The One Where She Faced the Dragon

I am at war. With my 12-year-old daughter. I tell her what to do. She agrees (often angrily, tearily or both), and then does what she wants instead. Maybe my boys were this hard to motivate, but I knew that for somewhere between 20 and 40 hours a week, they were going to be at school, where inspiration would be the job of the best teachers my tax money can buy. That didn’t always work out so well, either. But with homeschooling, it is my job 24/7. And about half the time, I am failing.

My own mom is a lot better at this. When she comes down for a visit, or when Cambria goes there, they turn out piles and piles of art and math and writing and social studies... but I seem to lack the Girl Mom gene. When I suggest such industry, I just get that look that says, “As if.”

Her education is not necessarily suffering... her standardized test scores remain very high. She is very talented and clever and witty. But she is happy to make me crazy for hours over one small writing assignment. I also don’t understand the tears. Clearly, I am making her cry. That I understand. But all I asked her to do is finish a science page.

Perhaps the key is to include an art assignment on each page. The dragon illustration was part of her English assignment... maybe I just need to figure out how to get her to illustrate her math?

The One With the Easier Week

I’ve been telling myself since about 1985, “Next week is going to be easier. I won’t be so busy, and I will have time to do *fill in the blank*.” When will I ever learn? Last week, as we finished roadshow performances I actually let myself believe that! So of course, this week becomes an exercise in futility, as I run from one unexpected task to the next, while my music software calls me from the other room.

It is okay. I don’t even mind doing the tasks. But there have been a few moments this week…. There was a moment when I considered ways to get Tom Bergeron fired. I know…you don’t even know who that is, right? He is the host of “Dancing With the Stars,” and it was really bugging me that he thought he was so funny. That’s pretty random…but I figure it is a symptom of my frustration. But maybe not…does he really annoy you too?

Then last night I got home from a meeting at 8:40 to find that Dillon had gone to bed, Ethan was working on last-minute eagle scout application stuff, Cambria was who-knows-where…and Skippy was on his knees in a mostly dark family room, silently crying and doing…math. I said, “Skip, what’s the matter?” He burst into full-on sobs, and said, “I am doing my homework all alone!” I looked at it, and said, “Yes, but you’re doing such a good job.” He said, “But I’m ALL ALONE!” He was right. A five-year-old should not have to sit in a dark room and do his homework all alone. That is super sad.

And finally I woke up this morning with a very vivid dream still resonating around my brain. I really wish I could remember all of it, because it definitely could have been made into a movie. But here’s the gist: BYU’s Young Ambassadors (think singing, folk dancing, etc.) are traveling to countries all over the world. I know…it seems innocent. But there is an evil plot. It seems that someone is choosing a couple of their members in each country and setting them up to look as though they have been drinking, doing drugs… being promiscuous… to the point of semi-conciousness or unconsciousness… and they dissapear for 24 hours, and when they reappear they have no recollection of what has happened to them. It turns out (at this juncture I have to admit that I’ve read one too many Robin Cook novels) that they have actually been injected with a horrible, ebola-like airborne virus, which they have now spread to the seamier side of whatever large population they have been visiting. Young Ambassadors on world tour…with the plague in their wake. I don’t know a) why the infected students did not actually contract the virus themselves and die with blood coming from every orifice, or b) what this dream could possibly mean. I would guess that I need to cut back on the TV hours, but honestly, I haven’t caught a single hour of “24” yet this season. So your guess is as good as mine, on both counts.

And I’m going to go out on a limb, here, and say that next week is going to be easier. I won’t be so busy, and I’ll have more time to… yeah, I know, seriously. Who am I kidding?

Disclaimer: The Young Ambassadors do not, to my knowledge, drink, do drugs, or engage in promiscuous behavior. I almost put a link to them here so you could see, but realized it would probably only make it worse. Just remember...only a dream, people.

The One With the Attack of the Emoticons

The other night my friend Gardenweasel and I were chatting on Facebook. Yes, we live only half a mile from each other. And yes, we both have phones. Multiple phones…that is true. But there is something liberating about chatting on Facebook. I type almost as fast as I think, so I can utter insensitive remarks just as quickly that way as I can in person. Maybe faster.

The only problem was that Gardenweasel was having some Facebook trouble, and Facebook Chat kept dropping her. Not to make fun of disabled persons (I know…anything you have to preface like that is ill-advised and should definitely not be said, and I know this is going to come back to bite me), it was sort of like I imagine it would be communicating with Stephen Hawking. As she repeated herself in a manic way, stuttered, and took forever to string together a single sentence, I found myself holding my breath, feeling very sorry for her, and actually had the urge to dab at the drool that it seemed must certainly be stringing from the corner of her mouth.

In her frustration, she resorted to a very guttural, almost primal form of communication. It consisted of an occasional word
repeated
repeated
like
this

punctuated by a few swear words. Okay, maybe more than a few…
$#@^%*!

but...and this is the best of all… EMOTICONS.

Suddenly I was talking with a very expressive mute. I realized that I have been ignoring a very potent method of communication. Emoticons can tap into the deep emotional well of my soul.

Let’s say, for instance, that you want to tell your son how you feel when he doesn’t do his homework. Here is how this would go:

Sam,

I am very that you are doing such a job at turning in your homework. Your teacher is very as well. I would like to say that I am at your lack of initiative, but the attitude which you have cultivated over the past 15 years has not escaped my attention. I know that you would like me to believe that you are, and that this “misunderstanding” was brought about by your utter because you are just too smart for this class. I am very you feel this way, as you seem to have me with someone who feels for you. No, Sam, the fact is, you are in very deep . I am completely by your report card, and I am that after we have taken away your ipod, your phone, your ability to sit without , and all the other conveniences with which your father and I have been accustomed to providing you, it will be no time at all before we will be with you on your straight-A comeback. .

you,
Mom