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. . .

Remembering Papaw. . .

Remembering my Papaw today. . . This is a copy of what I read at his funeral, one year ago today.

I am one of five people in this world who are lucky enough to call this man my grandfather. Everyone here knows what a special man he was, but take that man and put him in the grandparent role and you get something even more remarkable.

There are so many stories I could tell you right now. All of them funny. About how he used to make up rhyming songs with our names in it. My songs were all about Sherrilee, Calico Flea. Ricky’s had something to do with falling over a hickory stump. And how he used to always give us a dollar whenever we had to go home to Georgia. I guess it was used to lessen the blow of leaving them. It never worked. We still cried.

My mom said to me once that she didn’t know what love was until she became a grandparent. (I asked her, “What am I? Chopped liver?”) But I think I understand what she was saying. Because having a grandparent love you that much. . . that is just as special. Papaw loved us that way, no doubt about it. And he taught us a few things about how to be a grandparent that I want to share with you.

Remember to laugh at yourself – and sometimes its even okay to laugh at other people.

One of my favorite stories Papaw told me was about a trip he took with Mamaw to WalMart. It was the old WalMart that had the little snack bar at the front door. Mamaw would often sit in the snack bar and rest while Papaw shopped. On this trip, he had to use the restroom in the snack bar. As he walked out and started down the big aisle, Mamaw caught a glimpse of him and hollered his name, but he ignored her and kept walking. The next time she yelled it and he turned around and she was motioning for him to come back to her. When he walked back, she pointed to the back of his pants where a paper toilet seat cover was hanging out. Most people would never tell a story like that about themselves. But to my Papaw, it was golden comedic material and he used it often.

Once when my children were little, I took them to the local Kroger pharmacy to get flu shots. We ran into Papaw at the store. When I told him what I was doing, he followed me to the pharmacy and sat in a chair. I told him that he could go finish shopping and that I’d find him when we were through. He looked at me and said, “No. I think I’ll sit right here.” Then the shots came out and one by one he watched as I wrestled with each child, hearing their screams echo through the store, and even chasing one down the freezer aisle. And he could not stop laughing. That became one of his favorite stories to tell about me.

Papaw loved practical jokes. You could always tell when one was coming because he’d flash those blue eyes at you and give you a grin and you just knew. He thought that the greatest thing added to a Ford Van was the alarm system. He wasn’t afraid of it being stolen. He loved sending people to the van and waiting until they got close and then setting off the alarm. He never got tired of that one.

But once that practical joke backfired on him. One day Papaw drove to the post office. As he walked in, he noticed that there were hundreds of birds in a tree over the van where Mamaw was sitting. On his way back to the van, he pushed the alarm and the birds took off in flight. . .and dropped hundreds of little gifts all over him and his van. That became one of Mamaw’s favorite stories to tell about him.

No diet restrictions for grandchildren at their grandparent’s house.

Our summers were spent living off and endless supply Little Debbie cakes and RC Colas. Me and Traci were the ones who thought up eating cookie dough and cake mix. Papaw would always be excited because he thought we were making a cake. But we keep the dough and batter in the refrigerator and eat it with a spoon. There is no way we’d have gotten away with that at home. If that wasn’t enough sugar, Papaw would take us to the market in Walland and give us his change purse that he always carried in his pocket and let us spend it all on candy. There was a day when you could get a TON of candy for a bunch of quarters. And I never thought about it until now how much time I spent in the dentist office as a child.

Marry the person you love and stay with them no matter what.

My grandparents were married over 65 years. And considering that my grandfather had a lot of Irish and my grandmother had a lot of Cherokee – put those two volatile personalities together and see what happens. That’s a whole other group of funny stories. But they showed us by their example how to love and support each other, through thick and thin. All five of their grandchildren are married to their first choice. Between us, we have over 75 years being married and we’re not THAT old. I think that’s pretty amazing.

Take all of your vacation days.

Papaw got several weeks of vacation every year and he always had a plan where he wanted to go. My brother and I had the pleasure of many trips to Florida with Mamaw and Papaw when we were kids. We still did it the economical way back then – one hotel room with 2 double beds for 6 people. My brother got the cot and I slept on the floor. The last trip we took together was to Panama City Beach. When I asked how long we were going to stay, Papaw said, “Until your Dad’s credit cards wear out.” We stayed about a week. But we did everything – amusement parks, water slides, boat trips, seafood dinners. Anything we wanted to do, they did it. That was also the trip that a huge wave ate Mamaw’s new wig.

Papaw also loved to camp and fish and take us to the Y and Hesse Creek to swim (always being our look-out for snakes.) Almost every 4th of July was spent in a camper at Douglas Lake. And once he even made a trip to Hawaii where he discovered the most amazing food in the world – macadamia nuts. He couldn’t get enough of them and he bought a couple cases to bring home with him to share with family and friends and gave them out like blocks of gold. And then he discovered them again. . . at the local Food Lion.

The last and most important one.

Always be there for your grandchildren – even when they aren’t so cute and can’t fit on your lap anymore. Even when they’re moody, self-centered, complicated teenagers who listen to weird music. Even when they get married and have children of their own. They still need you. Sometimes even more than when they were little.

I lived with my grandparents for some time when I was in high school and I’m sure that wasn’t in their retirement plan, but they always rose to the task and provided me a stable and loving home at a time when I needed it the most.

As adults, they continued to be there for us. We always knew that all we had to do was ask, and they’d help any way they could.

I think that as we lose our grandparents, we all feel as though we just didn’t do enough to show them how special they were to us. To let them know just how important they were in shaping the people we are today. But maybe that isn’t the point. Maybe they just show us the way. . .so that when we’re grandparents ourselves, we know EXACTLY how to be one. It is, after all, one of the last jobs we have the chance to do really well. And then we get the opportunity to pour all that love and wisdom into our own grandchildren. I know that I had the best teachers. I just hope that I can do half the job they did.

There are no dollar bills to lessen the blow today. But I am so grateful to have been loved by such an incredible person. I am so happy to know that Mamaw and Papaw are together today. And I hope that we can make them proud of the people they left behind.

Walter White
December 18, 1919 - June 20, 2009

Mamaw's Magic Sewing Box

My Mamaw loved to sew. Well, it was a love/hate relationship, actually. She loved to pick out patterns, buy fabric by the bolt-load, and plan what she was going to make. It was the sitting down at the sewing machine that gave her trouble. She had the best Kenmore sewing machine you could buy at Sears, but it was still not good enough to escape her anger (and a few choice curse words.) As children, we learned quickly to be very quiet and stay away from Mamaw when she was sewing. That fear was as much from her as it was the pins scattered in the plush carpet.


She made me several dresses as I grew up - a flower girl dress for my uncle's wedding, a dress that matched a big rag doll that I used in a talent show, matching dresses for me and my cousin for Christmas, and many more. I have pictures of them all and I still get that sweet Mamaw feeling when I see them and know she made them for me.


When she died several years ago, the amount of fabric and patterns found in her house was astronomical. Some of it was passed to family and friends, but much of it was thrown away or burned. Not much demand for green plaid polyester nowadays. But a few very special items survived and I have two of them. They are both on my grab-first-if-there-is-a-fire list.

This sewing box is special. Super special. I was excited when I got it just because I realized how handy it would be for mending things - everything in one place with lots of thread colors to choose from. But I didn't realize its magic until years later when it hit me that every single time I've used it, I've always found the EXACT thread color I needed to mend a shirt, dress, stuffed animal, whatever had some new and unexplained hole. Every. . .single. . .time. Its one of those things that I don't question too much. (Don't want to rub the magic off.) But when Caitlin came home last weekend and asked me to repair two dresses - a navy one and a goldenrod yellow one - I pulled out the box and there they were. Navy, no big deal. Everyone has navy. But goldenrod yellow? It was there, too.


And if you look closely, you can find spools of thread that cost 18 cents. If you sew, you know that thread has apparently been hit HARD by inflation. There is even one with the old WalMart label on it, and the spool is styrofoam. Cool.

Those little bobbins are magic, too. They have all fit in every sewing machine I've used them in, including the one I borrowed from a friend a few weeks ago. That is pretty magical if you ask me.

The other sewing box I have is one that used to sit next to the couch.

Mamaw would fuss at us for trying to sit on it.

Inside the lid are pins and needles, just as she left them.

What makes it even more special are the random items I found inside it.

Buttons, an empty "Honey Do" list - Papaw would really appreciate that, an unopened crochet hook, a hat pin, some yellow rick rack, paycheck stubs from Levi Strauss for Mamaw, stubs from Alcoa Aluminum for Papaw, a bank deposit slip, and folded up in the bottom, a tiny piece of a newspaper. When I opened it, it was a newspaper clipping about me. That really got me.

I have always been a collector of things. I admit it. I will probably be on the show Hoarders at some point in my elder years. But there is just nothing like touching things to bring back sweet memories. Those little sewing boxes are like treasure chests of memories - and its all magic to me.