Christmas in Dixie (!)

Florida Christmas quiz:

Q: Is it ever appropriate to decorate the orange tree in your yard for Christmas?

A: Yes, but only of you're a University of Florida fan and you're putting up blue bulbs.

We're full of quandaries here in the land of wackiness. The neighbors have started putting up their Christmas decorations this weekend, but because of the warm weather and lack of ice on the roofs, they just don't know when to stop. So, after my brief escape, I mean walk, around our neighborhood yesterday, here are my Tips for Outdoor Decorating.

1. Please limit yourself to one Santa per display. If Santa is both kissing his wife and climbing up to the chimney at the same address, one of them is a fraud. And I'm not sure which one of them I'd shoot first.

2. Santa + Baby Jesus = Tacky. Seriously, Santa praying at the manger? That's just you trying too hard.

3. More than eight reindeer on the lawn is too many unless they're already hitched to the sleigh. Seriously, think of the neighbors' bushes and your lawn. Eew!

4. If you're doing to deflate the decorations during the day, could you put them in the garage? It looks like Santa died. Or passed out in the gutter. If you can't afford the electricity, maybe you've got too much out there.

5. One word: spellcheck.

They're just social caterpillars...

Okay, if my kids dislike everything I've ever had fun doing, what do they like? Good question.

The Boy likes Mario. And Luigi, of course. He likes, um, weird Norse and Greek mythology. He likes Calvin and Hobbs. He likes splashing around in the pool. He likes moderately-aspie boys like himself who don't notice that he has no social graces. He likes making up riddles. He likes playing any video game ever invented. He likes the outdoors but in only tiny doses -- the mushrooms growing in the lawn are cool but one yellow jacket will send him screaming into the house. He likes riding my brother-in-law's mower, but he doesn't like bicycles. He liked keyboard/music class from last year, but he doesn't like cub scout meetings or anything else that requires him to sit at a table with other kids and learn something. So, what are his interests? Video games, mythology, and reading Boy's Life.

The Girl likes crossword puzzles (if I'll help), schoolwork, The Museum of Arts and Sciences, the library, and any other place we've been more than sixteen times. She likes swinging, splashing in the pool/ocean, and she's learning to ride a bicycle. She likes carrying the cats around the house. She likes PBS kids, even if it's a show she's seen a million times. She likes the cooking and woodworking shows on PBS on Sundays. She likes "writing", collecting magazines, Dr. Seuss books, visiting Target. In short, she likes PBS and anything else she's done more than 35 times.

On the face of it, it seems like I need to get my kids out and exposed to something fun to do. But "out" isn't fun, and "fun" isn't fun. Outdoor music isn't fun. Hiking isn't fun. The science museum is fun, but we can only go on weekdays when it's empty, and even then, I have to have backup to go there. The beach is fun, but they don't swim, so, again, I need backup. The pool is closed for the winter. (Indoor pool? What's that?) Playgroup on Wednesday is fun as long as no one's playing a pushing-and-shoving game or fishing. Chess club at the library? No. Co-op book club? No. The music lessons he had last year aren't being taught this year. (The organizer jumped ship for Classical Conversations.) There's a homeschool swim class, but he'd have to be able to swim laps already. Don't even think about organized sports. Please, just don't go there...

If I had the strength, time, and leadership skills to start a group, what would it be? Music class again. Play date with his friend from playgroup. Eco-Buggy tour of the nature preserve. Swim lessons? Or maybe I just have to force them out and teach them to like the outside world. (Please, anyone with ASD children, talk me down from that wall!!) He likes kids, but they make him nervous.

The need to get out more, that's as much as I can tell.

Wherein I ponder the fall of American civilization

Okay, I still haven't vented enough spleen, so here goes again. (If you want some heartwarming gratitude, try The Mama Bird Diaries. It's not here. If you want bile and bitterness, you've come to the right place.)

Here, for your amusement, is a list of things that I love and have been wrecked by my kids. Okay, some of them have been wrecked by time and fortune, but the kids get most of the blame tonight because I'm feeling bitter and slighted.

1. Singing in a church choir.

I have sung in church choirs since I turned eight. Oh sure, I took off a few years for college, but I have seriously sung second soprano ("All notes must touch a line, and don't even think of slipping in a G-sharp.") mostly in Episcopalian church choirs for probably 30 years. I adore music written by men wearing tights: Tallis, Byrd, Handel, Mendelssohn, all those dudes. (Okay, I think Mendelssohn may not have worn tights; I'm not sure.) I like hymns written in the 1800's. I like English carols, ancient motets, German requiems. Men in tights. And Fanny Mendelssohn.

I did sing some, after my kids were born, but not the whole enchilada. Then we moved to Florida, the church changed music directors, and they now sing only songs written since the year 2000. Can you hear the creaking sound? That's my voice becoming rustier by the year from lack of training and lack of practice. And from yelling at the kids.

Oh, and as for the kids singing in a choir, fuggetaboutit. I've tried. The Boy won't even let me sign him up for drum lessons.

2. Folk Music

I love cheesy folk music. I adore men unafraid to sing The Mary Ellen Carter. I like early Mary Chapin Carpenter, Uilleann pipes, sea chanteys, bluegrass -- authentic, organic, acoustic music. I like clogging, polka, English Morris dancing. I even like bagpipes and men throwing phone poles, I mean caber toss.

Florida, my kids, and my lack of talent share the blame for this one. It's just to freaking hot for bagpipes. There is no folk music scene in a Nascar town. There is authentic bluegrass to be had, but it's hard to come by. And my kids hate outdoor music, so it's an exercise in futility. Plus, while I am musical, I don't have a lot of talent.

3. Historical Reenactments

I just love any kind of historical reenactment, as long as it has Europeans in it. It doesn't matter the era -- French and Indian, Revolutionary, Civil War, Medieval, you name it. I love it all. (I also like reading historical fiction, but try to stay to reputable authors like Ellis Peters.) I also like the smell of wood smoke, so that may have something to do with it.

If you combine this with the previous one, you get living anthropology through music, which is a two-fer, if you ask me. I adore fife and drum corps. When I lived in New England, I came close to becoming a camp follower or at least making their clothes.

4. Ethnic food.

When I go out to eat, I want to see something that I can't make at home. I want something made of spices that I can't find a the Piggly Wiggly. I want to eat goat. I want the flavors and textures of places that I'll never see. I want paella from the Spanish Costa del Sol, stew from Province, curry from India and Thailand, barbecue from Afghanistan. Again, this is a Nascar town, and I do not want pork chops from Applebees.

I could cook this kind of food, I suppose, but I've lost the heart for it. My kids were supposed to be omnivores. I always believed that they'd eat anything, just like my sister and I did. I ate curry while breastfeeding. I did it all right. But no. They've crushed my spirit, and I no longer try.

5. Good manners and culture

Yes, my mother raised me to be a lady. Hard to tell now, but I was. By nine years old, I could disassemble a Cornish hen without touching it with my fingers -- while wearing velveteen. To this day, I cannot bring myself to say that I "don't like" something. "No, thank you, I don't care for any aspic, but I'm sure it's lovely." I do not say, "What?!" I was raised to say, "Pardon?" I just can't imagine how I've produced children that have to be endlessly prompted to say, "Excuse me" or "Bless you." Seriously, I have blessed every sneeze they have ever produced, and they cannot be trained to say it without being prompted. Drives me crazy.

It has been said that, "A gentlemen is one who never unintentionally hurts another person's feelings." I was raised to be one of those people. My kids can't be badgered into it under pain of death.

6. Nice clothes.

Ahh. Wool suits, brocade skirts, linen dresses. I wore all of these in the 1980's. If I could have fit into clothes off the rack, I would have driven myself to the poorhouse. Even as a child, I loved patent leather shoes and party dresses. I blame the 1990's, grunge music, and "casual Fridays" for the demise of the American clothing empire. Now, all I wear are jeans.

Partial blame goes to my lack of money and ridiculous height, partial blame goes to my kids who won't go anywhere respectable enough to require socks, and partial blame goes to the Sunshine State, where we wear capris to funerals.

7. Bicyling and camping

Bicycling was the only sport that I was ever any good at. And my kids can't be bothered to learn. They do not feel the need for speed, and tend to stare at the scenery instead of steering, resulting in massive injuries.

While in New England, I also got a taste for fall camping in Vermont. If you've ever been camping in Vermont the first week of October, you don't need an explanation. If you haven't, an explanation won't help. It's gorgeous.

Again, Florida and my kids share this one. My kids are all, "Eew, bugs, dirt, and walking? NO!" Florida, for its part, is eight parts sand, one part muck, and one part bugs. The kids are right -- too many bugs.


Here's the point in the blog where I wrap this one up and send it home. But I'm still figuring out what my point is here. I do know that reviewing my favorite things (raindrops on yellow rugosas, the smell of moss on a half-wild cat) I do feel better. I guess it's comforting to know that it's still out there. I can't go to it, but it's still out there, and the world hasn't gone totally doo-lally and abandoned it all for a bucket of chicken wings, a Bike Week t-shirt, and contemporary Christian music. Culture, adventure, flavor, and sophistication are still out there, like some elusive Luna moth, lurking on the edges of the darkness.

Maybe if I just make a little more effort to get a sitter and get The Husband and me out there, we can find it, especially during This Most Wonderful Time of the Year when there's good music out there for cheap. I just can't shake the feeling that it's a crying shame that my kids can't be sold on any of it. How does one live without at least the memory of Tallis, Spanish Mediterranean food, and tailored wool? HOW?!

Wherein I act like a spoiled jerk.

I saw the president on Barbara Walters this evening. Man, I hate him. His kids are "smart and funny". They keep him grounded. They make him proud. What did I get? Two kids that act like they pretty much hate me most of the time and are not afraid to embarrass me in public to make sure I get the message.

Oh sure, they're nice enough, as long as I don't stand for something like low-sugar breakfasts, quiet video games, or tooth brushing. Suddenly, every time I disagree with The Boy, he has been acting as if it's a sign that I hate him and he should kill himself. He actually tried half-heartedly to kill himself this afternoon by holding his breath and was mightily pissed off that it wouldn't work!

I know I'm being a jerk about this, but my kids have been such a pain in my ass this weekend. The Girl has been squawking pretty much all evening. She wants to continue one of our irritating, repetitive tasks, and I've decided that I can't do it anymore. She has been insisting at the top of her lungs. She screamed and back-talked through her shower. She threw a fit over the quantity of whipped cream on her ice cream at 10:00 at night. The Boy was just hateful most of the day.

Sometimes, I wonder what the hell I've ever done to deserve this kind of treatment from my own kids.

Oh sure, you say, "Just don't put up with it." The behaviorists say that kids always do something for a reason, and if you ignore it, they'll quit it. But that's shit. If I screamed every time I felt like it, I'd scream as much as they do -- even if people ignored me. I don't see how that's going to solve my problem.

And yeah, you try to convince an autistic child that she has to sit still, be quiet, and pay attention. She can do one out of three, but never all three at once. Being pleasant is just a bonus. Have I mentioned her latest self-stimulation? She gasps as hard as she can, over and over. Yeah, it gives a ton of stimulation, and if you do it enough times in a row, it makes you dizzy. Oh, and it really makes people stare.

I know The Boy has to be held to a higher standard than The Girl, but honestly, I just don't know if he can. He spent the night with my mom Wednesday and still hasn't regained his equilibrium. He's been crying, screaming, and throwing things at the drop of a hat. (And, yes, it's my fault. And The Husband is on my case every time I "antagonize" him.) I think that Christmas present planning is making it worse. I have visions of the usual psychologist intervention and its probably outcome in this house -- The Boy spending the next five years in his room, unable to conjure up enough self-control to be allowed to leave.

I gave up on the whole lot of them around 9:00 tonight and let The Husband deal with them. I sat in my room sewing a pink polka-dotted flannel bathrobe for my daughter -- so that she could screech when I ask her not to run naked through the house after her shower. I could hear the Barnyard DVD going in one room, Stevie Ray Vaughn scratching out the delta blues on PBS from another room, and The Girl whining and hooting up a storm (as only an autistic tween girl can) from another. It's enough to make me take up smoking, just to be allowed to leave the building for ten minutes every hour. (Oh, that rule doesn't apply at home? Shit.)

So, Barack Obama, I voted for you, man, but your kids make me crazy. And God? I want a partial refund on these kids. Seriously, man. I got gypped.

Thankful for... flip-flops?

A Thanksgiving riddle for you:

Q: Why do people in Florida wear flip-flops to shop for Thanksgiving dinner?

A: Because they won't let us shop barefoot, and those are the
shoes we keep in the car.

Yeah, I know -- not very funny. Really, it's only funny when it suddenly occurs to you in the grocery. Shopping for turkey in flip-flops.

It's official. It's gloating season:

From the WESH 2 Weather Team, Central Florida's Most Accurate Forecast
4:23 pm EST, 11/25/2010

TONIGHT: Partly cloudy. Isolated shower chance along the coast. Low near 63. Winds SSE 5-10.

FRIDAY: Cool front moving closer with afternoon showers possible. Breezy and warm with increasing clouds. High 83. Winds SW 10-20.

FRIDAY NIGHT: Mostly cloudy skies with scattered showers. Low near 62. Winds SW to NW 5-15.

SATURDAY: Mostly cloudy skies and cooler with a few scattered showers. High 75. Winds NNE 10-15.

Brr. Only 75 on Saturday? I hope I don't have to wear socks!

It's childish. I know. But remember last summer when I only wanted to die from the ridiculous heat? Our Fine State has only three seasons: Summer (March to April), Hell (May to September), Summer (October, November), and Jacket Weather (December to February). Notice how we have eight months of hot weather? Yeahhh. And only four of those are actually livable?

So, this Thanksgiving, I give thanks mostly for summer weather. And flip-flops.

Lame-o

Someone has (inadvertently) pointed out to me that my life is, well, lame. Yeah, we have nothing better to do with our time than to get stressed out over buying Christmas presents for the cats. In November. Yeah, L-A-M-E.

*sigh* I wasn't always lame. Honest. When did I become lame? I'd say, round about the time I became a homeschool teacher.

There, I said it. AND lightning didn't strike me.

See, homeschooling often seems to me like a purposely creating a tempest in a teapot, making something that is pretty darned simple (education) into something rife with angst. Seriously -- you have kids, you send them to school, they get an education, grow up, get a job, and leave home. Lather, rinse, repeat -- the Circle of Life, right? Well, yeah, unless your kids have an altered neurological system or some other problem with the educational or schooling process.

If you go to the public schools, you get peer pressure, fads, clubs, attitudes, friends, crushes, enemies, sports -- all things good or bad, depending on how it works out for them and how angst-y you get about that sort of thing. You send the kids out into the world. They find a way to figure it out. It builds character. Right?

I know you can simulate that sort of "real life living" (if that's what it is) while educating a child at home, but it doesn't seem to have the same feeling of combat. Maybe that's good?

Either way, my kids don't do "group education" activities very well -- the girl because she can't concentrate when she's trying to gouge her eyes out and the boy because he's trying so hard to get out of the class without getting into trouble. So in order to avoid the "I want to want something" culture of the suburbs, I have to find them a Life? Oy. I'll put it on my to-do list.

Now, I'm pretty sure the homeschooling didn't cause the lameness. Maybe lack of contact with the outside world did. I can't exactly take the kids to work at the homeless shelter, they can't do clubs/sports, we don't have livestock, they're afraid of nature/bugs/wildlife, and they're not interested in saving the sea turtles. These kids need to get a Life's Passion.

I can share my passions with them -- native plants, social justice, home improvement on the cheap, looking after my parents, building curriculum understandable to autistic children, helping my kids find joy in the ordinary moments of life -- but my passions will not be theirs.

Well, now we've found common ground between the schoolers and the homeschoolers -- we both want our kids to grow up with a purpose, a passion. That's something! I may have just fulfilled my life's destiny!

Really? Musical chairs?

Y'know what drives me nuts? When my kid does something stupid and the world doesn't allow him to suffer the natural consequences.

Example? The Boy sometimes overreacts to pushing and shoving. He has a highly sensitive fight-or-flight reflex. As a result, he whacked a kid after a scuffle during musical chairs at Kids' Fun Night at the church. Who thought a game involving pushing and clawing was a good idea? The same person who handed out plastic whistles half an hour later. But I digress.

Now, like all boys these days, the other kid had been trained to tattle instead of whacking him back. I know it sounds neanderthal, but I really think The Boy would put it together faster if they'd just let boys be boys.

I dislike bullies as much as anyone, and I don't want to see my kid hurt, but better now than later when everyone's grown. Of course, by then he won't have to play musical chairs, so maybe it'll be okay.



It still bugs me.

You got a problem with that?

I know you're dying to know. Or not.

Today, I offered The Boy a trip to PetCo in the afternoon -- if he could get some of his work done in the morning by himself, while The Girl and I finished her school work. Bad idea. He spent three hours this morning complaining about all the unnecessarily healthy food in the house. He claimed that I had denied him breakfast. I was causing him to be too healthy. (And apparently, that's not good.) For the record, we consider FrankenBerry to be a condiment, to be sprinkled over Cheerios. I mean, really, would you drink maple syrup for breakfast? (Quiet, you!)

He subjected us to three hours of whining. Then he cried because he had spent his morning whining -- because I hadn't let him eat breakfast -- and he was now very sad that he couldn't take his webkinz dog to PetCo. Just think how disappointed Toby the dog would be! UNFAIR! I was UNFAIR!! And he was going to run away from home. Because he was a loser.

Umm. Yeah.

We got it together in the afternoon (after The Girl and I finished our ballet practice) and we finished his work around 5:00. He agreed to give up some of his much-coveted computer time after dinner to go to PetCo with me. So, after I got back from food co-op pickup, we went out and bought Christmas presents for the cats.

Yeah, so this means one of two things, possibly both. Possibility one: he still has a lot of anxiety, particularly about working on new/hard stuff alone, and currently, his nerve endings are raw and bleeding. Or possibility number two: he's a brat.

I wonder what's for breakfast tomorrow...

So that's where that noise was coming from...

Update on that blame thingie.

I decided to stop spreading my attention so thin, and have split school time between the two kids. The Girl has my undivided attention all morning. The Boy has my undivided attention all afternoon. The afternoon lessons tend to end early and reconvene around 7:30 for reading. In between, The Girl wants me to help her with her crossword puzzles.

So, basically, I'm spending 10 hours a day on homeschool. No playgroup, no science club, limited break for dance class, no trips to the book store. UNTIL. Here's the kicker: if The Boy can do some of his work independently in the morning, the school day will end earlier, and we can go places. Voila.

I expect the push-back to start next week, but it's a short week anyway, which should prolong the misery and extend the "extinction burst" for weeks! Whee!!

So what did I learn today? First, I really enjoyed teaching The Girl without all that screaming going on. It was a delight. We started with her OT and braingym, which set her up beautifully for seat work. We finished early, actually, and I was looking into the science drawer for enough to make it to 11:30. Lovely...

After lunch? Not as good. The whining and screaming started almost immediately. He wanted to do his writing in front of the TV. No. Not on my watch. He claims that I tell him things without listening to him. When the heck did this become a democracy?! Okay, that sort of rigidity was what got me where I was yesterday. "Okay, how long will it take you to write the paragraph? 15 minutes? You may work on this until Dinosaur Train is over in 20 minutes. If you are not finished, you will finish in the kitchen." He agreed, and you KNOW what he got done, right? ;) Yeahhh... He still spent too much time screeching over his math and logic, but I'm hoping that the extra hand-holding will help him stop freaking out. Then I can wean him off of the hand-holding with a promise of time off in the afternoons if he can work it out himself.

The Husband stepped up to the plate, too. He herded resentful children for me. He tried to help The Girl with her crossword puzzle while I was trying to read The Trojan War with The Boy. He's starting to find out that, yeah, it's part my attitude that pisses them off, but man, those kids are kind of a pain in the butt. Oh, and The Girl demands that I help with the puzzles, not him. "Accept no substitutes."

So, good news? We all lived through the day, and no one screamed except my son. But at least we've identified the source of that noise we've been hearing...

Problem solved!

We've finally figured out who the bad guy is in our semi-toxic soup of school behavior. It's ME! Yeah, the husband solved our problem by declaring me to be the problem.

There. You've got your positive thought for the day. The Husband has solved our yelling problem. It's all my fault. 'Cause they're just children.

Pardon? They're almost eleven years old! You're telling me that the children can ignore me, mock me, disobey me, and generally push my buttons all they want, and I'm supposed to be their little punching bag? Yeah. That's working for me. Especially when The Husband pokes his nose out of his little workout/movie room in the evening to yell at me for it.

Okay, here's how it goes.


I state calmly, "Boy, it's 7:00. It's time for your shower. Then we'll read The Trojan War."

He screams. "Eeeeeee!"

I repeat the request. "I asked you this afternoon whether you wanted to read it then or read it after dinner. You chose after dinner. It is now after dinner. You must now take a shower and then we'll read The Trojan war."

He starts yelling, "NO! I hate the icky, wicky, ticky Trojan War!! I'm not reading it!" (Visualize the fanny dance -- kind of looks like bees showing the way to the new pollen source.)

I start getting ticked off. He's now wasting my time. "No! You get your butt in the shower and get clean. I have to do the dishes before we can read, so move!"

The husband joins in before it really escalates. "Honey, why are you yelling?!"

"Because unless I do, no one will do anything!" I turn to The Boy, "Go now and get a shower. NOW."

Okay, for now, point Mom. He goes off to the shower. Ten minutes later, I check on him. "Where's your towel? Where's the wash cloth? Why aren't you wet yet?"

He gets flustered and aggravated. "Aaaaah!! I'm doing it! I'm doing it!!"

I counter, "No, you're not! You're standing naked in the middle of the bathroom, doing NOTHING. GET A SHOWER OR I WILL PERSONALLY BATHE YOU!"

I'm not riled up enough, so The Husband joins in again, "Why are you two yelling again?!"

"I asked him to get a shower, but all he's doing is standing naked in the bathroom." I turn to The Boy. "Boy, get a shower."

The Boy's voice rises an octave, "But I don't have a towel!"


Yeah, you're getting the picture now. A half-hour later, I pop in on him, and he's putting on pajamas in the bathroom. (He's supposed to get out and put them on in his room.) He sees me, screams, and starts doing his pity-party crying. Now, The Husband is furious. (I must be interrupting his movie and workout.) The Boy tells him that I yelled at him and hurt his feelings, so The Husband yells at me. I yell at The Husband that I did no such thing, and his son must stop boo-hoo-ing. Immediately.


The day goes a lot like this. We need a mediator. I'm sick to death of having them mentally pinch me all day long. They're sick to death of... What the hell are they sick of? Being told to do things they don't want to do. Tough shit.

I'm just fed up with making allowances for them. I'm sick of making PECS picture charts. I'm sick of telling them the same thing over and over. I'm tired of issuing six prompts for them to accomplish anything. I'm sick of grinding my teeth.


Example. It's ten minutes before we leave for dance class. I tell The Boy, "We're leaving for dance in ten minutes. What do you need to do before you can leave?" (Hint: pee, put on shoes, and get everything he wants to take with him.)

He answers, "Put on shoes?"

I ask, "Aaaand?"

Blank stare. "Get in the car?"

"It's the same thing we've done for the last six years. Pee, put shoes on, and get your things together. So, tell me, what do you have to do in the next 10 minutes?"

He repeats it back and wanders off.


Lather, rinse, repeat. Try not to scream or cry.

Now, I'm not looking for pity or advice. I don't need to be reminded what a scourge autism is, and how I can't get angry with them. I need leverage. I need a professional to put a change jar in front of The Boy and say, "Every time you scream or defy your mother's reasonable requests, you will lose a nickel. Every time you take initiative and do your work without being told, you will gain a nickel." Or whatever behaviorists do, now that corporal punishment is out of style.

I need hope that if I actually succeed in making it through a day without screeching at them, they'll come around and stop screeching at me. After all, as The Husband keeps pointing out, I'm the adult.

So, good news...

Rejoice. Give thanks.

Okay, more positive blog stuff. Um. Still nuthin.

Hm. Today I got up at 7:30, tired from The Boy waking me every fifteen minutes until 11:30, when I told him he could sleep on the couch after all. I got everyone fed and got a shower. School started somewhere between 8:30 and 9:00. The Boy screwed around but finally finished his DVD lesson from Excellence in Writing, then he did a half-assed job on his Life of Fred. I sent him out with The Girl to swing while I packed her lunch. My dad arrived to watch The Boy just as I ran out the door to therapy in The Big City with The Girl -- screaming hysterically.

She had done her writing and some crossword puzzles before she went out to swing. She was wearing decent clothes (for a change) but still wanted to change clothes for the trip. (She always wears the same clothes on Mondays and then has to change into decent clothes for the trip to The Big City.) She sat in her room for ten minutes without getting it done, and I dragged her out, screaming.

About fifteen minutes into the hour-and-ten-minute trip, she calmed down and I reminded her that she had time but she sat on the bed. I think she'll shake it a little faster next time.

Therapy was fun, but the OT let me know that The Girl is supposed to be practicing her sensory integration exercises several times a day. Um. I do it twice a week. Like practicing piano, right? Oy. The therapist has starting brushing/joint compression. She'll do it a few weeks, until Lora gets used to it, and we'll start it for real. Translation? I have to do it four times a day for a while and then we'll taper off. Oy again.

The speech therapist was out with an ill mother-in-law, so we didn't have to do that at least. The Girl hates speech. It's hard work.

"What is this?" A refrigerator.
"What is it used for?" We take food out of it.
"No, what does the refrigerator do? What do we use it for?" We open it?

You can see where this leads us. Correct answer? It keeps food cold. We use it to keep out food cold. Hm. Anyway, we drove home another hour and ten minutes, and relieved my mom who had The Boy by then.

I mounted the barre for The Girl's ballet mirror. I repaired the sprinkler head that The Husband drove over and snapped off last week. (This required a quick hit at Lowe's for a new part.) I helped cook dinner, ate, emptied the dishwasher and re-filled it. I looked up my garage door opener manual on the 'net and then figured out why my remote control wasn't working. I helped The Girl with some crossword puzzles, sent The Boy to get a shower, and wrote a blog post.

Coming up? I have to read The Trojan War to The Boy, bathe The Girl, and get everyone into bed.

Positive post... I survived the day, got some stuff off my to-do list, and I didn't have to go to speech therapy.

Rejoice with me...

I think we just may be okay. (Maybe.)

Okay, I think I need to start writing more "positive" blog entries.

So, here goes...

Umm. Okay, here goes: My boy is getting old enough to be truly, adult-ly funny.

See, I've been getting all misty-eyed over those toddler toys in the Christmas catalogs. You know the type -- creative, educational, guaranteed-to-make-your-child-bright, colorful, fun toys. There is so much to be learned as a three-year-old, and most of it is pretty easy and/or intuitive. Even if you don't show your kid a single phonics flash card, she WILL learn to read. Sooner than you think. Girls are that way. Except my girl, but I digress.

Where are all the children's toys for tweens? The catalogs end at 10 years old. What then? I'm starting to see classes, camps, activities for kids up through 5th grade -- the exact age of my kids.

So, it's comforting to see The Boy develop an adult sense of humor. He makes my mom laugh. It's comforting. He may, in fact, become enough of an adult to be legal guardian for his sister after all. I do not want him to be her physical guardian necessarily, but I want someone to keep the lawyers and social workers honest when I'm gone.

So what do tweens and teenagers do for fun? Learn to be adults. Just like mine.

Maybe he'll be okay after all. Maybe we all will.

And on and on...

So, let's review the taxonomy of homeschooling parents:

1. Those who want to give their children a more rigorous education than the public schools provide, usually implying Classical Conversations. (Feel free to genuflect now.)

2. Those who want to provice a more Christ-centered education than the public schools are allowed to provide.

3. Those who don't want to stifle their children's development with a formal education, like the public schools do.

4. Those whose children cannot be educated by the public schools. (Do I really need a link for this?)

In my world, the strata of homeschoolers fall in this exact order. The first category is "best", and so on. And on, and on. And on.

But you know what?

Me neither.

The not-so-attractive truth

Does anyone else keep their blog a secret from "real" people?

Not that you all aren't real, you're just sort of virtual. You don't have to put up with me if you don't want to. I won't show up at your door asking for sugar. You can't effectively hold a grudge against me. I can piss you off and not really burn many bridges.

And I can say absolutely anything I want, and you (probably) won't think I'm crazy. And even if you do, it just doesn't matter. So, for your amusement, here are a few things I don't tell real people.

I hate Disney World. You heard me -- I hate Disney. It's too freaking clean, happy, and colorful. Good Lord, I've seen King Cakes that were more sedate. See?

I hate Christmas. Nuff said.

I used to have a life outside my house -- and I liked it. It paid really, really well. People respected me -- for what I knew and the way I dressed. I could "nice" a client into submission with pure force of will and exquisite manners. Oh sure, I didn't have superpowers (like turning pepperoni pizza into human milk) and it was a shallow and easy-won success, but I liked it.

That said, I don't want to go back to the paid workforce. I'd rather be poked in the eye with a stick. Too many Dilbert cartoons.

I played hookey from church this morning. I was feeling weepy and church was making it worse, so I left. I went for a long walk on the beach and got me a bacon-egg-and-cheese bagel at Dunkin Donuts. (I told The Husband later, and he had a good chuckle, the little heathen.)

If I had the choice, I would not homeschool. THAT'S RIGHT -- YOU HEARD ME! And you still like me, right?

(Did I mention that I'm a revolting approval-seeker? Yeah, it's that middle child thing.)

CHRISTMAS?!

Oh, how I loathe Christmas.

I know that's strange. (Or not.) As a Christian woman, I'm supposed to embrace The Wonder of the Season, and all that. But I hate it. Why?

1. Expectations. Everyone (and don't think I can totally avoid them) expects me to decorate, bake, decorate some more, donate to charity, feed the poor, stuff stockings, and produce The Perfect Gift for everyone. I hate all of this because I never meet expectations.

2. The Magic of Christmas. The Magic of Christmas doesn't exist. Christmas is a birthday party. I say we serve cake and go home. The American Magic of Christmas is summoned by a VISA card, and we all know it.

3. Calories. Does anyone get out of the holiday season without gaining ten pounds? Do you know how long it takes me to lose 10 pounds? TEN WEEKS. Oh sure, I could show restraint and only eat a tiny bite of only the best of the treats, but you know that's not going to happen. Not with rum balls around. (See number 4 below.)

4. Gifts. The lovely women in my homeschool group somehow manage to hand-dip chocolates for everyone in the group. (If you're tight with the queen bee, she'll teach you!) I barely have time to keep up with my homeschooling and housework. And I still don't do them well. How on Earth will I ever find 20 hours to make sweets for everyone?

5. That Nauseated Feeling on Christmas Day. After months of planning, cooking, sewing, buying, wrapping, and generally falling short, I find myself on Christmas morning, lying on the couch full of chocolate, feeling nauseated from lack of sleep, disappointment, and sugar.

6. Christmas Lists. "Be good and he'll bring you everything in your Christmas Alphabet!" Oh sure. But there are 75 things on your list. You know Santa can't do all that. But I want it! Then the husband plays the "But he'll only be x years old once!" And I throw in the towel in disgust.

Oh sure, you say, SIMPLIFY, YOU IDIOT. Yeah. Which part?

Last year I didn't make sweets for the playgroup women, and felt really guilty. They're so nice to me, and I can't find a few hours to cook?

I like my minimalist decorations outside, but no one will help me. We put up two bush nets (white), a string of icicle lights (white), and a rope-light palm tree. And no one will help.

The Christmas tree? Ugh. How I hate it. We put it off until after The Husband's birthday on the 13th, and it comes down after Epiphany. It reminds me of the glittering wonderland that will never be my house. And the glittering gifts that we will never shower on each other. (Have you priced those stained glass birds on the Acorn web site? Ouch!)

Yes, Christmas is a reminder of how I fall so terribly, terribly short every day.

So, you say FOCUS ON WHAT YOU DO LIKE ABOUT CHRISTMAS.

I love classical music. I love Advent. I love lessons and carols. I love singing the dinner blessing with an Advent wreath. I love Handel's Messiah. I love children in Velveteen dresses. I love Christmas Eve services. I love those little German nativity scenes with the candles that make it turn. I love fresh pine boughs.

My children hate all of these things. With a passion. Last year, we got out the Advent wreath, and my daughter screamed like we were going to light her instead. The Boy refuses to go to concerts and will make me regret any that I take him to. Both children hate the Christmas Eve services, as it interrupts their television time and makes them dress up and go to church at the wrong time of day. And don't even think about delicate, lovely decorations. And how I hate doing things myself at the Time of Togetherness and Love.

So, what to do? Move to Swaziland for the month of December? Organize the hell out of it and conquer it before December rears its ugly head? What? Is it too late to become Jewish?

Please help...

Dip-wad!

Well, I did get email back from the homeschool group leader. Apparently, I'm a deadbeat and a scofflaw. I benefit from the group but never pay any dues. Umm. Yeah. I'm such a burden. I never go to co-op, meetings, political rallies, field trips. I just want in on the social network. I need human support while trying to homeschool autistic children. I hope they never see me hungry, thirsty, a stranger, in need of clothes, sick, or in prison. Because, despite their piety, I doubt they'd ever lift a finger. (Matthew 25:34 - 40, baby! Look it up, girls.)

In other news... Hmm. Spite, frustration, fury. And I really like Daedalus. Smart man, that one. Nothing like King Minos, whom The Boy and I agree is a total dip-wad.

King Minos inherited a centuries-long dynastic throne in Crete, back in its heyday. Its original king had asked Zeus to protect them from pirates, and Zeus had sent them a bronze giant to do just that. This King Minos didn't feel like being respectful to Zeus, so Zeus decided to take the bronze giant back. Zeus had Medea (another stinker, and an evil witch, too) trick the bronze giant into draining its own life force out, and King Minos was on his own, with no protection.

With the bronze giant dead and the island defenceless, Minos's brothers tried to take the throne, but Minos prayed to Poseidon who sent a huge white bull. When the bull bowed down to Minos, he took it as a sign that he was meant to be king. His brothers left the island, but then Poseidon asked Minos to sacrifice the bull to him. (Oops. Did I mention that Minos was a dip-wad?) He refused and the bull went crazy, rampaging the countryside, trashing the palace, and raping Minos's own queen. The queen gave birth to a half-man-half-bull child and then abandoned it, fleeing with her nightmares to another country.

This left Minos with a mutant bull-child (Minotaur) rampaging the palace and a murderous white bull rampaging the countryside. Better sacrifice the white bull soon, eh? Minos hired Hercules to take care of the white bull and hired Daedalus to contain the Minotaur.

Minos's son, who had apparently not fallen too far from the tree and apparently on his head, wanted to go capture the bull and become a Hero himself, with all the glory that goes with it. But since Minos already knew that Hercules had captured it, he said, "Yes, if Hercules doesn't take it down, you're up next, boy."

Meanwhile, Minos knew he could not kill the Minotaur or banish it from the palace because it was of royal blood. (Heh?) So, Daedailus built a labyrinth under the castle (along with a few secret passageways for himself) from which the Minotaur could not escape. Nice. Kudos to Daedalus.

Meanwhile, Hercules, who was supposed to deliver the bull to king Minos to be sacrificed (at last) to Poseidon, actually took the bull to Athens to pay a personal debt. It escaped and started (you guessed it) rampaging the Greek countryside. Now Minos's son wanted his shot at capturing it. He ran off to Greece, won the Olympics, got himself killed, and moseyed along to the Elysian Fields where all brave warriors go.

Minos was furious and blamed (who else) the Greeks for his son's death. He ramped up his war machine, sailed to Athens, and demanded 14 virgins every nine years to be fed to the Minotaur. The Greeks agreed.

Meanwhile, the Greek king Aegis was being wooed by none other than Medea, the witch. She was all poised to marry him and probably bump him off, when the Aegis's bastard son showed up, all battle-tested and gorgeous. Medea tried to kill him, but Aegis broke from her evil spell, and she bolted away with his treasure on (get this!) a chariot drawn by four dragons.

The bastard son, Theseus, cleaned up the kingdom and then took on that whole every-nine-years-human-sacrifice thing. He travelled to Crete, faced down Minos, sweetened up to Minos's daughter Ariadne, and was sent off to prison with the other Greek sacrifices-to-be. Ariadne cut a deal with him to help him kill the Minotaur if he'd take her with him when he left. Deal done. They even sabotaged Minos's ships ast hey left.

Minos was furious and hunted down (who else?) Daedalus. 'Cause he had to have given someone the secret to the labyrinth. (Didn't Minos actually want the Minotaur dead?) Daedalus took refuge in a series of countries, creating fabulous temples and inventions wherever he went. Finally, Minos tracked him down on Sicily, where Daedlus had harnessed the lava in Mt. Etna to make public steam baths. Minos ripped the palace apart looking for Daedalus, but found only a spiral staircase leading down from the steam baths. A "beggar" told him not to go down there, and thinking that Daedalus would only make the most elaborate hiding place, Minos went on down, smashed the black glass face of the volcano god, and was drowned in boiling water. The "beggar" of course was Daedalus, who finally got to live out his old age in safety.

Phew. I finally understand why the Greek myths never went out of style. They make me feel like somehow Karma will out. Yeah, baby!

Apparently, a screed about the local homeschool group. Who knew?

Nothing's really new. (Isnt' that always the start to the L-O-N-G-E-S-T blog posts ever?)

We went to play group this afternoon for the first time since summer. The homeschool moms were still spending the day at the beach in September, and were going to the park with unobstructed access to the river in October. But we're back in suburbia from now on out. (I know -- boring but safe, like most of suburbia.)

I'm really conflicted about this homeschool group. They're fundamentalist Christians, affiliated with the local Baptist church. Some are Young-Earth-ers, some are "the Bible says so" people, some are "God hates fags" people, and most are "But the rich have always had better medical care than the poor; why should that change now" people. Most of them fall into the group of people that I categorize as "fast food, cheap gas, easy answers" people.

Why bother with them? First, they're the only game in town. Second, I don't know any other women in the world. Third, they email around the best local free/homeschool activities. Fourth, The Boy likes to go kick rocks with other boys now and then.

Why ditch them? First, their politics and religion are WAY to the right of mine. Second, they're constantly doing stupid activities like making Christmas shoe boxes for poor children in Rwanda. Third, they want me to volunteer for their stupid activities like the garage sale fundraiser to buy new mulch for the Baptists. Fourth, they make me sign (or conspicuously NOT sign) their statement of faith. Fifth, they make me pay actual cash dollars to join and expect me to pay even more to join the state organization. (I refuse to join the state organization because they spend their money on political causes.)

So, in order to get emails for the local music college's "intrument petting zoo" day, I have to join the stupid people. Do you know they actually organized people to carry signs in front of the Wal-Mart, campaigning for tea party candidates? In their homeschool group t-shirts! How humiliating...

I'll probably join, just to make oh-I-don't-know-who happy. Oddly enough, I really do like some of the moms. Joining the group just makes me feel like a pathetic approval-seeker. Oh well. Worse things have happened.

And speaking of "worse things", I just checked our election results. My state is now completely controlled by politicians who believe that the rich deserve better health care than the poor. Besides don't the poor have folk remedies and midwives? Just fetch me some of Granny's linament, and that compound fracture will be just fine.

Time to move back Up North, I think...