Yesterday was my daughter’s birthday party. She turned five a few days before. After all the stress and worry I put myself through, it actually went well. Even the cake looked pretty good. I could have gotten a much prettier one from a bakery, of course, but where’s the fun in that?

Anyway, I’ve been generally feeling like I am floundering, both in homeschooling and in life. I get overwhelmed and I just don’t keep on top of things the way I want. Other moms in this area don’t usually have birthday parties at home. It’s Not Done. If for some reason a person does have one at home, they hire entertainment. Even for babies, parties are held in restaurants or play spaces with programmed activities. Every single party we’ve had has been at home. This year I was planning to have a skating party. There is an ice rink close by and they have party rooms, and I thought it would be fun to have a party there since Bunny loves to ice skate.

But January is so full that I never managed to make that plan happen. And we had a great time anyway, probably better than if we’d gone to a skating rink. So I have to reconsider the wisdom of those fancier parties.

Also, as part of the party we had the kids do a treasure hunt. My kid read the clues aloud as they found them and had the cognitive flexibility to figure out how to look for the clues. She did have the ‘home team’ advantage going for her, but I was still proud of her.

Bottom line is, however badly I’m doing, dd si still learning better with me than her equally smart friends are in our local oft-touted preschool program.

April may be the cruelest month, but January is the busiest. There’s New Years, the getting of late holiday gifts, my mother’s birthday, my daughter’s birthday followed the next day by my stepdaughter’s birthday, and the class I teach at Cherry Hill Seminary begins this month as well.

That’s three birthday presents, two to three parties, and some technical glitches, all while at least one of us generally has a cold or flu.

My daughter, Bunny, turned five yesterday. Because of my desire to buy things not made in China, she got a lot of books for Yule, and she got more books for her birthday. She likes books, but she also likes games, toys and dolls, and I am very much afraid that her holidays have sucked AND that its entirely my fault. As the icing on the proverbial cake, I was planning to order her a cake this year. But you have to order them a week ahead, and her party is tomorrow. I remembered this yesterday.

Early in the day, in a complete panic, I bought a carousel bundt cake pan online. That will be here today. It’s not Dora, but it could made to be, and I thought a carousel cake would be adorable. Then I found pictures of the finished cake. It’s ugly, and it can’t be frosted because you lose the detailing. Can you imagine getting your kid an ugly cake with no frosting for their fifth birthday? Talk about a birthday to remember!

In a flurry of last-minute guilt and panic, I tried to order several things from Amazon to be overnighted so I could make a Dora castle cake in time. I also wanted to order a magical shoe cottage (a plastic dollhouse shaped like a boot and complete with fairies and furniture). And I could have purchased all of that, but even overnight it wouldn’t arrive till at least Monday.

So nix on that. What’s the point of calling it next day delivery if it isn’t?

Today I need to schlepp Bunny and I out into the winter and shop.

So dd4 has a bump on her side. It started out looking like a bug bite, but it’s gotten progressively bigger and redder. Thanksgiving day I decided I need to get her to a doctor, but of course no one was open for the next 4 days. On that next Monday I took her to a nearby ped–not our regular one, because he’s a schlepp away and the weather wasn’t nice. I’ve been to this other place once before and wasn’t terribly impressed, but whatever, I can’t be too choosy.

The doc came in and started asking dd questions about what she does in school. The ped was writing while talking, and I couldn’t tell whether she was writing about this or something else. So I interjected that I hs. She took that in stride and began asking dd what she studies. Dd said she didn’t know. So I again interrupted and asked her what we’d done that morning, hadn’t we painted, hadn’t we done math, etc. The ped was *still* writing.

I felt so defensive. I felt like if dd didn’t answer well it would go on her *permanent record* in the office of a pediatrician I don’t intend to see again. Like she might call child welfare and turn me in for educational neglect of my preschooler, in a state where school isn’t required till she turns 6 anyway.

It was ridiculous. She was probably just making conversation anyway while she wrote about other things. And even if she wasn’t, what was she going to do? How could she evaluate anything based on 2 questions to a kid who was a stranger to her? And what expertise does she have in evaluating educational progress anyway?

Just by reading that, you can tell I’m *still* nervous about it.

After all was said and done, I left more anxious and a little poorer than I come in, and it turned out the ped had no clue what was wrong with my dd anyway. She told me to go see a dermatologist. Gee thanks.

To forestall the questions, I couldn’t find an open dermatologist so I abused the ER and it took the hospital pediatrician about half a second to diagnose it as a staph infection. Maybe if that doctor worried more about her education and less about my child’s, she’d have figured that out the day before.

Last night I had another nightmare. It’s always the same basic dream, only the details change. It’s the Mom Dream.

When my daughter was born I had it nearly every night for at least a year, maybe two. These days I’m down to a few nights a month. Invariably, in this dream, something dreadful happens to my daughter–and invariably it’s my fault. Usually I lose her in a crowd. Last night I, in a fit of dream logic, was allowing her to play across a busy street from me amidst a ton of pedestrians. I wasn’t watching her, my mind was on a friend (rest assured I only behave this way in my dreams). When I realized I couldn’t see or hear her anymore, I crossed the street to find her. And couldn’t. I woke up in a panic, realized it was just another dream, and tried to get back to sleep. I had a continuation of the same damn dream and decided that 4 am was a good time to get out of bed after all.

This morning we went to the park to play. We were kicking a ball around. I was several feet from her because we were kicking the ball pretty hard. She missed it and ran after it. It rolled towards the open park gate. I started to jog after her and yelled at her to stop. I wasn’t really worried–my girl knows not to leave the park no matter what.

She didn’t stop.

The gate opens onto a corner where two streets intersect. I shifted from a jog to a full tilt run and began screaming at her to STOP!

Eyes on her beloved pink flower ball, she kept on going. The ball was rolling right into the intersection and so was my four year old. I was too far behind and too slow to catch her. Thank goodness she caught the ball; it’s the only reason she stopped. She was perhaps a foot and a half from the curb when I caught up to her.

I’m still shaking. And I’m really not looking forward to telling her dad.

Yet another post that has nothing to do with homeschooling in its stricter sense. It’s about lessons so important that they aren’t covered in curricula.

This morning, I watched the PBS cartoon Arthur with my daughter. It started out about how annoying it is for kids to hear so many ‘no’s. Then the episode was about how important it is to be able to say no when you want to, or need to.

That’s a timely topic.

My friend’s wife’s daughter was just murdered by her abusive boyfriend. She stayed with him for three years, off and on, till he finally killed her. The whole time her family told her to end it, they supported her, but she still always went back. As a child she’d witnessed her father beating the crap out of her mother many times, till her mother finally said NO MORE and left. Unfortunately the daughter was never able to say that herself.

When I was in high school, my friend’s mother killed herself. She had finally left her violent husband, but her culture was against divorce and her younger kids and husband pressured her to get back together with him. She didn’t want to reunite with him, and didn’t want to tell them all no. So she jumped off a high rise instead.

I chat with women in a family group online. A few of them say their husbands are sometimes violent. Some others have guys who manipulate them deliberately. Almost invariably, these women stay in those relationships.

Their reasons are twofold:
1) “But I love him.”
and
2) “I’m not perfect either.”
which I guess means either that they think no one else will want them, or that they aren’t in a position to fairly criticize.

Since I can’t reach through the computer to smack these women, I’m going to answer them here.

1) A healthy relationship includes love, trust, and respect. One of those alone is not enough. Do you trust and respect a man who hits you? I couldn’t. If you don’t, get out. You’ll love again, and you’ll be loved again. Unless you stay with this violent guy–he might just kill you, and then you won’t care much about love anymore.

Are there others in your family that see the violence and suffer its effects? If you love them, get out, because they are being as victimized as you, even more so.

2) So freaking what if you aren’t perfect? You don’t have to be perfect to object to having someone hit you. Unless you are violent towards your partner too, the reasoning doesn’t work.

The last argument is the most ridiculous of all. Would you rather be happy alone or scared and angry in an abusive relationship? If those are the only two options, isn’t it a no-brainer?

Get out, get therapy, and swear off dating for a year till your head is on straight.

I know I am oversimplifying. I know that domestic violence is about control, and that the hitting is just one piece of a larger picture of mental domination. I suspect the victims (of both genders) don’t leave because they feel dependent on their abusers and think they need them.

But I am sad, and frustrated at a problem that, on its face, is easy to solve and yet that traps so many.

Anyway, that’s why my thought for the day is: teach your kids to say no.

Thank goodness I’m able to stay home with my daughter. Aside from the sheer joy of being with her, it keeps her away from the preschools and daycares.

Lately I’ve been seeing a lot of the teachers and kids from Mile Square Daycare. They have nowhere to play so they go to the public parks, where I get to watch them. Yesterday when we arrived at the park I heard a child crying loudly. I automatically took a look around and located a young boy, perhaps 4 or 5 years old, wandering around crying. I went back to watching my daughter, but its a small park and I could hear him continuing to cry. After what seemed to me to be a long time, I looked at my watch. At that point I’d guess we had been in the park for 5-10 minutes, and he’d been crying straight through that time. I have no idea how long this had been going on before we got there either. I watched for the next 20 minutes while he continued to wander the park, crying hysterically. During this time the teachers were standing together chatting. One went over to him and without saying a word pulled him into her lap. That sounds nice but she did it like it was a chore, and he pulled away. She let him. Another walked over, grabbed him,washed his face, and walked away again, all in silence. Finally a third teacher took him by the arm (still not talking) and lead him to the bench near the teachers. One of them said, in a surprised tone, “You still crying?” Like she hadn’t NOTICED.

At this point a fourth teacher went over to talk with him, but by this time nothing intelligible was coming out of his mouth. This lady tried for less than a minute and then walked away laughing with her teacher friends.

They continued to ignore him, and he continued to cry, for the next 10 minutes. Eventually he stopped crying on his own.

This is not the first time I’ve seen them act this way. One of the first times I took notice of this lovely group was when a girl was crying. She walked through the middle of the teacher group and no one so much as looked at her. She then sat down right beside one of the teachers, clearly looking for comfort, and was ignored entirely until she finally gave up and walked away on her own.

It’s Cry It Out for preschoolers. The interesting thing is they don’t treat every child that way. Some come running over crying and a teacher asks them what happened, rubs where they got hurt, and sends them on their way. It’s the difficult kids who seem to be ignored. You know, the ones who take some time and effort to work with. The ones who most need the attention.

Then there’s the real problem child. I don’t know how old she is, I’d guess 3 or 4. She clearly has special needs of some sort. I’ve never seen her talk or heard her make a sound, she even cries silently, and she doesn’t ever play with the other kids.

Anyway, this all takes place in a water park, which is a fairly stupid place for Mile Square to bring these kids since they don’t want to children to get wet (no bathing suits or towels or changes of clothes). There is other playground equipment there too, but the water is the main attraction.

The girl with special needs loves the water. Periodically the teachers tell her to leave the water, or come over, pluck her up, and put her down away from it (always without talking). The only result is that she cries, then gets up and goes back into the water. This child leaves that park SOAKED every day, and she’s going to catch pneumonia, and it will be entirely because of the daycare’s negligence. She either needs to be supervised consistently, or she needs to be provided with a change of clothes so she doesn’t sit around wet all day. I suppose its possible that she has dry clothes in the facility, but if that is so, why do they drag her out of the water and make her cry? Why not just let her get wet and enjoy herself?

I was furious yesterday watching all this. These people should be ashamed, but I suspect that instead they feel their ’strategy’ of ignoring upset kids is working–after all, if no one gives a damn that you cry, eventually you stop crying so much, right? IMO it’s nothing but neglect.

I am so thankful that I don’t have to worry about my child being treated that way.

I’m struggling with incorporating my holidays into dd’s world. On the one hand, I don’t want to push her into anything, on the other I want to bring her up pagan. Yes, these are mutually incompatible goals.

At the moment, I’m doing things simply. We can celebrate Autumn by collecting leaves and pine cones, buying a some decorative gourds and corn, and making a centerpiece. I’m going to try to take us apple picking as well. Maybe we’ll make leaf rubbings too. Unfortunately, while it may be only a few days until the equinox, the leaves are not really changing yet. But I think with some perseverance we’ll find a few.

Here’s a great article by Peg Aloi on Witchvox: http://www.witchvox.com/va/dt_va.html?a=usny&c=holidays&id=12061

When my daughter was younger I had a rule: never be in a hurry. When I was in a hurry, I’d get impatient with her playfulness and snap at her. As she’s gotten older, without really thinking about it I’ve moved away from that rule. When it’s time to do something I want her focussed on doing it NOW. And that’s all well and good, except that what it generally means is some variant of yelling and threats from me or my husband, and my daughter getting her feelings hurt.

I am at a loss.

Getting ready in our house typically goes like this:

I tell my daughter that in a few minutes we’ll be going to the park/store/whatever. She says she’s playing and doesn’t want to go. I give her another minute to finish her game and waste the intervening time on the computer. A few minutes or emails later, I tell her its time to go. NO, she says, she’s PLAY-ing. I tell her that if we don’t go now we won’t go *all morning*. That’s okay with her, she’s enjoying her game. But I know, if she doesn’t, that 15-30 minutes from now she’s going to finish her game and want to go out, and it’ll be too late to go because we have to have lunch on the dot of 12 and have her take her nap no later than 1pm so I can get her up and get to Pilates class at 3:30 without a half asleep and very grouchy preschooler in tow ruining things for everyone.

So I put my foot down. We ARE going to the park. Now she’s angry and motions as if to hit me and runs into her room. Do I punish her for hitting if she knew she wouldn’t connect? Do I want her thinking that shadow-boxing is okay? No, but I also really want to leave.

I give her a little time to calm down and then go into her room. She’s hiding behind the big chair. She’s angry at me for making her stop playing. I tell her I am sorry she’s mad but that we really have to get going if we are going to make it to the park this morning. I remind her how much fun she had just yesterday. I bribe her with thoughts of the sprinklers.

She comes out for a hug.

Now I have to get her ready. I ask her to take off her clothes. She climbs on the bed and jumps on me, demanding a ride. I refuse and tell her to take her clothes off so I can put her bathing suit on. She agrees but sees her stuffed animal and commences seeing if she can make it hit the ceiling. I ask her again to take off her clothes. I sound like a robot, because that’s how I feel, like a human tape recording. She tells me she’s PLAY-ing, and we’ve come full circle. I threaten to leave the room till she decides to cooperate, a threat she ignores till I actually get up. At that point she attaches herself to me like a little limpet, saying through tears that she wants another chance. By this point I am annoyed, but I sit back down and once more tell her to take off her clothes.

She wants me to do it.

Okay, I lean down to take off her shirt, and she waits for me to start to rise, then jumps onto my forearms so that I am suddenly bearing all her 40 pounds while my spine is shaped like a cross between a U and an L. It hurts, I yell, she’s sad.

Now its time for the pants. I ask her to take them off since now my back is hurting. She kisses my back and takes off her pants, taking the opportunity to fart at me. Then she tosses the dirty pants and underwear up into the air, laughing gleefully. I tell her to pick them up and put them in my hand. We go through a few rounds of this but eventually I get the dirty clothes and put them in the laundry. The I take her bathing suit and try to put her in it.

She decides this is the perfect moment for a game of catch-me-if-you-can. I tell her its not time to play, its time to put her bathing suit on. Doesn’t she want to go to the park? Well, then she needs to focus and cooperate. Reluctantly she abandons her game and stands before my chair, just out of reach. Come here, I tell her (remember my back getting hurt? I need to be sitting by then) and she takes a millimeter step forward. Eventually I take her by the shoulder and position her. Then I have to wrestle with the swim suit. I bought this thing, and I have no one but myself to blame. It has straps that cross in the back. Who knew that would be a problem? Not me. But they are. You have to get the child to stand relatively still long enough to step into the suit with the straps crossing behind their arms without sending your baby sprawling to the floor. This usually takes me a few tries.

That’s when I remember that she hasn’t used the potty in a few hours.

Okay, I say, so its time to use the potty. She protests. She doesn’t have to! She doesn’t need to! She doesn’t want to! Reminders that we go to the potty before leaving the house fall on deaf ears. She storms into the bathroom and slams the door closed. Then she calls me. I go over and she tells me that she doesn’t want me to look at her. No problem.

A bathroom sulk is good for several minutes, so at this point I waste more time online. I hear singing. Questioning whether she’s peed nets me whining, so I change tactics and ask if she’s done. No! She’s SING-ing.

Several minutes later she claims to be done. Next comes tooth brushing. You’d swear it was torture. She already did it (last night)! She doesn’t want to! Somewhere in there I loose it and start to yell at her to do as she’s told.

Eventually her teeth get brushed, and I eye her hairbrush wearily. How bad does her hair look? is it worth another battle? Nah, her hair will be wet soon anyway and then the other moms won’t be able to see that it hasn’t been brushed.

Only the shoes are left. I send her off to find her crocs, which leaves her staring blankly at the kitchen table. They aren’t there. Even in my house, shoes don’t go on the kitchen table. I suggest she look by the door, where I keep shoes. She goes to get them and puts them on the wrong feet. When I point out they are on the wrong feet, she says she wants me to do it. That’s quickly done. As I am gathering up my things, she finds her winter boots and puts them on her hands. She laughs happily and tells me she’s being silly. On a good day I laugh with her. On a bad day I sigh and roll my eyes. On a really bad day, I yell.

I’m focussed on getting out the door. She’s focussed on having fun. These goals are, at times, incompatible.

Half an hour straight of battles, and we head to the park. I’m already exhausted, plus I feel frustrated with her for being so difficult and guilty for being demanding, controlling, and losing my temper. And the day is yet young.

I have absolutely no idea if I’m being too indulgent or too strict, or if this is all totally normal. I have no idea about anything. I only know I am tired of yelling, and tired of being angry at one of the people I love most. As with most of parenting, I will only know whether I did it right when its too late to fix anything, which doesn’t go on my list of the most reassuring thoughts of all time.