Stripped

A lot can happen in five months and four days. A LOT.

For instance, one could give up homeschooling after four years and six weeks.

One could learn that all one really wants to do in the morning is take a really long walk to exhaust the dog or to take care of one's errands.

One could start eliminating all excess (or at least most of it) in one's life.

One could do all of these. That's what I did.

Let me explain--because, really, after a multi-month blog silence, some information is in order.

I loved homeschooling. Really. I loved the freedom; I loved the time with my children; I liked the possibility of them finishing the chores on their lists. But I have a son who is not only intelligent and curious, but also very good at pushing buttons--especially the ones marker "drive Mom crazy" and "drive Mom ballistic". I'm not going to name any specific infractions or repeated errors in judgement. I'll simply say that hazard pay was a consistent negotiating point when my husband and I discussed the budget. So, I would wake up every morning, full of zeal and determination to keep my cool, and within the space of not more than twenty minutes (thirty on a particularly determined day--or right after General Conference when I had been once more admonished to "love the sinner") I would be a wild-haired, bug-eyed, spittle-flecked raving lunatic. I'm pretty sure that's not the way education is supposed to work.

One day (I believe it was a Tuesday, sort of warm, but partially overcast) I had had it, as in HAD IT! (Moms will get this. Dads will shrug and chalk it up to hormones. That's why most of those who are reading this are moms.) The die was cast: "I am putting you boys into school, so help me all that is holy!!!!" They started on the next Monday. (There was a delay while we convinced the school that we were responsible parents with wonderful children who desperately needed their school. It required some red-tape cutting, some ego-massaging, some smooth talking, but it worked.)

It was an interesting transition. At first, I had no idea what to do with myself. For a major chunk of time I had defined myself and my life by the educational process taking place in our dining room: I am a homeschooling mom. Now I was adjective-less: I am a _________ mom. With nothing to fill in the blank. I moped around for the first week, stewing in my own perceived failure. (It was September in the Desert Southwest--stewing is inevitable even on good days.) Then I started walking.

At first I walked the dog. She had been chewing up household items: rugs, toys, furniture, and I thought the exercise would use up some of her energy. It worked, and I liked it. So I started finding new reasons to walk: books needed to be returned to the library, or there was a sale on toothpaste at the store. Almost anything became a good reason to drop the laundry basket, pack up the toddler, and head onto the pavement.

My walks started getting longer--two or three miles at first, then four; now we're up to around five to seven. Anything else doesn't seem worth the time. Mileage, people; it's all about the mileage. It's amazing how much I can get done on foot. (I'm not looking forward to summer, since I know that will put an end to my mobility, but it's been nice while it's lasted.)

It's also been good for the budget, since there's only so much one can fit into a two-seater stroller. (Twenty loaves of 50 cent bread is about the limit, although I did fantastically the other day with bread and Valentine's Day supplies, but I was in some sort of stroller-packing zone.) So I've stopped buying anything that wasn't strictly necessary. Apparently I had been buying frivolously, because I was able to cut my spending by one-third. That adds up. In the last five and a half months, I've been able to save up enough to take the family to Disneyland, to send the kids skiing for a day, and to sign them up for a week-long summer arts camp--all of which I would have said was impossible last year. Granted, there are days when the total age of my clothing equals that of my children, and I'll never be as glamorous as I want to convince others I am. It's a trade-off.

So really, what I've done is stripped life down. (Notice I did not write I've stripped down. That would imply less clothing, and there is no way in Tahiti that will ever happen!) I've eliminated some of the things and practices I considered necessary for years. And I like it. (Of course, there may be a day when my son comes to his senses and we can homeschool again. Then we'll have to change again. Change is good.)

Shameless Commercial Plug

Some people are not meant to take things easy. (Not me, obviously. I can lounge with the best of them if I have to.) My dad is one of those people. He tried retirement, and found that it only led to endless trips to Home Depot and micromanaging the organization of my mom's kitchen spices. Not a pretty situation.

Now he's got a new gig:


Pretty fabulous, no? That's my dad. He came out of retirement to give the masses what they want: super-chilled ice ream and a whole lotta smoke.

I now return you to your regular programming.

A jingle for my WC

(To the tune of "On Top of Old Smokey"/"On Top of Spaghetti", depending upon your generation or musical background)

I want a new bath--room,

not covered in pee,

with shiny clean fixtures,

and a shower for me.

I need a new bath--room;

this one is too small.

If I get much fatter,

I'll push out through the wall.

I've looked at new ti--le,

and pedestal sinks.

But am I the only,

for whom brown is the stinks?

I'm dreaming of whi--ite,

and azure tones, too.

But all of the ti--le,

looks like new baby poo.

Oh Angel of bath--rooms,

and mommies who scrub,

please rip up the flooring,

and blow up the tub.

I've got to re--mo--del,

and freshen the space.

Because if I don't

it may doom the whole race.

So if you like ti--ling,

and plumbing a line,

Give me a sweet phone call,

and my gratitude's thine.

Adventures with Sunny

You know how it is with most experiences--you head into them with excitement and enthusiasm, only to discover quite soon thereafter that things aren't quite as good as you had hoped. (As examples I can offer: High School, possessing a driver's license, owning any pet that sheds, drools, shreds, or requires feeding, and motherhood--which is very nice on the whole, but a whole bag of dried beans some days.) And with each new experience, you think, "Hey, this will be fabulous, and it will always be wonderful and exciting, and I will love every minute of it!" And then reality hits. Every time.

Except for this time. Because having Sunny in our family is fabulous every day. Seriously--who knew it would be so great to have a person in the home who can carry on an intelligent, non-argumentative, non-fourth-grade humor conversation? Who knew how amazingly refreshing it would be to have someone here who is willing to take a bath without protracted negotiations? How amazing is it to have someone polite and kind and positive around this place? This is soooooo much better than I imagined it. Thank you Sunny and parents--you have made my month.

One of the not-quite-fringe benefits is that we now have an excuse--no, a responsibility!--to explore the state and its wonders, even though we've pretty much sat on our tushes for the previous several years, procrastinating the heck out of in-state travel. ("The Grand Canyon? It's been there for millions of years--it ain't going anywhere soon. We'll catch it later.")

So, now we go places. (And since I was raised in a family that thought monthly road trips were essential to salvation, this is what I've always thought family life was supposed to be like.)

We've gone canoeing up on the Rim:

We've visited Montezuma Castle:

(Side note: there are a LOT of German tourists at Montezuma Castle. A Lot. I would like to take this moment to inform all those tourists that not all Americans are stupid hicks. Some of us even speak civilized languages other than our own. And if you're going to be so rude as to make fun of the American mom who has spent all her money on taking care of her children, and thus has none left over for trendy or even acceptable clothes, and thus must wear stripey pink pants that no clown would be seen in

BECAUSE THOSE ARE HER ONLY PAIR OF PANTS!!!!!,

then for heaven's sake, don't compare her to a tacky chameleon--because she understands you and will give you the glare of your life, you snobby, stupid, snooty assumer.) (BTW, I don't think your t-shirt was all that tasteful, either. So there.)

We visited--and thoroughly enjoyed--Montezuma Well:

And we even survived the traffic coming home. Thanks, Sunny!

This goes out to . . .

Do you remember the '80s? Seriously? Wow, you must be as old as I am. Sorry about that.

Anyway, the '80s were big on dedication nights on the radio. (If you don't remember the '80s, a radio is an old-fashioned device for getting music to your ears. Sort of like an MP3 player, but with an electrical cord, and the programming was done for you by guys in loud plaid suits and with no discernible taste. Just a little archeo-techno info for your more enlightened generation.) Dedication nights were entire evenings set aside so those bold/crazy enough to call in could proclaim their love/lust publicly and forever immortalize the object of their love/stalking in one song--thereby ruining certain classic tunes for those who found themselves dedicated to by someone they couldn't stand in the first place, "totally loved forever" but then later broke up with, or eventually had to get a restraining order against. (Il Roberto has a great story about dedication nights up at Ricks College [of Beauty and Automotive Repair]--sorry, private joke! Ask him sometime about it. Just be prepared to groan.) I used to listen to those dedications--knowing full well nobody ever was going to be daft enough to put themselves on the radio to dedicate "Forever Young" to me. (It seemed like a tragedy then, but now it's a major relief. How times and perceptions change.)

Amazingly (and completely unnecessarily), the '80s are making a MAJOR resurgence--hideous clothes everywhere!--so I thought I'd bring back the art of the dedication, but update it a bit for the digital generation. Thus, my dedications are not lame songs on an archaic analog technology, but fabulous full-color videos on your computer screen.

Enjoy!

For el Jefe:




For Maya:



For Gina:



For Kate:

What are you doing at 10:14 p.m.? Are you heating milk to make yogurt? 'Cause I am, and if you are, too, we could be buddies in lunacy.

I've been waiting now for an eternity, it seems. It takes a while for the milk to reach 180 degrees--45 minutes so far, because I really hate it when the milk scorches, so I do this s-l-o-o-o-o-w-l-y--and then it takes a double eternity for it to cool to 115 degrees before I can add the culture. (Hey, if something has to be 115 degrees before it can have culture, then the Beautiful Desert Southwest is the best-cultured place on earth! Just a little desert humor for you there. Very little.) So I'm looking at a long sit here in front of the computer while the seconds tick by.

I wasn't planning on doing the eternity thing tonight. I was planning to read a little--some thing nice and literarily murderous, nothing too serious--but then I read something that struck the fear of breakfast into me: the weekly meal menu.

Somehow I had developed the insane notion that making blueberry coffee cake--and, yes, I know I will have to explain to my kids, again, that this particular carb-fest does not violate the Word of Wisdom. It just shatters the hope for balanced blood sugar.--for our morning meal tomorrow. Great idea. As long as someone else does the baking. But when I ask if there are any volunteers to take on the task, only the crickets respond. So it's me mixing up the batter and greasing the pans. And stupid me, I chose a recipe that sounded yummy. Which wouldn't be too bad, except that I'm sure most of the yumminess is due to the inclusion of sour cream in the batter. And--I'm sure I've mentioned this before--I'm cheap. And sour cream is expensive. So I substitute plain yogurt for sour cream. And I'm too cheap to buy yogurt. So here I sit, waiting for the stupid milk to come down off its frigid high horse and just warm up a little, darn it! Cause and effect really stinks at this moment.

Sigh. 175 degrees. Five more to go.

Whew--the first semi-week of school is nearly over. (And, boy, doesn't that sentence reveal how much of a wimp I am? Whining after only two days of school. How do I survive whole months? That, friends, is the ultimate mystery of the universe!) We've made it through multiple Meet-the-Teachers (kids in three different schools!!!!!!!!), a multi-day high school registration experience (a BIG Thank You to the helpful staff at, dare I admit it?, Mesa High), and the truly frightening thrill of sending my teeny-tiny kindergartner off to school in a big yellow school bus. Again I say with complete sincerity, "Whew!"

And have I mentioned that it has been a little warm lately--just to add to the overall experience?

I've had a lot on my plate lately (can't seem to kick that anxiety eating habit. Some day they'll make me into one of those scare-you-straight PSAs: "This is you. This is you on anxiety-induced nachos. Any questions?"), but what keeps coming to me--in the moments when I can take a second to actually think lucidly--is that courage is a rare and wonderful thing. I saw it in the child who thinks she's in charge, who was determined to ride the bus--the only one on at the first stop. She was one weensy morsel of humanity in all that diesel-powered empty space headed into the unknown. Her mom, sad to say, was not nearly so courageous and spent most of the day praying no one messed with her daughter, 'cause then she'd have to go all momma-bear on someone, and I've never had to do that before.

Another one of the people who has the ability to ignore the fear is our foreign exchange student, Sunny. How many of you would have been willing to leave your home country and language for a full school year in high school, to travel half-way round the globe to live with a family you'd never met, to go to a school where no one understands what you're saying when you stub your toe, where you know no one? Strange place. Strange food. Strange(r than some) family. There's no way I could have done it: it takes guts, and I break a cold sweat just contemplating calling people I know on the phone. But this sweetie dared to leave everything normal behind, with only two suitcases of familiarity in tow. She took a chance on adventure and experience--she risked a lot with no guarantee of anything. Plus, she does it with a smile! Wow. I am totally bowled over. (And she hasn't even cried over the fact that we live in God's own toaster oven. Guts, I tell you)

She's amazing. And when I grow up I want to be like her.