Revolt or Revolution?

It's time to revolt.  Against senseless gun violence.  Against a society that allows this sickness to continue.  Against a government that champions it.  I know I'm naive to write this, but it's also my plea for someone to answer the question - WHAT IS HAPPENING???

Why today's news affected me differently than any other's, I don't know.  I've been horrified, sad, angry, depressed, SO MUCH in this past year, past decade, even, along with every other sane and feeling person I know.  We are all at our wits' ends, trying to figure out how to make it stop.  How do we effect change?  How do we, who are spending every day practicing kindness, teaching our kids empathy, calling our elected officials, how do we do any more?  WHAT more can we do?  It's not a rhetorical question.

Last year, in a peaceful revolt against the incoming ethos of a Trump presidency, I walked with millions of others.  It was all I could think of to do with my frustration.  Obviously, I wasn't the only one.  Does anyone feel less frustrated now?  Does anyone feel like real change is happening?  I know there are people working tirelessly for a better country, but I don't think there are enough to be heard.  I know the saying, if Sandy Hook didn't change anything, nothing will.  But we can't settle for that.  I can't settle for that.  I, along with so many other parents, tell our children we love them before we send them off to school, just hoping it's not the last time we get to say it.  Almost like it's a verbal talisman to keep them safe.  I don't want to wait until it happens to me, or my nephew, or my best friend's kids to get angry enough to do anything more.

So can we revolt?  Or are we sad and angry enough to turn it into a full out revolution?  Can we get every teacher, principal and school administrator to strike?  And how about anyone who has a child that goes to school?  Can they strike, too?  And maybe anyone who works in a restaurant, or who has ever eaten in a restaurant?  Anyone who has attended an outdoor (or indoor) concert?  Would that be enough people to get the attention of Congress?  What if all of us spent that day, or week, or month, or year of strike (if that's what it takes) at the offices of the congressmen and women who have the power to change our laws?  Let's bring our children and show them how a democracy is supposed to work, and how even in a democracy (especially in a democracy?) human beings are valued.  Above money.  Above power.  Above guns.  Human lives and dignity are more important than anything else.  Can we call it the March for Everyone's Life?  The March for Our Children?  The March for a Society That Values People over Guns?  And just stop everything - school, work, the economy - until humane laws are in effect?  Because at this point, nothing short of a revolution seems like it will work.  And from there, we can fight for equal healthcare, and equal opportunity, or even better, fight for what each person needs, because it's not all equal.  Some of us need more, some of us need less.  From there we can fight poverty and champion dignity and foster communities where no one feels the need to lay waste with weapons of mass destruction.

PS - I am an extremely non-confrontational being and I hesitate to say or write anything controversial.  I feel first and think after.  I can't stand violence and crave peace.  But in writing this, I know I am inviting confrontation and discomfort.  I'm also begging those who have the courage and the answers to lead.  Lead another march.  Lead a revolution. I will march, too.  I'm ready to revolt. 

Immigrating to Montreal: A Tale of Two Worlds

This is a tale of two worlds. Six months into our move to Montreal, I feel fragmented, like I need one of those time-turners that Hermione used in Book 3 to manage her busy schedule. Some days I feel like this is truly a different country, complete with its own, separate language (and I have to say, Quebecois French is certainly in a league of its own), and sometimes I feel like I'm just in a 51st State of America.

Buuuuuut...then I read the NYTimes and am quickly reminded how strange and unusual the U.S. has become and I wonder if everyone feels the same as I do right now, even if they haven't just up and moved.  I suppose everyone's world has changed.

Navigating Montreal for me feels like entering and exiting many boxes, the path between them lined in snow. Most days I wake up in my anglophone home and send my big girls off to French school and my little girl off to English school, and soon after I head off to Francisation.  We all wear boots.

Walking down the street can be a completely different experience every time, depending on who I'm walking behind.  Just as I'm straining to understand what the French speaking couple beside me is saying, another couple walk by having a lively conversation and I suddenly feel like I understand the language perfectly. Then I realize they are speaking English.  I stop in Caisse Desjardins to do some banking, and the teller and I struggle through our transaction completely in French.  I feel victorious!  Then, I walk into a cafe and order in French with a perfectly formed sentence (Un cafe regulier, s'il vous plait) and the server replies in English.  (How do they know???)  Crossing guards?  I hedge my bets and say 'Merci' in three languages.  Every job posting I've seen requires (or strongly encourages) bilingualism, and yet there are parts of this city that only speak French and parts that only speak English, and never the twain shall meet, it seems.

Arriving at my francisation class, I feel at home.  Everyone around me is an immigrant and we're all attempting to learn French together.  The big difference between me and them, though, is that they are all pretty much on their third language, and many have come from extreme circumstances and war-torn countries.  Me, I just came from the 'land of plenty', the American Dream where I always felt comfortable in my own skin and language.  Now, it depends on which box I've just entered and whether I'm speaking fluently in English or at a Kindergarten level in French.  It can be quite uncomfortable to be an immigrant, looking for the right work, looking for the right words. Luckily, I'm in a place that is welcoming.  My free French lessons are taught by one of the best teachers I've ever had, 12 hours per week, rain, shine or snow.  The big girls are quickly acquiring their new language, although I'm not sure they realize it yet.  It's not just study-abroad though.  After everything that was involved in this move, we're here for the long haul.  Six months in and it's too late to turn back, and too soon to feel truly at home here.  Is this what everyone feels like when they move countries?

I do have a new appreciation for my Mother Tongue and all the different words I can use to express myself. In French, I feel neutered.  I completely understand why my four year old's sentences are often mixed up in her attempt to express herself completely.  The difference is, a) it's cute when she says things and b) she'll forget this process as she acquires her language.  I am fully cognizant of my process of learning to speak French and it's more embarrassing than cute.  And the times I just want to be quiet, retreat and listen because my expression is so limited, are the times I have to force myself to speak, solely for the practice of forming words and not because I have anything particularly interesting or useful to say.  "Do you like the good weather we are having?"  "Bien sur!  J'aime porter mes chaussures plus que des bottes!"  (I'm sure I need to insert the subjonctif in there somewhere...)

I write all this knowing that things take time.  Knowing that in another six months, or a year, I'll have a different story to tell.  It's uncomfortable being new, being uninitiated.  It ain't easy being green!  It also engenders in me a deeper degree of empathy for immigrants, even as I experience only a fraction of the uncertainty and upheaval that an immigrant or refugee from any other country must feel.



 

Choose Your Own Adventure - Moving to Canada

If I were to compare our lives to one book it would be the not-well-written-but-mildly-interesting 'Choose Your Own Adventure Books' that I owned and read (and re-read) as a kid.  Not high art, but like life, you get choices, and sometimes you choose wisely and the story continues happily, or you choose unwisely and the the story stops.  In the rereading, just like in life, you remember the choices you made and, if they led to a dead-end before, you hopefully choose a different ending.  If you made all the right choices the first time, (because you were lucky, or just figured out the formula), perhaps you went back to try the not-so-safe choices.  Maybe a little riskier but more interesting.  On a somewhat mundane level, that's how it feels like we landed here.  I've stopped believing there is a single "right" path for each person, or that someONE directs my moves from offstage.  There is definitely still mystery involved in how we get where we are going, and who we touch along the way.  But I do feel at this point it's mostly about choosing to do or go somewhere, whether all (or any) signs lead there or not.

Choosing to move to Montreal was both a long-deliberated plan and a last minute decision.  We'd been considering moving to Montreal since college 16 years ago, and then as part of a Plan B when the convent plans started to fizzle (or were basically snuffed out by a higher bidder!)  Staying in Chicago with all the beautiful souls we'd connected with, and all the institutions that we were part of was so appealing.  It felt like home.  But if we were planning to be self-employed teachers for the long run, wouldn't it be better to teach in a land where our health-care wasn't in peril, and where our children could go to the local school without fear, and where they could learn a second language, and where they could go to university for $4,000/year? We'd been discussing these issues for so long, that in July we asked "Now or next year?"  I'm the person who prefers to get the pain over with immediately, so here we are, 4 months later, with our new Quebec license plates.

The journey here was filled with minor miracles, not least the gallon jug of vinegar I found cap-less in a cardboard box while upacking that had remained upright for the entire move.  Realizing the movers had packed our passports and important documents in the 36 foot moving van the night we were to drive across the border, and then finding them two hours later after minimal unpacking of the truck was another.  Chasing down a UPS driver in Michigan to retrieve the deed to our car counts, I believe.  (Nothing like realizing the day before you export your car that you never received the title!  Thank goodness for a kind, if a bit grumpy, woman at the DMV who expedited it.)  Having my CV land on a desk at McGill the day they posted an (unknown to me) request for a Suzuki teacher, and answering a call for an interview within five minutes of leaving Montreal on one of our trips in late August was another serendipitous event.  And probably the biggest gift from the universe was the reinstatement of my permanent residence status this summer after 16 years away.  Apparently most of the officers in the Canadian government don't even realize this is possible. Thankfully we found one person that did.

Montreal is strangely familiar and it doesn't often feel foreign to me.  I could get by with never speaking a word of French because everyone here glides so effortlessly back and forth between languages.  That will make sharpening my language skills so much harder, but there's my challenge.  The rhythm of the city is similar to Chicago, the green space along the river feeds the same part of my soul that the Point did.

I'm trying to get the pulse of my new country, but I still feel so tied to the U.S.  I am nervous about the upcoming election and sent my ballot in weeks ago, even though my health care doesn't hang in the balance anymore.  I check the Chicago Tribune daily, comparing the 17 murders per weekend to the 17 murders per year here, and feel a dual sense of sadness and relief.  I miss the relationships I tended over the last decade in Chicago, and feel a twinge of envy when I check Facebook.  (It takes twice as long for me to translate the Quebecois mom's groups that I belong to, so halfway through I revert to gazing back on the life I left!)
    
The two things that are, in my opinion, worse than childbirth are:  a) moving and b)purchasing a house.  I hope to never do either again.  If someone tells me I have to move, I may cry for a very, very long time, and then I will disappear until it's all over.  I do feel chastened for these thoughts, though,  when I consider what refugees across the world are dealing with right now.  I am thankful for what we have, and thankful to our parents who have helped us in ways we will never be able to repay.  With that in mind, our home is always open to whomever wants to come and stay.  I'd like to stay put for awhile, so please, come visit me in Montreal!

I Will Never Let My Husband Do Yoga With Me Again

Some of you may not know how funny Mike is.  That's because he saves it all for his family.  And sometimes it comes out at the most inappropriate times.  Take this morning, for instance.  My dear friend Jessica, with whom I used to go to 6 am yoga classes in Chicago, now lives in Japan and recommended the website DoYogaWithMe.com until I can find a local class to attend.  Today I invited my husband to join me to stretch out and get back into shape after the last month of driving and heavy lifting.  Here's how it went:

Yogi appears on the screen at a chilly looking beach off Western Canada.
Mike:  Hey, that guy has on a flannel shirt, but I bet he doesn't have PANTS on.

Yogi:  Now it's time for Lion's Breath.
Mike:  Roaaarrrr....Baaaaaaaaaaa.  Hey, my lion turned into a lamb!

Yogi:  Connect the breath between your belly and your third eye.
Mike:  What?!  I don't have a third eye!  I do have a second a$$hole, but not a third eye.

Yogi:  Move fluidly between Angry Cat and Cow
Mike:  This is NOT relaxing.  I have to keep looking up at the screen.

At this point, I leave to use the bathroom (Mike:  Hey!  You can't go in the middle of yoga class!) and when I return it's finished, (thankfully).  Mike's response is "Did you Namaste to what you let go of in the toilet?"

I will never do DoYogaWithMe with Mike again.

Losing Dad

It's been a week and a half since we lost dad.  A blink of an eye.  An eternity.  Someone asked if it is getting more 'real' as the days go on, but it almost seems more impossible.  He's been in my life for 41 years, and all of a sudden...he's somewhere else.  Some mysterious, other place that doesn't have a phone line or even an email address.  I'm not worried about him, though.  He was ready and excited to make that trip.  I mean, he wasn't hoping to leave us just yet, but from everything he expressed in conversations and in the letter he left us, he wasn't afraid.

It's what he left us with, though, that has me humbled.  He is physically gone, but his love feels more tangible to me now than ever before.  I honestly feel that real love continues, and continues to make a difference.  The thoughts and memories of him that came flooding into my head and heart since that difficult phone call from my brother have all been of his tenderness and his support.  The overwhelming response from those that knew him were to exclaim about his generosity, both of spirit and his material gifts.  I guard the last few notes he sent in the mail and by email for their encouragement to me as a wife, mother and person.  All the things I've read of his over the past week (and let this be a lesson to leave nothing laying around you don't want someone to see after you are gone!) have shown me the generous heart of my dad.  All these things led to a celebration of his life on Saturday at the funeral, regrets faded and healed.

This is only the beginning, I imagine, of a complex healing process.  He said in his letter to us that he was concerned about the hole that his dying might leave in each of us.  He wanted us to grieve, but not excessively.  He wanted to provide for us, and as I understand it, not just monetarily.  The legacy of love he left between my siblings and those closest to him is that provision.  I've experienced a deepening tenderness between us and his partner and her family over this past week.  I could regret that we weren't open to those relationships sooner, but I refuse to waste my energy on regrets, (and I of any of his children will certainly have the most.)  I watched as my mother, his wife of 41 years, embraced Nancy, his partner over the last 12 years, for the first time, each grieving their own heartache, but grieving together.  I heard stories of his desire to connect with me which I rebuffed or didn't understand during my formative years (of which I'm sure I'm still in), and I feel convicted.  But I don't feel his displeasure or reproach anymore.  I feel his deep love and it is healing to me, even while I grieve.

As my brother said so beautifully at the service, we all had our unique relationships with my dad.  In an instant, in a week, for the rest of my life, I suddenly valued and will continue to value mine with my dad, with all it's bumps and bruises, laughter, misunderstandings and moments of connection.  I will relent more, and trust more in loved ones' motives, and learn to accept every part.  Our relationship was complicated during life, but in death, it has become a thing of clarity and comfort.  This is my experience thus far, and I'm sure it differs or resembles others' in little or big ways.  I'm sure, too, that the grieving process is long and labyrinthine, and there will be darker moments than today.  Thankfully, I have love, his legacy of love, through my family, and the people he surrounded himself with in life, to ultimately fill that hole that his death has most certainly left in my heart.      

AbiNoNo

If you have kids, you may have heard of Pete Seeger's, Abiyoyo.  But until now, you probably haven't heard of AbiNoNo.  Zazie recently introduced us.

At 1 1/2, Zazie is turning out to be a pretty fun kid.  She loves to laugh.  My favorite is her sinister laugh, followed closely by the forced belly laugh that she conjures up when she really wants a chuckle, but there's nothing funny going on.  She imitates sounds, like dogs, car alarms, and the screams of her cohort one floor down.  She sings all the time.  We detected the first three notes of 'Lightly Row' early on in her career, at about 9 or 10 months.  She now has the first phrase down pat, along with the first few intervals of 'Happy Farmer', 'Twinkle, Twinkle' or 'Baa Baa', including the vowels aa--ee--eh--ee-ooool, and the beginning measures of the Seitz Concerto No. 5.  (I'm not kidding about the Seitz.)  She is definitely next in line for Suzuki lessons, as she can already bow with her heels together.

She has also started talking, adding daily to her vocabulary of almost-words.  She can say 'yeah' really well, a gratifying 'ooooh, WOW' when Mike puts food on the table, along with 'banana' and  'apPUUUUUllllll', her sweet, soprano voice hitting the high point on the second syllable and trailing off on the 'L', while pointing at anything even remotely juicy to eat.  Her diction is perfect on 'cocoa'.

Since she's been an exceptional communicator without actual words for so long, (she employs the hand sign for 'diaper change' quite readily, whether she's really soiled, or just wants to get out of a situation), she hasn't been so precocious when it comes to talking*, despite her knowledge of how to acquire chocolatey goodness.  But now, things are getting screechy so we're working extra hard to teach her the proper names for other desirable things, like 'cheese', 'broccoli', and 'Nourit'.

It's heartening to observe that, besides food,  Zazie's first words have mostly been names.  Hopefully that translates into a humanitarian spirit.  She started with 'Mama', moved quickly to 'Dada', then 'Nanny', 'Papa', and 'GO'.  ('GO' is actually the most fascinating person in her life thus far.  Formally known as 'Hugo', this little boy is exactly one year older than Zazie, and the best Godzilla impersonator around.  In fact, Zazie learned how to imitate Hugo imitating Godzilla so well that she didn't back down when a 10 year old boy tried to scare her on the playground a few weeks ago.  She merely growled and roared right back at him.)  She says 'Hi, Lilly' out the window every morning at breakfast, and can articulate 'Ming Ming' pretty well.  She says 'Anne' with a perfect German accent.   Her sisters' names, however, have been the last to roll off her tongue.

A week or so ago, though, she started to say Avi's name pretty intelligibly, but I wondered why she wasn't attempting Nourit's name.  After all, Nourit loves Zazie and lets her pretty much do anything around her, including sitting on her lap and stealing her pencils while she's avoiding her schoolwork.  She is gentle and kind to Zazie, and takes a genuine interest in her.  I  kinda figured Nourit's name would be the next on the vocab list.  All I would hear, however, is "ABI NO NO!", leading me to believe, (and I'm generally right about this), that Avi had done something less than altruistic to her baby sister.  From morning until night, it was either "AbIIIIIIIII!!!", or "Abi NO NO!!!" 

We continued to wonder how Zazie would first say Nourit's name when she attempted it.  Would it be 'Reet', like Nourit's first friends used to call her at age two?  We encouraged her with 'New New', but still we didn't hear any attempts at the eldest sister's name.  Maybe she was just being respectful.  But we finally figured it out one day at lunch.  See, she decided to name everyone present at the dinner table, just checking in, perhaps.  'Mama', 'Dada', 'Abi', 'No No', 'Ah Ee' (Zazie without the zede)...So that was it.  No negative suffix on Avi's name.  Nourit is 'No No'.  Avi is 'Abi'.  (And now we're going to officially change Nourit's name because I can't imagine Zazie calling her anything but 'No No' now.)

*Perhaps her vocabulary list would be more competitive if we took her pacifier away.  But the way this child screams (and enjoys listening to herself scream), we are keeping that plug handy. 

Closing Day

Today was closing day on three homes:  my mom's new condo, a young family's small house, and my childhood home.  The young family that sold their house is moving in and starting a life at 10920 I Drive South as of 3:30pm, much like my family did 35 years ago.  I was 4 years old and missed my town friends like crazy.  I remember eating popsicles and watching teams of people from our church helping to fix up the 100 year old house- rebuilding the porch, building onto the kitchen, repairing the rotted stairs my brother fell through. The smell of wallpaper paste and the scent of the carpet stores are indelibly marked on my olfactory system.  I have a distinct memory of celebrating my mom's birthday (was it her 40th?) on the floor in our diningroom, before any of the furniture had arrived.  The pinkish-purplish cake dome features in that mind-picture.

Then there were the years we were all there settled in together as a family of five.  My dad often took us in the pickup truck on Saturdays (the first one was pea-green, the second was maroon) to some forest somewhere to cut down trees for firewood for our wood burning stove.  Writing this, I'm not entirely sure why, since we had our own woods flanking our house.  But again, my memories are of the vivid smells.  To this day, I love the smell of sawdust.  I remember the assembly line on cold nights:  Dad, Matthew or Mom would go out to the garage to get wood, I'd hold the door, and my sister or I would carry the wood from the door to the livingroom.  Then, we'd sweep up the trail of wood bits and warm up.  We were all involved in church and school and sports, but still spent a great deal of time at home together.  Matt, eight years older, mostly ignored me, but I loved when he let me watch a favorite movie with him on the black-and-white t.v. (What's Up, Doc?) or terrorized me by holding me upside down over the kerosene heater.  Laura and I fought like crazy, and she even gave me a black eye once.  To be honest, though, I deserved it.  And we became the best of friends later on.

Not long after we moved in, my mom met Mrs. Mullen through the March of Dimes, and her daughter, Amy, became my best childhood friend.  Her farm and family figures almost as much into my childhood memories as my own.  How many days did I play at her house, exploring the woods and fields, building hay-forts, jumping on the trampoline in the barn, playing Barbies in the tree-house?  I was terrified of the German Shepard, Baron, and whatever rooster was on duty, but I loved collecting eggs and riding horses.  Mrs. Mullen was my first piano teacher and I think of her often as I'm passing along her wisdom to my students.

My room was bright yellow, with a built-in bed and adorable hand-made shelves and drawers.  I think it was originally a giant walk-in closet.  Later, my dad expanded the room and I spent many nights star-gazing through my sky-window and dreaming of being an adult and all the adventures I'd go on.  I had a cat, Puss-n-Boots, who mothered many, many other cats, and we had an Irish Setter, Rusty.  I believe we had chickens, but Rusty put an end to that experiment quickly.  We also had a huge garden at one point.  We ate mulberries and raspberries and currants, played in the fields and woods in the summer, and went sledding and ice-skating outside at the neighbors in the winter.

Then, we all grew up and left home, one by one, as good, independent children must do.  The years between childhood and adulthood were typical teenage years, full of activity and friends and broken hearts and excitement.  Our house was always special to me, warm and comforting, even when it was cold outside.  I loved having a 'full-house' when our extended family came for holidays, and enjoyed playing junior hostess when my parents hosted parties.  Eventually, they hosted Michael's and my wedding in the backyard, on a beautiful July day, 16 years ago.  Things changed, Dad and Mom divorced, and yet the house was still there for us.  We brought Nourit, Avital and Isabelle there as babies, and I fervently hope the two older girls will remember climbing trees and trekking through the overgrown fields.  Even though Zazie is only a year, I feel like she's been blessed by being there, too, somehow.

This last year has been a roller-coaster, and although I'm feeling it acutely, I know others have felt it as much or more.  The house, which had been on the market for a few years, suddenly became a burden for my mom, whose health was compromised this year.  Getting it sold became a priority, but sifting through 40 years (or more) worth of memories was painful for her.  I think the moment I felt like the worst daughter ever was watching her breathing turn ragged and her hands shake after an intense bout of purging.  To us, they were plastic tchotckes and old, worthless vases.  To her they were reminders of so many friends and loved ones.  After starting, though, she really became ruthless and got rid of so much.  By the time she got down to the things that reminded us of our childhood lives in that lovely home, she was ready to move on.  We still weren't.  But now that the papers are signed and she's in her new space, she is relieved and happy.  I hear it in her voice and am so glad.  I'm relieved, too, that she has space for us to visit because it's always home wherever she is.  I remember staying at our old house one weekend while she was away and feeling lost without her there.  I also remember feeling like the house needed fresh air breathed into it.  Updating.  People using all the rooms and the earth outside.  I so very much wanted it to be us.  I wonder if the two little girls moving in today will love it as much as we did.  I think they will.  Maybe they'll even find the treasure that's allegedly buried in the cellar. 

Permanently Transitional or Transitionally Permanent

I just spent the last two hours moving empty boxes from our storage space to the recycling bin (many apologies, neighbors, it was me who filled up the bins, and that was only 1/3 of what I still have to throw out.)  These boxes have been taking up space in the basement and my brain for the last two years and I'm finally getting rid of them.  It's not that they are in anyone's way but mine, but I have this slight neurosis about 'stuff' and I spend way too much time imagining how I can get rid of all the non-essentials in my life.  It's a little scary.  When we moved in here two years ago, we saved every single box thinking we'd be moving again within a year.  We're still here, and the boxes are beginning to smell.

My 17 year old niece is getting ready for her senior year in high school and looking forward to starting college and the 'rest of her life'.  Funny, I've felt the same way for the last 20 years, since I was her age.  (Okay, 22 years.)  I graduated high school, moved away to college, moved to another college, got married, moved to graduate school (mine), then moved to another graduate school (Mike's.)  I can't count how many apartments we've rented during our marriage. (Well, yes, I can.  Ten, plus two stints at our respective parents' houses.)  Our five year old abided in four of those in as many years.  We are on our third child and I'm still somehow waiting to start the 'rest of my life.'

But what is 'the rest of my life'?  Is it a steady job, a big, red, brick house, and new furniture?  Is it my kids in one school from Kindergarten through High School?  That was always the picture I had in my mind as a child, and it's still there, though faded somewhat.  We've been in such non-traditional situations - graduate student housing one year, a dorm the next - that I'm wondering if we'll ever fall into a 'normal' life.  The job market for composers isn't exactly booming, and when Mike finishes his Ph.D, who knows where we will end up.  We might have to be creative, cobbling together work for awhile (and move to Canada for health care and good schools.) Or, maybe there is a job out there just for him and we'll buy a smallish, red, brick house, and send our kids to the nearby one-room schoolhouse, perhaps somewhere in Idaho.

For all that yearned for stability, though, I love where we are right now.  Of any place we've ever lived, or will live, I think this place is unique. From the day we moved in, the girls became part of a wonderful group of friends just out our back door.  Their parents are our friends now, too; our social circle, and our support system.  I thank God practically every day for our neighbors, for their generosity and inclusion.  I love our dinners together, movie nights, vacations, trips to the museum, the skating rink, the beach, or the pool together.  Birthdays are celebrated en masse, and holidays.  As much as I crave moving back to the country, or on to a stand-alone house with a garden, it's hard to imagine not having these friends who are almost like family, right out my back door.  We've been fortunate, too, to have one more year with these friends, before graduation and new jobs send us all in different directions.  Because that is the inevitable.  This is student housing and we are part of the University of Chicago.  Dear friends move every year, and we say goodbye, wondering when it will be our turn to leave.  If we could stay here, in this situation, while our kids are growing up, I would.  But graduate school is transitional and there is always an unsettled feeling inside of me.  Hopefully we will have to collect new boxes next summer, pack up, and move on to the obvious next step.  At this point, I'm not very concerned about where we'll end up.  We'll be together as a family, eat good food, and create a rich life wherever we land.  It's too much to imagine it would be permanent, but I'll settle for a stable job situation, and the same floor plan for more than 2 years.   I will miss this state of affairs, though.  Being part of this has taught me more how to live in community, and although I know we'll never recreate what we have here, I hope wherever we go, or however nomadic we remain, we'll always find our tribe.      

Finding the Past in a Box

I have a closet full of boxes to dig through, waiting for me at my childhood home.  They have sat there, innocuous, for over 20 years, but now they are like a big, menacing mountain, or a shadow, or something black and ugly to be dreaded.  No, Jimmy Hoffa's remains aren't in there - just hundreds of letters from friends, mix-tapes from old boyfriends, and mementos. 

Oh, boy, are there mementos.  You know those things you get from proms and homecomings, photo frames or wine glasses etched with the date and sappy theme of that particular dance? (Because truly, my date was the Wind Beneath My Wings, and I was Never Gonna Give Him Up.)  You know what I'm talking about if you are from the Midwest.  Or maybe New Jersey.  Well, I went to 16 of those dances over my high school career (and yes, keeping up that kind of social life was its own type of career) and I have not only the frame/wine glasses/souvenir photos from all of those, but all manner of cheesy items, including, but not limited to:  horrible sequin-y costumes from 80's and 90's talent shows, cheer-leading paraphernalia, and t-shirts from every play and association and club I belonged to.  (Did I mention my high school social life was a full-time job?)  It's not something I'm proud of.  I really wish I had focused more on my studies, practiced piano more, and dated less.  Really.  Because then I wouldn't have all this crap to sift through and decide whether to put it in the 'to keep' pile, the 'to donate' pile, or the 'burn-it-and-don't-ever-let-anyone-know-I-was-associated-with-it' pile.

Why did all this stuff end up there?  And why did I think I needed to remember my teenage life with cheap plastic champagne flutes, given to me 5 years before I was even legally allowed to drink?  What was so amazing about each and every experience we had during those 4 years of high school that we felt the need to memorialize it with a t-shirt signed by everyone present?  (T-shirts 5 sizes too big to even wear anymore because of that trend back in the early 90's to sport everything oversized and tucked into your pants with a belt, then pulled out a little.  Or a lot.  I guess it offset the big bangs.)  Sure, it's fun to pull it out of a box and say "Oh, I remember this!", but after doing that for awhile, the memories start to consume me.  Why do I need to go back there, that place that most people try to forget because it's the place where we were our most insecure, selfish selves?

The letters are going to be the hardest.  Real, physical letters, written after typewriters were invented, but long before any of us had even conceived of email.  Written in pen and ink, where the only shorthand was SWAK or LYLAS or TLA.  Loooooong before LMAO and ROFL.  Letters from friends I met at church camp each summer and corresponded with once or twice.  Letters from friends that continued from year to year, until we drifted apart in college or after marriage.  (And yes, I was married before I had my first email account.)  Letters from boyfriends who were good friends.  Letters from boys who I thought were just plain old good friends until I got married and they disappeared.  

I'm not certain why I've kept every word ever written to me.  I often thought I'd keep them until I was 80 and in a rocking chair with nothing else to do but re-read hundreds of old letters and reflect on my life, but the older I get, the less I reflecting I feel like doing.  I reflect too much as it is.  Besides, I think there will be more fun things to do when I'm an octogenarian.  My Grandma-in-Law got married and went dancing every day when she turned 80!  Maybe I wanted to leave a trace of who I am (or was) for my descendents.  However, I'm not sure my life and thoughts as an adolescent were all that unusual or interesting, and frankly, I think some things are better left forgotten.  Which brings me to the next box.  The box full of journals.

Or diaries, if you don't want to refer to my scribbling as serious 'journaling.'  They go back as far as when I could only print in capital letters, and came equipped with a lock and key.  I haven't gotten in there yet to re-read them, but I don't think I'm ready for that.  And I'm not sure there is anyone else I want to share them with, either.  I always imagined I'd have a little girl that would become an adult one day, and I'd share them with her to say, "See, your mom wasn't always a grown up!  I had a life before I was a mother!"  Now I have three little girls, and want so desperately for them not to do the kind of stupid things I did, or feel the selfish feelings I felt.  I want them to spend time thinking about saving the world, not about what Ryan So-and-So said to them at the lunch table on a particular day.  I want them to experience a little pain, and a little rejection, but not enough to cry for months, or years, at a time.  And maybe now, I just don't want them to know I was anything BUT their mother, because maybe they would roll their eyes and laugh at who I was.  It's one thing for them to do that about me in my role as 'mom', because every child will do that at some point, and I'm expecting it.  That part wouldn't hurt.  I just don't want them to be disappointed in who I was (or wasn't).  I didn't do anything spectacular.  I wasn't all that interesting as a kid.  I was pretty selfish and self-centered and mixed-up, and that's just not a pretty read.  So what to do with those journals?

Unfortunately, we don't have a working fireplace where I can tear the pages out and send them romantically up the chimney.  And maybe, even more unfortunately, I don't have a consistent written record of all the good days and times, especially now, with my busy, wonderful family.  I guess because we are so wonderfully busy, and the only time I have tended to write in my journals is when things seem to be hitting rock bottom and I'm trying to figure my way out.  There's no need to go to the counselor when things are going swimmingly, I guess.  (Not that it's always perfect, or ever perfect.  That's impossible.  But somehow, my current life with little kids forces me to be present.  And the present situation is always better than what goes on in the recesses of my mind.)

All this dredging up of the past is because my mom is selling our childhood home.  It has been on the market for a few years now, but she is finally serious enough about getting it off her shoulders as to clean out 36 years worth of accumulation.  It has been very hard for me to imagine her not being there, to imagine someone else in our space, and to know those chapters of life are closed forever.  I still call it home, even though I moved out at 18.  I love the house, the smells, the land - everything about it (except maybe the sulfur water!)  I just haven't wanted to let go yet, but after last weekend, when we started going through all the closets in earnest, I realized I don't need the contents of those boxes to remember what was good and redeeming about my growing-up years.  Not the tchotchkes, not the letters, not even the beautiful, old house itself.  Appropriately enough, I found the following in the book I was reading to the girls the other night.

*********

Laura called out softly, "What are days of auld lang syne, Pa?"

"They are the days of a long time ago, Laura, " Pa said.  "Go to sleep, now."

But Laura lay awake a little while, listening to Pa's fiddle softly playing and to the lonely sound of the wind in the Big Woods.  She looked at Pa sitting on the bench by the hearth, the fire-light gleaming on his brown hair and beard and glistening on the honey-brown fiddle.  She looked at Ma, gently rocking and knitting.

She though to herself, "This is now."

She was glad that the cosy house, and Pa and Ma and the fire-light and the music, were now.  They could not be forgotten, she thought, because now is now.  It can never be a long time ago.

         

Fitting 3 Car Seats in a Honda Fit

I've been meaning to write this post since September, but... I had a baby.  Which is the reason we had to fit 3 car seats in our Honda Fit in the first place, but also the reason I never got around to writing about it.  Now said baby is 9 months old, but our story actually starts about 18 months ago when...

Me:  "Mike, I think we are going to have another baby."

Processing, processing...

 Mike:  "How are we going to fit another car seat in our super-small, fuel-efficient car?  Crap!  We'll have to get a new car."

Don't misunderstand.  Mike was THRILLED about having another baby and actually, that was my first thought, too, after the first wave of nausea settled.  How are we going to fit a third car seat in our 2008 Honda Fit?  We loved our little zippy car and the fact we didn't have a car payment anymore.  So we got on the world wide web and searched for other brave souls who didn't throw up their hands in defeat and immediately upgrade to a mini-van.  (Not that one wouldn't be nice once in awhile, but there's no way on God's green earth city streets that I would ever be able to parallel park one.)  I'm not certain we found anyone who posted about fitting 3 car seats into a Honda Fit - the closest seemed to be a Honda Civic.  But I am posting now to help other fuel-efficient car owners realize their dream of an increased family size without an increased gas budget.

This is what we bought for a grand total of $624.25 on Amazon (through Amazon prime, with the option of free returns if they didn't fit, which they did):

2 Diono RadianR100 Car Seats (for our 5 and 7 year olds)
1Combi Cocorro Lightweight Convertible Carseat

If we had preplanned 8 years ago, we would have saved another few hundred bucks by purchasing these first and using them for all three kids.  But, that would be antithetical to who we are, and besides, car seats are obsolete a year after you buy them.  $700 is still a whole lot cheaper than a new van.

The Radian can be used from infancy through age 18 (or whatever age kids have to stay in a car seat these days), but we couldn't fit it in rear facing.  Hence, the expensive little Combi number that we'll get rid of when Baby #3 turns 2ish.  It was the smallest seat we could find, and the convenient removable kind with the base just wouldn't work.  So that's the one drawback - you can't remove your sleeping baby IN the car seat.  You just have to wake the poor thing up to take her out of the car.  (If her big sisters haven't already, which is more than likely.  Besides, it's the third kid and they are never going to get an uninterrupted nap.  Neither are the parents.  But I digress.  Because I haven't had enough sleep.)  I guess there is one more drawback.  Once you get these puppies in, you will refuse little old ladies rides home in the rain because you will never want to take them out.  It's a bit tricky to get the right fit.

If he could do it, my husband would attempt to fit all of us in a Smart Car but that's just a little ridiculous.  I mean, there's no backseat.  So when Baby Tierce goes forward facing, we'll have the moment of truth - can we fit another Diono Radian in?  I think we can, otherwise, you just might see us on a bicycle built for five.  

Books Read, to be Read, or to be Re-Read

There are so many now that I'm seeing red. 

Since Nourit one day started devouring books, I've felt this panic to keep the beast fed. 

So a query last week on Facebook I post-ed,

For material she can read by a light in her bed.

Below is a compilation of what you all said.

Hopefully it all will go to her head.

Some we've read,

Some are to be read,

And some will definitely be re-read.

Book List for Nourit

~or Other Girls Age 7~

(to be augmented and edited, as we go...suggestions are welcomed)

The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
A Little Princess - Frances Hodgson Burnett
The Shoe Books - Noel Streatfield
Betsy Tacy Books - Maud Hart
The Littles - John Peterson
The Mouse and His Motorcycle - Beverly Cleary
Ramona Books - Beverly Cleary
A-Z Mysteries
Wayside Stories Series - Louis Sachar
Anne of Green Gables
Trixie Belden Mysteries
The Boxcar Children - Gertrude Chandler Warner
Pippi Longstocking
The BFG, Matilda, James and the Giant Peach, The Twits -  Roald Dahl
Charlotte's Web - E.B. White
From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler - E. L. Konigsburg
Wrinkle in Time - Madeleine L'Engle
Nancy Drew Series
Percy Jackson Series
Judy Moody - Megan McDonald
*Ella Enchanted - Gail Carson Levine
*Spiderwick Chronicles - Tony DiTerlizzi and Holly Black
*Mrs. Piggle Wiggle Books
*Dimwood Forest Books  - Avi
*Little House on the Prairie - Laura Ingalls Wilder
*Chronicles of Narnia - C.S. Lewis
Floors - Patrick Carmen 
The Magicians Elephant - Kate DiCamillo.
Kate DiCamillo Books
Everything in a Waffle - Patty Horvath
*Rump - Liesl Shurtliff

 More Ideas and Links

The Diamond in the Window: For those starting chapter books
A Mighty Girl:  The world's largest collection of books, toys and movies for smart, confident, and courageous girls.

Zazie vs. Toy Piano

Not bad for a first performance, although we'll have to work a little on her hand position.  And perhaps on getting back to the piano for her encore.

If You Give a Mom Alone Time

For awhile now, I've felt a great weight on me, and it's not extra baby weight that needs losing.  (I can thank my mom's genes for that one.)  It's both the physical weight of a 20 lb-er who is in the Ergo more than not, and the mental weight of my to-do list (which includes the to-do list of everyone else in the household.)  Once or twice a week, though, the kids walk out the door without me, a stillness descends on the apartment, and the baby falls asleep.  For a millisecond, after I set her in her crib and shut the door to the bedroom, I'M FREE!  Lighter than air, I can do anything I want to do:  dust the furniture, scrub the toilet, or clean up the dishes from lunch (and yesterday's dinner, and the huge pot from dinner three nights ago...)  The possibilities are endless.  Just like my laundry.

Or, I can read a book.  Except my book is in the bedroom and I'd risk my precious freedom if I snuck in to retrieve it.  I could do some yoga, but my mat is in the bedroom, too.  (I didn't plan my escape very well.)  Practice piano?  Too loud.  Take a nap?  Too much coffee in the morning.  Clean the closet?  I don't want to get into the middle of a project and have to leave it undone.   (And yes, that does sound kinda fun to me, in a sick, sick way.) 

Okay, looks like doing the dishes has won out.  But there are snacks in the kitchen, and once I have my nutella spread on a graham cracker, I need to sit down to eat it.  Preferably at the computer so I can do something useful at the same time, like check Facebook.  The kitchen looks daunting anyway, and I doubt I would even make a dent in the mess before the baby wakes up.  I really want to make this time count since I have so little of it.  I need to do something rejuvenating, something that will give me back at least part of what the kids have sucked out.  Another snack.  Maybe read some news. But that makes me feel even more useless since bad stuff keeps happening in the world and I'm doing nothing to make it a better place.

Maybe I'll just sit still and continue not doing anything.  Breathe.  Meditate.  But from where I'm sitting, I can see the four gaping holes in the wall where the guitar hooks fell out last October, and the pile of books ready to fall off the shelf, and the dust bunnies fornicating under the front desk.  I'll put these on my mental list of 'things to do when I have an entire week to clean and fix the apartment' (or when hell freezes over, because I don't know who is going to take three kids for an entire week while I clean my home.)

Hmm....I wonder what I could do with an entire week alone? 

My Life So Far

It's been 7 months since I made my angry debut into the world, but I am definitely happier than I was that first night.  My mom thought she was in for it when I spent the first 24 hours with a scowl on my face, but now she's thanking God and her lucky stars that I am such a contented kid.  I roll over, I've sprouted two bottom teeth, and am starting to eat real food.  The usual baby stuff.  I have four big people that are around and I've divided them into the Big Parents and the Little Parents.  I have been taught to say 'Mommy', and I think it stands for the smaller of the Big Parents because she gets a giant grin whenever I say it.  The other Big Parent is nice, too, except recently he's been trying to pass this glass and rubber thing off as my milk source, and Mommy it definitely ain't.  I have thus far refused.

The Little Parents look very similar except one seems to come a great deal closer than the other, and by close I mean in-my-face.  I can't see her that way, but whenever she backs up and I can focus, she makes me laugh the most.  What a ham!  But she still scares me a little when she a) runs at me b) lays on top of me, or c) runs at me and then lays on top of me.  I'll get her back, though.  I'm a pretty big baby - bigger than either of my sisters were - and in a few years, I'll sit on top of her and see how she likes it.

Except that I'm really mellow and perhaps won't want to make the effort.  What I do really like, though, is when the Little Parents play music.  My legs starting moving and I can't help it - I love to dance.  I guess it is inevitable since I've been sitting through their piano and violin lessons from time-before-birth.  I'm going to be a kick-ass Suzuki student in a few years!

I'm pretty quiet at this point.  I do growl like a dinosaur when I want to nurse, but that's really all the effort I have to make.  I also don't cry much, but last week, just because I overheard someone saying "Wow, I really haven't heard her cry much!", I cried.  All week.  But it was only because I was sick, and my mom was crying too, and I figured misery needed company.

Since I've been born, I seem to have been supplied with a plethora of containers.  My first container was in the car - super comfy - makes me fall asleep every time I get in.  Then, I had this basket thingy on the ground, and then a teeny bed called a co-sleeper which I refuse to sleep in, so I just stretch out in the big bed next to the Big Parents.  I also have a container on wheels for walking around the neighborhood (and two more already in the garage for when I get older), and recently, I was put in a container that bounces and makes lots of noise.  But I'm not so motivated, so after a bounce or two, I just hang out quietly until someone takes me out.  I have a cool, blue stretchy container that sits near the floor and bounces me to sleep, and now I have a really tall container where they've started to give me food.  (I like-a the squash, but the hummous - not so much.)  But my favorite place to be is in one of Mommy's 3 slings.  With so many containers, I never need to learn to walk!

So here I am - 7 months old, with wonderfully fat thighs and cheeks that get a hundred kisses a day, and a family that seems to function a bit like a circus act.  Food, love, entertainment...what more could I want?

Finding S-E-X in a Word Search

I knew I wouldn't be ready when the day came to talk to the girls about sex.  I had no idea it would be today during homeschool lessons, and I totally botched Phase 1 of Operation: TTYKAS.   I was hoping to send them to their Aunt Chris for The Talk.  She's really good at those kinds of things and I, most decidedly, am not.  I've been mulling it over, planning to peruse Amazon for some incremental books on how to present everything in a developmentally appropriate way, but today, Nourit found the word in a word search and the floodgates are now open.

A couple weeks ago I had the brilliant idea to create a word search to help Nourit practice her spelling words.  The have some nifty little sites online that will formulate them for you if you just input your list.  I'm pretty certain that S-E-X is not a long-A word, but she found it this afternoon in that randomized square of letters, right between B-R-A-V-E and A-F-R-A-I-D.  The moment she said "sex", giggled, and asked, "What does it mean?"  I became very A-F-R-A-I-D.  When she and her little sister started chanting the word, I became downright terrified. 

"I'll tell you later." I mumbled. (Later, like, in a few years...) 

"No!  Tell us now!"  yelled Avi.  "Sex, sex, sex.  Oh, I hope the word doesn't slip out of my mouth at dance class today!"  (Rotten child.)

"NO!" I practically shouted.  "You can't say this word to any of your friends.  See, it's like telling them that Santa Claus isn't real.  It's up to the parents to decide when to talk about it.  So, no saying that word in front of anyone!"

Then it occurred to me.  Where had they heard this word before and how did she know it meant something, well, important?  I mean, they do know all the words to Gangnam Style.  At least, all the non-Korean words which would be..."Sexy La-a-dy."  Or perhaps they overheard me whispering to another mom that Mike and I had pretended like our computer was broken when a (very innocent and darkly lit) sex-scene came on in the PG movie we were watching with them about Mozart's sister.   I tell you, we are worse than teenagers giggling about sex.

At that point, I went to the room where Mike was composing and clued him into the situation just in time for Avi to waltz into the room and ask him what it meant.

"It's like Essex.  The county where Nanny and Papa live.  Get it?  Es-sex."  Nice try, Dad.  I rolled my eyes as Avi relayed the new info to Nourit.

"...and we can't tell anyone because it's where they live - in EsSex - and bad guys will come and steal their jewels."

"But that doesn't make sense." countered Nourit.  She's bright.

At that point, I took a deep breath and figured I'd bite the bullet.  "Okay, it's something that happens between a man and a woman who are married to make a baby."  Nourit's eyes lit up.  "Oh, so I can have sex with Lukas and Oscar since we're married and Avi and Ming Ming are married, and they can have it, too, and we can all have babies!"  Aaaargh! (Side note:  I had recently heard rumors that Nourit was married not only to Oscar, but to Lucas, too.  This was confirmed when she received a Valentine's card from Lukas with a picture of all three of them on it.  We've told her time and time again that that is not allowed in this country.)

I said, "No!  Absolutely not!"  and then left it at that.  I realllly was not ready for this conversation, and left it with a threat that they were not to talk about it to their friends.  Really, this homeschooling thing is for the birds.  Aren't they supposed to get this information AT school?  From a trusted source (their friends' older siblings) in an established forum (the playground)?      

Soon after, Avi left for dance class (please, God, don't let her say the 'S' word in front of the other 4 and 5 year olds.  Especially not in front of the teacher who has a teeny reputation for getting angry at her class for talking, which I totally get and do not fault her for, as she has Avi in her class.)  Nourit comes up with a silly grin and asks me to tell her more.  "What else do you know about it?"  I countered.  "Um, that a man gives his germs to a mom by kissing and they have a baby."  Yeah, I told her.  Something like that.  Did she want to know more?  No, she said.  It was too scary. 

Yeah, for me, too.  

The only thing more embarrassing about talking about sex in front of my kids is talking about sex in front of my parents, so Dad, just pretend like you didn't read this post.

Scenes from the Greenwood Commune Summer Camp

Avital, Lucas, Nourit, Oscar, Ming Ming and Anissa

Chinese Dragon Story 

(sincerest apologies for not realizing my video camera could tape horizontally...)

Greenwood Commune Music Ship

Here's a link to more scenes from the summer camp.

I'm Not a Tiger Mom, I'm a Two-Toed Sloth

After a lot of thought and discussion that I won't bore the reader with here, we decided to home school the girls for one more year.  We started the first week of August, with the idea that we'd get a month under our belts before the baby arrives, at which time we'd take a little break.  So far, so good.  Nourit has definitely lost some math skills in the two months we've taken off, but her reading is taking off.  Avital is much more interested in participating with "school", so she's been more involved than last year.  

 

Besides Reading, Writing and 'Rithmetic, (and violin, and piano, and...) I've added in a weekly History/Geography portion, as well as a Science lesson.  A couple days ago we started our section on mammals, each girl flanking me and looking at our colorful textbook of wild animals.  As we discussed the characteristics of each animal, we came to the Two-Toed Sloth.  When I met one of these up close at a child's birthday party years ago, I was fascinated.  These creatures are so amazingly slow, they seem to be on sedatives.  As I tried to explain them to Avi, I gave the sidebar that sometimes we refer to people as 'sloths' or 'slothful' if they are lazy and don't get off the couch much.  Without missing a beat she said, "Mommy, when you are pregnant, YOU are a sloth!"  

Maybe I should wait another year to educate that child.

First Violin Recital

First violin, Second violin

I don't know of whom I'm prouder - Nourit and Avital for beginning to learn the violin, or myself for figuring out how to upload a video of their first recital.  Here they are - Nourit playing her first scale, and Avi learning her beginning steps.  She just got her new violin this week - special ordered because it is so small! 

Nourit - far left, Avital -second from right

It was an itsy, bitsy, teeny weeny, tiny little violiny

Weekend in Minneapolis

One of the best parts of grad student life with kids is the friendships we've made with other parents.  One of the worst parts is having those families move away (which they inevitably do, and which, we will inevitably do, too...someday.)  Last weekend we were able to attend the (long awaited!) wedding of our dear friends from 61st Street, who moved back to Minneapolis two years ago, leaving us sad and missing them.  After visiting the twin cities this weekend, we completely understand why they moved back.  What a great place to live!  Beautiful parks, lovely neighborhoods, good pastry shops and cafes, fabulous farmers' markets, and the best children's bookstore I've ever seen.  (Nourit asked about 10 times, "Is it real?" after seeing a fancy chicken walk by her through the stacks at Wild Rumpus.  Avi particularly liked the tail-less cat, and I actually thought the hairless rat was rather cute!)

Here are some pictures from the wedding.  We are so thrilled to have been there!

Flower Children

Cole and Kyla

Neil and Amber

(Notice the Wedding Party Kazoo Band...)

She's Reading!

Tonight, after putting the girls to bed, I sat knitting (or rather, pulling out all my stitches for the umpteenth time) on the couch when Nourit tiptoed down the hall and plopped herself next to me with a pile of books in her arms.  "Daddy said I could stay up and look at books if I was quiet."  I kissed her and went on with my knitting, enjoying her silent company.  She didn't stay silent for long, though.  She started to read.  All by herself.  Without any prompting (or coercion, or bribery) from me.

This may not seem very significant to most people because, after all, there was really no doubt she'd learn to read at some point.  She has spent her entire life surrounded by a community of people who do nothing else but consume books.  She will sit for hours listening to stories that are complicated and nuanced, and then she'll beg for more.  Up until recently, though, she only wanted to listen to stories, and with first grade coming up in Chicago Public Schools, (where they expect children to be reading Tolstoy by the time they are four years old), I was beginning to panic.  See, it is my job to teach her and I'm still not certain I'm the most qualified.  I didn't want to send her off to the land of standardized testing ill-equipped, unable to even read the directions.

And I still really don't want to send her off to the land of standardized testing, but she really wants to go.  So we have the summer to consider our options.  Thankfully, she did pass one of those multiple choice tests and got into a top ranked classical school.  It's our only school option unless the ranking of 60 on the lottery is the magic number and she can go to a school less than 25 minutes away.  The other choice is to continue our experiment in homeschooling.  It's been a year full of really wonderful and really difficult moments.  I could not have asked for better friends to ease our transition from a private school to a really private school this past Fall.  Our Monday adventures with Joanna, Hilary, and the 6 little blondies were unforgettably fun, and also gave me trusted resources from whom to bounce ideas off, and to find encouragement as I trekked through the new territory of homeschooling philosophies, child development and curricula.  We landed in an apartment complex with the perfect companions for the girls, who now have a built-in social network right out our back door starting with breakfast salutations from across the courtyard at 8a.m.  We've renewed friendships around the neighborhood, and joined teams and classes and the girls are doing just fine socially (for all those people who thought they might turn strange or introverted the moment we kept them home from school.)

The harder part was the academics.  And yes, I have a master's degree and Mike almost has a Ph.D., so it's not like we don't know how to read, or count to 100, or the order of the planets from the sun.  (Okay, I confess, I will have to look that one up.  But I know where to find the answer if it were a matter of life and death.)  The difficult part was - IS - knowing how much is too much and how much is too little.  I can read all the research out there that says kids learn to read anywhere between 4 and 7 years of age, and to rush that could be fatal to their love of learning, but it doesn't stop me from worrying that my bright 6 year old has no inclination to read.  In fact, she resisted it until recently, and that's why I'm celebrating every time she picks up her daddy's old Mr. Mugs books from 1980's Canada, and tells me she's ready to read, and that it's easy, and that it's FUN.

And that I can finally sit and quietly knit while she begins to entertain herself.