G diminished 7th

    There's a piano at my in-laws' house that I've paid little attention to in the last several years. The excuses of "It's been so long since I played" or "I really don't want to focus on the reading of the notes with the intent to process the notes in the plonking of the keys" have built up until I finally just sat down and found two books, one being popular music of the 40s, 50s, and 60s and the other Disney songs. I played for a while, the years away from the piano quite evident in my execution, slow with many fumblings. I found that despite that, I had many unremembered things I'd learned in seven years of weekly lessons.
    My lessons were taken in the small front room in the home of a Mrs. B.J. Woodall. B.J. standing for Bertha Jane and I can hear her in my mind still saying "How a mother can name her child Bertha Jane... it always made me think of a fat elephant... so I'm B.J." There was no way I was calling this older, no nonsense lady B.J., so she was Mrs. Woodall. Her home was about instruments and rocks. Both she and her husband were rock hounds, the serious kind that belonged to clubs that traveled to far away places like New Mexico to find rocks like the desert rose rock. Her specimens were on display on one side of her living room and to the other side there was a piano, an organ, and an accordion, also with a few favorite rock finds sitting proudly across the top of the piano and next to the accursed metronome, a simple nod to the two great passions of her life. She taught all three instruments and she had great hopes that once I had learned all I could of piano from her, I would be down for the other two instruments. I finished up my piano lessons during my senior year of high school, and like most eighteen year olds, I was ready to move on... and not with an organ or an accordion.
    The grand focus of those many years of lessons was chords. At the time, I thought this was probably a direct result of her being a church pianist and organist, and she promised that once the time came for me to pick up organ lessons, my chord work was the great foundation and that would help me in learning accordion as well. Whatever my young thoughts were, chords are the foundation for any piece of music, determining key and the underlying sound. It often seemed tedious and headache inducing. I fought many bitter tears and hateful thoughts as a teenager being forced to fill dozens of lined music sheets with penciled notes of songs she set for me to transpose. Transposing is much like algebra to me. I did it and never looked back other that to shudder when my thoughts got close to remembering (like now).
    But for all that, my time at the piano today was enjoyable. The Disney book of music lead me to discover the Sherman Brothers (think most early Disney music like Mary Poppins, The Aristocats, "It's A Small World, and the non Disney Chitty Chitty Bang Bang) favored really, really, really wonky chords, especially the G diminished 7th. I stopped playing the first time I came across it, and not because I didn't recognize it, but that I did. It's been twenty years. TWENTY. And this random chord, hidden away in the middle of song that was not even remotely in the key of G demanded my attention and my fingers knew instinctively where to go.
    For several months now, I have considered what I'm giving to my kids, and what other adults I've put into their lives are giving to my kids as well. I'm also more aware these days of what I am giving to other young people in my life that aren't my kids. I think it goes without saying that I don't mean materially what I'm giving, but the things I want to be part of their foundation in life that twenty years from now my kids will find value in. I want my kids to have a clear idea of why they hold onto the values I and other adults impart on them in these early years.
    Seven years of sitting on a piano bench beside Mrs. Woodall, providing proof of my practice, explaining my lack of practice (which was usually along the lines of 'my dog ate my homework'), promising myself to one day shred my chord book, crying over hand cramps because my short fingers burned against reaching that full octave for months and months, respectfully hating having to learn syncopated timing and that dreadful piece of music "Beat me Daddy, Eight to the Bar", and vowing to torch that blasted metronome that mocked me with every tick and tock that clicked at me, saying "Too. slow...... not. fast. e. nough."
    You would think that after all that, I would not sit down today and find any value in G diminished 7th, but it was there. It was self satisfaction that I had remembered a long ago lesson, it was the love of music that Mrs. Woodall shared with me, it was her patience in teaching, it was her scariness in demanding a job well done, it was her praise in a well played piece of music, and it was the sharing of her life with mine. Mrs. Woodall passed away several years ago, and I have always had a sense of guilt over dropping out of her life so efficiently. I had learned all I could from her and then I had moved on with the next phase of my life. We exchanged Christmas cards a few times, and then one year it was returned as undeliverable, where I learned she had passed.  I could say that was life, but it does little to assuage what I feel now that the chance to verbalize how her presence in my life shored up my foundation. Simple lessons, the sharing of values, being a part of my foundation and echoing truths twenty years later... for only one hour a week for seven years... such a minuscule bit of what we call time. When I consider what I want for my life right now, I want to be her, to brush against others and leave them more solidly along their path. I desperately want that for my own children; to have people in their lives that will quietly show the importance of having values and sticking to them, to have the gentle assurance that what they are learning now will echo throughout their years and guide their steps, and to have that simple G diminished 7th chord that becomes a trigger reminder of why I want these things for myself and my children.

Introducing Shakespeare (the literature not the dog)

There are two long held notions of education that I have spent years planning for, excitedly waiting for the day my kids were old enough to understand and enjoy them. They are writing and history. In my estimation, these two are best taught through literature and art. To be a writer is to be a reader. It's reading everything: the quality, the fluff, the comedic, the academic, the mundane, and the terrible. To know how to write effectively is to to see how it's been done. As for history, I've never been a fan of tossing a student a textbook and expecting rote memorization of facts. History is the study of culture; the way a society functions: the lives that took time to record why they lived, how they lived, how they rejoiced when victorious, and how they coped when death was preferable. Art and the written word are what is left long after a culture has ceased to exist, not something to just look at without considering the life that brought them into being.

For the last couple of years, I have casually handed Evelynn the books that thrilled my soul as a girl. She has, many times, flippantly handed them back informing me that "No one talks that way any more and no one behaves that way either." I have dejectedly put away my Montgomery and Alcott (because let's face it, she wouldn't even touch Austen at this point) and let her go off with the fairies into the lands of dragons, fantasy, and mythology, only slightly mollified when I have been able to slip in some C.S. Lewis and Tolkien. I knew there would be a day when I would figure out a way to introduce the classics to my voracious reader and to my younger, less well read, children.

After being advised to read How to Teach Your Children Shakespeare, I dove into  it and immediately felt Ken Ludwig was "of the race of Joseph" (see http://www.heiressintraining.com/2009/08/08/the-race-that-knows-joseph/ if you don't know what this means-- because literature). In chapter two, Mr. Ludwig spends time discussing what Shakespeare should be learned. Not only is it the foundation of writing patterns for most every modern piece of writing, it is (and this is where I felt that race of Joseph thing) "to expose them [children] to literature of such depth and worth that it would inspire them to want to achieve great things as they marched forward into maturity. I [Mr. Ludwig] have staked my life as a writer on the proposition that the arts make a difference in how we see the world and how we conduct our lives- how we view charity to our neighbors and justice to our communities- and Shakespeare, as the greatest artist in the history of our civilization, has worlds to teach us as long as we have the tools to understand him." 

We've been back to school a few weeks now and I added Shakespeare to our curriculum with mixed results. The first passage to learn  was the from the play A Midsummer Night's Dream. In this section, Oberon, king of the fairies has had a marital spat with his wife, Titania, queen of the fairies, and he is telling Puck, a mischievous sprite, how he plans to get his revenge on Titania. 

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows

Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows.

Quite over canopied with luscious woodbine,

With sweet musk roses and with eglantine.

There sleeps Titania sometime of the night,

Lulled in these flowers with dances and delight.

And there the snake throws were enameled skin,

Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in.

And with the juice of this I'll streak her eyes

And make her full of hateful fantasies.

We started out learning the first line, but it was obvious that not knowing the entire story was a hindrance to them in understanding what was happening. The Usborne Complete Shakespeare: Stories From all the Plays is an excellent resource. It tells the story, not in script form, in a way that is understandable. The girls were entertained, and were more interested in the lines once they got a handle on what the story was about and who the characters were. The memorization of the lines was where things got spotty. How to Teach Your Children Shakespeare has a fabulous website (http://www.howtoteachyourchildrenshakespeare.com ) that has audio clips of the passages by Sir Derek Jacobi, Richard Clifford, and Frances Barber. Listening to the passage the way it's to be heard and said makes the learning of it complete. Evelynn got the lines down, but they came out in that rushed, monotonous way that denotes boredom and acute disinterest-- like the kid is eleven and can't be bothered. Shocking, I know. Caelan was brilliant. Listening to her and watching the physical complements to her recitation was like watching a conductor and his symphony. Her tones dipped and peaked, and her favorite line is "And with the juice of this I'll streak her eyes." She means every word of it and it's downright creepy. McKenna is somewhere in the middle. She's neither blasé in her performance, nor is she as flamboyant as Caelan. She didn't seem as entertained by the lines and when I read the story, she wasn't as amused as her sisters. The only thing she said about the entire Shakespearian episode was about a character named Nick Bottom, an amateur actor that was conscripted for a play that was to be performed at the wedding of Theseus, the duke of Athens, and the Queen of the Amazons. This Nick Bottom seems to be the village idiot, but that's not what made McKenna react to anything we had read or learned up to that point. It was his name. She interrupted my narrative with "Wait... did you say Nick Bottom? No. I can't do this. I can't sit here and listen to a story where one guy's name is Nick Bottom. Can we just call him Max?"

It's a stellar beginning. I refuse to re-shelve Shakespeare. They may wish I had stuck with Montgomery and Alcott.

Perfect Balance

    Three hours. That's a chunk of my day I hadn't anticipated a run to the ER, but then do I ever? I suppose we were overdue (ha!). It's been a little over two years since the last one (of course, it was Caelan). To get down to it, Paxton did it all by himself. No sisters were involved. No death defying leaps, no scaling the heights to plummet... nope. He fell off the couch. He's five. He fell off the couch and hit the coffee table. The coffee table we've had since just after we were married, that has held up under much abuse as kids bonked their heads on the undersides as they learned to crawl or they used to guide their first steps. Not once in those eleven years of child abuse to the table has the table ever fought back. And really, it wasn't even fighting back today. It was catching him.
    Much blood later, I was assessing the damage while fighting his need to see the blood streams down his face in the mirror. I can only get out of him that he fell and hit the table. Because BLOOD--it's always so much more interesting when it's literally everywhere. I still haven't convinced him that he has a black eye as well. He's so fascinated with the gash in his head. Then that inner argument of "Do I take him or do we slap a bandaid on it?" The gash was just deep enough to make me uncomfortable. I staunched the flow and slapped a bandaid on it. "Who is on the bandaid?" he sobbed. Iron Man. He sniffled once more, "Ok. I can do this." So I send some texts and pics to a friend who would make a better judgment than I and I loaded him up for the ER.
    Ever take a five year old boy to the ER? Apparently he thought we were in Hershey, PA, at Chocolate World, because the hospital architecture is similar. That was a bit of a downer, but he quickly suggested he needed a chocolate shake after because of all the blood. The room we finally made it to had a TV. I was thrilled-- I left the house with little more than my wallet and the kid. Of course, being cable, there were few kid friendly options. Some weird cartoon on Cartoon Network and the Simpsons. Then I finally found a cartoon he demanded he watched. Because apparently the Catholic Network has quite a lot to offer a kid in the afternoon in the ER. Like how to pray the rosary and the Hail Mary prayer. He had more Catholic education in that thirty minutes than any other time of his life. Sister Faustina kept him calm and explained it all. A friend posted a comment on a FB photo of him on the bed and said he looked guilty. He was just involved with the Sister Faustina's details. Take that how you will. Then finally the nurse practitioner came in.
   I've learned over the years of ER runs that it's just best if the kid explains the accident. I've been the mom the nurse glared at as I've tried explaining, as if I'm making up a story to cover my tracks in roughing up my kid. It's a terrible position to be in. So, by all means, son-- explain yourself to the nurse as we dab at the blood weeping from the gash in your forehead. "I was trying to balance. I fell and hit the table." A bit more information, kid. "Well, I was balancing on the edge of the couch with my arms inside my shirt and I fell over." Your arms were inside your shirt-- like not in your sleeves? "Yep, they were stuck inside my shirt. I was balancing." And you fell but had no way to break your fall except to smash your face on the table? The nurse looked over as she dabbed the glue across the steristrips, "And do you think you have good balance?" Paxton said "Oh, yeah. I have perfect balance." The nurse said "I beg to differ."
 

 

When the Day is Over Way Before Noon

Paxton spends most of the night in an ibuprofen induced sleep for fever and headache, but it's a terrible rest, thrashing and uncomfortable. I spend most of the night dodging his appendages aimed at my face. Two hours of consecutive sleep later for myself, and the boy hits the ground running at 6:30.        *stumbles to the coffee*  Kids eager to be all the things before 7:30 and follow me around. Breakfast and morning chores. Then school. That lovely chunk of day dedicated to educating and molding young minds.   *coffee still in hand- we got this*   McKenna on bookwork, Caelan on iPad, Evelynn on computer, Paxton becoming increasingly whiny and sickly. Catch Caelan playing Temple Run instead of geography. McKenna insists she can't read because she can't read like an adult-- same things she's been saying for months--practice makes perfect, love... Rome wasn't built in a day. Evelynn is blankly staring at the computer "I have no idea what to do- I've never done this before"... like never in the last six months-- REALLY?  In one fell swoop she thinks she can negate months of math lessons by saying "I forgot."   *lost coffee somewhere between McKenna crying over her chapter book and Paxton upset PAW Patrol was not on his channel*   Caelan has lost the country flag flashcards "Oops, guess I can't do them today." Try again. Move McKenna to iPad, get her started on geography... catch her playing Temple Run five minutes later. Death to that app. Paxton is dosed, on the iPad... until his app freezes and it's like his dog died. Evelynn is still on math. Are you for real? She rolls her eyes.   *clutches coffee tightly to chest, left eye twitches*   McKenna does math... um, you wrote your five backwards-- she knows, she "just likes it better that way." That didn't fly two years ago, why do you think it would now? Erases the five and starts over. Oh, good. It's the way it should be, like you did it in Kindergarten. We've made progress today. Caelan has disappeared, she claims bathroom needs... I'm not convinced. Evelynn, still staring at her computer math-- wait, did she just use her fingers to count? It's long division. How can you use fingers for that? And why fingers? You're in 5th grade...  Order of operations for long division are apparently in Cantonese because she's glazed over. Walk through each step by step by step by step for two problems. Seems she's got it. But no.  *sips coffee-- I picked the wrong mug for today-- should have been Darth Vader-- oh, wait, that was yesterday's well used mug*   It's only 10:15. You know what? Documentary. Netflix. Get your science on. "Hey, MOM!!! Come look at these frogs playing piggy back in the wild! They are sooooo cute!   *chokes on coffee*

The Hogwarts Letter

Evelynn is home now and reaping the birthday gifts that were delivered in her absence. 😜



https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZrafT1-MbZM&t=2s

The post where I wallow in a bit of self-pity and then realize I still have choices

    The last few days have been such a funk for me. I've been looking at that first sentence for five minutes thinking how weird it looks and how I could make it better. I'm leaving it, though. The inner turmoil has been great, epic even; I smile and laugh yet I feel half a second away from crying. Life continues down this path fraught with unexpected tidings at every turn, the questioning of the parts of life that attack me and give me no options. No options. It's a bitter place to be. Not meeting expectations, equally embittering. Feeling the distance of relationships keenly, while not embittering, certainly lonely. Not feeling settled, home but not home.

    Eight weeks. That's how much time the husband has spent at home in the last year. There's no sense of anything normal. The stressors on our life are immense and we have handled them as well as we can despite the miles. Every six months or so I seem to just hit this wall of self doubt, a loathing relationship with self pity. It's this battle of this is the life I chose. This is the life I choose. I would do it all again. In an instant. And against this choice is the overwhelming desire sometimes to be that family that just chills. Has the 9 to 5. Has everyone in one place, under one roof. Who can have Easter together as a family instead of this disconnect that lead me to the McDonald's drive-thru yesterday. 

    I get out, see people, talk with friends and the mantra is "smile- keep calm and carry on" but the thing about this chosen life is so few truly understand what it's like. Honestly, it's those people that do get it that keep me grounded, my problems less consuming when I know that my problems aren't as bad as they could be. It's only been a year. I've travelled so much myself to put our family together. He's not in a place of danger. This time has been so much easier than the years I spent pregnant with toddlers underfoot. But I still wait to hit the bottom; the bottom taunts me, yet I just laugh and say "I stopped wondering where the bottom is a long time ago."

    One more phone call or piece of mail dealing with the PA house nightmare is always there... after two years. It just doesn't stop. The comments of "You handle things so well." or "You make is seem so easy..." from well-meaning people echo around me and stopped doing anything for my heart years ago. I dislike platitudes. Those who say the words and then walk away without another thought or even an arm around the shoulders. Those who offer those thoughts and leave are nameless to me (so if you're reading this, it's probably not you- ha! My one caveat that this is just a blog therapy session and not aimed at anyone in particular or based off of any recent platitudes). Those people have no idea. They recognize the struggle but put off the real moments, the moments I have sat in the floor surrounded by chaos and sobbed. Apparently I'm the queen of appearances. I make the descent into madness look good and graceful. All I know is that it's one moment at a time. It's a phone call to the few who have gone through this life with me. It's hanging onto the few constants: God, family, and coffee. And a good dose of ridiculousness for laughter. Lots of laughter. It's the reminder that I chose this life, the adventure of it, the stress of it, the love of it, the growth from it, and apparently the madness of it. 

    Where we are in this life is such a small point in eternity. I refuse to ask "Why me?" because why not me? It's my story. It's my life to share. While I may not have many options when it comes to how life is currently being dealt, I certainly have choices in how I deal with it. I choose to realize that life is unpredictable (even in that fabled world of working a 9 to 5). I choose to handle the downs with grace. I choose to offer mercy to those floundering with my thorns (because sometimes platitudes are all that some people can offer). I choose to reach out to those in similar situations and be the armful of hugs to those who walk it with me, those who want to be part of the story and not merely commentators.

    In 2 Corinthians, Paul speaks of his thorn in his flesh. He had to learn to deal with it and accept it as part of his life no matter how much it pained him. "Concerning this I implored the Lord three times that it leave me. And He said to me, 'My grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness.' Most gladly, therefore, I will rather boast about my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may dwell in me. Therefore I am well content with weaknesses, with insults, with distresses, with persecutions, with difficulties, for Christ's sake; for when I am weak, then I am strong." (2 Cor. 12:8-10) There are so many things worse that what is happening in my small life. Paul certainly had a few more concerns. See? Blog therapy session nearly complete and I'm feeling much better. It's a good life even though the rose colored glasses have just turned a putrid color at times in the last couple of years. Keep calm and carry on.

Evelynn's 11th Birthday

  Evelynn's birthday is tomorrow. Our oldest girl will be eleven in just a few hours.  She's away for the weekend, hanging out with her grandparents. Due to the crazy that has been our life the last few years, I realized that I have, in fact, not actually been with her on her birth DAY for the last three years. It hurts a bit that there are things so totally out of our control that keep us from being with our kids on their special days. As a family who frequently is here and yon, and topsy turvy, we've tried to show our kids that love and appreciation don't always have to land on the calendar days that demand it and we make the most of the time we are together.
    A couple of weeks ago, I asked Evelynn what she would like for her birthday and she reminded me that a Harry Potter comforter has been high on her wishlist. We searched a few different designs and she settled on one and my geek heart was thrilled to finally receive a rather large box from thinkgeek.com last night. There have been several moments in the last few months where she has dropped hints about the removal of certain items in her room. With her away it is the perfect opportunity to grant her simple wishes and to update her room. I have to say, there is nothing more telling that your girl is growing up than the removal of the doll house, the few remaining Barbies, the board books, the easy readers, and basically just the toys. She doesn't DO toys any more. What was once quite a girly room of pinks and florals and polka dots and all things squishy soft is now the room of a girl quite set on the next phase of life.
    The sweet collection of books that she received as a baby has a new home on a shelf NOT in her room. Her biggest complaint of late has been not enough space on her shelves for "her books"-- the Harry Potter collections, the plethora of Rick Riordan books that thrill her, the books that say a pre-teen lives here now. My girl threw out a plethora of items a couple of days ago that she no longer wanted cluttering up her room. The only signs left of the little girl are the pictures of herself as a baby and a toddler. It's good to be Evelynn these days. So many new things happening to her life. New interests, new adventures, and a growing sense of perspective as she puts it all together in her head (which some days drives the mother insane).
    I fully expect her to be taller than me in the next year (like that was the most difficult accomplishment to begin with). I expect that I will still catch her off guard as our relationship changes (she's already stopped me a few times giggling "MOM! What are you doing? I didn't see that coming.") I expect she will continue to be independent, yet dependent, and let me know about how that's not fair. I expect that we will still fall over in giggles, and our mutual appreciation for the ridiculous will thrive. I expect that she will continue to drive me bonkers with this new idea that maybe she doesn't have to check in with me or maybe I really didn't mean what I said. She will push and pull, and so will I. And it will be an ugly, beautiful mess. And she will be amazing. Eleven will be a good year for her.
    And when she gets back from her weekend away, there will be a letter addressed to her from Headmaster Dumbledore accepting her into Hogwarts, complete with her  9 and 3/4 train tickets, book list, and Hufflepuff scarf.  She has already told me it's coming. So I had to make it happen.

Valley of Fire

The Carrizozo Malpais, or the Valley of Fire, spans about forty miles along the northern part of the Tularosa Basin in New Mexico. Estimated to have flowed about 1000 to 1500 years ago, the lava flowed from a vent near Little Black Peak and not from exceptional volcanic activity. The flows oozed and cooled down creating large, rock-climbing worthy surfaces, craters, and shallow caves perfect for bats and curious kids. This is one of few parks that encourage you to leave the trail and experience the uneven rocks. A little over ten miles of desert separate the black rock fields from the White Sands.

Smokey the Bear

Prior to World War Two, there was no real campaign for the prevention of forest fires. With the movie "Bambi" in 1942 there was more awareness of preventing fire but no official image was used until 1944 when the campaign introduced Smokey the Bear. The Forest Service played up the war effort propaganda by advertising that the prevention of forest fires would save the timber needed for the war. When Smokey wasn't in use, the Forest Service relied on other war time ads to push home the need to prevent fire.

By the time the war ended and Americans, happy to return to some normalcy, began to travel and camp, there was a renewed urgency in encouraging people to properly put out their camp fires and cigarettes. On May 4, 1950, a discarded cigarette butt started a fire in the Lincoln National Forest, raging for days and destroying 17,000 acres. A badly burned bear cub was found hanging onto the side of a burnt pine tree. This little guy was cared for, placed at the National Zoological Park in Washington, D.C., and became the living representation of Smokey the Bear. The bear lived to the age of 26 and then was buried in what is now the Smokey Bear Historical Park. The museum in Capitan, New Mexico, claims that Smokey the Bear is only second to Santa Claus in popularity.

Fun Fact: A couple of days before we went to the museum, I was watching an episode (or five) of Mysteries at the Museum and there was a segment of the show about the harness below and a brief history of Smokey.

Three Rivers Petroglyph Site

When you think petroglyphs, you generally think of some shadowy cave tucked away in a desert canyon with ancient paintings covering the walls. The reality for this location is that it's a short one mile hike along the ridges of a series of hills (or small mountains-- not sure on that classification) and the glyphs are open to the elements of the Chihuahan Desert and litter (ancient graffiti?) the faces of rocks along the trail. There are more than 21,000 glyphs at this site and were created by the Mogollon (best way to remember the pronunciation is 'muggle-yawn') people between 900 AD and 1400 AD. No one is really sure how these glyphs translate. My favorite glyph, that showed up frequently along our route, was the cross within a circle and surrounded by dots. The literature suggested that the dots could represent 'corn or a population count'... because those are interchangeable.

Changes & Chicken

    I have long thought that our family handles change well, that we can make change and go with the flow gracefully, in a smooth, fluid-like way. It always felt that way. The comings and goings of family members, the insane amount of traveling we've done in recent years, the move, the meeting of new people, and the cultivation of new relationships have all given me the impression that we adapt well on a large scale. This assumption was clearly called into question with the changes to our traditional church schedule. I'm not a stickler for when, where, what, and what order things are done in. It's the big picture, the end goal of what we are trying to achieve in meeting together with a church family. Tell me when to be there, and I'll be there... no judgments, no questions asked. So I did not once question the change of schedule for our Sunday services, which is now devotional at 9:15, class at 10:00, and services at 10:45. Sounds great. It is now apparent that my children, especially Paxton, have been completely thrown by these changes.
    We got to church this morning for the 9:15 portion and the girls went to our pew to sit. Paxton went to class where I had to convince him that we weren't starting with class today and needed to be elsewhere. He was not impressed, but went. Twenty minutes later, he leans over and says "Is it almost over? Are they about to say the prayer?" Normally, this is his cue for "I've almost made it through services." It ends and he says "Are we getting chicken now?" For the last two months of a certain family member's absence, I have hit KFC on the way home from church on Sunday. It seems that the response to making it through Sunday morning church is to now get chicken.
    Paxton was less than thrilled that not only was it not time for chicken, it was now time for class. That's the nice way of saying he pitched a fit about the absence of chicken. Much strong talk later, he was installed in his classroom with a warning to the teacher about how it could possibly not be the best morning at this point. I later confirmed that it was not. Because change and chicken. After class, it was another long talk and a wrangling to get him back into our pew for services. "I thought we were getting chicken..." Not yet, buddy. Another hour. Every moment of the service was punctuated with "Is it over yet? Are we getting chicken?" Paxton's Pavlovian response is that chicken undoubtedly comes after prayer, but the new order of worship made every transition in the service to include "When are we getting chicken?" At this point, the new changes had only severely affected Paxton. Because chicken.
    The other change was the order of worship. Communion is now offered at the end of the service. And the order of communion is no longer cracker, juice, collection plate but collection plate, cracker, juice. All four of my children had their minds blown. I was not prepared for the fallout. Paxton thought it was time for chicken. The two little girls were freaking out because I didn't give them a quarter. Evelynn was beside herself because she thought she had somehow been left out of the cracker and juice portion. All four were having a pew-side conniption as I begged them to calm themselves. They were united in their consternation of "What is this madness?" And after communion Paxton said "Can we get chicken now?"
    Services finally came to a close, and they sat there not even really sure it was truly over. Normally, my children disperse quickly, anxious to visit. It usually takes a posse that feels like herding wild cats to get all four kids out the door at the same time. All four of my kids were at the door, all four kids walked out the door at the same time, and all four kids got in the car. It was like they were so completely overwhelmed by the morning they just had to do something normal. It was weird. Paxton piped up from the backseat "So are we getting chicken now?" So we went and got chicken. And balance was restored.

in·flu·en·za

ˌinfləˈwenzə/

noun

noun: influenza

1. a highly contagious viral infection of the respiratory passages causing fever, severe aching, and catarrh, and often occurring in epidemics.

   
   

   Post sickness clean-up and return to normal is a bit overwhelming. Ten days, my friends. Not all of us were sick at the same time. I was unfortunate in that my virus became sinusitis and required prednisone and antibiotics. And, of course, by that point, my children were ecstatic to be alive and thriving, which means many questionable things took place. Upon inspecting the damage, I just decided to take pictures of it all for posterity.

   
   

   The arsenal of medicine. Highest temperature goes to Paxton, a whopping 103.9. I was getting nervous and was planning my next steps for doctor intervention when the Tylenol took it down quickly. Paxton's actually quite funny when he's sick. He lays all over me or his sisters and just says "I love you" all the time.

   
   

   

   
   

   The pile of dishes. Ah, yes....... pizza sounded horrid to me, but the kids, again, were quite well by that point.  

   

   
   

   
   

   And then the random assortment of thermometer and corn dog sticks. It was a matter of eat the frozen food and eat all the apples, oranges, carrots, and yogurt to make me feel better about myself as a mother.

   

   
   

   
   

   And I'm not sure exactly what happened. The girls said Paxton was eating crackers on the couch while removing the stuffing from a pillow. Seems he ate his orange and yogurt on the couch, too. I'm not questioning it. Just pondering the sights.

   

   
   

   
   

   And it came to pass that the boy was back to fine health, leaving his sisters and mother still very much under the weather. What happens in Paxton's room, stays in Paxton's room. Other than the above picture, we managed to keep his boyish vibrance contained to his room. The word 'contained' is up for conjecture.
   

   
   

   
   

   We did try. There is evidence.

   
   
   Fun fact: You can order a case of chicken noodle soup as well as basic drugs off Amazon and get them in two days.
   
   
   And the beauty of homeschooling is lesson planning and lessons continued, although in limited ways. It may have been in reading or documentaries, but something was learned and we didn't lose six days entirely.
   
   
   And I had flowers to keep up the spirits... until they got all wonky. Tulips are weird. I love them, but they certainly don't go out quietly.