Nicky has been learning about money math lately, which he's very enthusiastic about. Maybe a little too enthusiastic, really, but everyone needs a passion. And maybe I was wrong when I predicted that Khy would be my Donald Trump. Anyway, today we were all riding in the car on the way home from the library and a conversation started about a friend of mine and some of her material posessions. Stormy, who is at that age where she's always eavesdropping and processing and comparing, perks up and from the backseat asks, "Mom, is your friend rich?" I chuckled and answered along the lines of "Well, she just lives at a little higher level than we do financially, honey. Bigger house, bigger pool, but that means bigger bills, too." To which Nicky said, "Like she has - fifties?"

On Thursday Nicky came running into my room, frustrated, because he couldn't find his Tae Kwon Do uniform in his closet. He asked if I would come and help him find it. As I shifted a few hangers around to reveal his uniform squeezed between t-shirts, he said from behind me, "See? You're better looking than I am, Mom."

Hee.

But how could I possibly be better looking than this?

Proving that Magic can Rise Above Stress and Obligation. Sometimes. For a while, at least.

A new chaos magazine still sits forlornly on my "To-Do" List, though it is at least in good company with everything else I have the best intentions toward accomplishing someday. Meanwhile, the holidays were absolutely fabulous. It was a year filled with surprises - from old friends dropping in to new babies announced (none for me, personally, mind you!). All the presents purchased hit their marks perfectly, and Santa, God, Jesus and Peter Jackson were all given their respective due at our house.

We spent Christmas Eve at midnight mass at the Mt. Angel Abbey, something I've meant to do for years and we finally managed it. It was such a nice mixing of past and present traditions and family. With Nicky wiggling gamely beside me for a THREE HOUR service that lasted until after 2am, I often felt like he could practically be my Dad at that age, in that same place. Dad told so many stories about getting into trouble at church, and Nicky certainly carries the spirit and that extra little twinkle from my Dad. Stormy was all business, setting about trying to learn all the unfamiliar prayers and chants. And Khy provided me with the best moment of the night, because I hadn't thought to warn any of them about Holy Communion. The look on Khy's face when the priest said plainly that they were about to drink the blood of Jesus and eat his flesh still makes me giggle. Poor kid. All in all the Catholics were very gracious to us, their heathen cousins, and it was a wonderful tribute to my father, I think.

And Peter Jackson's King Kong absolutely ROCKS.

I should mention here that Khy got his green belt this month. They placed three other students on the floor and he had to do a flying kick over them to break a board with his bare foot. He was amazing. Stormy wrapped up basketball season, and both she and Nicky might be belt testing next month. Next year, that is.

Since I don't have any new chaos just yet, I'll share a link to the blog I've been keeping on our homeschool progress. It's lengthy and possibly even tedious, but a quick skim through might give you some idea of how we occupy our days around here, when not spending our winter break lazing about like sloths. Homeschool minutia here.

A Hokey Title Because I'm Tired

We went to the pumpkin patch the other day. It was the most amazing day, bright and clear and somewhere perfectly balanced between warm and cold. The kids fed some animals, and we spent some time getting lost in a Corn Maze before choosing this year's jack-o-lanterns. Khy went with traditional orange, but Stormy chose a dark green one (her new favorite color), and Nicky picked one that mixed the two. When did they start making designer pumpkins, anyway?

So I'm running a little late with this, since October is now almost over. Homeschool is underway, where the kids are studying Huck Finn, multiplication, Light and Color, the Scientific Method and the 50 states, among other things. Except Nicky who's learning to read, and taking a class on Advanced Persuasion and World Dominion and How to Look Real Cute so Mom Doesn't Ground You.

Stormy has joined brother Khy as a second dan purple belt in Tae Kwon Do, breaking a board with a palm strike along the way. She also turned 8 years old. Shane is busy with work, and I'm busy catching up on Veronica Mars. But somewhere in our busy schedules we managed to round up some Halloween costumes, and if you check out the Chaos Halloween mini-Mag you'll see what they are.

Follow the link.

Mom Wants a Longer Vacation

The real joy of homeschool is the flexible schedule. Which is why we're starting this year 20 days later than the public schools. And taking an extra week at winter and spring break. At this school we're not about being too soft on the students - we just know how to treat the teachers right! Meanwhile, Khy belt tested and broke a hugely thick board with his elbow. Nicky jumped up to a yellow belt, and also joined his siblings in successfully learning to swim. He's about two clicks away from riding a bicycle without training wheels, too, and he also hasn't set any fires, broken the bones of himself or anyone else, or been arrested for any kind of criminal mischief, so I'd call this a pretty good month for him. :P Stormy is a few weeks away from 8. She wants Bratz dolls, a new stereo, her ears pierced, and to get a later bedtime then her 5-year-old brother. Oh and? A new Chaos Magazine is up. Follow the link.

Family Mostly Bummed

I remember the appearance of school supplies at the beginning of August every year just seemed cruel, a reminder that real life would continue all too soon, to the accompaniment of lead pencils and trapper keepers. Now these things are out in July! How hateful is that? This year I'm of two minds about it all, though. It's been such an incredible summer, full to bursting of all the things that a summer should have -sunshine, swimming, ice cream, darkening skin, the coconut smell of sun lotion, evening walks, and bad television. Walking into the store to see the Back to School signs makes my stomach drop in a familiar way, but I'm excited too. Homeschooling actually turned out to be fun. Who knew? I'm excited about the coming year, and I know how blessed I am to be sharing such a large chunk of my children's journey right now. So, we're gearing up for early mornings and spelling tests. I'm scrambling to put the finishing touches on a few lesson plans so that I won't spend the whole year behind like I did last year - and trying to finish an actual Chaos Magazine. I'm trying to catch up from all the way back in September of 2003! I'm pleased to say that I've finished up through November 2004 as of tonight, so hopefully it won't take too much longer.

And swimming like fish.

On Tuesday, Stormy learned to swim. Khy, seeing that it could really be done, promptly started swimming on Wednesday.

While Stormy breaks a board and catches up with Khy to become a purple belt.
Board doesn't kick back.

Acing their first ever belt tests, brother and sister move to the next level.
Youngest brother incredibly proud.

From Yu-Gi-Oh!, Bubbles, a Cat/Vampire/Powerpuff Girl, the Skeleton Zombie Dad, and the Invisible Mom.
And yes, they chose their own costumes, so don't look at me.

The inescapable genetics of female behavior.
By Kelly Buchholz


Growing up, my mother and I got along really well - until I became a teenager and the woman was suddenly impossible to live with. Somehow we survived the difficult years that followed, and both emerged a little better I think, for all of the struggles, arguments, and slammed doors between us. As an adult I was more practical about my own role in our past troubles, but I don't think the true reality hit me until I was pregnant with my first child. Attending the ultrasound and believing with my whole heart that I was unbiased on the subject of gender, I was taken by surprise at the panic that gripped me when the doctor said, "It looks like it's a girl." My heart pounded and my eyes rolled around in my head as I thought about what having a daughter would mean, based on my experience of being one. Maybe, just maybe, it hadn't been Mom's fault after all. Before I could reach a definitive opinion, the doctor changed his mind and announced our first-born would be a son. I was limp with relief, and could hardly begin to say why.

By the second pregnancy, I was a veteran Mom. I had been through it; I was ready for anything - even a little girl. I sang through that pregnancy, in harmony and at one with my baby daughter. It was a much different story, though, after she was born. To be fair, it really had nothing to do with her gender - much more to do with the reality that two is twice as much as one. Funny, that. I felt completely unequipped for the gargantuan task of being a mother of multiple children. I cried for a week, and broke into a panic the inevitable day my husband left the house and took our son along with him, leaving me alone with the baby for the first time since she was born. I soon found myself talking to her about my feelings, pouring out all of my fears and frustrations. And I found absolution and a new courage in those big, serious eyes of hers. Without benefit of a shared language, we had developed an understanding. We were in this together.

Since that day I’ve had many opportunities to stand in wonder and dread while contemplating the complex task that is being a woman raising a woman. My daughter is a deep, unfathomable mystery to me. She is moody, she is stubborn, she is dramatic and contradictory. She is also only five years old. I don't only love her, I admire her; and some days I even hope to be just like her when I grow up. To me she is the epitome of the perfect woman, with strength and softness in a divine balance. But that doesn't mean she's easy to live with. At all. And I thought I would have more time to prepare myself for so many things.

Eye rolling, door slamming, great sweeping sighs of disdain - these are but a few of the methods of communication that my daughter employs with a heavy hand. These are the things that I was told to expect from the teen years, the very same modes of expression that I invented myself at fourteen. Or so I had always believed. At the very least I thought they might be a learned behavior - an influence of society or rock music or perhaps something learned only in a giggle of girlish peers at a slumber party. I thought it was something I could control - protect us from for a number of blissful years. I was wrong - turns out they're in the genes. Even her stunning capacity for melodrama, as illustrated by the intensity of emotion she can put into one simple sentence, seems to be instinctual. And apparently I have no one but myself to blame.

Most disturbing to me, though, is my complete inability to read her mind. Because I can do that, you know. I'm a Mom. I know what my boys are going to do and say and think before they do. But the ever-changing moods and whims of my Princess keep me eternally guessing. Of all my children I thought surely I would relate most easily to this one. After all, I was never a little boy - not once - but I have a lot of experience at being a little girl. I loved the color pink, too. I was thoroughly disgruntled with the notion that dandelions are weeds, just as she is. I loved animals and drawing and my Daddy, just like she does. And I know exactly how tragic it is to be served a peanut butter sandwich when you're longing for tuna. But what exactly makes it a tuna day? I haven't a clue.

In fact, it isn't uncommon for the two of us to be reduced to sighing, eye rolling and door slamming in harmony by the time her father gets home from work. Seeing the desperation in my face, he'll disappear into the abyss of gloom that surrounds her bedroom without even breaking a sweat. By the count of ten he'll be walking back out and she'll be trailing along behind him with a sunshiny smile and her red-rimmed eyes sparkling. And I am grateful. In fact, I have a growing respect for all males who willingly choose to cohabitate with the female of the species, and I'm continually amazed at how they can breeze through the violent mood swings and various neuroses and emerge relatively unscathed. But whatever my husband's magic is, I'm fairly certain that he doesn't understand her, either.

I’ve consulted myriad resources over the years in an effort to comprehend the logic behind my daughter’s unpredictable passions and personalities. I’ve studied books, looked things up on the Internet, read countless magazine articles, questioned experts and stopped strangers on the street. While I’ve found much commiseration and sympathy and discovered some really great recipes along the way, nothing brought me any closer to enlightenment. On the brink of defeat, the answer I had been seeking was at last hand-delivered to me by my daughter herself, in the form of a homemade card that she had spent the day surreptitiously working on while I gamely pretended not to know it was for me.

In the midst of the expected but always appreciated wishes for a happy birthday and declarations of love, a sentence caught my eye. It said simply, "Mom, I am happy."

Just in case you were wondering. In case you were worried. In case you might happen to be frustrated by your complete inability to tell how I'm feeling. I'll tell you. Just listen to me.

I have no doubt that someday much sooner than I can ever be prepared for, my daughter will roll her eyes, sigh to the heavens and yell dramatically, "No one understands me!" - and she will be absolutely right. But no matter how loudly the doors slamming between us might one day thunder, I know the truth of her mind and heart will be revealed in the quiet places in between; where she writes her wobbly letters on a homemade card, picks dandelions to lay next to my plate at the table simply because it's Tuesday, and flashes that sweet Mona Lisa smile that seems reserved just for me. I only have to stop banging my head long enough to listen. And then perhaps I'll learn the lesson that she's been trying to teach me since the day we first met - that while we might not always understand one another, we're still in this together.

Parts we wish they came with.



*Original Concept by Chad.

"Who's Chad?" "You know, CHAD... OUR Chad." "Who?" "Chad! The guy who used to hang out here a lot...
like a member of the family?" "Oh!" "So you remember him, then?" "Nope. Are you sure you didn't make him up?"

Is it possible to re-create that fairytale family moment we see on television?
By Kelly Buchholz

The Goldberg Variations plays on the stereo, adding a touch of class. The table is set with far too much silverware. It is a candle lit dinner for 5. The children, 7, 5 and 3, sweetly bow their heads and recite a prayer of thanksgiving. "God is great, God is beautiful, thank you for our food. Amen." A special dessert is promised for those that eat well. Dinner conversation is polite and charming, favorite movies are discussed. The 3-year-old slips away from the table to eye the x-box, but is quickly returned and reinstalled in his chair at the head of the table. It is a Hallmark moment, a family dinner scene of Hollywood proportions. The mother allows herself to pause for a moment and enjoy this perfect example of family harmony and a job well done.

And then the 3-year-old is coaxed into taking a reluctant bite of the main course. Vomitting ensues, and with it, chaos. The mother and father are taken up with cleaning detail, the two older children are dispatched to the livingroom until the danger of epidemic has passed. The 3-year-old is deposited with all due ceremony into the bathtub. They've all been through this scene before, and they take to their parts like a well-oiled machine.

Two minutes later some semblance of order is restored - the 3-year-old is cleaned, pajama-ed, consoled and promised dessert for his effort. The older children returned to their dinners, the lemony smell of cleaner lingering in the air, the parents congratulate each other on the efficiency and luck that resulted in one bath complete before dinner is even over. They pretend to have planned it that way all along.

Dinner conversation now lags - the 5-year-old suddenly remembers that she hates this food and refuses to take another bite. The parents stand firm, and serve dessert to her brothers. In retaliation, she serenades the dessert with a wailing that drowns out the Goldberg variations once and for all. By the time the dishes are cleared, the 5-year-old is still wailing, "Nobody cares about me!" - the 7-year-old is sobbing, "I tried to make her feel better, but she won't stop crying!" - and the recently bathed 3-year-old appears to have dipped his head into the chocolate pudding.

This is a family dinner.