It’s time to get used to going against the grain.
Here it is, one week before the Carr family homeschool project kicks off in an official, marked-on-the-calendar call-the-girl-a-Kindergartener sort of way, and I’m worried about what people must be thinking of me for waiting until after Labor Day while everybody else started the school year weeks ago. Never mind that we’re not even registered at the school with an excellent rating where normal nice people send their kids. Never mind the fact that we’ll be saying the Pledge of Allegiance to the next door neighbor’s flag on a pole in the middle of the front yard every morning. Never mind the fact that a full third of my lesson planning involves going to the park.
Never mind all that. I’m worried about starting in September instead of August.
If I don’t toughen up my hide a little and resign myself to the fact that most of the people I know already think we’re weirdoes, I’m going to have a tough school year ahead. Even among other Homeschooling families, we’re a little bit different. For some strange reason I can’t find myself capable of taking an easy prepacked curriculum and just running with it. We’re picking up a little of this and a little of that, depending on what suits my fancy; the more work something appears to be for me, the more excited I seem to get about it. I’m kind of hoping I get over that particular tendency.
Soon I’ll be posting our curriculum choices and goals for this year, followed by subsequent posts with updates on what we are covering. This will mainly be for the benefit of those in our circle who are curious to know exactly how peculiar we really are when we get right down to it, and also to keep a record so I can look back later and see how far we’ve come along.
But getting started – that won’t be until September.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Spring Break, III
We went back to school this week. For the third time this Spring. Yes, indeedy. Our happy little preschool table had already had three Spring Breaks this year, for a total of three and half weeks of time off. Luckily, when you only spend about forty minutes a day, four times a week, at school, getting back in the habit isn’t too terrible. And it wasn’t as though our Spring breaks involved imitating root vegetables on the sofa.
First there was Grandma. She blew into town in March – a la Mary Poppins - and she’s always good for field trips and playing outdoors. We were right back to school after that, with a complete lesson plan ready and everything.
Next Daddy was in bed for a week and we discovered that just having him in the house all day is enough to throw all of us completely off of our normal routine. He wasn’t a bad patient at all, but the first two days when we tried to have school it was just a mess – like everything in the cosmos was actively working against us. I think the kids were wound up knowing Daddy was in the general vicinity, even if they weren’t allowed to see much of him. I gave up and scheduled two impromptu days off until he would be back at the office. This turned into some spring cleaning days, and I spent the whole next week doing battle against clutter instead of teaching phonics. I’ll confess, there probably was a bit of excess TV time for the kids while that was going on, but the monster pile of outgrown kids clothes in my bedroom has been defeated once and for all. Going back to school after that was a bit more haphazard, pulling out a half completed lesson plan to massage back to life.
Finally, we were swamped with cuteness last week when two adorable cousins arrived, with an auntie and grandpa in tow. We jumped right back to it when they were gone, though, only to discover that the lesson planning I thought I’d done in advance actually hadn’t been even started – for those who don’t know, I have an exceptional imagination. So we decided to wing it, which turned into making and erasing every day’s lesson plan all week, and just filling in what we actually did after the fact. I’m starting next week’s lesson plan right this minute.
I don’t think I’m allowed any more Spring Breaks this year.
First there was Grandma. She blew into town in March – a la Mary Poppins - and she’s always good for field trips and playing outdoors. We were right back to school after that, with a complete lesson plan ready and everything.
Next Daddy was in bed for a week and we discovered that just having him in the house all day is enough to throw all of us completely off of our normal routine. He wasn’t a bad patient at all, but the first two days when we tried to have school it was just a mess – like everything in the cosmos was actively working against us. I think the kids were wound up knowing Daddy was in the general vicinity, even if they weren’t allowed to see much of him. I gave up and scheduled two impromptu days off until he would be back at the office. This turned into some spring cleaning days, and I spent the whole next week doing battle against clutter instead of teaching phonics. I’ll confess, there probably was a bit of excess TV time for the kids while that was going on, but the monster pile of outgrown kids clothes in my bedroom has been defeated once and for all. Going back to school after that was a bit more haphazard, pulling out a half completed lesson plan to massage back to life.
Finally, we were swamped with cuteness last week when two adorable cousins arrived, with an auntie and grandpa in tow. We jumped right back to it when they were gone, though, only to discover that the lesson planning I thought I’d done in advance actually hadn’t been even started – for those who don’t know, I have an exceptional imagination. So we decided to wing it, which turned into making and erasing every day’s lesson plan all week, and just filling in what we actually did after the fact. I’m starting next week’s lesson plan right this minute.
I don’t think I’m allowed any more Spring Breaks this year.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Today We Baked a Cake
Today we baked a cake.
Buttercup is a pro at breaking eggs. And I don’t mean throwing them on the floor or at the neighbor’s car. She can snap those suckers open and slide those perfect yolks into the bowl with a pool of shell-free whites like nobody’s business. She and Bubba participate in as much cooking as I can tolerate in the kitchen – they think it’s fun and I want them to learn to cook, so we’re talking about a serious win-win activity. In fact, I was talking to Buttercup about this today as we mixed up the cake. I told her all about how one day she will learn to cook so well that she can cook a whole dinner by herself for our family.
“Oh.” She didn’t look impressed.
Now, I am quite serious about this. One of my official goals for my kids’ education (homeschooled or not) is that they will be moderately competent in the kitchen. By the time they are teens, I expect each of them to be in charge of dinner for the whole family at least one night a month. Should be interesting, right?
So I went on explaining the sorts of things she will be able to cook and then I told her that she wasn’t the only one. Bubba – who was busy sticking his fingers in the batter - was going to have to learn to cook, too.
“One day Bubba be able to make a whole dinner all by himself,” I told her. “Won’t that be great when he can cook dinner for us?”
Buttercup considered this. She tipped her head a bit to the side. Her eyes crinkled up. Something intense was going on behind those fluffy black lashes.
“Mommy? Can I marry Bubba?”
“Umm, no.”
“Why not?”
What followed was a very strange conversation about why girls can’t marry their brothers which eventually ended with me telling her that she just can’t, that’s all. I think I told her that when you get married you add somebody new to the family and that brothers are already in the family, so they don’t qualify . . . or something along those lines. Not exactly a question I was prepared for. But even in my awkward-question-stupor I could recognize my girl’s brilliance. She heard that Bubba will be able to cook, and wanted to marry him. What woman doesn’t want a husband who can throw down a decent dinner all by himself now and then?
Maybe, about twelve years from now, when my boys complain about having to learn to cook, I’ll use this argument. Bubba will be fourteen by then.
“You want girls to like you?” I’ll ask. “Then get your hiney in the kitchen, son.”
Maybe it will work. Maybe not. Either way, it’s time Bubba learned how to break open some eggs himself. Buttercup will be glad to teach him.
Buttercup is a pro at breaking eggs. And I don’t mean throwing them on the floor or at the neighbor’s car. She can snap those suckers open and slide those perfect yolks into the bowl with a pool of shell-free whites like nobody’s business. She and Bubba participate in as much cooking as I can tolerate in the kitchen – they think it’s fun and I want them to learn to cook, so we’re talking about a serious win-win activity. In fact, I was talking to Buttercup about this today as we mixed up the cake. I told her all about how one day she will learn to cook so well that she can cook a whole dinner by herself for our family.
“Oh.” She didn’t look impressed.
Now, I am quite serious about this. One of my official goals for my kids’ education (homeschooled or not) is that they will be moderately competent in the kitchen. By the time they are teens, I expect each of them to be in charge of dinner for the whole family at least one night a month. Should be interesting, right?
So I went on explaining the sorts of things she will be able to cook and then I told her that she wasn’t the only one. Bubba – who was busy sticking his fingers in the batter - was going to have to learn to cook, too.
“One day Bubba be able to make a whole dinner all by himself,” I told her. “Won’t that be great when he can cook dinner for us?”
Buttercup considered this. She tipped her head a bit to the side. Her eyes crinkled up. Something intense was going on behind those fluffy black lashes.
“Mommy? Can I marry Bubba?”
“Umm, no.”
“Why not?”
What followed was a very strange conversation about why girls can’t marry their brothers which eventually ended with me telling her that she just can’t, that’s all. I think I told her that when you get married you add somebody new to the family and that brothers are already in the family, so they don’t qualify . . . or something along those lines. Not exactly a question I was prepared for. But even in my awkward-question-stupor I could recognize my girl’s brilliance. She heard that Bubba will be able to cook, and wanted to marry him. What woman doesn’t want a husband who can throw down a decent dinner all by himself now and then?
Maybe, about twelve years from now, when my boys complain about having to learn to cook, I’ll use this argument. Bubba will be fourteen by then.
“You want girls to like you?” I’ll ask. “Then get your hiney in the kitchen, son.”
Maybe it will work. Maybe not. Either way, it’s time Bubba learned how to break open some eggs himself. Buttercup will be glad to teach him.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
The Secret Lives of Vowels
Today I learned that W is sometimes a vowel. Did you know that? I’m pretty sure I’d never heard of such a thing before. But there it was in the primer for today’s lesson, in black and white, complete with a concise and very clear explanation. I had known that Y is sometimes a vowel, but I had always assumed that it was just a way to excuse the naughty little words that didn’t have any real vowels in there. Turns out there is a real reason for it, and rules for when it applies, and all that juicy stuff to learn around the school table.
The biggest lesson that I have learned from our phonics lessons with Buttercup is that, as a student, I never learned to read phonetically. I am not quite sure how I learned to read at all, in fact, except that I was read to a lot and that I went to school not really understanding why other kids didn’t know how to read already. There is a vague memory from Kindergarten when my teacher would pull me and a couple of other kids out of naptime for a Dick and Jane session – but that comes more from my mother telling me that it happened than from actual remembering. I do remember first grade, when I and a boy in my class had to walk across the kickball courts to a second grade classroom to join their reading lesson – but I don’t remember the lessons so much as the embarrassment of having to walk anywhere with a BOY. (Bless his heart.)
Speaking of walking, a few weeks ago I learned from a Netflix video that when two vowels go walking the first one does the talking. I was intrigued. The video was timed to coincide with our introduction to vowel pairs and, while the same concept was covered in our primer, they never used that catchy little rhyme. As we’ve progressed through the lessons, I’ve discovered why. There are so many exceptions to that “rule” that the authors of our little lesson book seem to think it’s better to just teach each vowel pair separately. I think I agree. When I tried to help Buttercup by reminding her of that walking and talking rhyme, we were immediately confused by all of the endless exceptions. That’s what we get for stereotyping. Just because some vowel couples like the first one to do all the talking, doesn’t mean they all have relationships like that, does it? And if the W wants to moonlight as a vowel? By all means, let him.
The biggest lesson that I have learned from our phonics lessons with Buttercup is that, as a student, I never learned to read phonetically. I am not quite sure how I learned to read at all, in fact, except that I was read to a lot and that I went to school not really understanding why other kids didn’t know how to read already. There is a vague memory from Kindergarten when my teacher would pull me and a couple of other kids out of naptime for a Dick and Jane session – but that comes more from my mother telling me that it happened than from actual remembering. I do remember first grade, when I and a boy in my class had to walk across the kickball courts to a second grade classroom to join their reading lesson – but I don’t remember the lessons so much as the embarrassment of having to walk anywhere with a BOY. (Bless his heart.)
Speaking of walking, a few weeks ago I learned from a Netflix video that when two vowels go walking the first one does the talking. I was intrigued. The video was timed to coincide with our introduction to vowel pairs and, while the same concept was covered in our primer, they never used that catchy little rhyme. As we’ve progressed through the lessons, I’ve discovered why. There are so many exceptions to that “rule” that the authors of our little lesson book seem to think it’s better to just teach each vowel pair separately. I think I agree. When I tried to help Buttercup by reminding her of that walking and talking rhyme, we were immediately confused by all of the endless exceptions. That’s what we get for stereotyping. Just because some vowel couples like the first one to do all the talking, doesn’t mean they all have relationships like that, does it? And if the W wants to moonlight as a vowel? By all means, let him.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
It's a Cliffhanger.
An original short story, authored by Buttercup. Written via dictation, with minor grammatical edits by Mommy. Reviews welcome.
The Leader That Shows the Policemen How to be a Policeman, by Buttercup
Once upon a time there were a lot of policemen. One day they went to their car.
“Come on,” said the leader. “Come on in the car. Let’s go. Buckle up!”
They did the things that the leader said. They picked a key. They got in the car before they buckled. Then they did go all the way to kill a bad guy. They drove and drove.
“It did take a long time,” said one of the policemen.
Then they stopped at a house and they helped somebody. They just used their instructions without paper. They told them what to do.
Then they took a break until they were ready to kill a bad guy. They killed ten bad guys. Then a bad guy ran away and the policemen got them – the other ones who were helping. Then they got in their car and went to work in their garden.
CRASH!
“Here comes a big something but we don’t know what it is!”
The End
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Childish Introductions
I think that I ought to introduce my children. They are the inspiration here, and deserve some sort of credit. You’ll hear about them a lot. As a group they function a lot like a pack of puppies, but with more drool and a lot less fur. Individually, they’ve each got a rock star quality that I’m in love with.
Buttercup is our eldest, at five years old, and to call her a princess falls far too flat. I’d call her more queen-ish than anything, with an attention to details and a real sense of presiding over how things ought to be done. There are few rules but her own rules, and if Bubba doesn’t play by those rules . . . Off with his head! She’s as likely to be digging in the dirt as she is to be planning a dress up tea party, and can’t understand why the seeds from her apple that she planted in the backyard yesterday aren’t producing more apples yet. “But I want it to grow today!” Buttercup will spend long stretches of time in the company of nothing but her own imagination. She will even hold whole conversations with imaginary friends and if I accidentally respond, it’s “No, Mommy. I was talking to Abby.” But, lest you think she’s reclusive, she is also the child who started her first gymnastics lesson by standing near the entrance and introducing herself to every girl that walked into the room. Her ballet teacher once told me that (and I paraphrase) Buttercup “has so much positive energy that the other girls want to follow her, but she also has her own ideas, which don’t always reflect what we’re doing.” Now, if I can just harness that energy without killing it off, she really will be ready for her crown.
Bubba is my two year old. He is thoroughly boy and wants you to know it. If he isn’t punting the football in the living room he is probably digging up dirt clods in the back yard so he can throw them at – or over – the fence. Better at the fence than at his sister, I always say. I just keep hoping the neighbors won’t be in their backyard at the time. This child is the reason that, if I can’t find the TV remote, the first place I think I should look is in the toilet. His language skills are coming together at an alarming rate, but he still articulates like a baby. If I quote him as saying “I want to eat the couch,” in real life he probably sounded more like “Ah wah eee kow.” But I know what he meant. I have to. I’m his mommy. And I’m nice enough to translate for you. And yes, he did utter that exact quote this weekend, followed by an enthusiastic chomp into the upholstered arm of my recliner. Buttercup was more concerned with the fact that he called a chair a couch than with the idea of him wanting to ingest the furniture.
The Baby. He is probably the cuddliest and happiest baby I have ever raised. When he isn’t screaming, he’s usually smiling – though it might be gas. That’s why I call him Stinky. He’s so gassy I can play him like a bagpipe. And I’m not kidding about that. He likes to be held as much as he can get away with, but he’s humongous – as far as babies his age go – and I go to bed with sore arms and shoulders on a regular basis. Apart from making music and building my muscles, he doesn’t do a whole lot yet. Though he does contribute heavily to the cuteness factor in the house. He was only just born in September, so he’ll get more exciting later this year, but I’m not in a hurry.
Between them all, we have a pretty good time around here. There are those days, of course, that everybody has, where I want to throw in the towel and everybody cries all at once, but I wouldn’t change my job for another. I will never find another group of people who love me so devotedly – and whom I adore in return. I know that if I give them long enough they will find me terribly embarrassing, but I like that I get to enjoy them now, while they still like to hang out with me all day. Not every mom is so lucky.
Buttercup is our eldest, at five years old, and to call her a princess falls far too flat. I’d call her more queen-ish than anything, with an attention to details and a real sense of presiding over how things ought to be done. There are few rules but her own rules, and if Bubba doesn’t play by those rules . . . Off with his head! She’s as likely to be digging in the dirt as she is to be planning a dress up tea party, and can’t understand why the seeds from her apple that she planted in the backyard yesterday aren’t producing more apples yet. “But I want it to grow today!” Buttercup will spend long stretches of time in the company of nothing but her own imagination. She will even hold whole conversations with imaginary friends and if I accidentally respond, it’s “No, Mommy. I was talking to Abby.” But, lest you think she’s reclusive, she is also the child who started her first gymnastics lesson by standing near the entrance and introducing herself to every girl that walked into the room. Her ballet teacher once told me that (and I paraphrase) Buttercup “has so much positive energy that the other girls want to follow her, but she also has her own ideas, which don’t always reflect what we’re doing.” Now, if I can just harness that energy without killing it off, she really will be ready for her crown.
Bubba is my two year old. He is thoroughly boy and wants you to know it. If he isn’t punting the football in the living room he is probably digging up dirt clods in the back yard so he can throw them at – or over – the fence. Better at the fence than at his sister, I always say. I just keep hoping the neighbors won’t be in their backyard at the time. This child is the reason that, if I can’t find the TV remote, the first place I think I should look is in the toilet. His language skills are coming together at an alarming rate, but he still articulates like a baby. If I quote him as saying “I want to eat the couch,” in real life he probably sounded more like “Ah wah eee kow.” But I know what he meant. I have to. I’m his mommy. And I’m nice enough to translate for you. And yes, he did utter that exact quote this weekend, followed by an enthusiastic chomp into the upholstered arm of my recliner. Buttercup was more concerned with the fact that he called a chair a couch than with the idea of him wanting to ingest the furniture.
The Baby. He is probably the cuddliest and happiest baby I have ever raised. When he isn’t screaming, he’s usually smiling – though it might be gas. That’s why I call him Stinky. He’s so gassy I can play him like a bagpipe. And I’m not kidding about that. He likes to be held as much as he can get away with, but he’s humongous – as far as babies his age go – and I go to bed with sore arms and shoulders on a regular basis. Apart from making music and building my muscles, he doesn’t do a whole lot yet. Though he does contribute heavily to the cuteness factor in the house. He was only just born in September, so he’ll get more exciting later this year, but I’m not in a hurry.
Between them all, we have a pretty good time around here. There are those days, of course, that everybody has, where I want to throw in the towel and everybody cries all at once, but I wouldn’t change my job for another. I will never find another group of people who love me so devotedly – and whom I adore in return. I know that if I give them long enough they will find me terribly embarrassing, but I like that I get to enjoy them now, while they still like to hang out with me all day. Not every mom is so lucky.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Who Wants to Hear a Story?
I have this recurring dream that I’m going to sit down and read a book to all of my children at the same time. It’s a nice dream. Usually there is a sofa involved, and everybody is awake. It could be a picture book or a volume of original Pooh stories. At some point everybody giggles at once – except the baby, who isn’t crying. That’s the dream version. The real life version of me trying to read to my children as a pack is more like this.
“Who wants to hear a story?”
Buttercup and Bubba come running. Bubba drags Blanket with him. The Baby smiles. I open the book, read the first page, notice an odor. We get up, change Bubba’s pants, get The Baby back out of his bouncer, sit down again. I read the second page. The Baby starts screaming – he thought it was meal time, even though he just ate an hour ago. I hand the book over to Buttercup and get The Baby ready to nurse. Bubba has forgotten the book. He has Blanket draped over his head while he runs around the room yelling “Bubba Ghost! Bubba Ghost!” Buttercup has looked three pages ahead. I review the first two pages, call Bubba back. He jumps on the sofa, The Baby loses his latch. Page three, Bubba looks at the pictures while Buttercup interrupts me every other line to point out a word she recognizes on page four. Page five, Bubba’s attention span is gone, and so is he. The Baby spits up all over Buttercup’s leg, she wipes it on the sofa, goes to change. I get a towel, clean the sofa, settle back with The Baby and Buttercup, ignore the banging sound in Bubba’s room. Review page . . . what page were we on? Page six, Bubba is back. He grabs the book and tosses it on the rug, laughs like a crazy person, goes to time out. Page seven, baby is crying for no discernable reason except that maybe he is reading my mind. Page eight, I suggest to Buttercup that we finish when the boys are in bed later. Page nine and forward go into the black hole of Naptime when everything is planned and nothing actually gets done.
Maybe one day, when my children are in their thirties, they’ll indulge me in sitting down and listening to me read aloud for a few minutes without interruption. Of course, by then maybe we’ll have another generation of babies making a mess of story time.
And then I’ll be doubly blessed.
“Who wants to hear a story?”
Buttercup and Bubba come running. Bubba drags Blanket with him. The Baby smiles. I open the book, read the first page, notice an odor. We get up, change Bubba’s pants, get The Baby back out of his bouncer, sit down again. I read the second page. The Baby starts screaming – he thought it was meal time, even though he just ate an hour ago. I hand the book over to Buttercup and get The Baby ready to nurse. Bubba has forgotten the book. He has Blanket draped over his head while he runs around the room yelling “Bubba Ghost! Bubba Ghost!” Buttercup has looked three pages ahead. I review the first two pages, call Bubba back. He jumps on the sofa, The Baby loses his latch. Page three, Bubba looks at the pictures while Buttercup interrupts me every other line to point out a word she recognizes on page four. Page five, Bubba’s attention span is gone, and so is he. The Baby spits up all over Buttercup’s leg, she wipes it on the sofa, goes to change. I get a towel, clean the sofa, settle back with The Baby and Buttercup, ignore the banging sound in Bubba’s room. Review page . . . what page were we on? Page six, Bubba is back. He grabs the book and tosses it on the rug, laughs like a crazy person, goes to time out. Page seven, baby is crying for no discernable reason except that maybe he is reading my mind. Page eight, I suggest to Buttercup that we finish when the boys are in bed later. Page nine and forward go into the black hole of Naptime when everything is planned and nothing actually gets done.
Maybe one day, when my children are in their thirties, they’ll indulge me in sitting down and listening to me read aloud for a few minutes without interruption. Of course, by then maybe we’ll have another generation of babies making a mess of story time.
And then I’ll be doubly blessed.
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