My Shortcomings

Deb, who is Not Inadequate, once said,

Why didn’t you tell me you didn’t like to read aloud? See, this is the sort of thing that would make a mere mortal, such as myself, feel better. You should focus more on your shortcomings. That would really work for me.

Well, why not? I have LOADS of shortcomings! Let’s keep it confined to homeschooling, though. If we start talking about ALL my shortcomings, I might start drinking again.

• I don’t like reading aloud.

That is putting it mildly. “Reading aloud makes me wonder why the hell I ever thought I should be a mother,” is more accurate. 

• I don’t like science.

“Why…?”

“Physics.”

“How…?” 

“Complicated physics.”

“How…?”

“Even more complicated physics.” 

“Why…?”

“Dammit! It’s magic. MAGIC. Go read your chapter.” 

Next year JellyMan will study physics. May his questions finally be answered! Until then, I’ll continue to refer him to Dr. Feynman.

• I don’t like having books in my pantry.

Nor do I particularly enjoy having pencil stubs all over the house, eraser bits all over the table, art projects all over the counter, papers all over the floor, white boards all over the wall. 

• I don’t like crafty educational projects.

I refuse to screw around with salt dough maps, popsicle stick bridges, literary hand puppets, edible cells, or anything else that makes any given lesson thirty times longer than it needs to be.

• I don’t like homeschooling. 

UNschooling is looking better and better every day, but that’s probably just my inner slug talking.

Must. Ignore. The slug.

We don't need no education! (Or do we?)

I shoved school and good nutrition off this cliff to celebrate Eff Off Friday at Smrt Lernins.

Then I hauled them up again, because there is just no denying that I'm a good little brick in the proverbial wall.

August 2nd? Seriously?

I just found out that Hawaii begins the new school year on the 2nd of August.  

But, but, but!  We're still not done with last year's books!  And when I say that, I don't mean it the way I did last year.  We're not six lessons away from finishing the grammar book. We're 30 lessons away from finishing the grammar book!  We don't have just one more math test to take.  We have five more math tests to take!  They haven't finished their reading lists!  JellyMan hasn't learned how to type!  Anemone hasn't learned the Greek alphabet!

What the hell am I going to do?

First of all, I'm not going to panic.  I'm going to start our school year on September 7th, just as I had planned, and I'm going to work The Goobs like rented mules until they finish their books.  (That should be easier than usual because The Man just had 12 hours per week added to his work schedule.)  And as we finish a book, we'll just roll on to the next one.  That will totally screw up my beautiful weekly lesson plans, but that's what you get when you blow off school to play at the beach.

Saturday Mom Confession #14

The Goobs and I have been hashing out our annual (monthly, weekly, daily, hourly) conflict over math.  They haven't made an A on a paper since the new school year started, and they've been taking hours to finish their lessons.  I've tried being cool about it. 

"Sure, you can do a half a lesson a day this year."

"Nah, we don't have to use the tests."

"Yeah, go ahead and do your math in purple marker."

"If you finish before 1:00, I'll take you swimming."

Nothing helped, so last Sunday The Man got involved and we presented a united front.  We stood up to The Goobers and said, "Look, Goobers.  This is unacceptable.  From now on, you have an hour to do your math.  Anything not done in one hour will be your responsibility to finish as homework.  And if you make less than an 80% (oh, how my standards have slipped) on a lesson, you'll do the entire thing over again.  If it takes you three years to get through these books, so be it."

The Goobs appeared suitably awed by The Man's presence, and I looked forward to Monday.  Ah, Monday.  We would finish school on time and everybody would make good grades.

Pppffbbbt.

The Goobs answered our challenge by making D's - easily their very worst grades of the year.  I didn't get mad.  I just threw their papers away and said, "Gee, it's too bad you have to do these lessons over again.  I hope you're okay with being in the same math book for three years."  The next day they did the lessons over again.

They did them again the next day.

And the next day.

And the next day I got mad. 

"You will sit at this table and not say another word until you score an 80%!  What is wrong with you guys?  Why do you miss different problems every time?  Are you trying to kill me?"

A little while later, I heard an outraged cry from JellyMan.  "Mom!" he shouted, "We've BEEN making 80%!  You're grading our papers wrong!"

"What?"

"I've made an 80% the last three times!"

"Nuh-uh."

"I have!"

"No."

"Yes, I have!  And so has Anemone!"

JellyMan defending his sister?  Something's up.  "Um, let me see that."

I had been taking off 5 points per problem when I should have been taking off 3.33 points per problem.  I feel bad about it, I do.  But you know what?  That is exactly why they've been making crappy grades on their math lessons - they just don't pay attention to things.  Ha! 

Yeah, they didn't think it was funny, either.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I'm off to drool over the local Catholic school's website.  Hey.  A girl can dream, can't she? 

**** UPDATE ****

The Goobs both made A's on their math today!  I guess the propect of angry nuns put the fear of God into them.  Hahahahahahaha.

Oh, the Dreaded Gaps

Once upon a time, I thought I was on top of this whole homeschooling thing. Doubting neighbors would ask me how in the world I would manage to cover everything and not leave any gaps, and I would wave a hand through the air and reply, "They're seven and four. How hard can it be?"

A year later I realized I had forgotten to teach my boy about time zones.

Since then I've been a little more humble, but I was still taken by surprise when my Goobs couldn't place the subject or the creator of this work on sight:

There are other gaps, too. I overheard my mom telling her mom that my Goobers "might be able to argue with each other in Latin, but they can't pick up a dish to save their lives." Ouch.

I wonder what else we've missed?

Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen

I can’t hear that song without thinking of Princess Vespa in Spaceballs.  “She’s a bass.”  Hahahahahaha!  I must watch that movie to cheer myself up, because I’ve had a catastrophe.  I dropped my external hard drive yesterday, and it’s making the dreaded clicking sound.  It is dead, and every picture I’ve taken over the past four years is gone.

Oh, the humanity!

Luckily my very favorites are all online somewhere or on cds, but what about all those not-quite favorites on my hard drive?  All those vacation pics I haven’t gotten around to editing and resizing for the web?  What about all the pre-digital pictures I had scanned??? 

Not to mention all my homeschooling records for the last seven years. 

Like I said, nobody knows but Jesus.  (And all the other schmucks who put all their eggs in their external hard drive and then dropped it on the hard tile floor.)

Why I Hide in My Car

Last month The Goobers’ piano teacher said, “You don’t have to wait outside; come in and sit in the lobby.”  Last week a woman at JellyMan’s drama school asked me, “Why don’t you ever come in?”  Yesterday a woman at Anemone’s ballet studio asked me, “Why do you always hide in your car?”

Maybe it’s because I’m tired of saying “no” to everyone.

I’m tired of saying, “No, Mrs. I-Don’t-Even-Know-Your-Last-Name, I will not give you money for your son’s school trip to Europe.”

I’m tired of saying, “No, Mrs. B., I will not spend 30 hours of my life knitting a sweater for your sister in Chicago.”

I’m tired of saying, “No, Mrs. Piano Teacher, I will not run this to the bank for you.”

“No, Mrs. Who-Are-You?, I will not drop your children off at the YMCA on my way home.”

“No, Mrs. Dance Director, I will not sell tickets at the door.”  (I send her the equivalent of a car payment every month -  she can just hire someone to sell tickets.)

“No, Mrs. Drama Director, I will not babysit the teenagers backstage.”  (Okay, this is a reasonable request, and I have vounteered at the community theatre in the past, but jeez.  We homeschool.  JellyMan has to be able to get away from his mother occasionally!)

“No, Mrs. ???, I will not drive an hour round trip every day to teach your daughters how to knit.”

“No, Mrs. I-Can’t-Remember-The-Last-Time-I-Heard-From-You, I will not take your children for the weekend.”

“No, Mrs. Wow-I-Think-I-Might-Like-You-Oh-Never-Mind, I will not come to your Pampered Chef/Tupperware/Mary Kay party.”

“No.”

“No.”

“NO.”

And don’t even get me started on church.  It’s unreal.

Walking into these places is like wading into a lake infested with leeches.  I hate it.  These people are not my friends.  None of them are remotely interested in having even a nominal relationship with me - they just want whatever time and/or money they can get from me.  It makes me sick to my stomach, and that’s why I hide in my car.

Coping

This little TDY the USAF threw at us is actually a blessing in disguise.  I am treating it as a dry run - a chance to practice for The Man's deployment, which is coming up all too quickly.  There are some issues I've come up against already, and I need to work through them so we can all have a smooth deployment.

Issue #1:  The Dog

I've forgotten what a big pain in the butt Norman is.  The Man takes care of everything relating to the dog; he buys his food, he takes him to the vet, he picks up the poo, he cleans out his ear gunk, he gives him his bath and washes his bowls and fluffs his bedding and clips his toenails.  All I usually do for Norman is supply his emotional support - he is at my heels 24 hours a day.  Why do animals attach themselves to the one person who doesn't give a damn whether they live or die?  I've never understood it.  Anyway, now that I am responsible for Norman's care and feeding, I find that I have even less desire to pat him on the head in my spare time.  That isn't fair to the dog; he can't help having been born.  So The Goobers will pick up the slack in this department - I'll pat his head and purchase his food and take care of his funky health issues, but they'll do everything else.

Issue #2:  Light Bulbs and Weed Eaters

I can't reach several light fixtures in this house, even when standing on a chair.  These need changing before The Man deploys.  I've never used a weed eater in my life, and have no idea how to refill the thingy with the stuff.  (See?  I've got problems.)  JellyMan and I need a lesson before he goes.

Issue #3:  The Doldrums

The Man is my motivator; when he isn't around, I'm apt to lose focus and lie around like a slug.  I'll wake up, sit down on the couch, pick up a book, and lose all track of time.  I'll look around and discover that it's 3:30 in the afternoon; the kids haven't done their lessons, the house is a mess, and I haven't showered.  We've got piano lessons in 20 minutes, and I didn't get anything out for dinner.  I suppose there's really no harm in wasting a few weeks that way, but we can't live like that for six months!  I'll have to make a checklist for each day, and I'll have to do what the list says.  I'll have to put fun activities like trips to the zoo or picnics or whatever on the calendar - I don't think to do things like that when The Man is gone.

Issue #4:  Food

I forget how much The Man eats until he leaves.  I cooked a normal dinner (roasted pork loin, mashed potatoes, and roasted green beans) and I can't believe the amount of leftovers.  We'll be eating that pork loin for days.  I didn't want to cook at all; The Goobers would be thrilled to eat fried bologna sandwiches on white bread and a cup of applesauce every night, and to be honest, so would I.  I cook for The Man.  None of the rest of us care very much.

Issue #5:  Missing The Man (aka Daddy)

This is the worst, because there's absolutely nothing I can do about it.  We just have to deal with it the best we can, and try not to let our sadness get the best of us.

So you see, I really needed this practice TDY.  With any luck, I'll get all of my issues (except for #5, of course) resolved before the big deployment.  That way Norman and The Goobs won't have to suffer unduly, and The Man won't have to read long, whiny emails about how miserable I am and how much I hate the military - he'll have enough to deal with over there without knowing every little thing that makes me unhappy.

It All Evens Out in the End

The Man is gone.  Only for a few weeks this time, but those few weeks happen to be at the busiest time of the year and I am swamped.  I've had about enough of military life; I've been associated with the military in one capacity or another since the day I was born, and I think 30+ years of servitude is enough, thanks.  I told The Man that if he reenlists, I'll leave him.  He laughed.  I laughed.  But we both know I wasn't kidding.  Not really.

Having The Man out of town sucks because I have to:

• kill bugs
• change light bulbs
• put the leftovers away
• do the grocery shopping
• fold the laundry
• put gas in the car
• interact with the maintenance guys
• sleep alone

There are some good things about The Man being out of town, too.  I can:

• put colored lights on the Christmas tree
• ............
• ............
• ............
• ............
• ............
• ............
• sleep alone

So it all evens out in the end, I guess.

If I seem a little bitter, forgive me.  It's just that we were assured The Man was not going to have to go on this particular TDY, and we were foolish enough to believe it.  (We ignored the Golden Rule: Thou shalt not assume thy Captain knows of what he speaks.)  Yesterday we were supposed to decorate our Christmas tree and bake cookies, but instead we were given four hours notice to get The Man packed and to the airport, which is an hour away.  We didn't get much time to wrap our minds around the whole thing.  We're okay, though.  It comes with the job.

And now I'm off to the commissary.  Oh, no!  My eyes!  My eyes!  They're bleeding!

My dog has allergies.

Norman has been chewing on himself and ripping out his fur.  He does this once a year or so, but he usually stops within a few days.  This has been going on for two weeks now, so I took him to the vet this morning.  Turns out old Norman is allergic to fleas.  (Now I have to worry about a dog's allergies - there's WTF moment #645.) One flea bite is enough to upset the delicate balance of his system, so he has to take $40 worth of Prednizone and $100 worth of flea medication on top of the Sentinel we already give him.  Unfortunately, our neighbors aren't too particular about the health or cleanliness of their numerous animals, so there will always be fleas in our yard just waiting to jump on my Norman.  Gross.  The vet was getting irritated because I wouldn't stop asking about the fleas - should we spray the yard?  Buy new dog beds?  Burn everything to the ground and start over?  He kept saying Norman was in no way infested with fleas, that he sees dogs you can't touch without getting fleas on your hands, that this really has nothing to do with fleas but his allergy to them, but all I could think was, "There is a flea somewhere in my house!  Ack!  Death to fleas!" 

Okay, this has nothing to do with poor old Norman and his flea trouble, but I found this recently and I need to share it with the world:

That's how I taught The Goobers to read - one scrap of paper at a time.  I miss those early days, back before I got sucked into the vortex of curriculum suppliers.  Homeschooling was so cheap.  Of course, now that I buy fancy programs and materials, I don't have to worry about misspelling "loofah."  (And that's WTF Moment #646.  It's a wonder Anemone learned to read at all.)