Aprons are Awesome

I know what you're thinking.

Well...okay, maybe I don't, but I'm betting that some of you are thinking, "Wha...?" and some of you are going, "Sweet!"

Aprons have made a comeback.

I'd heard a few comments here and there, about ladies donning protective covers about the house, but my interest wasn't really captured until I saw a link for Jessie Steele aprons that I went, "Wow!"

I approached my grandmother, a seamstress of incredible talent, and asked for help. (She also popped my eyes when she referenced the apron's comeback, as evidenced on...Desperate Housewives. Okay. Grandma watches Desperate Housewives. Good to know.)

For a few bucks' worth of material, and some half-priced patterns, I now have an apron collection. One that's been filled out with a couple of birthday gifts, and a homemade present from the mother of my good friend, the Ramblin' Educat. (It's the one pictured above).

(If you don't know a seamstress, here are some Jessie Steele aprons. If you'd rather go the homemade route--much, much cheaper, and better value for your money--pick through a local material shop's half-off table, and try this pattern or this one...or this cute mother-daughter set. Or this one. Sorry, can't stop myself.)

I can't say, definitively, that it's dramatically raised my housewifely productivity.

But maybe it has.

It makes sense, from a practical perspective, to have something to protect your clothing while you cook and clean. But I hope you guys won't think I've lost my mind if I share that it really does add a little something to simply have a uniform of sorts, too, that kind of says..."Doing Junk at Home is Special".

I mean, you guys know that I value being at home with kids. I work part-time, from home, too, so I can't say that homemaking is my "career", but it is a big part of my life, and forms a large portion of my identity. (I mean, hello...I titled my blog, this little cyber-window to my soul, in honor of my status as a Stay-Homer.)

But it gets to be a drag sometimes, you know? Constantly cooking, picking up, cleaning, or nagging--I mean, gently instructing--children on picking up and cleaning...only to wake up the next day and find that you have to start all over and do every bit of it again. Every day. For the rest of your life. Amen.

All of us who have homes and the ability to stay there and take care of them appreciate it, and count our blessings, I'm sure.

But admitting that it can be tedious doesn't negate that. You can say it. It's okay.

So, try an apron to cutely cover your clothes...and add a little snap to your daily slavery.

(As an aside, the oldest "Peep" did tell me that it was hard to take me seriously in a frilly apron....and cargo pants. I'm not sure that I can ever go the whole-hog June Cleaver route, and don heels and pearls, though. Even with an apron, we'll still be a little off the traditional path.)

I like to call this pic, "If John Bender Were a Housewife".

To be honest, I've always turned up my nose at the FlyLady's advice to put on lace up shoes in the mornings. I mean, who wears shoes in the house? Crazy people, that's who. (Sorry, psychos who wear shoes in the house, who are reading this. I'm sure you're lovely people, otherwise.)

But then, it happened, on a few occasions, that I had to get shoes on, for some reason or another, and...it really does do something. (It also helps to occasionally put in your iPod earphones, to drown out the precious little voices, hence the trailing cord you see.)

Your choice of footwear might have something to do with it, though.

Because when I'm wearing the above boots, I feel ten feet tall! (Actually, about two inches taller than I am, normally, to be exact.) And the house...it doesn't stand a chance. Boots like this say, "I'm going to stomp your butt, house. You're going to stay clean, too. And call me "sir".")

So, maybe it is crazy. Or maybe it's some sort of genius psychology, I don't know. But if it makes the day go smooth, it's worth a try. (I'll insert my standard disclaimer about recommending FlyLady here, and suggest reading the book Sink Reflections instead of signing up for the email reminders if you need to cut down computer time to help you get the house in shape.)

And you can always take an alcohol-drenched cotton ball to the soles of your shoes, if it gives you the heebie-jeebies to wear them inside. Not that I'd know, or anything.

Homeschooling High School

Homeschooling children of any age is an adventure, but there's something about High School that both intimidates and fascinates homeschoolers and non-homeschoolers, alike.

"Well, you ARE going to put them in school when HIGH SCHOOL gets here...aren't you?!"

(You have to hear this said by someone wearing a look of shock and horror to get the full effect).

Many homeschoolers do choose to put kids in school once they reach their teens, and I have no intention of downing that choice.

But if you're looking ahead and planning to homeschool, I'd be happy to share what I've learned, thus far, as a semi-classical homeschooler in her second year of leading her two oldest "Peeps" through what society now terms "High School".

(I've talked about homeschooling younger kids before, describing our Real Life Read-Alouds, answering the age-old question of What To Do With Toddlers, and giving you a peek at Where We Learn (that's outdated, since we've moved, but the craziness still applies).

So...my thoughts on How to Do High School at Home.

First...you need to get a puppy.


I recommend that you not own a dog for all of the previous years, because the experience needs to be so totally new as to distract everyone in the house from anything academic. Even if you get him during the summer, and decide not to do lessons until he's acclimated (which he will never be), he'll still be an enormous attention-holder when you officially decide to start. We made the mistake of waiting until our second year of high school to get our dog, and as a result gained too much ground, educationally speaking.

(He can be small when you get him, but he should be an animal that will get large, eventually. You need to decide that he's going to be an inside dog--he can't fulfill his purpose of distraction if he's not in the Big Middle of what you're doing--and he needs to be some sort of high-energy breed. Herding dog, maybe. But the point is that he needs to be big enough to get on the table, knock down kids, etc.)

Now...where was I?

In the classical model, younger children are taught the basics of grammar. Middle school focuses on learning logic, and high school...well, high school is the time to introduce the art of rhetoric. The ability to express oneself, orally, using those skills laid as a foundation in earlier years. Making oral reports, or speeches is an important part of learning this, but don't discount the opportunities that listening to impassioned oration can provide.

Again, the dog will help you with this.

Here's an example...

Crib Chick: "Okay, this last chapter talked about the African leader Sundiata Keita. Did his strict codes remind you of anyone?" (Looks at the teens hopefully.)

"Peep" #2: "Well, Hammurabi--"

"Peep" #5: "THE DOG IS EATING LEGOS!!!"

(It helps if the younger sibling who announces these things makes almost non-stop noise, anyway, preferably imitating cars and/or animals, so that your nerves are at a snapping point, already. If he's not available, then a younger sister with a particularly shrill voice and love of loudness will do.)

I know this seems like an interruption. I know you will have tried to have some sort of meaningful discussion about your older child's reading several times before this attempt, and you'll be tempted to deal with the dog quickly and get right back to that thoughtful interaction.

But this is a great opportunity for building your children's rhetorical skills, by presenting them with a good model of a heartfelt speech. I include a staple from our little homeschool, below, with notes indicating formal rhetorical devices, and short definitions. (Here's a good, more comprehensive list you can peruse later.)

You Kids Wanted This Dog

(The Crib Chick, early 21st century)

You know, you children PROMISED me, that you would follow a few basic rules, when I went to bat with your dad, and begged him to buy this beast. (Alliteration: repetition of several words with the same initial sound in sequence).

You said you would walk him daily, EARLY…you have not done it. You said you would keep things that he might chew off of the floor…you have not done it. (Antistrophe: repetition of the same word or phrase at the end of successive clauses).

I must have been insane—why else would I have thought that this would turn out to be anyone else’s responsibility, but my own? (Anacoluthon: change of grammatical construction-statement to question, here-within the same sentence).

Dog ownership means that you pay attention, you take responsibility, you put away toys. (Asyndeton: lack of conjunctions between phrases, clauses, or words).

I mean, are you guys going to take measures to keep this from happening? Are you? Are you? “I listen vainly, but with thirsty ear”. (Catachresis: a harsh metaphor using a word beyond its normal sphere. It’s also helpful to include a quote or two, in a good speech. This particular one comes from MacArthur’s Farewell Address. Feel free to borrow it…it’s a good finale to any Mother Speech.)

"Peep" #5: "THE DOG IS EATING THE TRASH!!"

Repeat, ad infinitum, at regular intervals for the rest of the year. I suggest making your own speeches, but I may post some of my other standbys ("Do I Look Like Your Maid?", "Why Do I Even Try?", "You Have To Tell Me These Things The Night Before") at another time.

Now, there's also the question of balancing the needs of the younger children, in the shadow of providing a Rigorous High School Education for your older kids.

Hopefully, you've planted the seed of responsibility in your small ones, and they'll remind you, themselves, that you told them you'd teach them Latin this year (or how to knit, or use the microscope, tie their shoes, eat with utensils, etc., etc.). Probably just after your second oldest tells you that he forgot to do all of his assignments for that (expensive) online Spanish class this week, and your oldest remarks that she won't need to go to college after all, since she plans on going to Hollywood the minute she turns 18, to become a movie star.

But there will be rays of brightness.

Your second oldest might surprise you by coming up with an intricate career map, showing different possibilities that reflect a number of his interests and strengths, and your oldest might not only turn that sob-inducing Biology grade around, but decide to borrow a thick book about a specific Biology topic from the co-op teacher, and do some individual investigating of her own.

It's important to spend time with kids in High School, but it's important to let them have some time to themselves, too. It's important to direct--and monitor--but it's also important to encourage some freedom.

Younger kids (and a dog) will help you do that.

You won't have any choice.

You Know, Valentine's Day is Just Around the Corner...

...so you might want to put your order in, now, for this.

Because a Phantom mask is the gift that keeps on giving.

Gentlemen, if you want to take the edge off of that conversation about the credit card bill, or turn "brooding" into something sexy, rather than something that gets you screamed at, try this puppy out.

Pop it on when the wife starts to fume a little about the eleventh straight hour of football, this weekend. You don't even need to put on a tux and cape, this mask will work with your ragged Vikings sweatshirt and flannel pants.

Maybe.

Perhaps throw in a sentence or two about "my angel", or "the music of the night". Clean the Cheeto dust off of your fingers, though.

Thought for the Day: Bathroom Etiquette

(Feel free to copy and paste, and use for memory work at your house, or simply tack it on your bathroom door)

When you have your hand on the bathroom door, ready to inform on a sibling, or pose a query to Mommy, ask yourself, "Self, is this so important that I need to interrupt Mommy from completing whatever bodily function brought her here, or stop her from taking two seconds to put a couple of bobby pins in her hair or cover up the circles under her eyes? If I'm relaying some grievance, is it likely that Interrupted Mommy will see things my way, or will her miffed-ness color her opinion? Will taking away some of the precious seconds that Mommy seeks when she goes into this little room help or hurt my cause? Is someone in physical peril? Is the UPS man at the door? Is the sky falling? No? Then maybe it can wait."

Hallooo...

Slowly, life is returning to "normal", after the Christmas break.

Yes, "normal" means wearing a cloak, to load the dishwasher.

(Although this pic was taken before the dishwasher's strike began. It's still going on.)

Forgive me, for the long absence?

I have to say that I'm humbled...I actually added "Followers" during my hiatus. (I haven't started a cult, if you're wondering what I mean by "Followers"; look up at the top of the screen and click on "Follow" to learn more. You can simply check your Blogger Reading List and see when I post, in the future, rather than obsessively checking my web address every morning at six a.m., like I'm sure you do right now. Riiiight? So if I drop off of the face of the earth for two months, again, you won't miss anything, when I finally come back.)

Well, getting back into the daily grind after holidays isn't any easier here than it is at any other house. The same coaxing up in the morning, instead of sleeping until a ridiculous hour. The same weaning from incessant sweets. The same letdown from the almost constant adrenaline high.

And then the kids have to readjust, too.

But we do still read.

The Littles recently enjoyed a beautiful picture book, about the Maid of Orleans, Joan of Arc. This wasn't something I reserved and pushed on them...it was picked up at the library, while "Peep" #4 was perusing the section on France. It's gorgeously illustrated, and deep enough for an older child (or, ahem, a parent) to get something out of.

"Peep" #1 received the sequel to The Hunger Games for Christmas, and enjoyed it greatly. (I enjoyed The Hunger Games, myself, in fact. Not sure I'll read the whole series, but it's certainly not the worst young adult fiction a teen could be reading.)

"Peep" #2 found a book that went along well with his current fascination with World War II...and our family's love of Dr. Seuss; Dr. Seuss Goes to War: The World War II Editorial Cartoons of Theodor Seuss Geisel. (Did you know Dr. Seuss wrote WWII editorial cartoons? I sure didn't.)

Speaking of World War II, and art (okay, but now we can talk about WWII and art, and Nazi looting)...The Monuments Men: Allied Heroes, Nazi Thieves, and the Greatest Treasure Hunt in History is one of my current reads. If you're interested in how some of Europe's great art was preserved, during the incredible destruction of WWII--and the Nazi's mission to either eradicate or accumulate it--this is the story of one group of Allies whose task was just that. It's a good companion for another book I recommend, The Rape of Europa: The Fate of Europe's Treasures in the Third Reich and the Second World War.

In other news...I tore the rearview mirror off of our van. Not with my bare hands, in a fit of pique, but as I backed out of the garage. So, I get to add "Call dealership" to my Ceaseless Tasking list.

I would like to point out two things, though. First, I only said one heinous word in front of the children, and they might not have even heard me. Secondly, I only offered up a simple, standard, "I'm sorry, I don't know what happened" to assuage Mr. Crib Chick's disappointment. Instead of taking umbrage and pointing out to him that in that one Angelina Jolie movie, Antonio Banderas was willing to overlook ANYTHING, his, er, "love" for her was so powerful. I mean...she was a killer! We're just talking about a rearview mirror!

But I didn't mention it.

I think that's best...don't you?

So Long, Soccer Saturdays

I cannot in any honesty say that I will miss you.

I love my children, and this season has shown us that two of the younger ones have some serious soccer skillz, but I think that the time of games and practices ended just in time. I have a strong sense that one more game, at 9:00 a.m. on Saturday morning would have put me over the edge, and I would have arrived, pulled in a little red wagon by my children, laughing maniacally, pulling my hair and swigging from a flask.

(Here is where Mr. Crib Chick would wryly ask how that's any different from a normal Saturday.)

My apologies, loyal readers (if I have any left), for the long spate between entries. I've been busy, thankfully, with deadlines and trying to make sure my children don't leave home unable to read or tie their shoes.

And I've discovered that in my case, at least, "Work at Home Mom" is somewhat of a misnomer. I am based at home, yes, but it's almost impossible to work from here, exclusively.

Once upon a time, we had a home office. And I used it. But then, in a fit of graciousness, we transformed it into a bedroom for "Peep" #1, the oldest girl.

So now, the home computer sits in the living room. You can imagine how this works when you have five children, with no sense of boundaries or personal space. I mean, yes, I have a laptop, but even then I can only go into the bedroom, where the arguments and whining and pleas for food are still audible.

Thusly, the library and Panera become my "home office". Panera is no good for my waistline ("Hurrah! I reached 1200 words! I'll reward myself with a chocolate pastry!"), and the library is no good for my relationship with my fellow man. ("How many surly teenagers can fill a small town library at any given time?").

Yet...it all gets done. Somehow. With only a minor number of meltdowns.

North and South

Okay, I'm not talking about the Patrick Swayze miniseries, here, or even the totally awesome BBC adaptation of the Elizabeth Gaskell novel, but rather a commentary on my mixed marriage. You see, Mr. Crib Chick spent most of his childhood in rural Minnesota, and I was raised in the great state of Oklahoma.

North and South.

There are many ways in which our union has exhibited its fundamental differences, but one of the most visible is the naming of children.

Mr. Crib Chick's criteria for a Good Child Name:

Does it forestall mockery from other children? Can it easily follow the title of Mr./Ms. President? Is it a tribute to the memory of upstanding family members past?

The Crib Chick's criteria for a Good Child Name:

Can it be yelled in one breath? Specifically, is it less than three syllables total, with the middle name preferably only one of those syllables? ("Jo", "Ann", "Bob", etc.)

Does it roll off of the tongue when hissed in a grocery store? Does it honor a NASCAR driver, or Biblical figure?

Okay...I kid. A bit.

But it's only one of the ways that our mixed North/South marriage shows its differences.

Another way is speech patterns.

Mr. Crib Chick is slow of speech and therefore has a decided disadvantage when it comes argument time. I know that many of you have the idea that Southerners have a slow molasses drawl, but remember...I'm from the Southwest. Which is different. We don't have a drawl, we have a twang. And a "twang" is the same sound that a bow makes when it shoots an arrow.

Think Boomhauer, vs. Scarlett O'Hara. (From the Wikipedia article about Boomhauer, one of the regulars on King of the Hill: "Boomhauer’s speech patterns are nearly incomprehensible to the untrained audience and serve as a recurring theme. He mumbles and invariably uses the words "dang ol’" as an all-purpose adjective, sometimes several times in a single sentence. He uses the phrases "I tell ya what" and "man" frequently.")

All of which I find quite useful in the Making of Points. (Mr. Crib Chick simply finds it confusing. After all, we're talking about the man who needed me to TRANSLATE for him once, when watching The Good Old Boys. True story.)

And yet, we make it work.

One of our children has a one-syllable middle name, thanks to my ceaseless advocacy. (Another has a one-syllable middle nickname, thanks to my ceaseless cunning.) Others have handles that can be screamed into the backseat of the car, and hold Christian names that would serve them well should they become our country's Commander in Chief.

An exercise in compromise. That's what it is.

Inspiring, ain't it?