Why I love country living. . .

I don't know how you qualify country living, but I consider myself a part of the club for five reasons.

1. I can go outside looking like this without fear of embarrassment.

Yes, those are pink and green frog socks.

In my defense, my sweet Jenny-boo left her lights on all night and I had to go out and find jumper cables and recharge her battery.  (All country-girls can do this without blowing themselves up.)  I was in a hurry.  I won't mention that it was 11:30am and I had been sitting at the computer playing on Facebook.  No, that's too much information.

And, I had to beat the dogs off me just to get this picture.  Not literally. . .in the country we use the word beat alot.  We wear wife-beaters.  (tank tops)  We're often beat.  (tired. . .or if you are a UT fan this year, you can use the more literal term)  If we don't like you, we tell you to beat it.  (leave)   And some country people pickle beets and actually eat them.  I am not in that club.  But I digress. . .

2.  Speaking of dogs, in the country, animals just show up at your house and decide they live there.  Here is one example.

Meet Auggie Doggie

This guy showed up at our house last year just before Christmas and hasn't decided to leave yet.  He obviously wasn't raised here and you can immediately tell because he is well-mannered and doesn't think the study is a place to do the doo.  I wasn't too keen on keeping him and called him "brown dog" for the first three months he resided on our porch.  (I was in denial.)  But he won me over and can often be found lounging on our futon with his head on a pillow like he owns the place.

He joins two other canine companions that were brought here against their will, but they seem to like it ok.

Meet Ellie
(named for Cinderella, but more closely resembes the step-sisters. . .I'm just sayin)

This poor, sad looking thing is Ellie.  The dog who craves eye contact so much that she will sit and stare at you until you give it to her.  She is only 2 years-old, but she acts like she's a geriatric.  A very slow moving old soul who likes to jump up and wipe her feet on you, especially if you are wearing white.

And if we lived in the Land of Misfit Dogs, this would be its leader.

Meet Tuco. . .there are just no words for this dog

My tail-less wonder. . .Tuco is a schipperke - the only animal with lineage at our house.  And his story is a tale of a moment of weakness and pity.  Usually, in a marital relationship, at any given moment there is at least one person who exhibits some form of common sense and self-control.  This was not one of those moments.  After going into a pet store to buy some food for a hermit crab (who bit the dust some time ago,) we ended up leaving with THIS.  Ok, so I have to plead our case.  He had been in that store for 4 months living in his own excrement (literally) in a tiny cage.  And he was U-G-L-Y.  He had even been discounted twice - they were that desperate for some suckers to take him.  We looked at him and said, "No one in their right mind will EVER buy THAT dog."  Then, we bought him.  And he was sick and a mess and the worst dog on the planet to ever house train.  Even the vet thought we were insane.  But, he actually fits into our family quite nicely.

Three dogs. . .and in the country, we let sleeping dogs lie.

3. Yard concrete.  Need I say more?

This is not a real goose.  I know you thought it was.

Even though their legs are amputated and they look very sad, I love these frogs.

Both of these works of art belonged to my grandparents, so I am very lucky to carry the yard concrete tradition into the 21st century.  And yes, that is a mostly dead plant in a pot that never made it into the ground. 

4.  Country people have gardens.  Yes, I have a garden. . .of weeds.  But I do have a couple things that refuse to die and I like them alot.  Here's one. . .

Lambs' Ear rocks. . .and they used to use it for toilet paper.  Did you know that?

Oh wait, what's this?

A shrinking violet?  I think NOT.

I grew this hardy specimen right in my front yard!  Right in the middle of that beautiful grass!  Sometimes I really amaze myself. . .

But mostly, I have a garden of trees.  I highly recommend that.  They are very low maintenance.



This is my masterpiece. . .Dang, I'm GOOD!  :-)

But what about this?

A dead tree?  Oops. . .

Yes, it is a real shame that I don't know anyone who could cut this dead tree down for me.  It's like the old saying, "A cobbler's kid has no shoes."  Yep.  True with tree guys, too.  Those of you waiting for my hubby to cut your trees will be serviced WAY before me.  But its still pretty in its own way.

5.  Last but not least. . .septic tanks.  Yes, you KNOW you live in the country when you have great septic tank stories.  Remember that one time when it rained for 5 days straight and the septic tank. . .you get the point.  And I couldn't leave it out of our picture montage.

No, this is not a grave.  Yes, that is a basketball.

Country people often have random dangerous holes in their yards.  After my hubby had to dig to get to the entrance to that enchanted-world-of-septic-tank-wonder one too many times, he refused to fill it in again.  So, there it is.  We find lots of cool things in it - toys, tools, small children.  And I personally love mowing next to the edge.  It's so exciting.

So, yes, I think we qualify as country people.  And I love it.  There are few places where you can find beauty everywhere you look. . .even in a septic tank hole.  And you can be proud of chunks of concrete in your front yard.  And not mind that you have more weeds than grass.  Because its all good.  Even the septic tank stories.  One day I'll tell you the one about the lady who came to pump our septic tank and it had rained and it was slippery and. . .

It's a good one.  City people don't know what they are missing.

Order v/s Chaos

Order            v/s          Chaos

I am in a constant battle with myself.  I crave order.  (Really. . .I do.)  I love lists and organizers and calendars.  I love having a plan.  I love knowing what is coming around the corner, having something to look forward to.  It makes me feel safe and in control.  (haha. . .it is just an illluuuuusion, but I pretend.)

And then again, I love chaos.  I love surprise and spontenaity.  I love throwing it all into the wind and seeing where it lands.  I love messes.  I love not knowing what is coming next.  It makes me feel free and wild!  It inspires and invigorates me.

Until I crave order.

And then I get bored and crave chaos.

So, what does this battle look like in my life?  This structured-randomness?  Most days it looks more like chaos on the outside.  Sections of my house are ordered.  I said 'sections.'  Don't go into the basement.  That is like the giant garbage pile we live on.  (I'm sure some feng shui expert would have an opinion on that.)  But ask me to show you my newly organized gift wrapping drawer and you'd be quite impressed.  My ever-expanding bead collection, my shoes, clothes (when clean), the spare room (that is not occupied), my books, the linen closet, and my laptop can all be included in my ordered list.   

But my kitchen = chaos.  I blame that on losing half my cabinet space when we remodeled and not the ridiculous amount of kitchen items I believe I must keep.  You know the story.  "As soon as I throw that 3rd can opener away, I'm gonna need it." or "Yes, I need 14 mixing bowls and 27 storage containers with lids."  And the study, oh I try.  I really do.  But having a home business and the insane amount of paper involved (see previous post) is so overwhelming that I surrender most of the time.  And the bathroom.  Forget it.  Teenage boy = soggy towels on the floor and unscooped cat litter (his chore.)

I go through phases where I PURGE.  I get out the black garbage bags and I throw it away or bag it up for my one-day-make-believe-yard-sale that I'm gonna have.  No, really, I'm gonna do it.  One day.  Or I throw it into the van and stop by Goodwill.  After the purge, things feel so nice and I'm satisfied with that.  For awhile.  Then I start collecting more stuff to replace the stuff I got rid of until I have to do it again.

And that's just talking about the order/chaos that you can see.  There is also another covert battle going on - the internal battle.  In my life, this is the constant quest to do things better, to be a better person.  You know, the 'if-I-could-only' stuff we torture ourselves with on a daily basis.  If only I could be more productive.  If only I could stay focused.  If only I could find more time in the day to do blah-blah-blah.

Order in this world is a mom who follows a good diet (and is a healthy weight).  She also keeps her son on task with homeschooling and limits video game playing and even organizes 'social opportunities.'  She cooks dinner and doesn't leave dirty dishes in the sink.  Oh yea, and she e-x-e-r-c-i-s-e-s.  (Sheesh, that was a hard word to type, much less do.)  She also stays close with her older daughters and makes time to touch base with her hubby daily.  She takes care of her spiritual needs and reads the Bible.  She makes it a priority to enjoy life - and plans time to do it.

Then there's Chaos and she eats what she wants.  This girl doesn't need to exercise because she is too busy having fun. (Well, she probably does, but she isn't bothered with such mundane tasks.) She is kind and doesn't fuss over the details of stuff.  Dirty dishes don't bother her.  She's always in the moment.  She notices those little things that too often get missed, those special moments that are meant to be savored.  She doesn't like being Julie from the Love Boat (if you don't get this reference, ask someone who watched TV in 1975) and doesn't want to organize activities.  She is spontaneous and schedules just get in her way.  She plays videogames with her son, and daughters, and hubby, even when there is homework to do.  She is wild and unpredictable. 



Spygraph!  Another showing-my-age moment. . .



Just like my house, you'll see a little of both going on at any given moment.  Hopefully there is a balance because too much of one is not a good thing.  When I was in my 20s, I thought that by now I'd have it all figured out.  HA!  Now, that is truly the illuuuuuusion.  All I have now that I didn't have then is a measure of respect for my own crazy process.  And acceptance.  Well, sort of.  Depends on who is in charge that day.

Order is telling me that I need to wrap this post up with some witty quote.  But Chaos says that you guys all have Google and you can go find one if you're needing a cool ending. . .

Chaos wins.

Teachable moments

Can you homeschool in the car on the way to Target? Yes, you can. In fact, I think that a large portion of those magical 'teachable moments' when I know Colton is actually listening and getting what I'm saying - when we're having a REAL conversation - are in the car. Er, van. And usually they occur when I'm most distracted and secretly wanting to turn on the radio and just veg out. THAT is when he wants to learn. Go figure.

This happens so often that I am starting to count them in my day. The trip to band practice last week (about a 40 minute drive) was spent discussing what kinds of things you would need to survive if the world was suddenly overtaken by zombies. (13 year-old male. . .need I say more?) This conversation touched on everything from where you would want to live, what tools would be essential, how you could build traps and weapons (13 year-old male, again) and what BOOKS (surprise!) you might want to have with you. He read Hatchet last year and has been currently reading the sequels The River and Brian's Winter, so he thought those books would be particularly useful. He didn't mention needing his X-Box, but did acknowledge that his video game experience could be helpful as preparation for living in Zombie-land. We both enjoyed the conversation and I found myself feeling a bit proud that my son said that I might also be a pretty good zombie hunter - or at least be handy at stitching up everyone else's wounds from their late night zombie encounters. (He could have suggested I would be great bait for a zombie trap. So, I'll take that compliment.) But in that 40 minute conversation we touched on 6 or more subjects: reading comprehension, physics, nutrition, general science, math, and home economics. (haha)




On the drive home, we discussed if it could be possible that every person sees colors differently (I see purple where you see red, but we don't know it because we just know what we're "told" the color is.) In this discussion, we went all the way into how the brain perceives colors and how cones and rods work in the eye. We decided between ourselves that this is indeed possible, but we'll probably never know for sure. We also talked about black holes (Mom, there could really be a blackhole in your purse and you wouldn't know it! Yes son, I know it's there. It's called the VISA card.)





So, why does this happen in the car? Why not at the kitchen table when the books are open and the lessons laid out? Maybe it is the experience of the shared destination that opens the door. Maybe we're just trapped in the same small space and bored. Maybe it is because it doesn't "feel" like learning, or teaching for that matter. I'm thinking it's a little of each. Maybe it is how children all over the planet learn most of the time. . . when we're not looking.

My love/hate relationship with paper

I imagine that the person who first figured out how to create paper was very excited at the possibilities of communicating in this new and exciting way. But could that person have ever imagined what our world is like now with paper EVERYTHING?

Paper towels, paper plates, toilet paper, printer paper, paper-wrapped food, paper bags, newspaper, paper napkins, paper cups, paper envelopes, paper inside paper envelopes, and of course books, magazines, newsletters, flyers, sales circulars, checks, BILLS, notebooks, folders, cards, photos, and don't even get me started on cardboard.

I am so overwhelmed by paper that if I were to strike a match at this moment, there would be plenty of paper fuel around me to keep the fire burning for a day or so. I was so excited the day I got my laptop because I realized that this could potentially reduce the amount of times per day I pick up a piece of paper and wonder what the heck to do with it. Do I recycle it, throw it away, shred it, burn it, file it, read it, or send it to someone else (in a paper envelope or cardboard box?)

But take me to a bookstore and I can't get enough. I tried to use my handy-dandy laptop to read a book and it didn't go so well. Maybe it was the fact that you can't read a book lying on your side in bed with it, or that it got too hot, or that I hated "clicking" through the pages, I don't know. I think it was the smell. Nothing smells better than a new book and nothing feels better in your hands than a new paperback with the spine all shiny and smooth. Also, nothing gives me more satisfaction than seeing a book after I've read it, all bent and ugly. It feels like devouring a good meal and looking at the leftovers.

One thing I know is that this aversion to paper does not translate to other things that occupy too much space in my world - like yarn. I could have a million skeens and still buy more. If you knit or crochet, you know exactly what I'm talking about. I saw a bumper sticker the other day that said, "If yarn was like meth, I'd be toothless." Yep. That would be me.

I started to wonder if this aversion started because of what the paper represents - bills, statements, taxes, all that grown-up stuff we're forced to contend with. Paper, in its weird way, represents time and work. In a good way, the more you work, the more paper you generate. In a bad way, the more paper you generate, the more you work. At least that's how I see it.

(If only that were true with the yarn/knit/crochet scenario. With yarn, the less work you do, the more yarn you have to store.)

Does this post have a point? Nope. Just sitting here within touching distance of three bank statements, a Charter bill, 2 birthday cards, a paper cupcake wrapper (which was delicious, by the way) and a magazine order from my cousin's daughter in Georgia. How many magazines did I just order? THREE.

::sigh::

I surrender.

Why I love camping. . .

Sherri's Top Ten List

1. Fire. I love fire. I love the satisfying feeling of building a fire. I love baking my front and then my back (not necessarily in that order) in the heat. I love the smell of smoke. I love feeding it and making the wood stack like a log cabin when it really gets going. And I love s'mores.

2. No electronic devices. I love "bored" kids who make stuff to entertain themselves. I love watching them trying to sail their boat and catching it before it sinks.

3. The sound of the river.

4. The Scenery

5. Watching Bill try to make cool camping perks, like a shower hanging from a tree. Look closely. He's climbing that tree wearing flip-flops.

6. Having my three babies in the same place at the same time.

7. Yawning trees

8. Wasting time

9. Hillbilly Hot Tub

10. Making Rock People

Fifteen years ago, we said hello. . . and goodbye

*note: this post discusses pregnancy/infant loss.



I sat looking at a blank screen for quite some time before I could start typing today. It wasn't because I was afraid or sad. I think it was just so I could feel the weight of it. You know, that feeling you get when you know you're going some place you don't go often. It is a place that I carry with me everyday, but I rarely dive in. I prefer to skim the surface. Today, I'm jumping in with both feet.

Enough riddles. . .on August 26th, it will be fifteen years since I met my third daughter, Madison. It is also fifteen years since she left us. I have to say it like that because to just say that I lost my baby that day would leave out an even more precious moment - the moment of her birth. This is her birthday, too.

I was 27 years old, still a young'un as my Mamaw Holt would say. After an (up to that point) uneventful pregnancy, my husband and I walked into an ultrasound room expecting to find out whether we were going to have a boy or a girl and walked out wondering what the hell just happened. It was surreal. Like stepping into the Land of the Lost and seeing your first dinosaur. With teeth. And hungry. You can't breathe. You can't even think about running. You just freeze.

That moment was monumental. If some corporate guy made a chart of all the events in my life, that moment would look like the plunge in the stock market on Black Monday - or flipped upside down, kinda like Mount Everest. And when you're either facing a precupice or at the base of the mountain, the only thing you can do is to move forward. Falling or climbing. It's all the same.

The time that passed from that visit with the apocalyptic ultrasound (you know, I still hate those things) to the moment when we finally met her was like walking around in a daze. But that time is also a part of her story. We had to do things. . .things you'd never imagine in a million years you'd EVER do. Like buy your child a dress to wear one last time. Sorry. I had to say it.

Even though it sounds horrible and you're probably ready to exit off this page and go back to reading your Facebook status updates, let me share a story. Bill and I were instructed to purchase a very small dress, a doll's dress. Ok. Kinda weird, but ok. (Go ahead, smile. That's ok, too.) So, off we go to the Super-Special-and-Even-More-Expensive-Toy-Store (you know the one) because its special and we're going to go all out and find something that is just right. If you've ever been there, you know they have this incredible doll section with dolls and clothes from France and England and Russia and everywhere else. Apparently, they make dolls better than we Americans do. I don't know.

When we get there, every single employee in the store approached us at least once to ask if they could "help" us. (At one point, we considered telling them how they could help.) We're picking up doll dresses on hangers and looking at each one. Then Bill finds one and shows it to me. It's cute and soft and has a little hat. We liked it. But when I take a closer look, I notice two holes cut into the hat. And we're looking at it and wondering why the heck are there holes in the hat? And then we realize it was made for a bear. A toy bear with ears. Then we notice there are also matching panties and there is a hole there as well - for a tail. I can't fully describe what happened next, maybe it was just the insanity of the moment, but we both looked at each other and burst into hysterical laughter, complete with tears. It was that fall down, pee your pants, totally embarrass yourself kind of laughter. And we couldn't stop. We had to leave the store, empty handed.

That moment was also monumental. It might look like a small blip on the corporate chart of events, but it was just as important. It was in that moment that I saw the first glimmer of hope in a place that was so dark . . .and hopeless. I laughed. I didn't know I was capable of it, but there it was and it was real.

I can't say I laughed alot in that year after we said goodbye, but I know I laughed. And lived. Family and friends came to the rescue and helped us muddle our way through. Every year since, it has been a continuing education course in living-life-without-her. Some years I failed miserably (F---) and others I did better (B+) but I never missed a class.

I discovered a few truths during my education. While I spent most of those early months wailing to God that He should give her back to me or just (mercifully) take away the pain, I learned later that the very same pain that would physically send me to the floor was also a gift to me. Today, I wouldn't trade a second of it. It became a part of her story. A part of how her life changed me. A part of how her life changed the world through me. Changed the world? Is that just some romantic notion? I can tell you that it is true. You're reading this, aren't you?

Ta-da! You are changed.

Now, fifteen years later, I don't cry on August 26th. I am grateful. I feel special. I don't have all the answers, but I do know that I am better for having known my Madison. She is integrated into every single thing I do, every single day of my life. And just so you know how real that is - I never wrote a word that I shared publically before I lost her. The week after I left the hospital is the week I started a journal. 2 months later, I wrote an article on loss for a parent newsletter. Then, it just grew and grew.

So this. . .this thing here. . .she planted it in me before she left.

Not for me. . . for you.

School starts today. . .naaa, next week.

I'm new at this homeschooling business. Now that we have one whole year under out belts, I'm feeling the need to reflect on the experience. I had always been fascinated with parents who chose to homeschool, but never felt the need to do it with my daughters. They always did well in public school.

But my boy. . .well. . .not a round peg, this guy. And when it was suggested that we needed to sand him down, making a square peg into a round one, let me just say that I realized how much I loved my square peg. His edges make him who he is. So, we just carved out a square shaped hole for him. (aka: homeschooling)

In the past twelve months, I think I've probably learned more than Colton. (Ask me about sodium acetate reactions. . .go ahead, ask me.) And I've probably read more than Colton. (Those Apologia texts really are interesting.) I know I've done more math than Colton. (It is necessary to work several problems yourself when you have to break it down and teach it.) And I definitely made more lapbooks than Colton. (Not a scissors-and-glue kinda guy either.) We didn't do alot of test-taking or grading, but trust me, his mother knew exactly how much work he put in and whether or not he "got it." My goal was merely to discover how my boy learns. And to listen. And adapt. And then stand back and watch him grow. And you know what? He did. . .over 3 inches this year. LOL

After so many years of struggle in both public school as well as private, I can not express what this past year has meant to us. Aside from getting incredible support from the most excellent homeschool community, it has also involved some emotional healing - for Colton as well as his parents. We didn't know how much we were missing until our cup was filled. Ahhhhh. It feels nice.

We had the child who came home everyday from school with a note. Yes, the dreaded NOTE. Colton didn't pay attention. Colton won't memorize his multiplication facts. Colton fell asleep in class. Colton broke a crayon ON PURPOSE. Colton spent 18 minutes in the bathroom. Colton asked to go to the school nurse for the 4th time this week. Colton played with his eraser. Colton didn't eat his lunch. Colton doesn't keep his hands to himself. In the end, all this just equals, "For God's sake, would you people PLEASE drug your child?" Now, I don't say that as a judgment. I am a nurse and I understand the diagnosis/medication algorithm. I know that it can be helpful. It just wasn't an option for us. (personal confession: We did go as far as to ask the pediatrician, get a prescription, fill it, and then look at it for many weeks as it sat on the microwave unopened.)

Deciding to homeschool was also a scary leap for us, but I knew that I couldn't do any worse than what he'd experienced so far. I gave myself at least that much credit, but not much more. I was terrified. I really, really didn't want to screw up my kid.

My confidence in homeschooling grew in tiny steps. He started to enjoy reading again and was doing it "for fun" and asking for specific books that he'd researched himself. Even though he is an all-out-lover of X-Box, I found him playing physics computer games on a regular basis. He loved his enrichment classes each Monday (loved? school-like atmosphere?) and looked forward to them. I also realized that his reading level was WAY above what I thought it was and had to go get more advanced books. He asked me to teach him Algebra. He asked to learn more about the Vietnam War. He wanted to do a science fair project. He became more interested in politics, and drilled me about the candidates when we went to vote. He asked me more and more questions that I didn't have the answers to. I love that.

And then came band. Yes, there is actually a homeschool band. I wasn't sure about it at first because I didn't know how he'd do in such a structured atmosphere. But we went for an instrument fitting and the band director was incredible. (If you were ever in a school band, then you know how rare that can be.) He picked an Alto Saxophone and we started band and private lessons. And he LOVES it. He really struggled at first and I thought he'd give up, but he didn't. We just started our second year of band and several parents came up to me and mentioned how impressed they were with how well he was playing - and he has even been invited to play in the Jazz Band, which is usually reserved for students with at least 2 years experience. I am a very proud mama.

Has it all been easy? Heck no. There were days when I threatened to call the yellow bus to come to our house and take him to school. (several) He had trouble accepting that I was "mom" and "teacher" and that if he didn't do his "work," he couldn't "play." There is no place to hide or manipulate a Mom-Teacher. We know ALL. Oh yes, and he knows how to push my buttons, too. So it works both ways. We can really drive each other nuts if we want to.

All the planning, and worrying, and time management (or more accurately, lack-of-time-management) has been worth it. My boy is doing well and he's happy and he hasn't asked to go to the school nurse in 12 months. Or broken crayons on purpose.

If only I could get him out of the bathroom. . .