WOLVES

A few weeks ago, I put two of my daughters in the car and we drove to Pennsylvania. This in itself is noteworthy, due to my directional ineptitude. I can barely find my way from one end of Fairfax to  the other. Give me a map, and the chances of me getting lost increase. But aided by the soothing ministrations of the lady in my GPS box, we made it almost all the way to our destination before someone decided to build a new road and the genie of the GPS disappeared back into her lamp, bleating “recalculating route” in a confused stutter.

A quick cellphone call to Hero Hubby and we were pointed back in the right direction. 20 minutes later we were booking into our hotel; a sad, limp establishment, with thin walls and a manically noisy extractor fan in the bathroom. But it had two Queen beds and a TV. What more could the girls want? Once they had exhausted themselves jumping from bed to bed they settled down to watch Spongebob.

 Later, Jessica did have a moment of homesickness (for her laptop) but we played an ad lib game of pictionary which had her laughing hysterically at my very bad character drawings of snow white and the seven dwarfs, and later still we went out to dinner at the semi posh Olive Garden, where she stuffed herself with breaded scampi until she felt sick and happy. (Rebecca had a far more sedate mac and cheese).

Back at the hotel I fell asleep to them singing and telling ghost stories. I was woken briefly at 2am to find Jessica shaking me to inform me that I was snoring. 

I don’t know what time they got to sleep, but they weren’t particularly enthusiastic to be roused at 7.30. Then they remembered why we were there. We had come to see the wolves at Speedwell Wolf Sanctuary.

Another 30 minutes of listening to Mrs GPS as we drove through beautiful old towns of rural Pennsylvania, past farms and the occasional horse drawn Amish buggy vying for road space with cars, motorbikes and massive trucks. No wonder the horses always look so angry.

The wolves at Speedwell are beautiful, and as keen as the visitors for the tour to start. This may have had something to do with the full bucket of raw chicken the tour guide was carrying. Wolf noses were pressed against wire meshed fences, long pink tongues protruding to lick enticing pimply fleshed morsels. Teeth were bared and alphas snapped at over-eager omegas, letting us all know who was boss.

All the wolves have a story, from Chipper, (half wolf, half lab and so much like a dog it seems cruel to lock him up behind an 8 foot fence. All he needs is a cuddle and a snooze by the fire) to Thor (full wolf but abandoned because he was blind).

Most had come to the sanctuary from homes ill equipped to care for full grown wild beasts which, we were informed again and again, is what wolves are. They may look endearingly cuddly and Fido-like as they wag their tails and prance around, but They Are Wild Beasts. 

Find out more about the wolf sanctuary and it's history. It is well worth a visit.

The Fat Orange Cat is Sitting on the Table

Today my 9 year old has been learning about adjectives and my 17 year old has been practicing her procrastination skills.

An adjective is a describing word. 

For example: 

“This is a long, yellow pencil”. 

“I have a fat, orange cat”. 

“My fat, orange cat is sitting on the table”. 

“My fat orange cat is sitting on the untidy, overcrowded kitchen table.”

“My dog Billy is big, black, naughty and extremely smelly ”

“My younger sisters are ravenously hungry and noisily demanding lunch”

“I have some cool, new mouth guards for when I play rugby”

"Facebook is a popular, fun and useful social media site"

Procrastination is a noun. Definition: - to postpone or delay needlessly. 

For example:

It has taken me so long to actually start doing my work because I had to sharpen the blunt point of my long yellow pencil. 

I haven’t, as yet, got round to actually doing anything which could be construed as ‘work’ because the fat orange cat, sitting on the untidy, overcrowded table, demanded that I feed him by meowing piteously.

The overpowering stench emanating from my big, black dog Billy made me violently ill and I was therefore unable to complete my work in a satisfactory manner. 

As a kind, thoughtful act, I have selflessly put off starting my difficult essay in order to make a healthy, hot, appetizing lunch for my wonderful, younger sisters.

Oh look! I had forgotten that my Mother had bought me some sparkling, new mouth guards only four short days ago. I know that I could easily have got them ready to wear over the  past weekend, but it is so much better to do it right now, just when I should be getting on with my work.

I had to update my facebook page with some crazy pics of me in Sunny Las Vegas!

lakeside

When I am at the lake I don’t care. I don’t care that the Wii fit calls me obese. I happily wear my tankini. Every day. All day.

I don’t care that there are dishes piled in the sink. Someone will deal with them eventually. The kitchen cabinets in this rental are full to overflowing with plates and cups and glasses anyway. 

I don’t care that my children haven’t washed their hair in a week. It’s sticking out at odd angels, and turning an interesting shade of green ... who is there to see it but the fish?

I don’t care about news, or the weather ... it’s sunny here ... why would I need to know about flooding and tornadoes? (As long as they aren’t heading this way)

I don’t care that my kids are surviving on fizzy drinks and crisps. They eat the odd apple, and yesterday I cut up some celery. Tonight I cooked pasta (and added sauce from a jar ... extravagance!)

Today we jumped in the lake. Again and again. And again. The kids and their Daddy fished off the dock. They caught bluegill after bluegill and learnt how to take the hook out without hurting the fish (or themselves.) They caught a massive carp, and marveled at its huge sucking jaws, thankful it didn’t have teeth. The bass evaded Daddy’s line yesterday, but today he was lucky. A happy man, my husband.

I swung in the hammock in the sun, strung between two tall skinny oaks, and thought about reading my book. Instead I closed my eyes and listened to my children and the lapping of the water. And I slept. 

Later I played table tennis with my two oldest girls and we laughed at how bad we were as we spent more energy looking for the ball than hitting it over the net.

We hired a speed boat, pulled the girls along behind on the tube, and watched as they squealed in delight, riding the wake, bouncing. Dipped and bucked. And begged for more.

It’s dusk now, and Daddy and baby girl have just headed back down to the dock.  8 year olds (and 46 year olds) are still excited about the thought of night fishing.

I am going to curl up somewhere with my book and relax. 

I love my holiday.

Pentecost

Today is the first Sunday of Pentecost in the Anglican Church calendar.
The day we celebrate God sending the Holy Spirit to his disciples. A day of praise and thanksgiving. N.T. Wright says it quite well.
Our Church encourages the wearing of red, symbolizing fire, or clothes from another country (though I don't think they mean the "made in China" label), which reminds us of the disciples speaking in foreign tongues.
As usual in the Harris House, things were going less than smoothly this morning. Due to a late night, we were all tired and grumpy. "Tongues of Fire" has a different meaning when you're dealing with my sleep deprived young.
We had plenty of red rimmed eyes, but a distinct lack of red clothes.
Jessica has one red t shirt. "Don't Talk To Me" it proclaims in jagged black script. How apt, I mused, as she snarled at me over breakfast.
Rebecca has a red England Football shirt. "I'm not wearing THAT" she declared in a tone which refused debate. Okay then.
Andy found his sole red shirt at the bottom of the dirty laundry pile. I don't think so.
Of course Bethany and I had pre-planned our Sunday wardrobe (2 out of 6 ain't bad) and at the last minute Andy remembered an old red T Shirt which he donned happily.
Church looked bright and cheerful this morning.
Happy Pentecost

hands up if you know the answer!

When I was in my early 20’s I took a job masquerading as a primary school teacher in an Independent fee paying school in Central London.
I don’t really know why the head teacher employed me, as I was vastly inexperienced and under-qualified. I blame it on the fact that her hormones were all over the place (she was 7 months pregnant) and she didn’t really know what she was doing.

So there I was, in a classroom of over bright over achieving 10 year olds, making it up as I went along. This was before the world wide web, so I had no resources other than the local library, books on the classroom shelves, and mine and my flatmates imaginations.
I could cope (just about) with the arts. I remember with fondness a project we did on Zaire.
But I also had to teach maths.
When I look back on those months, I am amazed I didn’t die of a stress related illness.
Those of you who know me well will testify to my utter incompetence in this subject.
There were days when I would be writing a sum on the board, one I had painstakingly reviewed the previous evening with my flatmate Sally, (a fortifying whisky in one hand, a cigarette in the other ... and I didn’t smoke .. this is how bad things were) and my mind would go blank. I could not remember how to do it. So I would say to David, an incredibly clever 10 year old with glasses and a posh Home Counties accent who sat in the front row, “David, would you like to show the class how you would answer this particular problem?” And David would happily take over while I slumped in my chair and sweated.
And then my worst nightmare ... I have a vivid recollection of going into a major panic the night before I was due to start teaching fractions. At midnight I called Andy, sobbing, and over the phone he guided me through a simple lesson on the basics. I cannot remember how things went the next day, maybe it was so bad my brain deleted the memory.
I was eventually sacked. A good thing, all considered.
And now here I am, attempting to teach my 12 year old daughter math. And again, I am getting hysterical over fractions. And, just like last time, Andy is coming to my rescue. I think I married the right man.

The homeschool journey part 2. What On Earth Am I Doing?

I have moments of intense anxiety.
I often feel that I am no good at this.
I don’t know what I am doing.
How can I expect to make a go of homeschooling when I am the most disorganized person I know? (and I know some pretty disorganized people).

I am not a morning person. We do not have a regular start time for school. If we begin before 10 I am happy. (well, when I say happy, I mean slightly less stressed)
I am selfish with my time. I admit that if I had my way I would be reading constantly. And not books about how to mark essays, or how to really understand how your child learns. I would be reading the new Kate Atkinson from cover to cover.
Instead I am reading it covertly whilst sitting on the toilet, taking the longest pee in history, my bum numb and my toes stricken with pins and needles and a small voice echoing up the stairs “... Mummy, where are you?”
And why did I decide it would be a good idea to teach the unteachable child at home? If the Special Ed team at the local school couldn’t get her to concentrate, why the heck did I think I could?
I love her to bits. She is adorable in her quirky mind blowing ways. She makes me laugh. She makes me cry. She makes me scream into my pillow. I fight her every step of the way and at the end of a long torturous day she has produced a smudgy misspelled illegible piece of work not worthy of a 5 year old.
And then I remember that this is my unique Jessica I am dealing with. The child who cannot do what the book is asking her to do. Her brain isn’t wired like that. So the next day, I make it easier on both of us by acknowledging this. And I ask her to make a cartoon strip of the first 8 chapters of Anne of Green Gables (why didn’t LM Montgomery do it that way in the first place?)
Most days she does very little. But I attempt to reassure myself that she did very little at school too. And I know she is happier doing it at home.
And I tell myself (As people helpfully remind me) that it is early days yet. I am beginning to worry ever so slightly that I cannot keep churning out that trite phrase forever.

I know that the youngest is learning. Her reading is improving almost daily. This 7 year old, who, a month ago tested a reading age of 5, will hopefully, by the time she is 8, have the reading age of a 6 year old (as if all that actually matters anyway ... for goodness sake .. she loves books, what more could I want?)
The oldest is of course extremely capable and I worry about her too ... I worry that I have taken her out of a system where she was challenged and brought her into a place of chaos where she can underachieve to her hearts content. She writes and reads and does her math. I need to make sure she does it all well.

I love to read to them. That is a plus. One of the easiest parts.
The rest is bloody hard work. The keeping up with them. The making sure they are getting it done. The checking, critiquing, planning. The worry that I am not checking critiquing and planning enough ...
I can manage the guilt trips and the panic attacks quite well.
I need to enjoy jumping off the ledge a bit more ... the whole free fall thing.
I need to learn patience and grace and I need to learn to trust God. He is, after all, the reason I am doing this.

My First Week Back At School

Monday.
A day of planning and attempting to find the dining room table and floor.
Relieved to eventually rediscover both.

Tuesday.
No morning rush. How wonderful.
Children's responses to Day 1 ranged from delight to apathy to incredulity.
Realized that much of the "I just want to sit in this corner and play my computer games" attitude was less to do with my capabilities as a teacher and more to do with the fact that they had just had 3 months of doing absolutely nothing at all (other than sitting in this corner playing their computer games). A brief period of adjustment would, of course, be necessary.

Wednesday.
I like the stress free mornings ... I really do ...
Child 3 got up with no prompting, had breakfast, emptied the dishwasher for me, fed and cleaned out her rabbits, brushed her teeth and got dressed.
This was obviously too much for her delicate constitution.
She informed me she was incapable of reading her book due to exhaustion. So we settled for attempting a chapter of her writing book. This was not successful either, owing to an attack of some strange hitherto unheard of malady, which manifested itself through the rolling of eyes and the falling off chairs in dramatic fashion (accompanied by unnatural grimacing, general groans and moans and a fierce clutching of the head as though in intense pain).
I eventually resorted to adapting the requirements of the lesson in the book to suit her particular learning style, and the assignment was duly completed with no fuss.
Later in the day the chapter of Anne of Green Gables was started. An hour and thirty minutes later two pages had been read. After a degree of internal struggle, (and to her delight and my relief), I read the rest of the chapter to her.
Child 4 wrote in her journal, and drew a picture to accompany the story. She completed a word search and read a book to me.
Child 2 did everything she was told to do and more.

Thursday was Taekwondo Day. Child 3 and 4's exuberance for the subject was dampened slightly by the lesson's start time of 8.40 am. I was extremely pleased, upon retrieving them, to discover they had enjoyed it immensely.
Children were slightly miffed to learn there would be school upon the return home. Surely a martial arts lesson at that unearthly time in the morning constituted a full days work?

Friday
child 3 familiarized herself with her new math workbook. Her enthusiasm was in no small part due to the knowledge that the work can all be completed using her beloved computer.
Child 4 was introduced to math manipulatives. 1st Grade in school did little to promote an understanding of numbers for her, so maybe she and I can learn from the beginning together.
Child 2 happily got on with all her assignments.