back to school

[these are tricky things to write about. education, and school specifically, is a hot topic these days, one with lots of personal and political weight. of course I am no expert in the field of educational theory and quite honestly, I change my mind about what I think about school on a regular basis. but I think it is important to be able to talk about that confusion and mixed bag of feelings openly because it is a decision (even if it is an on-going decision) all families make. after listening to this back to school special this week, I am even more convinced that we are doing the right thing as an education goes with our kids, no matter what our schooling choices look like. whew!]

parenting is a constant struggle, I've decided, and of course plenty has been said on the topic. there are all sort of decisions to make about having children, raising children, feeding children, and surviving children, but none has rocked my world as much as decisions about school. breastfeeding was a no-brainer for me: it was free, it was convenient, and (after the initial discomfort and learning curve) I really really liked it. the sleep thing was a hard one for us, but we just kept doing what made sense at the time and now we have a system that really works for our family. but school and the decisions that come with it are not quite so easy for me.

I liked school for the most part as a kid. I was a good student, I had some anxieties that showed up fairly regularly, but overall I did okay both academically and socially. I always felt sort of sorry for the kids in my church who were homeschooled because I loved band and my teachers and they didn't get to experience those things. when I started college I set out to major in education. it was an easy enough pick: I liked working with kids, I liked ideas and talking about them, and I got a scholarship to teach so that settled it. I took exactly two classes in the education department before I realized that it just wasn't for me. too regulated and not relational enough. there are many many great teachers that can find the balance in that and shine themselves through a haze of regulations, but it just wasn't the right fit for me. so I settled on a degree in english and the jumped into work in the social services field and never really looked back.

but those two classes that I hated in college piqued my interest in educational theory. working in a residential high school (go s&m!) after college contributed to that interest as well. and by the time I got to working in the group home where all of our kids required some sort of IEP or alternative classroom, I was determined to learn more about why we do what we do in the classroom setting. I spent a lot of time sitting in school meetings in those years, getting to know teachers, administrators, counselors, and therapists from an adult perspective rather than from the student side of the desk. and I got to see the school system from what one administrator called "the bottom of the barrel looking up": I worked with the kids who challenged the structure of "typical" classrooms because they were academically behind, truant to the point of failing, behaviorally challenging, and socially unprepared. these were kids who got kicked out of school (or off the bus or out of clubs or off of sports teams) with alarming regularity. and even when they really were trying there were still so many deficits in their educational background that they rarely seemed to make any real progress. even of those that "passed" all their classes, some could barely read and very few could write a cohesive paragraph. of course like any situation their were always exceptions and there were always hidden variables that made blaming any one factor (the schools, the parents, the kids' brains, whatever) pointless. but school was what took up most of their time and the one factor we (as group home staff) were pressured most to show as an area of success. and it wasn't always a system that was easy to succeed in.

one of the first books I read that made me think differently about schooling was The Teenage Liberation Handbook: How to Quit School and Get a Real Life and Education by grace llewelyn. it blew my mind. from their I jumped into john holt and just kept going. it changed the way I thought about the school experience for our group home kids. I didn't get to decide whether those kids had to go to school or not, but I could help them make the most of their experience by meeting the social norms required and guiding further learning when they got super excited about a topic outside of school. by the time eric and I had our own kids I was pretty sure homeschooling was the right choice for us.

first day 2013, getting ready for a road trip

so we did it. we started jamin's "kindergarten" year while we were still in new york, so it made total sense to homeschool since we weren't even in a geographical place to register him at that point. and in north carolina we don't have to make any official school decisions (registering for school or declaring ourselves as a homeschool) until our kids are seven. so we traveled, we read books, we did projects, we grew food, we played chess, we spent time in the woods and on the beach and that was that. he loved it. I struggled. I need far more social stimulation that jamin does, so while he was totally happy actually being at home for school, I wanted to do "school" on the fly, on the run, in the world with lots of other people around. we worked hard to set up an awesome homeschooling co-op (hooray, mountain roots ramblers!) that I was proud of and excited about. but it was hard to get families to commit, to agree on a programming plan, to be plugged in and excited for the long term. it was one of the first times I had to admit to myself that maybe what I believe philosophically about educating my kids might not be the best choice for our family. that was hard to swallow and even harder to say out loud. I still feel very confused about it.

first day 2014

so jamin started first grade at mountain sun community school last week. it really wasn't even that hard of a decision to make: we love the school's vision and mission, the class sizes are small, they use positive discipline, there's an emphasis on wholistic living and plenty of outside time. they use child-led learning practices, the teachers are invested beyond my wildest dreams, and the school is actually housed at a summer camp. the best of everything, all in one. it is the closest we can get to homeschooling while still taking advantage of what our community has to offer.

and he loves it. yesterday when I asked him the best thing about his day he said, "school.

after school grin

because I get to do so much math there." isn't that the passion we want all of our kids to feel about how they spend their days? he likes his classmates, he likes his teacher, he likes going every day. he has had no complaints yet.

even with all this wonderful (and there is a lot of wonderful about mountain sun, for sure) there is part of me that takes comfort in knowing that we are a family that can keep trying different things. I think we will homeschool again. there may even be public school in our future at some point. there is a lot of weight involved in private school for sure: the financial cost, the stigma of how we are choosing to educate, the smallness and shelteredness. and there are the weights of school in general: being tied to a schedule, a calendar year, less time to do things together, less time and resources to try other activities. I am confident to say I am glad we are giving this a try and that this is the right time to try it. and I am confident to say that I feel confident to change our minds. over and over if we need to.

I am already learning so much by having jamin in school this year. I am learning him better, watching him learn himself. I am learning what to do with my new wide open stretches of time. I am learning what it feels like to make choices for us and individuals and as a whole. and I am learning to find the balance in all of those things. if only there was a way to get class credit for all these post-graduate victories I'm having, I'd be well on my way to earning my degree in great parenting with a minor in mixed feelings.

this is how it works

This is how it works

You're young until you're not

You love until you don't

You try until you can't

You laugh until you cry

You cry until you laugh

And everyone must breathe

Until their dying breath

No, this is how it works

You peer inside yourself

You take the things you like

And try to love the things you took

And then you take that love you made

And stick it into some

Someone else's heart

Pumping someone else's blood

And walking arm in arm

You hope it don't get harmed

But even if it does

You'll just do it all again

~regina spektor

this was the summer that jamin learned to whistle and hula hoop and both kids tried so hard to master snapping. these were the days when cora would put her fingers right next to my ear to make the tiniest whisper of a sound, the look on her face holding so much pride and excitement that I couldn't help but claim to hear a snap where there was barely friction at all.

this was the summer of the irish, late night conversations highlighting both my geographical ignorance and my sheltered existence. this was the summer I learned again how little I really know about the world and the generation just behind me, just because of when and where and why I was born. 

this was the summer of waterfalls. log hollow (where we hiked in a downpour by choice and stevie the swamp monster was born) and white owl. living waters and looking glass. d.e.w. falls and dill falls. skinny dip where maeve missed her chance to jump and cove creek where she accidentally got brave enough to slide down. the waterfall in redbud springs that certainly deserves a name. we spent more time there this summer cleaning out and stacking rocks than we have in all four years we've lived here.

this was the summer of the dark and stormy, of all-weather hammocks, the summer of the beer journal and band practice on our deck (mallory broke my whisk playing that washboard with such fervor). this was the summer of the smell of citronella and the sound of crickets louder than the white noise machine in the kids' room.

this was the summer we learned jamin is allergic to bees, the summer we became epi pen carriers. the summer we held our breath in the ER only to let it go again where we saw how steady his breath stayed.

this was the summer of eagle lake. of friends that "get us" all the way. of kayak trips to the "trout spawning ground," a place they would paddle just out of my sight. eight kids on a paddle board. sand in the car floorboard.

this was the summer of free range chickens, accidentally here to stay. the summer of poop covered shoes and never being able to walk barefoot in our yard. this was the summer cora finally got pecked in the face, so close to her eye we hoped it'd scare her into cautiousness, but it hasn't.

this was the summer of our girl with a brand new baby. the summer of gender reveal where the word "normal" over and over was music to our ears. the summer where other people's babies are just as exciting as my own.

this was the summer of big kids, kids that hike for miles only to swim and swim and hike out again. this was the summer they spent leaping and climbing and proving me wrong over and over again. this was the summer jamin developed a shrug too old for his six-year-old frame, but he uses it so expertly I can't help but smile.

this was the summer of our last days of homeschooling.

this was the summer we spent seeing our life through other people's eyes. this is really the way we live. this is really the place we live. this is really our view, both from the windows and from our minds. and it is a good one.

all the single ladies

we have a lot of chickens. 

we've had chickens for years now, usually six or seven at a time, nicely contained in a pen a pleasant distance from the house. we feed them, we watch them do their chicken things, they lay eggs, all is good. we'd lose one occasionally to whatever it is that lives in our woods that likes to eat chickens, but even that felt sort of okay, in a circle of life kind of way. the kids have been present when it is time for slaughter, they have helped bury chicken parts when an animal gets into the coop. we got this farm life thing down pat.

this year we raised chickens from chicks. rabbit and eric researched and decided on a farm that would send us 25 chicks of various breeds in the mail. the post office called us one morning to let us know they had arrived and we hurried down the mountain to pick them up. we could hear them peeping as soon was we opened the post office door. it was exciting and heartbreaking to open that box. such cute little bundles of fuzzy, but five didn't make the trip alive. it felt like a sad way to go about starting a flock, and we quickly decided we'd never go the mail order route again. I especially had a really hard time with all those little tiny lives on my conscience, a new feeling for me, not being particularly fond of animals in general. but now we know. and now we know better.

the difference in raising chickens from chicks and just "having chickens" is huge. the girls we have now are pretty much pets. jamin and cora LOVE to play with them, carrying them around like babies and singing to them in some strange falsetto southern accent that is reserved for two chickens in particular, bebe and brobro. seriously, they can be in the yard for over an hour carrying these birds around and talking in this obnoxious voice. we've given all our birds individual drinking lessons (from a fancy waterer that rabbit built, complete with something called "chicken nipples"). eric brings home throw-away produce from the splat to feed them. they also love soured yogurt and cottage cheese, so our yard smells AWESOME. we had big plans for this fancy moveable electric fence so we could ease the wear-and-tear on our yard, but our ladies (of the chicken variety) quickly showed us they had other plans. so now we are free range homesteaders, by default more than design. now we have chickens waltzing into our kitchen on a regular basis, and we had to designate one broom solely for poop sweeping on the deck.

but this week we got our first eggs, little tiny things with the orangest yolks you have ever seen. we even got one egg without a shell. cora and rabbit put golf balls in the laying boxes to teach the girls where to do their thing, and it seems to be working. jamin and cora probably check for eggs six times a day, a novelty that will wear off in a week or less, I'm sure. but for now it is fun to see them excited and proud of the flock they have nurtured, even if they are totally partial to two of their babies in particular. I am thankful that they have had this time to chase chickens and make an investment that they know will end in due time when nature takes it course. and while I will probably never be a huge fan of those nutty hens (they jump into my car with me if I take to long with the door open), I can appreciate the lessons they are teaching my family. and the eggs. I can certainly appreciate those. and the photo opportunities they provide. and the free babysitting service they offer. okay, so maybe I do sort of like them after all. just don't mention it to them directly. they'd probably strut into the kitchen again just to thank me.
 

dog days

and all of the sudden it's the end of july.

I can look back at pictures and try to piece together what we've done and how I feel about it, but mostly the days are a blur of playmobils and bathing suits that are never quite dry and cabbage. so. much. cabbage.



there are heads of garlic drying in rabbit's bedroom. there are onions (twenty pounds of them, to be exact) under the couch. there are jars and jars of sauerkraut, upstairs, downstairs, anywhere there is shelf space. the chickens ate four questionable watermelons in one day (there was lots of messy poop that day, to say the least). I think we are having a good year for berries, but none ever make it into the kitchen. we've had plums and squash and broccoli and carrots and potatoes and the lumpiest tomatoes you've ever seen. eric made pickles, the kombucha is happily fizzing away, the freezer is almost halfway full, and the drone of the dehydrator is the soundtrack to our summer. and my kitchen looks like this almost all the time:

there is a new baby in our world. our girl had her baby boy in the middle of july, just the same size as jamin when he was born. too many circles for my brain to travel, remembering a july six years ago when I was the one with the teeny tiny in nothing but a diaper, doing the "baby go to sleep" wiggle, wondering if my boobs would ever be the same. now I am watching her do the same dance, the same emotional shuffle, the same tininess and tiredness, the same elation and exhaustion. and here we are, doing it again half a generation later. and we get to be a part of it, that is the best part. here is where we are, so it must be just where we are supposed to be.







eric's mom found a long-lost box of old letters and memorabilia at eric's grandmother's house, things I had long given up as gone forever. I spent last night poring over old writing, notes from our early days of marriage, photos from camp, drawings from group home kids, pressed flowers that I can't recall being meaningful. funny to see how far we have come, and yet how much of how we struggle is the same: "are we doing work that matters? should we stay or go? is there something better just beyond our reach? how do we fight the good fight without wearing ourselves out so darn quickly? is the good fight really even worth fighting?" I think about those kids who drew those stick figures, married now with kids of their own, or the younguns eric and I were ten years ago, so sure of what we were doing and still wondering what we should do next. but what I love most about my life is the same: connecting in ways that matter, investing in people because it is worth it, opening my home, my heart, because it is all I know to do. even when it is hard. even when I know it is going to hurt. how could we do anything else?

dog days, indeed. I think the hottest of days have always suited me best. 

71 months ago

I wrote jamin a letter every month for the first year of his life. this is the first one I ever wrote. my boy will turn six this week. we've come a long way, baby.

jamin,

as of today, we've known you for one month. it is hard to realize that only a month ago we didn't even know if you were a boy or a girl, and we thought of you only as pari the parasite. now here you are, asleep on your dad's chest, living and breathing on your own. pretty crazy stuff. 

I wish I could tell you all the amazing things that happened this month, but to be honest I can remember very little of it. it has been a blur of feedings in between far-too-short naps. I hear your dad talk about labor, how proud he is of both of us, and it makes me thankful he was there since I couldn't tell you much beyond just wanting to be done so badly that I forgot to look to see if you were a boy or a girl when you finally made your appearance. you'll have to ask him all about it some time. but labor isn't the only thing that is leaking from my brain. already I am forgetting how hard breast feeding was at first, how painful engorgement really was, how scared I was that you wouldn't grow because I couldn't feed you because my nipples hurt so darn much. I'm already fuzzy on your first trip to the doctor that I couldn't go to because I wasn't supposed to go up and down the stairs of our apartment building for the first two weeks. and you've changed so much already! your nose is totally different and your mouth is a little wider and we marvel at your eye color anew every day. all of these images of you will melt away, too, in the haze of lack of sleep and the shortness that you are in this newborn stage. I guess that is how people do the birthin' thing more than once.


people ask me all the time if I am not just so in love with you. I have to admit, jamin, that I am not quite there yet. I feel like I am still getting to know you, and it is just too early to make declarations of being in love. sometimes I really like you, like when you are waking up and contorting your face into grimaces that are too cute to even try to describe. or when I am changing your diaper and you check yourself out in the mirror beside you and then glance up to stare at my reflection in the mirror, too. I love my mornings with you, waking up slowly and enjoying alert time, just me and you. the past couple of mornings we've spent some time rocking in the porch swing when we take rhodie out. it is moments like those that I just want to freeze in my brain in hopes that I will remember the peacefulness of it when you are two and having a tantrum in public or fifteen and yelling and slamming doors when we really do expect you to stick to a curfew. 

I love seeing you with your dad the very most. he sings to you all the time, mostly songs he makes up as he goes. he sings about your very cute baby thighs and how much he wants to chew on them; he raps about you mackin' baby honeys in your tie-dye onesies. he seems especially inspired during diaper changes when he sings about things too embarrassing to admit to publicly. he loves to wear you in the sling, to show you off to people, even complete strangers. lots of times we hold you while you are sleeping and look at pictures of you on the computer at the same time, just to remind ourselves what a cute kid we really have. 

and about pictures...you'll probably wonder why there are so many of you and your dad and hardly any of me. well, the obvious reason is just how cute the two of you are together, who could resist taking pictures of you all the time? the other reason is that it is too hot to bother with clothing, and while this is perfectly acceptable for you and your dad, it just doesn't fly for moms, at least not on camera. but I am here, I promise, just as much as dad. just a little more scandalous. 


but, I gotta tell you, there are a few things we still need to work on. lots of them have improved already. I feel a little better about your eye contact, which makes me feel like you might actually notice more of me than my boobs occasionally. but only occasionally. most of the time I feel like some mechanical mama and you are just my robot baby. all we have to do is perform the right program to get you quiet, and we have succeeded for the day. not so rewarding. I am eager for the smiles, the hugs, jeez, just some form of recognition that we are doing something right and you appreciate it. that's the part that makes me not so ready to claim to be head over heels for you quite yet. but we're getting there.

the other thing that has to go is the screaming in the carseat. the car is supposed to be soothing to babies; you are supposed to like the gentle motion of the highway. apparently you did not get the memo. instead, once we strap you in and hit the road, your face turns a frightening reddish purple, and the sound you emit is simply not human. so we stop, and I pick you up, and all is right in your world again. except we still haven't made it to wherever we're going. not cool. so, let's get over that rather quickly, shall we? there is a lot of world we want to show you and it will be much easier to get there is we can just do it with fewer rest stops.

there will be even more firsts for you this coming month, much bigger milestones than the first bath or the first trip to the lake to feed the ducks (which you slept through anyway, so we'll have to do it again). today we are back at the group home, your first day on the job. it was a little overwhelming with so many people here to fawn over you, but we've already decided that you are a great motivator for kids to earn their free time. everyone wants to be near you! this month will also be your first road trip, your first camping experience, and your first vaccinations (!). lots to accomplish for such a small guy, but you seem up to the challenge.

even though I'm tired beyond belief, a little sad at my lack of social opportunities, missing eric even though I am with him every day, unsure of whether I am even doing a good job being your mama, still not fitting into my favorite clothes, not showering with much regularity, wanting to scream back at you when you are still awake after two hours of bouncing, and sometimes wondering what I did to my life, I am so so so very glad to be getting to know you better every day. we do a little better every day, you and I. you get a little cuter every day, I think, too. and, jamin, don't you ever doubt for a second, just don't ever even think that you are not so very very loved by the one that borned you.

love,
mama

jump off rock

last week after I dropped stevie at the bus station in charlotte, I moseyed back up the mountain and had a little time to kill in hendersonville. I lived in hendersonville for awhile after college while I worked at the group home in brevard. back in those days I spent a lot of time by myself and one of my favorite places for personal reflection and sunset viewing was jump off rock in laurel park.

so with time to myself in my old stomping ground, I headed up past my old apartment building on up to jump off rock. it was just past sunset and super windy, just the way I remember so many other visits. as I watched the last of the color fade from the sky, it was easy to recall all the dreaming I had done in just this spot:

"I want to move to asheville. I want a house full of kids. I want to love someone who loves me back. I
want to live in another country, to be a foster parent, to make my parents proud of me. I want to go back to camp, find my tribe, have a job that means something. I want a dog and a garden and a porch to sit on. I want to travel and find a home and do things that matter."

I have done it all. every bit of that dreaming has come true, not always the way I thought it would, not always the way I thought it should work, but here I am with a completed checklist.

so it must be time for a brand new dream.

'tis the season

halfway though 2014 is a good place to review your word for the year. my word is season.

this is the season we are in:
the season where I stay put and everyone else
comes to me
because home is too much work to leave,
especially when the work is finally
beginning to pay off.
(we had a potluck last week--30 kids and
34 adults--and I hung pictures on the wall
ten minutes before the first guest arrived.
four years in this house, but
the season for settling has only just arrived.)




this is the season we are in:
the rainy season, even though it is really
always rainy here.
I've just never had to pay such close attention,
I suppose. "when will papa be home?"
let's check the sky for clouds.

this is the season we are in:
the season of bug bites and briar scratches.
I have the legs of an eight-year-old
and my children are catching up.
this is the season of almost big kids
where we can hike
and jump off rocks
and slide down waterfalls
with independence in the air.
this is the season of playing together
rather than just playing along.
we are almost there.

this is the season we are in:
change comes slower than I would like,
at least the changes I thought I wanted.
life around us buzzes with other people's news of
new babies
new jobs
new places
new ideas
but I am frozen in place amidst the swirl of new
and that itself is new to me.

this is the year of season: rhythm and time frames and "this is not forever." to season is to make something suitable for use, to flavor. the timing, the intensity, the flow of life: it is all here, all in fullness I haven't seen before.