795.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5592617954683928386" /></a><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Student has demonstrated responsibility and is happily back to work contributing to a growing body of valuable artistic expression from the students at Laughner Learning Labs.</div><div><br /><br /><br />Now accepting applications. </div>MamaHollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13320744187879453302noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6687064957325110423.post-66248457434374542422011-03-21T05:53:00.000-07:002011-03-21T06:12:23.279-07:00Ms. Hannah, Master Instructor<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XS51ffZW8Ik/TYdMq9ZukoI/AAAAAAAAAZo/A_kyA8Mj9II/s1600/mail-1.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XS51ffZW8Ik/TYdMq9ZukoI/AAAAAAAAAZo/A_kyA8Mj9II/s400/mail-1.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586518163697078914" /></a><br /><br />Sure, she's adorable.<div><br /></div><div>One might even say "wonderfully precocious". </div><div><br /></div><div>It all starts with a sweetly condescending, "Casey, you are going to be my helper today, because we have a lot to do with this marker..."<div><br /></div><div>The next thing you know, we all have post-it note name tags and are sitting under the tutelage of a four-year-old iron-fisted schoolmarm. </div></div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, and apparently my name is Casey. That's spelled I-J-A-M-H-O-N-A-I, FYI. </div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iWQMr-QBAlc/TYdMqnAFbrI/AAAAAAAAAZg/NyEhiUgpK5c/s1600/mail-2.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-iWQMr-QBAlc/TYdMqnAFbrI/AAAAAAAAAZg/NyEhiUgpK5c/s400/mail-2.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586518157683945138" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uVYsPjkpvdU/TYdMqo3tgMI/AAAAAAAAAZY/xDRiRKqk2ig/s1600/mail.jpeg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-uVYsPjkpvdU/TYdMqo3tgMI/AAAAAAAAAZY/xDRiRKqk2ig/s400/mail.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5586518158185693378" /></a>MamaHollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13320744187879453302noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6687064957325110423.post-30606126138471227102011-03-16T19:09:00.000-07:002011-03-21T07:18:08.055-07:00Do you have an Ascenta?<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ODsW7uvFQm8/TYFxjXYipFI/AAAAAAAAAZQ/S-rvPZgSTCI/s1600/assenta.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ODsW7uvFQm8/TYFxjXYipFI/AAAAAAAAAZQ/S-rvPZgSTCI/s400/assenta.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5584869865302434898" /></a><br />Today, Hannah drew a lovely picture. I'm sure it was inspired by the fact we reread <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Welcome-Love-Jenni-Overend/dp/0916291960/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1300327861&sr=8-2">Welcome with Love</a>, a beautiful story book about a homebirth. A year ago, Hannah was captivated by Cote's birth. She reenacted it many different ways over the first few months of her sister's life. She even struggled with important decisions like sometimes she gave birth in a hospital and sometimes at home. Each time, I was amused and heartwarmed by her sweet antics.<div><br /></div><div>Obviously, an appreciation for the miracle of birth has once again settled on her mind. She gleefully brought me her drawing and began narrating:</div><div><br /></div><div>"This is me, with a baby in my belly. This is my ascenta feeding the baby (indicating the blob floating over her head and tethered by some sort of squiggly line). This is my honey holding my hand. And... this is the menwife."</div><div><br /></div><div>Ahhh! Yeah, I dream about another birth too, child after my own heart. </div>MamaHollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13320744187879453302noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6687064957325110423.post-11528937789239459022011-03-13T12:54:00.001-07:002011-03-13T13:58:40.059-07:00Explaining Bipolar Disorder to Children<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aa1RZbq1AOc/TX0tR7ZTiEI/AAAAAAAAAZI/EW0XMcJISHw/s1600/cry.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 200px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-aa1RZbq1AOc/TX0tR7ZTiEI/AAAAAAAAAZI/EW0XMcJISHw/s400/cry.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5583668899034138690" /></a><br /><i>My son, John, is in an acute treatment facility. It is a psychiatric hospital. A lot of children who know and love John are learning some new vocabulary, like Bipolar and mental illness. It's terribly confusing to them, I'm sure. One of his friends prayed for John's headache to go away soon. (Which is an incredibly sweet and innocent thing!) It's confusing to most adults. So, I thought I'd try to help, in case any of you are confused or have children you would like to explain it to. (I know it's really long, please pick which parts you'd like to share with them or modify with examples that apply to your own children.) </i><div><br /></div><div>John has something called Bipolar Disorder. It affects how happy, sad, angry and worried he is. He doesn't have anything wrong that you can see, like a broken arm or a runny nose or a cut or a bruise. He doesn't even have an IV and isn't staying in a hospital bed. </div><div><br /></div><div>When you find out you get to have cookies, it probably makes you happy. When you find out your grandma is coming for a visit you might be even happier. And when you find out you are getting to go to Disney World, you might get so happy that you run around, dance, start dreaming about what to pack and sorta get hyper. Something in John's brain gets confused and he can get Disney World happy over having a snack. Or he gets so excited about an idea that he does dangerous science experiments without adults. </div><div><br /></div><div>When you drop a penny and can't find it, you might get a little sad. When Mom cooks something for dinner you don't like, you might be more sad. When your friend is really sick or a pet dies, you might get very, very sad. Sometimes dropping a penny can make John very, very sad. Or something very bad can happen and John doesn't even seem to care.</div><div> </div><div><br /></div><div>Different things probably make you different levels of angry. Sometimes John gets very angry about something that isn't very important. If someone bumps into him or teases him, he might think they did it on purpose and are trying to be mean. So he might hit, kick, scream or do something mean. When he gets angry like that, his brain thinks little kids are big, mean and scary like full-size bad guy grownups. This doesn't make it ok for John to hit and kick but it might help you understand that he's not doing it on purpose. It is important to tell an adult if you see John acting in ways that don't seem right to you.</div><div><br /></div><div>Sometimes John worries about things that are adult problems. He worries if there is enough money for groceries. He worries that we might run out of gas or get lost. If he has a nice toy, he worries that people are going to steal it. He worries that people aren't going to be his friends or that he might hurt his friends or his sisters. He worries that his Mom and Dad don't really love him. (But they love him, very, very much!)</div><div><br /></div><div>When the Bipolar is really bad, he can be sad, happy, scared, and angry for no reason at all. Last week, John started doing that and he was afraid because he got so angry that he might hurt his little sister. It is really scary to be that out of control of how you feel. </div><div><br /></div><div>The day he went to the hospital, John even got confused about which parts of his life were pretend and which parts were real. Sometimes he knew and sometimes he didn't. He also has hallucinations which is kinda like having nightmares while you are awake. On Wednesday, last week, John got so sad and scared, he wanted to stop living. </div><div><br /></div><div>Now he is in a hospital where they are giving him medicine to help his brain figure out the emotions better, so he won't get too angry, sad, scared, or happy. They are also doing classes with him to teach him to know the difference between regular angry feelings and too angry Bipolar feelings. The people in the hospital watch him all the time so he can't accidentally hurt anybody or hurt himself until the medicine starts to help him. He will be staying there until he is safer and until he stops having those daytime nightmares and he isn't confused about which things are pretend and which things are real. </div><div><br /></div><div>It is very hard work for him to do. His brain is telling him that someone has been very mean to him and that he is very, very angry but he has to stop and tell his brain that isn't right and to calm down and look for special clues to let him know it's not as bad as his brain thinks it is. </div><div><br /></div><div>He is very tired of the hospital and wants to come home very soon. He misses his friends and family. They keep him very safe and are helping him but nobody wants to ever be in a hospital. You can pray that his medicines will work right and that he will learn the special clues so he won't get so angry, sad and worried. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>MamaHollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13320744187879453302noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6687064957325110423.post-83723083544235541662011-03-06T14:02:00.000-08:002011-03-06T20:00:06.402-08:00Tiny Baby Undies<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nBZDgomPkEk/TXRXPSvrVjI/AAAAAAAAAYY/N8VGyg5jQh4/s1600/DSC_4485.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-nBZDgomPkEk/TXRXPSvrVjI/AAAAAAAAAYY/N8VGyg5jQh4/s400/DSC_4485.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581181758460352050" /></a><br />Cote spends most of her time out of diapers. It makes it so much easier for frequent potty trips. Unfortunately, we've not found a great bottom-covering solution, so she usually wears an unsnapped onesie and babylegs. Cote is a very small 13 month old. The smallest training pants and underwear in most stores are 2T/3T. It is going to be quite some time before she'll be able to wear those. I've read the suggestion to buy that size and try washing multiple times in hot water, but I've never had much luck getting them to shrink.<div><br /></div>I've considered buying tiny underwear from some various places on the internet. <a href="http://www.theecstore.com/">The EC Store</a> carries some for around $8 a pair. And <a href="http://www.nooneewilga.com/clothing/tinyundies.html">Noonee Wilga</a> also makes some for the same price. $8 seems really expensive for children's underwear. <div><br /></div><div>She also has instructions on her website for making undies out of t-shirts. I've been meaning to go get some elastic and the supplies to make the panties but I had an epiphany. I decided it might be simpler and less expensive to buy a package of toddler underwear and make them smaller.<div><br /></div><div>And that's what I did. It cost about $8 for 10 pairs of underwear and about a half hour of work.</div><div><br /></div><div>First, I turned the underwear inside out. I had a pair of bloomers from a dress Cote wears. She's been wearing those bloomers as undies. So I just measured against those. I put pins in the waist band to indicate where the seams would start on both hips. Then I measured the distance from the crotch end of the leg hole to the hip end and pulled the front and back together so the leg elastic lined up. </div><div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KjvrEEDjSIs/TXQ5l1iLFqI/AAAAAAAAAXQ/AjDxmXpmmPk/s1600/DSC_4480.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KjvrEEDjSIs/TXQ5l1iLFqI/AAAAAAAAAXQ/AjDxmXpmmPk/s400/DSC_4480.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581149160407242402" /></a><br /><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Next, I just eyeballed a straight stitch between the two points. I really didn't try to do anything exact. I was trying to do something quick and easy.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XJa392fgvdo/TXQ70iZ-EEI/AAAAAAAAAXY/mT5KWRCRzDo/s1600/DSC_4481.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XJa392fgvdo/TXQ70iZ-EEI/AAAAAAAAAXY/mT5KWRCRzDo/s400/DSC_4481.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581151611993854018" /></a><br /><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Then I cut the panties about a half inch allowance and zizag stitched the edges.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ad75v4El5xg/TXQ9bMA-eKI/AAAAAAAAAXg/K2gmsZPlQvs/s1600/DSC_4484.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ad75v4El5xg/TXQ9bMA-eKI/AAAAAAAAAXg/K2gmsZPlQvs/s400/DSC_4484.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581153375509969058" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Here's a comparison of the original size and the new size. Yeah, the rise is really long but, hey, they get the job done.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_15cqs8YeZU/TXQ--2eqtjI/AAAAAAAAAXo/iG0LmpB6TOA/s1600/DSC_4479.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-_15cqs8YeZU/TXQ--2eqtjI/AAAAAAAAAXo/iG0LmpB6TOA/s400/DSC_4479.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581155087715841586" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>And, here are some action pics: (She seems to really like them, except they have to come all the way off when she's on the potty.) <br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EI5Xu4Or3P4/TXQ_5vB7dgI/AAAAAAAAAXw/7cj2lMkCF88/s1600/DSC_4487.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-EI5Xu4Or3P4/TXQ_5vB7dgI/AAAAAAAAAXw/7cj2lMkCF88/s400/DSC_4487.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581156099328538114" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m2zabcjDEsI/TXRVYWyxu3I/AAAAAAAAAYA/CAmnN9xx058/s1600/IMAG0913.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m2zabcjDEsI/TXRVYWyxu3I/AAAAAAAAAYA/CAmnN9xx058/s400/IMAG0913.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581179715142663026" /></a><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xE7RBadpe6I/TXRV9hI7dUI/AAAAAAAAAYI/TP3wZfVRQ9w/s1600/IMAG0912.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-xE7RBadpe6I/TXRV9hI7dUI/AAAAAAAAAYI/TP3wZfVRQ9w/s400/IMAG0912.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5581180353575089474" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>MamaHollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13320744187879453302noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6687064957325110423.post-60300027216314754212011-02-22T08:40:00.000-08:002011-02-22T09:21:12.468-08:00DMV-AerobicsMy driver's license and my debit card went missing, probably with the help of a certain spritely four-year-old. I spent a week looking and agonizing, knowing it was surely in the house or the car. Finally, we called the bank and they deactivated our current debit cards, promising to send new ones in seven-to-ten days. Thankfully, Theo thought to get us ATM cards when he went in to withdraw some cash. <br /><br />On Friday afternoon, we went to the DMV. I have aged significantly enough since my last photo that it was time to renew anyway. I stood in line for a half hour and moved one space. Then it was closing time and they "would be happy to put me on a no-wait list for Tuesday morning". (Monday was President's Day.) I was also informed I probably wouldn't be cited for not having it with me but the decision is left to the officer's discretion. <br /><br />Tuesday morning, I decided to visit the express DMV rather than take my chances with the "no-wait list". I knew I would need to park on the street so I grabbed a handful of quarters, my brood and my checkbook. I detest parallel parking but I hate standing in line for hours with three children more. We circled the courthouse and found a convenient spot requiring us to cross no more than two streets. <br /><br />I wrapped Cote up nicely. I lent John my jacket since he forgot his. I helped Hannah get out of her carseat and don her hot pink butterfly wings to go with her blue and white dress and turquoise tights. <br /><br />We entered the courthouse to find they required airport-style security screening. The two guards were very friendly and allowed me to keep wearing the baby and Hannah to keep wearing her wings. As I walked into the room for license renewals, I noticed four stations of smiling employees, ready to serve. The nice lady at station 1 invited me over. She began to work on my form. I told her how nice this was and that we'd been to the one on Bonny Oaks Drive on Friday. She gave me a sympathetic nod, knowing the full ramifications of that remark. <br /><br />I asked to borrow a pen so that I might go ahead and fill out the check. **Blink, Pause** "We can't take checks," she said. "We aren't actually the department of safety. We can take cash, debit or credit cards." <br /><br />Now it was my turn to blink. Seriously? No checks?! It's the county court clerk's office. There was a big sign saying to make checks payable to Bill Knowles, County Court Clerk. But there is no sense in arguing. This is why they won't let you take guns into the courthouse, I suppose. "Um, okay. Well, I guess we'll be back." <br /><br />Crossed two streets. Removed Wings. Removed baby. Strapped in baby. Strapped in preschooler. Forfeited the meter money Drove to the bank where I had to wait until someone left so I could park and use the walk-up ATM. Drove back to the courthouse. Circled. Found new tighter space in which to parallel park. Unstrapped baby, wrapped her up. Unstrapped Hannah, replaced wings. Crossed one street. Entered building. <br /><br />Wow, the guards remembered us. I suppose we were quite the spectacle. I was with a school-aged child during school hours. I had a baby strapped to me. And Hannah, well, was quite the riot of colors, frills and flamboyance.<br /><br />Finally, the photo and the renewal went off without a hitch. And I guess we got a little more exercise than we had planned. The whole ordeal probably took less time than the "no-wait list" at Bonny Oaks. And now I have a new driver's license with a baby's head poised just below camera and the opportunity to practice coolness under pressure. I might just borrow those hot pink wings for myself.MamaHollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13320744187879453302noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6687064957325110423.post-87437717664508808922011-01-25T13:53:00.001-08:002011-01-25T13:54:01.119-08:00pics<a href="http://barefootinbluegrass.smugmug.com/Babies/Cote-1-Year/15565978_VTwCa#1167862027_7FZXi">http://barefootinbluegrass.smugmug.com/Babies/Cote-1-Year/15565978_VTwCa#1167862027_7FZXi</a>MamaHollyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13320744187879453302noreply@blogger.com1