The Borrowed House

Our current WWII read-aloud is Hilda Van Stockum's The Borrowed House which is a young adult novel, probably for ages 13-14 and up. I'm editing a bit as I read, and I'm careful about what I read in front of Ramona, because the subject matter is a bit more raw than the other books we've read thus far.

The protagonist, Janna, is a twelve year old German girl, living in Amsterdam with her parents, in a house that has been "requisitioned" for them. Because Janna has been a member of the Hitler Youth, her ideas and opinions are difficult for my girls to hear. They're appalled, of course, but it's a slightly new experience for them -- our literary heroines are usually so much more likable from the start.

But, this book has been the fuel for some amazing discussions. The other day, as we talked a bit about the Holocaust, Betsy said, "But, Mom ... how could God let this happen? He's so good, and He could have stopped it."

Wow.

How does one explain the problem of evil to a child?

I began by telling her that she had asked an eternal question, a philosopher's question, the best question. I told her that people have lost their faith over that question, when the answers to it seemed inadequate, or wrong, or elusive.

And so we went back in time, back to the story of Adam and Eve, and to what God gave them.

"A choice!" she said.

"Yes, a choice. He allowed them to choose good or bad, right or wrong, didn't He?"

"Yes."

"Why do you think He did that?"

"Hmmm ... I don't know. Wouldn't it be nicer if He had made them obey?"

"Well, yes, in some ways, it would sure be nicer. [Editor Mommy's aside: we'll deal with felix culpa later ....] But let's think about what kind of a relationship comes out of making someone do something."

From there, we put on a little demonstration about what it would be like if the girls were mere puppets that I could control ... if I could make their mouths move and, like a ventriloquist, throw my voice so that I could hear them say, "I love you, Mommy dear," whenever I felt like it. They lapsed into fits of giggles as Betsy played the puppet, and mouthed the words. But the demonstration made its point: little puppets or robots aren't capable of real love. For anyone's love to mean anything, it has to be freely given. Had God made us little robots, our love for Him would mean nothing. (They'll read a similar, if more eloquent, explanation someday, in C.S. Lewis's Mere Christianity ....) I summed it up by saying that there's a world of difference between making a puppet say "I love you," and the feeling I get when one of my daughters brings me a picture she's drawn for me, something she's created purely out of love for me. That kind of "I love you" is real, and means everything to me, because she has chosen to do it.

We went on to talk about how the freedom God gave human beings -- our free will -- allows us to make choices about everything, including love. And where the possibility of true love exists, the possibility of utterly rejecting love co-exists. And where the possibility of rejecting love exists, there is the potential for evil.

Some people will choose evil.

It's not an easy answer. It's not a pat answer, not even a very satisfying answer most of the time, especially when one is contemplating great suffering. But it's the only answer that makes sense.

And as for stopping it? I think that's what God counts on us to do.

Life of Leisure

Willa, of EveryWakingHour, directs us to this excellent post at The SweetBriar Patch. It's about the definition and importance of "leisure" and how that relates to education. It's worth a separate post to talk about just how vital I think this is (a post I don't have time for right now.)

And, The Sweetbriar Patch has actually managed to find a C.S. Lewis quote that I've never seen ... I didn't think that was possible. It's this, and it will make you smile:

There was nothing which medieval people liked better, or did better, than sorting out and tidying up. Of all our modern inventions I suspect that they would most have admired the index card.

~C.S. Lewis, in The Discarded Image

Ramona's word of the moment

is "moment."

As in, "Just a moment, Mommy."

"I'll be there in a moment."

"This drawing will just take a moment."

"In a moment, I'd like to drink my milk."

"Mr. Putter, please come here a moment."

I love that child.

Michaelmas

Ideas at my usual haunts: here and here.

Bedtime with Ramona

"Mommy, I'm tired. Could you put me to rest now?"

Feel like getting outside?

You can experience the great outdoors vicariously, through another one of Dawn's fabulous Field Days. This one is packed with gorgeous pictures and terrific entries.

One day soon, I'm going to join the 21st century, get a digital camera, and have an entry worthy of Dawn's blog.

The Right to Ask Questions

from Zenit News: Benedict XVI's address at today's general audience, regarding the Apostle Thomas:

At the same time, his question also gives us the right, so to speak, to ask Jesus for explanations. We often do not understand him. We must have the courage to say to him: I do not understand you, Lord, hear me, help me to understand. In this way, with such frankness, which is the authentic way to pray, to converse with Jesus, we express the littleness of our capacity to understand, but at the same time we assume the attitude of trust of one who expects light and strength from the one able to give them.

Such great stuff.

The abortion milieu

Barry Michaels has an excellent essay in the September issue of Touchstone magazine. In it, he shares a discussion he had with his high school religion students about abortion. You can read it here.

As I just wrote to Barry:

At the end, you said,
"Neither biological insights nor logical consistency is important. Convenience is."

And gut reactions. My theory is that most pro-choice adults maintain their position because they

a. had an abortion themselves
b. love someone who has had an abortion
c. helped a friend get an abortion

and to them, "killing" doesn't define what they (or those they love) are capable of. Ergo, it must not be killing. (This was certainly my thinking when I was pro-abortion. ) These kids are mostly too young to fall into the above categories, but as you said in the article,

"They reflect the way the abortion issue is thought about and discussed by their parents, their peers, their legislators, and the media, which is for them and many of the rest of us the very cultural air we breathe."

That's it exactly. And the pervasive denial is based on feelings. With approximately 40 million abortions since 1973, what are the chances that you don't know someone who has been involved in an abortion? Your best friend, your next-door neighbor, that nice lady at the bakery ....

I think we can only turn this tide one heart, one post-abortive woman, one person who loves another person, at a time. But as long as adults are living in such feeling-based denial, kids will keep breathing that same deadly cultural air and the irrational thinking will be perpetuated because we cannot face who and what we are.

I'm sure he'd be appalled

Checking SiteMeter stats can be:

a. funny
b. surprising
c. disgusting

I'm not the first blogger to post about the amusing (or odd) Google searches that have brought readers to my site. I don't want to know what someone was thinking when he googled for "crude St. Nick clipart." (And I don't know why he ended up at my site ... I assure you, sir, I have no such clipart.) And I won't even go into details of a couple other searches I've seen. Most of the searches are tame: I've had people show up because they're looking for some other Karen, or someone named Anne, or Ramona Quimby.

But, I seem to be the queen of the following searches:

1. Alton Brown Good Eats Catholic?
2. easy monkey bread refrigerator biscuits (or some variation thereof)

The combination of those two makes me laugh out loud. I have no idea if Alton Brown is Catholic (awhile back I posted about his article in Guideposts but I did not speculate on his Christian affiliations) but I'm fairly certain Alton would say that my version of monkey bread is not "Good Eats."

Maybe I should contact Alton Brown, interrogate him about his faith and also ask him to do a show on homemade monkey bread.

Now, there's a post.

Understood Betsy

The other day I mentioned that we were reading Understood Betsy by Dorothy Canfield Fisher. I knew absolutely nothing about this book before we started it; somehow, it was not on my radar screen. All I knew was that Lissa and Liz had both recommended it to me (more than once each, I'm sure) and that I trusted them to know what kind of book we love.

We finished it last week, and we all adored it. It was the sort of book that leaves one with that curious mix of satisfaction and mourning: the feeling that you are full and happy, content to have partaken of the feast, but so sad that it's gone, over, consumed and done. Oh, yes, of course you can read it again. And you will. But there's nothing like the first taste of a discovery.

In my last post, I mentioned that, as we read, I was reminded of John Holt and Charlotte Mason. Faith, from Dumb Ox Academy, pointed out that Fisher was a champion of Montessori methods. I'm far less familiar with Montessori than with the others, but all were advocates for children, and all encouraged a certain level of independence in learning. All, too, believed that children were capable little people who simply needed to have their natural desires to learn enthusiastically encouraged.

The first John Holt moment was just a little thing. Nine year old Betsy has been called forward in class to do math:

She hated arithmetic with all her might, and she really didn't understand a thing about it! By long experience she had learned to read her teachers' faces very accurately, and she guessed by their expression whether the answer she gave was the right one. And that was the only way she could tell. You never heard of any other child who did that, did you?

(I love the way the narrator sneaks in the occasional editorial aside.)

I was reminded here of a passage from How Children Fail in which John Holt talks about children faking their way through years of math, purely on their ability to read the teacher's face.

I was also reminded of Holt's observations about how strangely artificial school is, about how children are removed from the real world (and from normal interaction in it) when they are closed up in a school building all day. A passing farmer has stopped to join in the children's tug-o-war game at recess:

Elizabeth Ann was thinking to herself that this was one of the queerest things that had happened to her even in this queer place. Never, why never once, had any grown-up, passing the playground of the big brick building, DREAMED of such a thing as stopping for a minute to play. They never even looked at the children, any more than if they were in another world. In fact she had felt the school was in another world.

This happens when you're homeschooling, too. You become very aware that you are indeed living in something of an alternate world. A couple of weeks ago, my girls and I stopped at the grocery store after horseback riding lessons. The clerk, a very cheerful woman, said, "You must be homeschooled." My girls said that yes, they were, and we'd just come from horseback riding and the clerk said, "Oh! Then you get to enjoy this glorious weather! That's so nice. You know, we don't get to see too many children here during the day."

Back to Betsy's new world: I was reminded of Charlotte Mason in Betsy's teacher, who saw the importance of time spent outside, and who was quite matter-of-fact about Betsy being a person ... not a "student," not a "third-grader" and not a pail to be filled, but a human being who was there to grow and learn.

After the teacher utterly shocks Betsy by placing her at a 7th grade reading level, 2nd grade math level, and 3rd grade spelling, Betsy's mind is spinning:

Elizabeth Ann fell back on the bench with her mouth open. She felt really dizzy. What crazy things the teacher said! She felt as though she was being pulled limb from limb.

"What's the matter?" asked the teacher, seeing her bewildered face.

"Why--why," said Elizabeth Ann, "I don't know what I am at all. If I'm second-grade arithmetic and seventh-grade reading and third-grade spelling, what grade AM I?"

The teacher laughed at the turn of her phrase. "YOU aren't any grade at all, no matter where you are in school. You're just yourself, aren't you? What difference does it make what grade you're in! And what's the use of your reading little baby things too easy for you just because you don't know your multiplication table?"

This is simply too much for Betsy. This is not at all what she's been taught, not at all what she thought an education was all about:

"Well, for goodness' SAKES!" ejaculated Elizabeth Ann, feeling very much as though somebody had stood her suddenly on her head.

"Why, what's the matter?" asked the teacher again.

This time Elizabeth Ann didn't answer, because she herself didn't know what the matter was. But I do, and I'll tell you. The matter was that never before had she known what she was doing in school. She had always thought she was there to pass from one grade to another, and she was ever so startled to get a little glimpse of the fact that she was there to learn how to read and write and cipher and generally use her mind, so she could take care of herself when she came to be grown up. Of course, she didn't really know that till she did come to be grown up, but she had her first dim notion of it in that moment, and it made her feel the way you do when you're learning to skate and somebody pulls away the chair you've been leaning on and says, "Now, go it alone!"

Fisher has a lovely, sly sense of humor, and finishes the first section on school with this:

They ran along to the little building, and there I'm going to leave them, because I think I've told enough about their school for ONE while. It was only a poor, rough, little district school anyway, that no Superintendent of Schools would have looked at for a minute, except to sniff.

And the whole book is every bit as delicious as that.

I won't share every detail we loved, as I don't want to spoil the book for those of you who haven't read it. But know that it's full of surprises and delights, a bit of pathos, a lot of compassion, sincere love and humor.

Dorothy Canfield Fisher had a keen understanding of human nature, knew children terrifically well, and captured a wonderful array of arresting personalities in this all-too-quick-a-read.

Understood Betsy is an altogether enchanting book, and a new family favorite here in our Holt-inspired/Masonish/Montessori-touched/Betsian homeschool. Thanks, Liz and Lissa.

Ditto

"One of the many things nobody ever tells you about middle age is that it's such a nice change from being young."

~~ Dorothy Canfield Fisher

Carnival deadlines are approaching!

Run, don't walk, to your nearest computer and send an entry to Maureen Wittmann for the first ever Catholic Homeschooling Blog Carnival (which I know is just the right place for a number of you!)

Then, jog over to Dawn's By Sun and Candlelight to drop off an entry for her next Field Day.

The deadlines are tomorrow! As in 24 hours from now! Quick, quick!

Poetry Friday

(I'm jumping on the bandwagon...for this Friday at least ....)

Nothing Gold Can Stay

by Robert Frost

Nature's first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf's a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

Some lessons sink in

I often tell my kids, "People are more important than things." Depending on the circumstances, it's a catch-phrase, a reminder to heed others' feelings, a reprimand or a simple statement of fact. Sometimes, the lesson is for me.

A few days ago, I was vacuuming, which, at our house, can be a run of the mill routine, or an exercise in extreme frustration, due to the age and temperament of our vacuum cleaner. On this particular day, it was the latter, as the wretched machine rattled, banged, shook and protested against its purpose in life. Rather than kick it, which I wanted to do (but didn't want to do front of Ramona) I turned it off for a short break. I went to a bookshelf to dust. After dusting the bottom shelves, I leaned on a shelf to help myself up (I'd done something to my knee recently, and it was hurting.) This was a mistake, and any of you who can mainly afford "some assembly required" furniture know exactly what I mean. The peg that held the shelf in place gave way, the corner of the shelf tilted, and books had no choice but to come off the shelf.

It wasn't just the books, or the shelf. It wasn't just the knee. It wasn't just the frustration of limited finances that currently prohibit a new vaccum or better quality furniture. It was all of it. Together. Seemingly hanging over my head like a black cloud, raining only on me, darkening my vision.

"Oooh! I'm so tired of these cheap bookshelves!" I blurted out, to no one in particular.

But someone in particular was there. Four-year-old Ramona. She came over to where my bad knee and I sat, dejected, on the floor in front of a cheap bookshelf, near tears (I have to add -- avert your eyes, gentlemen readers -- that it was probably a hormonal time, too ....) and she put her soft, sweet smelling little arms around me and hugged me.

"Mommy, your family is more important than things," she said.

The tears that had welled up in frustration now spilled over, just a tiny bit, in complete and utter love for this little gift from God. My sweet Ramona, who came to us when I was in my 40's, who came after three consecutive miscarriages, who surprised us after I'd given up on ever having another child ... Ramona, who is a living, breathing example of what God does when we allow Him to work in His way and in His time, was teaching me, yet again, the lesson that I so regularly try to teach my kids.

People are more important than things. As this cherished little person, with her arms around my neck, kissed my cheek, I felt her innocent wisdom permeate my being.

Yes.

I can live with cheap furniture, dying vacuums, a bad knee and any other distraction in the form of "things" that comes my way. As long as I've got my people, I'm a happy woman. An unspeakably blessed and happy woman.

And then there are days like this ....

After blogging (and blogging and blogging ....) about how insanely wonderful and educational our read-aloud time is because it's packed with interesting, insightful, enlightening conversation, this is what was said at the breakfast table this morning, as we were diving into Hilda van Stockum's The Borrowed House:

Me: And, so, do you see how evil can be tied up in an attractive package?

Betsy: Mom, if we're just going to talk instead of read, can I go back to bed?

So, what could I say? I laughed. I laughed a lot. Then I got back to reading.

I just love this retro stuff

Pssst ... wanna escape into the past for a few minutes?

Visit Retro-Food.com. Run through the aisles of vintage supermarkets and proclaim to the world that you love to bake.

I guess there is a certain inevitability to it ....

Ramona's version of a meal blessing:

"Bless us, O Lord,
and these Thy gifts which we are bound to receive ...."

Kid stuff

Ramona was listening to a song the other night (I can't remember what it was ... a VBS cd? Raffi? Happy Tappin' with Elmo?) and I started to sing along. She said,

"No, Mommy. That song is only for kids. You can sing your God songs, but not this."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The definition of our geeky family:

Anne-with-an-e: "Mom, I was reading the dictionary the other night, and ...."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Back when I was reading the Charlotte books aloud, there was a scene in which Charlotte was feeling angry at God.

Ramona: "Well, there's no need for that. We can always love Jesus."

Read-alouds redux

Can you stand it if I talk about read-alouds again?

I was reading aloud from a library book on genetics that had a picture of a former U.S. president with skin cancer. From there, our conversation wandered down the following paths:

Oh! That's why we wear sunblock!
How do chemicals cause cancer?
What is cancer?
Was the man in the picture a good president?
What makes a good president?
What's the difference between Democrats and Republicans?
Would I make a good president?
Which president made the decision about dropping the atomic bomb?
What would you have done, Mommy? Would you have dropped it?

Just talking, while curled up on the couch with an interesting book about genetics, we covered "science-health-history-social studies-ethics-morality-our faith." And, we discussed that these things are not simply little compartments of our lives, but are things that must fit together as seamless parts of the whole of who we are.

Perhaps I don't need to emphasize that this is why I don't really fret about precisely covering "subjects."

Books. Words. Ideas. Together. That's school.

Coming soon ...

... why we're so enjoying reading Dorothy Canfield Fisher's Understood Betsy, and why it has so far reminded me of John Holt, Charlotte Mason and homeschooling.

Appropriate for what age?

Jennifer's question in the comments on my Twenty and Ten post got me thinking about the ages at which we allow various books for our children.

I approach reading recommendations, age-appropriateness and reading levels with a skeptic's eye. It's such an individual thing. One of the beauties of homeschooling is that the parent can make those highly individualized choices without it becoming an issue. We can base our decisions on personality, maturity, intellect, and emotional levels rather than on "what grade they're in."

Back to Jennifer's question: she had asked about reading Twenty and Ten to Kindergarten-aged children, as per a curriculum provider's recommendation. I was surprised that the provider would list the book for such a young age (and agreed with Jennifer's gut feeling that she would skip it, just as she had skipped a book about the homeless.) While there's nothing awful or graphic, the major themes are simply beyond what most five and six year olds need to absorb. That's not to say that a young child couldn't take something from the book. Ramona actually listened in on most of our Twenty and Ten read-aloud, and she took from it that, "the little one loved Jesus." I'm sure she absorbed even more than that (she proves to me daily that she's absorbing tons from the older girls ... yesterday she drew a picture of a cell, and copied the word "genetics" from her sister's science notebook ....) but the point I want to make is that while the absorption is fine, I wouldn't go out of my way to read this book specifically to Ramona when she is five or six years old, mainly because I'm making the choice as a parent to not delve deeply into themes surrounding WWII with her at that age.

The book was easy reading, to be sure. One could argue that it was too easy a reading level for my older girls, and that there was no reason for me to read it aloud. But I don't read aloud only to expose my kids to more complex books. No, I read aloud to spark discussion, to explore the world with them, and to add an element of shared discovery to their education. To my education.

I've sung the praises of read-alouds before -- here, here, here and here, for example. I continue to sing those praises.

Reading aloud lets me make decisions (I can edit if something is too intense for my hyper-sensitive child), initiate conversations ("Why do you think she did that?"), and be present to answer a string of questions that otherwise might not be asked in the course of reading a book.

So, reading aloud can help with the "Is my child old enough for this book?" dilemma for all of those reasons. Beyond that, trust your instincts. No one knows your children as you do. If they're not ready for the same book every other ten-year-old in the world has read, that's okay. And, if they're reading books that would make the average ten-year-old cringe, that's okay, too. Instead of looking at what's age-appropriate, we need (within the boundaries of protecting innocence, of course) to look at "what's appropriate for this particular child."

That's my girl

Me: "Ramona, what would you like for dessert?"

Ramona: "What've you got that's chocolate?"

Not our week for things electrical

Wednesday morning as I was starting up a very large load of clothes, the dryer put forth a loud pop and started smoking. We don't allow smoking in this house, so I was taken aback by the brashness of the act. Then, realizing that this wasn't brazen smoking, but rather the "Help me, help me!" variety, I called the dryer doctor.

Since our health insurance doesn't cover major appliances, I was delighted to have the repairman tell me that he could find nothing wrong. (On the other hand, I do wonder where that smoke came from ... and yes, all smoke detectors have new batteries and are in good working order.) He thought that something small, possibly plastic (with three little girls in the house? Naah ....) had worked its way through the interior holes and gotten on the heating element, then burned.

Of course, there are only 80 more shopping days until Christmas (don't panic -- that's not counting Sundays, and I plan to be done by December 18th) so I'm sure at least one of our major appliances will give out in the next month or two. They seem to plot for it to happen near Christmas, pesky things.

Memorial of Our Lady of Sorrows

I don't believe there is a more exquisite sculpture in all of human history than Michaelangelo's Pieta.

For ideas on observing today's memorial, check back in with Catholic Culture and Women for Faith and Family. Or, take a shortcut and check in with Family in Feast and Feria (Jenn used to write for Catholic Culture, so if you think the writing sounds familiar, there's the reason ....) Jenn has already brought together lots of ideas and links. See her post here.

Women and chapel veils

In the Light of the Law is the blog of canon lawyer Edward Peters, and it's full of informative stuff.

This is a very nice, brief-but-thorough look at whether or not women are required to cover their heads in Mass. Please understand that I'm not trying to start an argument, and I'm not disparaging any woman who does choose to wear a headcovering to Mass. Like Mr. Peters, I'm just pointing out that it is not required by canon law. Thanks, Mr. Peters, for weighing in and including both facts and a charitable approach.

Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross

"For God so loved the world that he gave his only Son, so that everyone who believes in him might not perish but might have eternal life. For God did not send his Son into the world to condemn the world, but that the world might be saved through him."

~~ John 3:16-17

For all of today's Mass readings, go here.

For ideas on observing today's feast, visit my usual haunts: Catholic Culture and Women for Faith and Family.

Have a glorious day!

(Painting: Exaltation of the Cross, a fresco by Piero della Francesca, c. 1416-1492)

Addictions

(Please note that the following is satire. I'm not really that addicted. Really. I'm not. I'm just trying to be funny. Really. I'm not that addicted. Really.)

Okay.
Yes.
It's true.

We're addicted to the internet. If we had any doubts, the doubts were disspelled on Sunday and Monday, when we had to live without it for awhile. It's a pathetic thing to have it thrown so cruelly in your face, but you know you're addicted when:

* You pass the computer and note sadly that there is still only one light blinking on the modem. You sigh.

*You tell the children to stop making such an issue of this. The internet, after all, is an incredible, miraculous, ridiculous luxury that no Christian should ever expect, for goodness sakes, or take for granted, though we're allowed to thoroughly enjoy it, of course, provided we keep it in its proper perspective. You realize that you are (of course) lecturing yourself as much as the children.

*You call the cable office even though you know no one will be there on a Sunday. You get the answering service. They give you an 800 number. You call it, even though you have just contributed to someone else having to work on a Sunday. You want to kiss Charlie, the nice surfer-dude who walks you through three separate trouble-shooting procedures, sincerely doing his best to help you, as he really seems to feel your pain. You hang up after he mournfully tells you that all he can do is schedule you for a service call. You thank him, and will remember him in your prayers.

*You make up a reason to pass the computer and sneak a glance at the modem. Yup. Still just one light.

*You wonder what everyone else is blogging about today.

*You wonder if anyone misses you.

*You wonder if they're worried about you. Or are they thinking you're lazy? Or, maybe they understand that, since it's Sunday, and you don't usually blog much on Sunday, nothing's wrong.

*You feel bad that no one knows what's wrong.

*You pass the computer again. Even though only one light is blinking, you click on your browser. Just to torture yourself. You are, after all, an addict, and your existence is supposed to be pathetic.

*You wonder if something awful has happened to your blog in your absence. What if it got hacked and you're not there to know that? What if the new banner you just posted got corrupted somehow and your blog is displaying some horrendous image? What if your father was right when he told you, when you were eight years old, that you could "What if?" yourself to death?

*You tell Anne to stop being so dramatic about a day without internet. After she proposes her seventh "What if?" you tell her that she could "What if?" herself to death.

*You think of the seventeen other ways that you have turned into your parents.

*You pass the computer. I won't go into the ugly details.

*You sleep. You don't dream of the computer. See? You aren't really that addicted.

*Morning comes. You call the cable office, just to make sure that Charlie (love him though you do) got the service call scheduled. He did get the general message through. They schedule you for this morning.

*Later in the day, when internet service is back, you feel ridiculous about your level of joy at the sight of four solid, green lights on the modem. You try to act nonchalant in front of the children. Since you have nothing pressing to do, you might, oh, say, just check email. But that's all. And you won't be on long. You chide the children: "Was it really that bad to be without the internet for a short time? I knew we'd live through it." You turn back to the screen, and just read a couple of blogs before signing off.

*See? You're not really that addicted. You knew you could live without it all along.

I don't think that'll be necessary

Ramona: "Mommy, I'm exercising so I can fill my body up with energy."

We were experiencing technical difficulties

We were without internet access for over 24 hours ...

we just got it back ...

when I recover from the shakiness and other withdrawal symptoms, I'll be able to think ...

and then I'll post ....

It hasn't been pretty around here.

Redecorating here

I needed coffee. What do you think?

Places to visit this weekend

If you're not using Bloglines to keep track of your favorite blogs (and to find out when they've been updated with new posts), then you're not living as blogfully as you could be.

A couple new blogs I've recently discovered:
Martha, Martha
Bettnet
The Wine-Dark Sea (with its gorgeous header -- Ramona just climbed onto my lap and said, "I want that picture on our computer.")

Make your own practice sheets for handwriting. (Great for CM enthusiasts who want to print up copywork, and H/T to As Cozy as Spring.)

A Latin Sponge-Bob calendar (no kidding ... H/T to Cirque de Moi) And, if you've never seen Sponge-Bob, but condemn it as completely mindless, one must understand that with such lines as "You may be an open book, Sponge-Bob, but I'm more complicated than that; the machinations of my mind shall remain an enigma," and (upon walking into a time machine an octopus says) "Humph. I wouldn't have chosen this interior," that it can actually be laugh-out-loud funny. It may not be educational -- no, I take that back ... my children found out what "incongruous" means, thanks to Sponge-Bob humor -- but however you define Sponge-Bob, it can be just the right thing for laughter and popcorn with your kids.

Beyond that, the machinations of my Sponge-Bob thoughts shall remain an enigma.

Twenty and Ten

We started (and finished) this wonderful little book yesterday. It's a quick but absorbing read that includes humor, suspense, children who act like real children, and the reality of Nazi regime evil without taking that aspect so far that it's inappropriate for younger children.

My girls loved the courageous and lively nun, Sister Gabriel, who counts on the twenty Christian boys and girls to take in the ten Jewish children in need of refuge. And they were pulled in to the story immediately through the 13-year-old narrator, Janet, and her brave and clever friend, Henry.

I won't tell you more, so as not to spoil it for you, but I highly recommend Twenty and Ten.

Clearly, this girl understands boys

Anne-with-an-e and Betsy were discussing some of the differences between boys and girls.

"Boys," Anne observed, "don't give each other things like friendship bracelets."

"Yeah," agreed Betsy. "Boys give each other friendship wedgies."

My children draw during prayer time

The sublime, from Betsy.



The Sponge-Bob, from Ramona.

Writing stuff

I always enjoy checking in on Jim Manney's People of the Book blog. Today he has an interesting post full of blogging statistics.

And in this post, which refers to this Atlantic article ("So You Want to Be a Writer"), he includes a wonderful quote from John Kenneth Galbraith, who pointed out that "inspiration" is an elusive thing, and one best just get to work.

Definitely fling it

(What's referred to in the first link, that is; no flinging necessary from the second. It's a keeper.)

I've missed Alice, but she's back. Last night she made me laugh, and today she has a beautiful post full of timely and lovely reminders.

Thanks, Alice.

First day of school

I always set the day after Labor Day as our first day of school because it gives us an excuse to go out to breakfast. (I know what you're thinking: "Now, there's a woman who has her priorities straight.")

Here's what I'd planned:

Mass
Breakfast out (with two meals free, thanks to "birthday club" coupons)
Nature walk
Math
Read-alouds
Writing

Here's what we got:

Mass:

At first, we seemed to be annoying the woman seated directly behind us. I thought she had a tiny scowl on her face, and I wondered if too much whispering had been going on. But, at the sign of peace, she was lovely. She smiled warmly and exchanged a sincere greeting. Then, after Holy Communion, I noticed that she had not gone forward. I wondered if she might be going through RCIA.

Right after Mass, she asked if we were homeschoolers, then explained that she used to homeschool her four boys, "once upon a time." She sweetly offered me leftover curriculum, and then said that she's in RCIA, but keeps wondering if she's doing the right thing. Hmmm ... she was talking to the right person. I explained that both my husband and I are converts, that I was on our parish's RCIA team for about six years, and if she'd ever like to talk more about her questions, I'd love to have her over for a cup of coffee. We exchanged names. God is good.

Breakfast:

The coupons could not be honored. The restaurant just dropped its franchise affiliation and would not give us the birthday discounts. (I had a few words to say about cultivating good customer relations during their transition period, but I kept my mouth shut and ordered a muffin and coffee.) The girls enjoyed their unhealthy chocolate chip pancakes, bacon and the like, and we were off for our

Walk:

We went to the lake and racked up a load of nature sightings. It was a gorgeous morning -- blue skies, 70 degrees. Perfect. The girls spotted a couple kinds of fish, water striders ("Just like in Joyful Noise, Mom," said Anne), a very fat brown caterpillar and the skeleton of something. I didn't know what it was, and the girls didn't want to know. We moved on.

Math:

Back at home, we casually reviewed some math facts, just to get back into the swing of it. Ramona has decided she loves math. Not that I make her "do" math ... I think she just likes to be the opposite of her sisters. She chases them through the house, shouting, "I'm a big book of math!" I have to confess that I wasn't thrilled with the water that was sprayed on the table (from someone's mouth) when something funny happened. I did get a little crabby for a few minutes there, but I had to admit that I was glad they were having fun doing math. In light of the big picture, the spraying was quickly put back into its proper perspective.

Read-aloud and writing:

We finished our Martha book, and today will move on to Twenty and Ten. The girls also did some writing. They have stories going, are working on blog posts and keyboarding. (When did typing become keyboarding?)

And last night, we did some door-to-door canvassing to help out the woman who teaches horseback riding to my girls. She also runs a therapeutic riding program, and depends quite a bit on her fundraising. The girls were thrilled to collect $30 for her, and I was thrilled to see them so excited to do it. It was extraordinarily cute (if I do say so myself) to see them offer their spiel and squeak with delight at every "yes."

Back at home, we read a little more, got ready for bed, and Ramona dropped off in my arms during prayers.

What a lovely day. But then, with God, chocolate, coffee, and three angels in my midst, how could we go wrong?

Ramona Moments

Me: Ramona, why is your hair wet? Wait a minute ... why are your arms wet?

Ramona: Betsy has a beauty salon. She refreshened me.

What the First Amendment really says

This is a great article by Nat Hentoff, whom I've long liked a lot ("long liked a lot"? ... if I'd had more than one cup of coffee, I'd revise that phrase. But no, I'm moving on ....) Hentoff always cuts to the chase and he knows his stuff. He explains very clearly here what the difference is between the Establishment Clause of the First Amendment and the Free Exercise Clause.

(H/T: The Common Room.)

Waiting, wondering and finding goodness

Both Scott and Melissa (parents who know) have directed us to this beautiful post at The Wait and the Wonder.

Read it today, and I know much hugging of children will follow. Some tears, too.

Thank you, Moreena.

Why I love autumn

"What'll we do with ourselves this afternoon?" cried Daisy, "and the day after that, and the next thirty years?"

"Don't be morbid," Jordan said. "Life starts all over again when it gets crisp in the fall."

~~ F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

Back-to-prison season?

As the kids and I read the Sunday comics yesterday, we saw several with a back-to-school theme, or, more accurately (given the jokes) "my last weekend of freedom" theme.

I felt a deep rush of gratitude for our homeschooling. We do not see our times of learning as dull, confining, imprisoning or beyond our control, and it saddens me that so many kids do come to see school in those ways. (Disclaimer for any new readers: I am not bashing schools; my husband teaches in one. He tries to keep his classroom from resembling a prison, but the very structure of school lends itself to the analogy. I do, however, believe that he's a great teacher, and that there are a lot of other great teachers out there.)

We now return to our previously scheduled programming: The girls are excited about the things we're going to explore, and so am I. They've been asking, "When do we get to start reading those books about World War II?" (as soon as we finish this Martha book, the last in our summer read-aloud series) and "Can I use this drawing book right now?" (Yes, yes, yes.) They've called me in to see a DNA model they made out of pop-it beads and said, "I can't wait to learn more about genetics. This is going to be so interesting."

I don't want this to sound like a brag session about my brilliant kids. Our homeschool is far from perfect, and I know that the enthusiasm of new ideas, autumn's cool weather and renewed energy will give way to, ahem, shall we say, "other feelings" during our school year. We'll have our bad days. Some of the things we explore will bore them. Sometimes our house will feel like a zoo.

However (and this is a huge, enormous, life-altering "however"), we'll be able to deal with the bad days, the boredom, the zoo-iness and the good stuff in our own way, at our own speed. We'll have the freedom to stop, evaluate, regroup and realign, if necessary. We'll be free to recognize that learning and enthusiasm do wax and wane, and we can adjust accordingly.

And we can do it all without the very sad feeling that we're prisoners.

Existential Crisis #47

Ramona (with much dramatic waving of arms to illustrate her point):

"First, you get a balloon at the store. Then, the air goes out of it the next day and it won't float. Then, your cat chases it." (Large sigh, and decided marching out of the room.)

Atticus was right ... it is just one existential crisis after another around here.

Things I said today

While getting ready for Mass:

"No, I'm sorry, you can't wear that. You've outgrown it. Didn't that fit you a month ago?"
"You can't wear those socks to Mass."
"Ramona, I'm sorry, you can wear the dangly earring in the van, but it has to come off before we go in to Mass."

As the kids played after dinner:

"Betsy ... just a wee bit less shrieking, please."
"Betsy ... could you kick it down a notch?"
"Betsy ... could you quiet it down just a bit?"

During bedtime prayers:

"Ramona, it's time to stop that."
"Ramona, you will need to move if you and Betsy cannot stop that."
"Ramona, it's time to stop running."
"Ramona, stop. Please don't lick Mommy's face during prayers. Ummm ... please don't lick Mommy's face at all."

Unschooling Voices

Time to settle in with a cup of coffee (it's Saturday ... go ahead and enjoy the good stuff ....) or tea: Unschooling Voices #3 is up at A Day in Our Lives. Thank you, Joanne, for coordinating this and making it happen every month.

Our day

Tired of reading under a strobe light, I called in an electrician.
He said, "Let there be light." And after much tinkering, there was.
And it was good.

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Meal planning a la Sponge Bob:

Anne-with-an-e: What's for dinner tonight, Mom? Pizza?
New Meal-Planning Mom: Pizza? No. Not pizza. Pancakes.
Anne-with-an-e: Awwww ... This episode always makes me crave pizza.

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I bought a can of coffee at the dollar store.
You get what you pay for.
It'll work well for Fridays: penance coffee.

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