March 2009 Archives

It all started when we were trying to fit in with a new playgroup at their park day. We'd recently decided to homeschool Mikaela, but we hadn't found our niche yet in any of the homeschool groups where most families' kids were older than ours or we'd been rejected because we wouldn't sign the group's statement of faith, publicly declaring our animosity toward Satan and expressing our willingness to enlist the kids in a crusade if given 48 hours advance notice.  

This group, though not homeschoolers, seemed ideal because it had an abundance of toddlers along with several five year olds who'd just missed the school district's birthdate cutoff.  If it worked out, both of my girls would have plenty of potential playmates and our homeschooling wouldn't even be an issue.

It was a gorgeous 75 degree fall morning, full of buzzing bees, flitting butterflies and birds tweeting their sweet, melodic songs (this was long ago, before they communicated exclusively through twitter - 140 notes at a time).

Then, suddenly, he was upon us. Lawn Mower Tractor Guy. Oblivious to all due to the roar of the engine, his walkman headphones and the thick, dangling earflaps of his woolen winter cap, he was headed straight for the sandbox! Like Odysseus, who had to abandon his insanity act and rescue the infant Telemachus from an oncoming plow, I threw aside my frivolous, inane, getting-to-know-you banter just in time to hurdle the teeter totter and swoop up Katrianna.

The whirling blades just grazed the ironsides of the ship-shaped sandbox, barely causing a stir among the kids inside it who were too preoccupied with shoring up caches of pebbles (resourcefully stored in their pull-ups) for the inevitable battle that brought each and every playdate to a glorious conclusion. Still panting, I glanced around to see that the few moms who had bothered to look up from their cell phones were snickering in my direction. In an ironic twist in our odyssey to find playgroup inclusion, my conspicuous child-rescue action was regarded as egregiously overprotective and confirmed their suspicions that "the homeschooling mom" was indeed out of her mind.

I hung my head in shame. I called to Mikaela that it was time to go when an empathetic mom broke ranks and came over to commiserate about the odd fellow who'd nearly mowed down my daughter.  Thinking it a lost cause anyway, I nervously adjusted the buckle on Katrianna's overalls and explained, "I just hadn't realized Ignatius J Reilly had moved to Houston."

She laughed, then added, "Oh, but he hasn't. That was Holden Caulfield!" Right then I knew we'd found our playgroup and I could postpone carpooling the girls to Lil' Missionary Club meetings for at least another year.

[Helpful hint: Undoubtedly, the Confederacy of Dunces allusion litmus test is a good idea, but that Toole's book only came up this one time. For no fail conversational icebreakers, I recommend going with War & Peace or Moby Dick - both are invaluable sources for discovering common ground among parents while watching soccer games in lawn chairs. Nevertheless, this was a refreshing change and I am forever beHolden to the Catcher in the Wry.]

Over the winter months, Charlotte and I and our four kids became good friends. We even went along when they invited us to some services at their church (but it was an Episcopal church, so it doesn't really count - as everybody knows, religion and Episcopalians never really mix...  except maybe martinis... in post communion happy hours...  the Reverend Father tends bar). But, one deceptively free & easy spring afternoon, we lingered to let our kids play when all of the other playgroup moms had left. Charlotte leaned across the picnic table and asked me confidentially, "Now truthfully, Cathy, why do you homeschool your kids?"  Lulled by a cool breeze as we sat there in 96 degree shade, I let my defenses down completely and made a terrible mistake: I was honest. I blame it on sunstroke.

I answered that, like most parents, I strongly believed I was obligated to do the best I could for my kids.  A huge part of that had to do with meeting their academic needs. Although I didn't think it would be "bad" for them to attend public or private school, I was in a position that I could stay home with them and we could choose to homeschool instead. They had learned so much already before they were of "school age" and, out of all the options I'd looked into, I felt we could do the best job of providing them a challenging education, letting them progress at their own pace and keeping the learning fun. Plus, I added, it was what Mikaela said she wanted to do & my plan was to go along with it for as long as she wanted...

Charlotte looked incredulous. I guess she sensed I was still holding back. She guilefully goaded me on with "But is being smart really so important?"

That did it, she got me in my Achilles cranium. I went on to explain that I thought God wanted each of us to reach our full potential. We'd all been given gifts and, since my girls so far had not demonstrated any Carl Lewis tendencies or Olympic aspirations (wiped away a tear there), I was focusing on what seemed to be their particular strengths and affinities right now. They were smart, they loved to learn, and they wanted to homeschool. My personal philosophy was that each of us should do our very best with whatever talents God had given us and, through conscientious effort, we would make the world a better place.

My spiritual revelation had the precise effect I always suspected it might. Charlotte immediately remembered a crucial need to replenish their goldfish's food supply, tossed the kids head first into her bicycle's pup tent kid carrier and shifted through all 3 gears of her bike's derail-hers in the fastest getaway I'd ever "witnessed."

Sincerity stinks. Had I learned nothing from Linus and the Great Pumpkin? In a momentary lapse of judgment, I'd forgotten to keep my blanket securely in place o'er this little (jack-o) lantern o' mine. And, I hadn't even told Charlotte the whole story... that the worst period in our pre-school years was when I realized three year old Mikaela was recognizing words and learning to read on her own. On the advice of several teacher friends, who told me that she wouldn't fit in at kindergarten and would have to skip ahead a couple of grades if she kept this up, I rebuffed all of her repeated requests to teach her to read 'real' books. The "rejection" seemed to hurt her emotionally, no matter how I explained it or tried to distract her with 'fun' activities and playdates. But I persisted, determined that she would attend traditional school.

I spent my time touring schools and visiting on parents' night open houses, taking Mikaela to our neighborhood school's Dr Seuss play to show her that indeed - in 2 more years - attending school would be wonderful, and even signing her up for pre-K classes where I was told she asked too many questions, overparticipated and refused to properly print lowercase letters using the "clock system" (because she had mastered upper & lowercase lettering already, but apparently that was not the point). After three months of this, my little scholar was literally at her wit's end. Finally, at home one quiet morning, I pulled out a chapter book and asked her to read it aloud to me. She was ecstatic and that decided it for all of us. What were we waiting around for?

Our families continued to get together after my unconscionable faux pas, but we always kept to safe topics after that: discussing our kids' vegetable preferences, debating the environmental impact of cloth vs. commercial diapers or, always a bonding win-win topic, listing all the things other moms did wrong in raising their kids.  By the next fall, her son was accepted into the city's most competitive academic kindergarten program, reputed to produce only National Merit Finalists and Rhodes Scholars. He did very well but, for first grade, she transferred him to a magnet school for music, explaining that she sought a well-rounded education.  

Sacrilege! Not that I'm judging...  Few parents are comfortable putting all their little eggheads in one basket. Of course, we've been doing this homeschooling for so long now, we just went ahead and invested in a whole basket case...  but that's just us. Most likely, her son will graduate from the music academy as a classically trained musician, receive a scholarship to Juilliard and be first chair in any of five instruments.

(That's okay, we play music, too... We adhere strictly to the Chu-ze-key guitar method -- if you don't know the fingering on a note, no need to fret, simply choose to play a different note or skip it altogether. Hey, when they're teenagers, who do you think will be picked to play in a garage band? See, we homeschoolers do consider socialization and the big picture.)  As our kids grew, we met on their school holidays and during summer vacations and, eventually, we also found some like-minded families in homeschooling groups.

Certainly, we all got a lot out of that playgroup experience. The kids made many new friends, although -inexplicably- none of them elected to homeschool when it came time to start kindergarten. And, perhaps most significantly, it reaffirmed my promise to myself that I would never again divulge even the slightest hint of religious motivation in our homeschooling decision. Thank God, I've faithfully stuck to that one...

The truth is we're closet religious homeschoolers. But, if asked, I'll deny it. Three times.

Oh, for Pete's sake...

The summer before my senior year of college, Mr. Wayne C. Martin, a former high school teacher turned mentor-father figure, invited me to brunch. We met at a funky, retro diner where he treated me to a ridiculously large breakfast, all the while extolling the virtues of its low price, Texas-size portions and value for the buck. Since I usually made do with cereal or some synthetic vending machine donuts before my early classes, I actually thought him quite extravagant and politely requested more syrup as I listened.

It seemed the real crux of our conversation would have to do with my career choice dilemma.(I suspect my mom might have put him up to the whole thing, but this cannot be verified in the usual way as she remained inconspicuous and I never once caught sight of her head popping over a booth to snap our photo as a record of this monumental, life altering exchange.)
 

Ultimately, there are two options for an English major for whom gainful employment is merely a novel idea: teaching or law school. Ironically, it was the college profs, who themselves had just mastered the fine art of university politics and finally received tenure after 15 years of one to two semester stints shuffling around the country, who had taken me aside to recommend law school with visions of dollar bills dancing in their heads.  But, it was Mr. Martin's shrewd scheme to bring me over to the dark side - educating young minds and feeding my hungry soul with virtue.
 
Actually, the teacher point was moot, already decided. If I became a lawyer, I knew I'd want to specialize in constitutional law instead of criminal defense, so I readily foresaw that I would end up working for some corporate law firm & feel guilty for not doing enough pro bono work - after all, what good can a theoretical, constitutional lawyer ever do for the world? (Unless you count becoming a community organizer, returning to law school to position yourself to help those most in need, lecturing as a Constitutional law professor, rising to US senator, and then becoming America's president & the leader of the free world as doing 'good'? Thankfully, I stuck to my high moral standards & taught in a private school that catered to the overprivileged upper classes instead.)

So, what approach would a world history teacher take to entice someone to spend her days locked in a classroom with 150 kids? Travel. He wanted to assure me that I could make a teacher's salary and still travel the world. Frankly, this took me by surprise as I thought, based on consistently poor quiz grades from his nitpicky classes years before, that it would have occurred to him that I had learned very little about the world and lacked all essential curiosity. If so, he discreetly kept it to himself that day.  I also failed to mention then, mostly because I was preoccupied with the rapidly cooling hash browns, that all my world travels in the past ("world" referring here to 30 miles or so away from home plus a couple of out of state ventures) had taught me that places didn't matter because people had a unique ability to make themselves absolutely miserable regardless of their surroundings or proximity to desirable amenities.

Still, this was his own, personal rasion d'etre and he was going to make it mine. He explained that if I was frugal about money in other areas, I could save enough to go to Europe or anywhere else on those three month summer vacations that only teachers, not lawyers, enjoyed.  He had done just that for the last thirty years, plus built himself a house with the help of only one contractor, and had an extensive collection of classical music records of which, no matter how many hundreds of times he replayed their selections with amplifying frustration, I never once successfully identified the entry notes of the cello and always mistook them for those of a viola...  Really, I was a lost cause and he probably should have just let me slip through the cracks as hopelessly ineducable.

Upon exiting the esteemed eatery into Houston's stifling 10 am heat, Mr Martin directed my attention to a two story building across the street which declared itself to be "Blue Bird Circle." He said he had one more thing to show to me and, lured by visions of Mr Martin as fairy godmother and me as Cinderella encircled by singing, highly skilled seamstress bluebirds, I followed in meek but expectant certainty of the eternal happiness that was surely in store. Twenty years before it was cool in Paris Hilton's eyes, this trailblazing, trendsetter teacher had brought me to fully air-conditioned, 35,000+ square feet thrift store nirvana. Here, he revealed, is where he'd found many of the antique treasures I'd no doubt admired in his home. Sounding eerily like Bob Barker, he began pointing excitedly in all directions and asking "Can you guess the price of this item? What about the complete set of mismatched dishes here? An almost unbroken vase there?" 

At that time, I was making my way through college with scholarships and minimum wage jobs and living with four bohemian-type roommates, with whom I had little in common except a predilection to share $100 rent, in an ancient house that mysteriously kept losing its monthly condemnation notices. What did I need with used furniture? I'd salvaged cinder blocks & plywood planks as bookshelves and they worked just fine. What other furnishings did a person really require anyhow?

Still, I absorbed all his carefully imparted knowledge, examined scratches and dents with expertise and left with a parting gift: an Egyptian statuette of Bastet, the goddess of war & solar energy for only $2.25!

I appreciated his efforts, truly, but I'm proud to say that I was sensitive enough not to share my ultimate impression: World travel? That's not why I chose teaching. This morning would never, ever have any relevance to my life.

I left a bit befuddled but mostly in a hurry, eager to get over to my boyfriend Chris' house where we could spend our afternoon doing significant, meaningful things like watching soccer matches that ended in a 0-0 tie.

Eighteen years later...

You may have noticed that Mikaela & Katrianna's clothes usually match. Always have. A combination of factors contributed: my overt nurturing of a 'subliminal' sisterly bond when Katrianna first joined our family, practicality at the playground so I could keep sight of them among fifty other kids, simplified shopping decisions at clothing stores (where my goal is to spend as little time as possible) and being "gifted" with plenty of matching outfits over the years.

Eventually, the girls accompanied us on shopping expeditions and they nearly always followed suit (or dress or t-shirt), picking exactly the same design, deviating only in hue if at all. It was mildly embarrassing when my daughters matched more often than the sets of twins we knew, but I consoled myself with the fact that they actively participated in their identity codependency.

However, let me preface this particular story by stating emphatically that the orange fleeces are not my fault. Chris and I had received the blindingly bright beauties from his mother one holiday and, later, two more arrived in children's sizes. (For the record, she denies culpability since she claims no memory of giving the original pair, which is entirely believable since we normally receive no less than six bags of new duds with each and every visit.) Just about to set off for an extended trip to Europe, we suddenly saw the virtues of adaptable, fluorescent fleeces and decided to take them along (as well as save a dreaded trip to the mall, proving procrastination wins again!).
   
In Europe, people just mistakenly assumed we were from the Netherlands, which wasn't all bad...  especially if we wanted to strike up a game of double Dutch or get beat up at a soccer match or break into spontaneous clogging ( I always wondered where you could shine with a hobby like that). But, when Mikaela left youth behind and crossed the double digits age threshold, she began to be uncomfortable with our tangerine accoutrement.
I mistook that for her wanting to be autonomous, express her individuality. Turned out, it was just that she didn't like the color or the constant observations from strangers who felt compelled to share their delightfully clever perceptions, such as "Whoa, all you guys are in orange?!" Or, at Home Depot, "Hey, all ya'll could work here - you're already in uniform!"

So, time passed slowly in the orange fleeces and Mikaela winced. A lot. To her relief, we finally had to retire our pullovers (give ourselves a fleecing) when the zippers had broken, most of the piping was dangling in shriveled loops, and the girls, whose wrists protruded noticeably, would no longer accept my explanation that it was fashionable to wear ¾ length sleeves. 

Faced with this major life transition, Katrianna declared "Let's find golden colored fleeces!" I admit, I didn't get it at first. She explained, "Then we can say we're all on a Quest of the Golden Fleeces!!" Presented with that sort of reasoning, I immediately took up the inspired cause and, like Jason & his Argonauts, we spent a few more weeks trying to fulfill the promise of a holy pun. But, by Jove, fate was against us and our noble efforts were for naught. There were no golden fleeces to be had in them there hills, sporting goods stores or numerous, treacherous shopping mauls.

Mikaela was going to get her wish at last and exercise her independence, strike out on her own, distance herself from her parents and younger sibling as all prideful and self-conscious tweens should.  After the humiliating, drawn out experience of matching the rest of us, she had complete freedom and could choose anything she wanted, any color, any style, just for her and her alone. Katrianna, at the tender age of 7, should do the same. It might not be verbatim, but I told them something along the lines of "Go forth, my daughters, and embrace this challenge so you emerge stronger and more self-assured." (Not exactly the Native American rite of passage involving dark woods and stalking prey, but close enough.)

We would find ourselves, along with our selves, at the SuperMall. (If I'd paid attention to Seventeen magazine as an adolescent, I would have known that all along.) We split up. Battling "my little babies are growing up" syndrome side effects, I left the girls to shop with Dad and went off to face the clothes racks alone.

Though still somewhat bereft at the loss of the golden fleeces Platonic ideal, I realized that I could now choose a jacket I actually liked. Orange was my husband's favorite color, not mine. Let the girls pick magenta or aquamarine or stripes or polka dots.  I could pick a lighter color, one that didn't so highlight my ever-expanding network of wrinkles...  In fact, I could totally drop the fleece idea and perhaps get a sweater. I could have a decidedly more mature, sophisticated look, and thereby accept my aging gracefully and stylishly. Wow, all of this profundity while wandering around in department stores! I'd always hated shopping, especially for clothes, but even I could see it was a significant and necessary psychological step for the girls, as well as for me and Chris. I made my selection and returned to meet the family.

When we reunited, their excited exclamations confirmed my resolve that we were doing the right thing. Until M&K slowed down long enough for me to understand that they'd in fact picked out matching tops. I sternly looked at their father, shaking my head that he hadn't let them decide for themselves. But, they protested, they loved them and they wanted to match again!  I explained all the reasons why this was a bad idea, referring to Mikaela's growing complaints and developing sense of self. For both of them, I repeated, it's healthy, perfectly normal and inevitable to want to be different. They countered that they had always chosen matching clothes before and that they had feigned dislike of the attention it incurred. They kept hugging each other, seemed ridiculously sincere and happy and, besides, we were causing a scene which was what I'd thought we were trying to avoid in the first place... 

I relented and they jumped around discussing the merits of their choices.  Then, all at once, the girls reached into their bag and I into mine to show off our new & improved assertions of divergent self-expression:

I'm still trying to adjust to the radical change and distancing this has created in our mother-daughter relationships. 

In my defense, I immediately suggested I return my sweater and pick something else, but the kids talked me out of it. Chris, an incurable sap who never saw the problem with orange fleeces in the first place, was elated. He ran to the men's section to find a male version of a matching cream sweater.

Like all moms out there, I struggled with knowing exactly when to broach certain topics with my kids. When to assume they were mature enough for sensitive discussions about those "taboo" subjects that make all parents pause and shudder. Yes, you know the ones.

Things like beheadings, backstabbings, extramarital affairs, illegitimate children, political assassinations, love triangles, polygamy, suicide, disposal of bodies, hiding evidence, miscellaneous subterfuge and, of course, asps. 

Essentially, all the facts of life. Why couldn't I find any chapters on those by the so-called experts Dr. Spock & Dr. Sears?

Well, let me tell you, the perfect age for exposing your impressionable youngster to each of these worthy life lessons is 4 years old. I know what you're thinking, just how long did I think I could keep overprotecting them? Homeschooled kids are so sheltered.

I admit, it wasn't even my idea to teach them any of this so early & in my master syllabus we were to wait for the macabre until kindergarten, at least. I'd adamantly refused to add Shakespearean drama to Richard Scarry selections for our storytimes, despite the kiddos' pleadings and peer pressure.

Really, some homeschooling moms were shocked. They extolled the virtues of condensed versions of Shakespeare's tales retold by Mary & Charles Lamb. They shook their heads at me & questioned whether I truly could have been an English major in college. But, I steadfastly resisted - I suppose it's that dysfunctional, parental urge to preserve childhood for as long as possible. . .  

I just couldn't see how most of the historical plays, tragedies or even comedies transferred very well into abridged, ten page summaries. (If only my high school students had known about the Lamb version, all those wasted minutes reading Cliffs notes could have been saved. . . ) I mean, what's left in Romeo and Juliet: 2 teens go behind their parents' backs, swing around on a balcony one night, a friar actually helps them come up with a completely numskull idea & they both end up killing themselves. There's not even any redeeming Elizabethan blank verse and, horrors, all puns are edited out.   

So, how did I lose control? It was when I least suspected it, got distracted and let Katrianna, a preschooler at the time, check out the comic book version of Egyptian pharaoh history. How could I be so irresponsible, you ask? (Sure, hindsight is always 20/20.)

Before I could "preview" it, she'd zipped through the whole thing in the car on the drive home. She'd been a very enthusiastic Egyptology student and even when we were 'officially done' with our school unit, she'd happily continued to pursue her independent studies. I tried to keep up, but she'd left me in the dust after the middle kingdom. . .

I was none the wiser, a complacent and oblivious parent, until weeks later when the "ides of March" was upon us. I referred to the infamous phrase in passing and then saw a quizzical look on the kids' faces, so I began to explain that it was an important day in Roman history & people thought bad things might happen. . .  before I could get any further, Mikaela interrupted to explain all about omens and how a seer told Julius Caesar he would die that day. I hurriedly shushed her, casting meaningful Quiet! glances in the direction of her little sister who seemed to be listening. Mikaela finally got the subtle hint. All was silent.

Seizing the opening, Katrianna then commenced to fill in the blanks of our stories: "Julius Caesar was surprised and stabbed by some senators, including his buddy Brutus. Marc Antony had tried to stop it, but he was too late."

I thought, Brutus? And not the one who beats up Popeye?

I kneeled down and took her by the hand. "How do you know about Marc Antony, sweetheart?"

"Well, he was one of Cleopatra's boyfriends. Julius Caesar didn't want to leave her after they had a baby, but he had to go back to Rome. Then she and Marc Antony had some kids... twins!"

I was stunned, but she interpreted that as rapt attention so she continued: "And then before Marc Antony could lead an army against the conspur.. conspur.. con-spur-a-ters, he and Cleopatra were caught and he killed himself with a dagger. And then Cleopatra was sad, so she picked up an asp and it stung her, so she died too."

No way, this is not happening was all I could muster in terms of profound response. But, she wasn't finished, only catching her breath.

"Oh, and I forgot!  Before all that, they showed Julius Caesar Pompey's head in a jar of honey." *

A jar of honey? And, for my daughters, that evokes not Pooh & Piglet, but a decapitated Pompey? (These are the same girls who at that time couldn't get through the witch & apple scene in Snow White. Apparently, make-believe, Disney violence is a lot more frightening than the real deal.)

At that moment, it dawned on me that I had misunderestimated** my little homeschoolers. They were, in fact, not ready for independent study. That evening at bedtime, all together, we began reading aloud Shakespeare's Romeo and Juliet, since really the bard could add nothing with his rendition of Julius Caesar.


Editorial note: I realize I reneged on my personal blogging vow and posted a whole entry here without any puns. True, some subjects are just inherently lacking in humor, but I still acknowledge I've let everyone down. As the Romans might say before throwing me to the lions, "What the Hail, Caesar?! That was really bad forum."
 
Ahh, that makes me feel much gladiator. Two thumbs up!


*For the historical sticklers, it was actually Alexander's body that was stored in honey & Pompey's head which was presented in a basket. Katrianna's confusing them is evidence of our slacker, half-asped approach to history. Better get back to the basics. "Kids, go outline some chapters in a textbook." 

**Don't judge. It happens to the best of us, doesn't it, Dubya?
 

We did not originally plan to homeschool our kids, but we found ourselves doing just that in lieu of enrolling Mikaela, only days after her 5th birthday, in a class of second and third graders so she might fit in academically. By the time Katrianna was a 3 year old, reading by herself and also deemed "too far ahead," we were fully immersed and enjoying the benefits of learning at home and all over Texas.

Then, in 2004, Chris started his consulting company which allowed him to work from home, as well. That soon resulted in a "great awakening," ironically presenting us with the ultimate paradox: Now that we schooled at home and my husband worked at home, why in the world were we staying home?

"Globeschooling" became our reality.  Now in our fifth year of homeschooling while traveling, we've visited 18 states, 17 national parks & 11 countries. It's like mini semesters abroad for all four of us to share and experience together, only without the college credit or student loans. In what sometimes feels like a global game of tag, our "home base" is Texas, where we catch our breath, recover, get some work done & plot strategy for the next adventure.   

Often our destinations are determined by Chris' work, but sometimes they are simply driven by our curiosity (and, if more than a couple of miles are required, we're usually also driven by our car...  named Hermes. Wait, who would be so pretentious as to name their car after a Greek god, messenger to Olympus? OK, so that was just a joke. To actually believe it, you'd have to think we were capable of christening our dog 'Picasso.' And that would be ridiculous.)

    
Now, you ask (and you're not alone), is this globeschooling really a mid-life crisis in disguise? Well, we prefer to humbly refer to it as "our little intellectual and spiritual epiphany," but because methinks protesting too much is in vain-ity, I admit that perhaps it could be some manifestation of a mid-life crisis. But, it is one that skips the sports car, divorce and/or plastic surgery and instead opts for taking one's spouse and kids along for the ride. So, along with you, they too can discover the truths in themselves, their family and the meaning of life. Sure, all of that is trivial and superficial, but you can supplement with math workbooks & science experiments to prove you're providing them a worthwhile education.  


We did have many concerns and reservations when we started. Yet, though it appears counterintuitive, so far our odyssey has built cohesion, continuity and a deep sense of stability that belies the uncertain, itinerary-shifting surface appearance. We have been welcomed in homeschool groups at home and throughout the country, the girls have made friends around the world, they experience history up close, they see the homes and hike the countryside described in the novels of their favorite writers... They find identification within their town and their state, but also see beyond themselves, as Americans among the many states and regions that have gained resonance after our visits, and as proud, appreciative Americans who are simultaneously "citizens of the world." Above all, I hope that the kids are gleaning from what we're doing that the world is an adventure to be explored and that it instills in them confidence, enthusiasm, and a sense of possibility with unlimited horizons, both physical and philosophical. 

But, as good as this sounds, it still does not quell or satisfactorily answer the eternal and reverberating question of those back home: "Now, why [insert invocation of God here, either for blessing purposes or in conjunction with a colorful string of twangy expletives] would you ever want to step foot outside of Texas?"  As far as they're concerned, we'll just never learn.

March Madness has started a little early around here. Only for us, it's not on a basketball court. Our 3-point baskets are hanging, netted with nothing but peat moss, and bricks, in small shards, are added to the soil to achieve perfect pH balance.

So, move over, Mike Krzyzewski:

Katrianna has convinced the whole family to participate in a "Grow Off!"
                    Are you ready for this?

Yes, it's a round-robin-redbreast tournament to determine who can grow the healthiest plants.  (Vegas lists "Little Sprout" with a -6½ point spread over "Big Sis." Parents aren't expected to make it out of the first round.)

My daughter's intense interest in sprouting seeds is not so much for our consumption, but serves as a necessary developmental step in her dreams of large-scale cultivation. Her future plans to be a naturalist have long included setting up Katrianna's Nature Center to oversee endangered animal breeding programs.

In her pitch to get us to make gardening part of this year's homeschooling studies, she explained it as follows: It is imperative that we devote ourselves to honing our gardening skills in preparation for one day, in the very near future, when she will have to grow healthy and abundant foods to feed all of those endangered animals. We aren't just doing this for her, understand, we are doing this to save all of the world's endangered animals from starvation. (She was astute enough to pick this tactic instead of simply admitting her budding sibling rivalry - see previous post.)

Recently, she also added a new "growth potential" caveat, outlined in her 501(c)3 charity proposal (now at 17 pages and counting), that she plans to "branch out" into endangered plant propagation and save all those threatened botanical species, as well. So there, put up your Dukes, Coach K and Jane Goodall!

At this very moment, we have all sorts of sprouting vegetable, herb and flower seeds indoors. In addition, Katrianna's "forcing" an Amaryllis bulb by the tried and true method (just pin its leaves behind its back, eventually it cries uncle). She's also making eyes at several sprouting potatoes, performing intricate kiwi experiments & hatching pinecones in hopes of reforesting the entire western United States.

Finally, during this morning's breakfast, she successfully captured some squirmy pomegranate seeds from a fresh fruit and potted them up. Relying on the De-meter system as my measure, I wouldn't let her eat any more than six of the seeds, though... Just in case she pulled a Persephone and inadvertently managed to delay spring. Don't you Hades when that happens?

Today, President Obama met with British Prime Minister Gordon Brown. As much as I support and admire Obama, his glaring diplomatic misstep in the press conference afterwards was a bit embarrassing. And I quote BBC news, 

"Asked about their personal rapport, Mr Obama said they had 'spectacular wives and wonderful children in common'."

That's all fine and good, but I'm afraid Obama was merely showing his neophyte understanding of interpersonal and political dynamics by citing such a transparent and superficial connection. Proof? Well, when George W was asked about what he had learned after a crucial first meeting with Tony Blair, he was ready. Relying on all of his years of international experience and personal charisma, Dubya stunned the world with his incisive grasp of the relevant when he responded: "We both use Colgate toothpaste."

To his credit, however, Obama recovered somewhat when he noted: "Great Britain is one of our closest and strongest allies and there is a link and bond there that will not break."

To what bond is Obama referring? Some might think it's our common heritage under British rule. Or, perhaps, our shared preference for English muffins over a breakfast bagel. It could simply be the use of the English language (or a semblance thereof in the case of US leaders that make me wax nostalgic).  But, all true policy pundits immediately know what Obama was getting at. The real tie that binds us Americans to our British compatriots -in-spirit is one thing and one thing only: really bad jokes.

(Could it be that Bush was inadvertently and unwittingly more astute than we all realized?  I guess we'll just have to do like he says and "See what the history books decide." Oh, I can hardly wait.)

Obama clarified: "This notion that somehow there is any lessening of that special relationship is misguided... The relationship is not only special and strong but will only get stronger as time goes on." Gordon Brown concurred, stating, "I have come here to renew our special relationship for new times. It is a partnership of purpose born out of shared values."

They both went on to warn about the dangers of isolationism and the prosperity that is certain if we all refuse to "'project inwards' by encouraging protectionism." I wholeheartedly agree. If we cannot come together with our English cousins in fair and equal comedic commiseration, with an unfettered exchange of goods, services and puns in particular, how can we ever expect to find common ground on other, less significant issues like preventing world economic disaster? Let's learn from our past. It wasn't called the Great Depression for nothing.

I didn't really need this segueway to discuss bad British humor as a means of excusing my own. I admit I've been feeling sheepish and somewhat apologetic about my pun-laden prose since this blog's inception and have been mulling how to go about redeeming myself intellectually ...  But, just yesterday, I caught sight of this headline on BBC's front page news:

            Wheely bad: Thefts hit Paris bike scheme

With that, I feel absolutely no need to recuse myself from future blogging and the lofty heights to which I pun. Besides, even Shakespeare includes a healthy smattering of puns in his plays, so I figure I'm in good company. (True, his use of such undignified humor was an attempt to amuse and thereby quell the low-class, raucous urchins who occupied the pit of his Globe... But, then again, how is his writing so different from mine?   Now, if you keep reading, blame only yourself.) 

I am not asserting that England has any claim to superiority in comedy. For instance, despite calling myself an English major, I never ever could tolerate Monty Python marathons - any clever allusions in Holy Grail are unmercifully negated by chauvinistic slapstick that fully escapes my sensibilities. And, despite his eerie resemblance to my husband (at least according to several of my admiring/bewildered students), Mr Bean does little for my desires to relax heavy & punitive protectionist taxes on imported humor.

But, in terms of "the man on the street," in our travels thus far, we consistently find the grandest rapport with the gentlefolk we meet in Great Britain. (No slight intended to Joe Six-Pack, Main Street America, you betcha!) Sure, part of it is our common language, but it is also a shared willingness to use language for inclusion, nuance and a certain joie de vivre. (Mais oui, bien sûr, that is borrowed French...  but the French too often miss the point, so it's okay to appropriate their phrases. Besides, the girls and I actually speak French, but, in our months there, we enjoyed little in the way of repartee or outreach beyond our being repeatedly corrected on the pronunciation of Juuuuuules Verrrrrrrne. Quel dommage. Zut alors!)

Two examples of England's convivial conversationalism occurred in Dorchester. We'd gone there on a quest for Thomas Hardy, but then got sidetracked by King Tut. (Isn't that always the way?) We'd arrived a little later in the afternoon than we'd hoped, meaning we'd just missed the admission hours for Hardy's home tour, so we found ourselves with an unexpected Hardy hometown respite.





We strolled over to the Mayor of Casterbridge's house, took an obligatory photo while we tried unsuccessfully to recall the plot of said novel, & wandered around until we serendipitously entered the world-famous, two-roomed Dorchester Museum. (Travel tip: The exceedingly friendly receptionist talked us into purchasing the more economically-advantageous family annual membership, so that, in the likely event that we did not complete our perusal of their expansive collections, we could enjoy unlimited return visits.)














To my young Egyptologist's delight, the touring exhibit on display was that of actual replicas of King Tut objects, most of them in the ultra-realistic medium of wax (allowing us to skip a visit to Madame Tussaud's, so it was worth every pence). Lest you doubt the thrill of this experience, let me brag on and say that the ticket included an added sensory bonus - when we entered the makeshift tomb, it was exactly as it had been the moment Howard Carter broached it in 1922, down to the odiferous supplementary whiffs authentically discharged from a retrofitted Glade plug-in.  This diversion was not on our planned itinerary, but it was nonetheless edifying. Indeed, before that moment, I'd never known King Tut was a Hardy boy...






I know, there's no humor in that. I'm getting to the funny part now.












When reentering the light of day and 2007, we squinted and rubbed our eyes only to find ourselves amid festive preparations for the Queen's grand procession. Apparently, Dorchester is the only town in all of merry England still permitted to assemble a queen's volunteer militia.  We found a place among the waiting throng of Dorchester's multitudes, when my husband loudly quipped, "What are we all waiting for? A public hanging?" From the elderly gaggle of ladies next to us came: "Certainly, of Tony Blair." With that introduction, they graciously forgave us for being Texans, and we all immediately and with ease proceeded into a discussion of the merits of public beheadings and the foibles of the various King Georges on both sides of the Atlantic.  We were having a jolly old time, but weren't sure if they were just humoring us Yanks from o'er the pond, when we suddenly realized our amusement and delight was genuine and mutual. While we were passing the time in anxious anticipation of seeing one of the women's husbands marching by in his regiment, I'd glanced up just long enough to become disconcerted by a man passing us with a ridiculous, leering grin aimed right for me and my young daughters. I dismissed it, as our little group's hilarity and social protocol regained my attentions. It wasn't until we looked out onto any empty street that the woman realized the whole parade was finished and she'd forgotten to even notice her husband...  we quickly exchanged pleasantries and cheerios as she ran off to find him. It was only much later, when I got our pictures developed and again saw that scary old man so intent on catching our eye, that I realized I had seen her shining knight-at-arms after all.

After such excitement, we elected to pass that night in Dorchester and resign ourselves to a drive by (photo) shooting of Hardy's home at dawn.  I'd read in my handy guidebook that Max Gate, the name given Hardy's residence, was now a National Trust site, as well as a semi-private residence occupied by a couple who were esteemed members of the Thomas Hardy Society. Visiting days and hours where very limited, with tours seldom offered, and we'd missed our chance due to being so understandably caught up by the festive regalia and charms of Dorchester. Arriving that morning outside of the gated compound at the edge of town, and finding that its sign verily confirmed that we were not welcome until 3 days hence, Chris consoled himself by stealthily trespassing to snap a memento (we are Americans, after all). Fortuitously, in the garden, he tripped over the cord of the electric weedeater wielded masterfully by Sir Andrew, aka custodian of the estate.  We've all read enough Hardy and Dickinsonian English tales to know what happened next, have we not?  That's right. We were all invited in for tea and a spontaneous, gratuitous, private tour of Hardy's home. We flipped through pages in Hardy's personal photo albums as we were regaled with as much Hardy lore as we could heed.


Much to our surprise, we were told that Hardy was a sentimental man. He loved animals and had several pets. In fact, the caretaker continued, when a pet died he carved and engraved a tombstone for each of them with his own hands.  In particular, he recalled, Hardy had loved a cat named Snowball. But one day, tragically, Snowball had made his way over to the railroad tracks and was fatally struck. Hardy was devastated. My girls listened intently and nodded somberly. Oh, to be privy to such intimate details, we all felt privileged. He next insisted that we follow him outside and around the grounds to Hardy's pet cemetery, a quiet, shady grove scattered with a few small, stone markers. It was tranquil and humbling to stand there, where Hardy had taken such care of those dear to him. Our guide pointed out the names - a lap dog there, his wife's favorite collie here... Finally, he carefully directed our attention to a headstone which read "Here Lies Snow." And, a few feet over, "Here Lies Ball."  Only then, did he emit a hardy laugh at our expense.

As his wide smile displayed his gleaming white teeth which glistened in the English sunshine, it made me wonder, "Could it be he uses Colgate, too?"

How did it ever occur to us to study such a radical subject as gardening? It could not have anything to do with the fact that every single "What your child should learn" syllabus lists it as a mandatory science item for alternating years until graduate school (or the 5th grade, whichever comes first). Our approach to the subject was surely more original & organic than that...  

Katrianna was the one to push seed sprouting as part of her academic agenda this year. But, in the interest of full disclosure, please note: We do not claim to have invented the lima-bean-in-a-ziplock experiment. As far as I know, kids have been doing that one since around the time man first discovered fire. Only they used those other baggies, the old-fashioned kind, with the fold-in flaps. That's right, the kind we parents used to pack our pb&j in for summer camp, the ones made from the lining of goats' stomachs instead of the "zipper seal." But same idea. (Note to Homeschoolers: add this bit of trivia to your homemade world history timeline, charted on scrolling butcher paper, which winds its way around your dining room and down the hall.)  

Really, if you want to learn more about lima bean sprouting origins, just take the guided Lascaux cave tour in France. (Did you think they painted all the time?)

And, as much as I'd also like to claim Katrianna's gardening interest was an offshoot of my playing Audrey Hepburn and our touring around the Gardens of the World, that's just not so either. It was not the result of seeing Monet's Giverny, British Columbia's sunken gardens, Portland's famed roses, or even Stratford-Upon-Avon's very own "Shakespearean herb garden" (bet Shakespeare wished he'd thought to capitalize on that back in the 1600s - he might not have had to struggle with playwriting & instead could have turned his father's glove making business into a gardening glove making business, thereby assuring his future success).

No, none of those visits made my daughter green with envy. The real impetus for Katrianna's verdant desires was simply sibling jealousy (but I do claim quite a bit of credit for fostering that whenever possible). When looking through Mikaela's old portfolios last summer, Katrianna found her sister's original flowers & seeds section, completed when Mikaela was 5 and she was 2. Exactly what was the attraction? It wasn't the nifty construction paper seed parts with their movable flip-up features, or the labeled diagram worksheets, or the still life watercolor renditions à la Georgia O'Keefe, or even evidence of her sister's kindergarten attempts at flower-themed Wordsworthian sonnets. 

The pure motivational factor in this sudden passion for gardening was to acquire her own set of pages with seed packets & seed samples glued beside them. That's it. They were colorful, commercial, tactile, and as close as our family comes to displaying glitz & glamour.  And, most importantly to both girls, it was that subtle "I have something you don't have" quality, repeated in singsong delivery week after week, that made it a must-do school project.

Leading us back to Shakespeare, who captured the universality of this phenomenon when he penned that famous, so oft quoted line from Romeo and Juliet:

          Do you bite your green thumb at me, sir?     (Act I, scene i)

So, with that, we will Candide-ly continue to tend our own gardens...