Fun (and history) with Peeps

After seeing the Peeps dioramas in the Washington Post, the kids were dying to make their own crafty-sweet versions. I agreed to let them go wild, under one condition: They had to make a scene depicting something we'd covered so far this year in history. And we got their two friends who do history with them involved too. 


I think what they came up with is pretty great. . .


Columbus sailing to the New World by my son, age 7:

 

Here are the native people waiting for his arrival:

 

Poor Verrazano meeting an unfortunate end with a bunch of hungry cannibals, by my friend's son, age 8 (I love him in the pot over the fire!):

Pocahontas saving John Smith, by my friend's daughter, age 11:

 

Pilgrims working hard on their new land, by Jilly, age 9:

And, finally, the Salem Witch Trials, by Belly, age 11:

(look at the poor googly-eyed "witch"!)

And, yes, many Peeps were harmed in the making of these scenes. (burp)

What are your internet rules?

Though I think the internet is about 85% great and 15% gak-awful-horror, my ratios change quite a bit when I think about my kids being on it. 


I mean, have you ever read the comments on a YouTube video? Even an adorable :10 film of a puppy chasing a kitten will have someone saying, "Your a f*cker and suc* donkey b*lls". Doesn't anyone remember that "you're" needs an apostrophe? Makes me weep for humanity.


In our home, we have parental controls on everything from the laptops to my iPhone. The kids know that YouTube is verboten unless I am with them. And only my 11 year old has an email account, and no way/no how are they getting on Facebook anytime soon.


But, they are now old enough to leave the house on their own, those darned growing-up kids. And, I no longer accompany them on every play date. They even have friends with their own devices: iPod Touches,  iPads, and access to their home computers.


So now what? If I find them huddled around a device in my presence, I tell them to shut it off and go outside to play. But, when I'm not there? Now what? 


I've thought about approaching parents and asking, "Do you have parental controls on your kids' devices?" But then I think I'll go from being That Weird Homeschooling Parent, to That Weird Overprotective, Nosy, Pushy Homeschooling Parent (who doesn't let her kids read The Hunger Games).


My husband has asked a friend for a copy of the Internet Contract he's had his kids sign. I like this idea though I think any memory of a "contract" probably goes out the window as soon as a friend says, "You've GOT to see this!"


How do you mamas of older kids handle this? Do you tell your kids' friends to put away the devices in your home? Host every play date so they are always under your roof? Lock them in their room until they are 18? (Oh I could never do that. I read Flowers in the Attic.)


But, seriously, I'd really appreciate your input on this one. When my oldest expressed frustration at me when I was talking this over with her, I said, "Listen, this is new territory. There WAS NO INTERNET when I was a child." 


"Wait? Not even email?"


Sigh. These kids don't really understand.

Wordless Wednesday: Better than a funhouse mirror

Just a sampling of the lovely images I found yesterday when I downloaded the photos off my iPhone:

What happens when you don't interfere

The girls participated in their first-ever Destination Imagination tournament this weekend, and I---as one of Jilly's Team Managers---came along for the ride. 


I've already written a bit about DI and how one of the major tenets is that no one can "interfere" with a team. This means that NO ONE----not family members, friends, other teams' members, siblings, and most definitely managers---can influence or help a team with their challenge. 


This is hard.


Every. Single. Time. my team would practice, the words, "Great Job!" would be out of my mouth before I could stop them. And four pairs of eyes would shoot quickly in my direction while my daughter cried, "MOM! No interference!"


This meant I couldn't balk when they decided to use cardboard (trash) boxes for 99% of their set and props. I couldn't tell them to wear better costumes. I couldn't insist that they repaint a prop, or change their script, or rethink a solution they had come up with as a team.

This was all about the four of these goofballs, ages 7-9, getting up in front of a room of people and five appraisers, and doing their thing while I sat on my hands, teeth clenched together.


And, this little crew who had never done this before? With their "trash" props and backdrop and their spare costumes? But with their own kick-ass idea, awesome poem, and amazing balsa-wood structure? Came in fourth in their regional competition, just a wee bit behind the third-place team. 


My oldest daughter, whose performance I had never even seen---who has never, ever done a lick of theater---stood on stage in total character and, at least for me, stole the show. (I can say that as a mama, right?) Her group of giggly, smart, and fabulous 10-12 year old girls tied for fifth place out of 19 teams. 


I am so proud of them. And proud of us parents who were able to keep our big mouths shut (most of the time) and keep our hands out of their work. 


Turns out, when you don't interfere, these kids do pretty well on their own.

The kids are ruining my appetite for The Hunger Games

I came to The Hunger Games late. It was while I was reading Suzanne Collins' juvenile series Gregor out loud to my children that I heard that she had also written a Young Adult series. The Hunger Games name rang a bell, so I decided to read it. In a weekend. Followed quickly by Catching Fire and Mockingjay.


The books left me breathless, sickened, upset, and gave me so much food for thought, it often took me a while to fall asleep at night if I was reading in bed.


In the meantime, I finished book 2 of the Gregor series and my oldest daughter asked me to please stop reading them out loud. While they are much (MUCH) less violent than The Hunger Games, this series has  enough suspense, death and suffering that my then-ten-year old was having trouble going to sleep at the end of a chapter. I ended up reading the remaining three books in that series alone. 


So it is interesting that this same daughter is now asking to read The Hunger Games. Why? Because "all the kids are reading it" according to some of her friends. And, yes, as soon as I heard that quote coming from the lips of a tween, my eyes rolled back in my head.


At first, I thought "eh, ignore it. Make a big deal about it and they'll be dying to read it." But, I have a big mouth and can't ignore anything, so I've been telling them why they can't read it. Whey they shouldn't read it. And now they think I'm the big, bad mama who doesn't let her kids read the most-hyped book since Harry Potter.


Hell, even my seven year old says he wants to read it despite the fact that he's still working his way through Easy Readers. 


Here's my gripe: The Hunger Games is not a Juvenile book. It is not even Tween. It's Young Adult. It's insanely violent and the violence is almost always against children. It's bloody and scary. It is NOT the next great novel for kids who have finished the Harry Potter series.


Listen, I get it. The kids want to be "in" on the next big thing. I'm pretty sure kids have read Twilight though I think that is also a YA title. And I snuck Forever out of the library at 16 so I could read about Ralph. (heh)


But, man, when I hear that nine year olds are reading The Hunger Games, it bums me out. 


And if I see them grabbing popcorn and settling into watching the movie with me, my eyes are going to roll. I won't be able to help it.


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If you are on the fence for your kids, check out Snarky Amber's excellent suggestions in today's MamaPop article called Is "The Hunger Games" Too Violent For Your Kids?"

On the cusp

Every night at bedtime, my daughter tries to break my neck.


Now, this may sound like an odd start to an annual Happy Birthday message to my middle daughter, but bear with me.


You see, when I lean over to give her a goodnight kiss at bedtime, she throws her arms around my neck and hugs---as hard as she can---while I say, "ow, ow, ow, not so hard, okay, that's enough, I love you too". . .


But, that's her. She loves, and lives, with that same fierce determination every day. 


She hugs everyone. Teachers, neighbors, even kids she's met only once before. When she sees our next-door babysitter, she will run at breakneck speed screaming "Miiiiiichaaaaaaaelaaaaa!" which gives this poor girl time to turn and open her arms to the child about to leap into them. 


She hangs on like a baby monkey.


She's loud and wiggly, and so wound up at night, she's often the last one to fall asleep---even after me. 

When she was young, we mistakenly took her to be a wrecking machine and total klutz because she was always falling, knocking things over, and tripping. I guess that's what happens when you are determined to walk at nine months old. She's so anxious to get on to the next big thing, she sometimes forgets to watch out for what's in her way.


But, then she took ballet and we saw the flip side: Total grace and a look of weightlessness that I couldn't achieve if I practiced for 100 years.


She is up for everything: rock climbing, soccer, dance, art, chess, track, knitting, swimming---yes! yes! yes! There aren't enough hours, nor is there enough money, to do everything she wants to do. 


But when she doesn't want to do something, woe to the person who has to talk her into finishing her commitment. 


I know, because that person is usually me.


Oh, little girl, you can't wait to grow up and do more, more, more. I saw it in your eyes in Sephora as you walked around big-eyed, gazing at the makeup as if it held the key to your next step at growing up. 

I see it in your eyes as you watch the bigger girls at coop, or as you play with your older sister and her friends. 


And then, in the next minute, you'll be with your dolls, or playing LEGO with our brother, or dragging out the dress-up clothes, giving me time to catch my breath and remember that you are still just a little girl. 


On the cusp.


So, Jilly, on your ninth birthday, forgive me if I hug you just as tightly as you hug me. I know that in about a minute, you'll squirm out of my grasp. 


Happy Birthday, my sweet.

Oh, the places they'll go. . .*

If your kids could go anywhere in the world, where would they go? In a couple of years, we will find out.


When my oldest was about five, my husband and I had an idea that we thought could tie into their homeschooling education: At the age of 13, each child will be given a budget, some guidelines, and then given free reign to plan our family vacation for that year.


Planning will include picking the country or area of the world, researching things to do, learning about local customs, and even comparing transportation costs. Oh, and learning a bit of the language so we can ask "Where is the public bathroom?" wherever we are.


We picked the age of thirteen because it means that my oldest will be 17 and still home when our youngest son is planning his trip. 


Are we crazy? I'm actually really looking forward to this, especially since we are now--gulp--only two years away from my oldest hitting thirteen. 


She is excited too and has talked about this for years. If she had to pick right now, she'd choose an island (hey, it's cold in New England right now), though other years, she has brought up France, Italy and even South Dakota to visit Laura Ingalls' homestead.


Now, just to clear up: We are not rolling in extra money, nor do we plan to mortgage the house to do this. But, if the comments I read to my "five-dollar savings plan" post are true, I believe that almost anyone can save a significant amount of money with some planning and discipline. 


And there are plenty of ways to do this on a smaller scale, which is something we may have to consider if, for instance, my husband's work situation changes. We could tell the kids they have to pick a place in the contiguous U.S., for instance. Or, nothing that requires an airline flight or a passport. Or just give them a budget to plan a few day-trips during a regular family vacation.


And, not to be a snob, but I do have some rules: No Disney or theme park trips, no cruises or all-inclusive resorts where you don't go anywhere, and no city-to-city-following-Justin-Bieber's-concert-tour.


My husband and I will also be in charge of all credit-card reservations and have the right to review and change any plans if we deem necessary. And if our kids want to go to a country that is in the midst of political upheaval, we'll tell them to make another choice. 


But, whatever they pick, I can't wait to see where we go. Yes, that is one more rule: They have to bring their parents.


______________
*Happy Birthday to Dr. Seuss!

If you could go anywhere in the world, where would you go?

Wordless Wednesday: Tinsel Teeth

It is startling when I see my children experiencing big moments in life that I can remember going through as if it was just a few years ago.

Though her braces are way cooler than mine were. For one: The bands? Those are green for St. Patrick's Day. She'll change them for Easter.


Lucky duck.


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*Check out other, less wordy, Wordless Wednesday posts here.

School Break

It's February Vacation up here---a week off for public school kids. Or, as my sister calls it, "The Week The School Cleans Everything With Bleach Because Every Kid Has Been Sick". 


I love when my kids' school friends hear that we "do school" this week. They look at them in horror. But, really, what am I going to do this week? Visit a museum? Hell no! The crowds! We do all those field trips when everyone else is in school!


I also fail to mention to them that when we "do school" this week, it takes us about an hour to hit the major subjects. And we stay in our PJ's until about 10. Or 11.


Unfortunately, our week has been even less productive than planned because my oldest got hit with the stomach bug Tuesday night. The rest of us feel fine but it's been an excellent reason to curl up on the couch with a movie, order grocery delivery service, and drink lots of ginger ale.


And we wait to see if anyone else catches it. I just hope we aren't sick next week. I feel like going to a museum.

Next year? I think we're skipping Valentine's Day

Our Valentine's Day was a day of fighting, frustration and sugar crashes. By bedtime, my husband was done with it all, as were the kids. So he took to Facebook, and I discovered that we were definitely not alone:

Hope you Valentine's Day was not a total disaster! But if it was, feel free to share your story below. You are among friends.

How to grow lollipops for Valentine's Day

It's that time of year again:

Time for the annual planting (or thinking about planting) of the Lollipop Plants. And since I think this is just about the best idea ever (many thanks to Robin and Marc for this one), I am going to republish this until my kids are too old to do it anymore. 


And, this year, I am ALL ABOUT WIN. Yes, I will not need the procrastinator version. But, you? I'm not so sure about you. . .

--------------

When Belly was a toddler, an online friend posted a Valentine's tradition that was so easy and flexible that I knew I had to try it out. We are now in our eighth year, and now the kids expect it. You'd think I'd be better prepared for it each year.

It does involve a bit of deceit, so if you are someone who thinks Santa and his ilk are terrible lies for children to believe, you may want to stop reading now.

OK, here is what you do to make your very own Valentine's Day Lollipop Plant:

1. A few days before Valentine's Day, give you child a small empty flower pot.

Procrastinator version*: the night before, take your saddest looking house plant and, without letting the kids see, pull it out of the soil and throw it out into the backyard to serve as compost. Or just use a cup.

2. Let the kids decorate the outside of the pot with stickers, markers, glitter glue.


Procrastinator version*: skip this step; it is almost bedtime!

3. Once the decorations have dried, carefully fill the pot with several inches of fresh potting soil.

Procrastinator version*: search garage, basement and shed for potting soil, to no avail. Either reuse the soil that was once the life force of the dead plant now lying in your backyard, OR, go into the yard with a spoon and chip off a half-inch of hard dry dirt from the frozen ground.

4. Give your child some tiny cinnamon hearts and have him push some into the dirt. Blow a kiss and water them a little bit.


Procrastinator version*: Oops! No cinnamon hearts? Use anything sprinkly or red and hope your kid is too young to notice the difference.

5. If you have started your plant a few days before Valentine's Day, you can make the plant start to grow over several days. The first night, cut up a few lollipop sticks into various heights. The first night, put the smallest sticks in the dirt so that the plant seems to be 'sprouting'. The next night, replace those sticks with slightly longer sticks. . .keep this up for a few days.


Procrastinator version*: You did not start your plant a few days before Valentine's Day.

6. The night before Valentine's Day (Valentine's Eve?), replace the sticks with several beautiful lollipops. Go to bed and know that you will be woken to the delighted shrieks of "it grew! it grew!"

Procrastinator version*: The night before, sneak out to the local CVS after the kids have fallen to sleep and buy the last sad bag of lollipops (which are not red, heart shaped or have anything to do with Valentine's Day but beggars can't be choosers). Fall asleep but wake with a jolt at 6am and realize you forgot all about the damn plant. Tiptoe down the stairs, and carefully jam some pops into the dirt. If necessary, shield the plant from view with your body as you do this so your child does not see his mother's lame attempt at creating "magic".

7. Let your beloved eat lollipops before 8am. They will love you for it.

* taken from personal experience. 


(and no cracks about that bottle of wine sitting there--that's mama's gift from Cupid).

Wordless Wednesday: Buddies

(yes, R2D2 was wheeling around the room and ridiculously adorable)

Our weekend trip to another galaxy (or maybe just San Francisco)

I will post details when I have a moment, but I'm bursting with all the memories my little guy, D, and I has this weekend and wanted to share a few photos:

Sometimes, I have to pinch myself to make sure I'm not dreaming.

How to fall in love with winter. . .

I have a foolproof way to fall in love with winter.


Just grab three tween girls who aren't embarrassed to be seen with you.


Dress warmly! Winter is cold.


Find a hill, a tube, and someone who will give you a good push.


Zoom!

Repeat, over and over again, until you cannot feel your cheeks from cold, wind burn and smiling.


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Video taken at Amesbury Sports Park in Amesbury, MA. And, yes, this 44-year-old mama was the one with the camera. And the screech.

Musical Beds

--round and round she goes/where she stops/nobody knows--

This is a picture of my comfy, king-size bed:

I share this with my husband, John. Most nights. Often, nestled against me is my son, D, who sneaks in around 3am.


This is D's bed, in his newly painted bedroom. 

However, he doesn't sleep in this bed. My daughter Jilly has decided she likes this bed. She now sleeps here, often with our dog Star stretched out along the bottom.


Where does D sleep now? 

 

He's here, with his sister Belly, in her crowded bed. 


And here is Jilly's bed. 

It used to be a loft but she didn't like being up high  so John cut the legs down for her. Of course, no one sleeps there right now.


Though I ended up in it with Belly last night. Until D woke me up, and I ended up in Belly's bed with him.


Confused???? Yes. So am I. 

Destination Imagination: A journey to the unknown

Have you ever heard of D.I., or Destination Imagination? 


I had only heard the words in passing from an extended-family member whose kids were involved, and I didn't understand what the heck it was.


Now, here it is January, and I find myself in charge of a team. And I'm still not exactly sure what the heck it is. 


What I can gather from what I've read, the videos I've watched, and the day-long information seminar I attended in December, D.I. is a team competition where the adult managers are constantly warned of the dangers of "interference". 


Ahhhh, interference. This is how I found myself managing a D.I. team. This idea that the kids have to do all the work themselves, with only my guidance---to keep them from cutting off a finger or punching a fellow team member--- was appealing to me. In other words, I am discouraged from doing any of the work for them, and even giving them suggestions on how to approach their challenge is a big, fat no-no.


Little did I know that my team of four kids, ages 7-9, would pick one of the hardest, most complicated challenges to do for the big competition this spring. I'd explain it if I could do it justice, but let's just say it involves creating a skit that involves golf balls, while also building a weight-bearing structure out of wood, glue and hope. The addition of golf balls to this year's "structure challenge" is new and I think it was added just to shake things up and insure each manager goes a little grayer before the year is up.


My own daughter Jilly is on my team and is the biggest goofball, something I am slightly proud of at times. The other times, I want to wrap her up with duct tape, sit her in the corner and let her teammates work.


Our debut of this idea that exists only in their imagination is the 17th of March, a mere two months away. If the kids advance from regionals, we move on to states on the 31st. I refuse to even consider that they will go to the national championship.


Especially since there has not yet been any consensus on their overall idea and no development of a structure yet. I am half expecting them to enter the competition with a few handwritten notes, a structure of popsicle sticks and Elmer's glue, and costumes made out of the remnants of our dress-up box.


Wish me luck. Actually, wish them luck. I don't want to interfere.

Eleven

Eleven years ago today, at 4:18 am, I became a mom.

My "natural childbirth" baby quickly turned into an emergency c-section after the nurses discovered she was breech. . .when I was 10cm dilated and ready to push. Doh! 


The lesson I learned? Things may not be as easy as I expect, but the end result is pretty amazing.


To know Belly is to love her. I don't say that to brag or because I'm her mom, it's just the truth. She makes so many people happy and has such a kind soul---I know that isn't all there is to life, but it's a pretty great start.


-----------------------------
this is the beginning of one of my favorites---to read the entire short story, go here.


“Eleven” by Sandra Cisneros

What they don't understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don't. You open your eyes and everything's just like yesterday, only it's today. And you don't feel eleven at all. You feel like you're still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven.

 Like some days you might say something stupid, and that's the part of you that's still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama's lap because you're scared, and that's the part of you that's five. And maybe one day when you're all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you're three, and that's okay. That's what I tell Mama when she's sad and needs to cry. Maybe she's feeling three.

Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That's how being eleven years old is.

Mommy and her laptop, sitting in a tree. . .

If there is one ugly truth about myself, it's that I'm on this laptop far too much. 


I use this computer for work, and to shop for everything but groceries (though I have done that before). I use it to research what we're having for dinner and to get materials for the class I'm teaching in our next homeschool coop session. I have three email accounts to check, and Facebook and Twitter feeds that I try to pop on at least once a day (okay, 50).


But it is way too easy to get sucked into a vortex. Just one more post to read. Shoot, work needs this tomorrow, I'll do it now. Oh. . .Big Store X is having a huuuuge sale, and I really should pick up some of their {insert product here}. 


Here's the thing though: My house is not falling apart from filth. The laundry is done (and put away). I cook three meals a day, and they are (almost) always nutritionally sound. My dog is walked (and tired) (which counts as my exercise, right?) My marriage isn't falling apart (right honey???). My legs are shaved. I read stories to the kids at bedtime and don't check my iPhone as I do it. My kids aren't running wild, beating small animals and setting fires. In fact, they are great kids.


The only thing that bugs me about the time I spend online is how it looks to the kids. Will they remember mom as the lady with the laptop in the kitchen clicking away? Or will they remember her as the one who took them to their million activities? Who kicked their butt dancing to The Chemical Brothers on Just Dance 3? Who helped them put away their 1,001 American Girl accessories? (oy) Who sat with them as they tried to remember the difference between an adjective and an adverb and somehow didn't scream?


I'm debating setting a timer. Working only when they are asleep (a tricky proposition as they stay up later and later). Maybe only going online between certain hours. 


Or cutting myself some slack and stop worrying about this. 2012 as the year of less self-imposed guilt? Sounds pretty nice to me.

Merry Christmas!

Have a fun, loud, wrapping-paper festooned Christmas, Happy Hanukkah, or ----if you don't celebrate any special holiday---have a nice Sunday!


I'll be busy trying to keep one big black lab from eating the gift bows and any chocolates hidden in stockings. Wish me luck!

Seven years gone

I took the kids to LaSalette Shrine a few towns from me---we go almost every year to see the gorgeous lights. I also use this as my crash course in Religion 101, since my son will always ask---loudly---"Who is THAT GUY?" when he sees any statue of Jesus Christ. This year, after my hasty explanation of the nativity scene, the crucifixion scene and a general explanation of Christianity in general, he pronounced, "I don't think I believe in evolution anymore. I believe in God." Wow, I've got the touch.

Normally, we head to LaSalette at the end of November, before the crowds of people descend on the place, but we were late this year. Fortunately, we arrived by 6pm which was still crowded but not the madhouse it was an hour later. 

I remembered as we parked the car that we were here on the anniversary of my father's death, seven years ago. So, we walked up to the little sales window and bought a couple of candles to light in the flickering room of memorial lights. I lit the one above for my dad. The kids lit the other one for Cally, my sweet cat who died last year on this same day. I heard D whispering, "I pray that Cally comes back to life."

I think if that happens? He's giving up evolution for good.

---------------------------------

Miss you Daddy! You'd love these little munchkins so much, and I hope you are somewhere watching us all from above, cheering us on.