Can you spell “adorable”?

I love my children’s creative spelling! It’s like baby talk, though. As adorable as it is, I feel obligated to reluctantly correct it, for the sake of the child’s literary future.

My seven-year-old knows quite a few sight words, but she usually relies on the rules of phonics when writing her own stories. I was amused to read her review of a new “compyouter” game. Apparently, including the sight word “you” on a recent spelling list made a big impression on her.

I have saved a box of notes addressed, “To Mom, Frum Faith”. Faith is embarrassed when I show them to people. “Mom!” she exclaims indignantly. “I KNOW how to spell ‘from’! I wrote those a LONG time ago!” I guess six months is a long time when you’re seven.

Faithie is a prolific writer. Like her mother, she finds the sight of blank paper exciting! She considers it a great honor to be invited into my office and allowed the use of my special pen. One of Faith’s Time4Learning lessons covered the typical sound of /ing/, citing examples such as “ring”, “sing”, and “bring”. I know my daughter was paying attention, because her next journal entry stated, “I am youzing my moms pin with the pingk ingk.” It broke my heart to have to correct her spelling to read, “I am using my mom’s pen with the pink ink.”

As cute as they are, spelling mistakes do have to be corrected. The whole purpose of writing is communication. We aren’t communicating if our readers can’t understand what we’ve written.

My grown son received (not “recieved”) a letter from a friend when he was a teen. He brought it to me, puzzled by the word “chrie” that appeared throughout. His friend had written, “I am going to chrie for that apartment I looked at and chrie living on my own again. I know I chried before, but I think I can do it this time.”

Eventually, through reading the letter aloud and noticing the context in which the word was used, we began to realize his friend was “chrieing” to spell the word “try”.

Being a do-it-yourself kind of gal, I rarely purchase a spelling curriculum. I find interesting words in the books my children are reading or pull misspelled words from their journals to make customized spelling lists. We’ve been having lots of fun practicing our words at SpellingCity. It’s a free site where I can input our own spelling words or use lists that others have shared. The kids can play online games with the words. It’s much more exciting than the old, “Write your spelling word five times each” method.

I remember being bored to tears over some of the assignments I was given in school, so I put quite a bit of effort into locating fun educational learning resources for my own kids. Online learning games are usually a big hit with my family. As a homeschool mom, I can’t always find a fun way to teach everything my children need to learn, but I really do chrie!

Mastering the Ball

Blogging beats marriage counseling any day. I often blog about differences in my husband’s and my perspectives regarding a given situation. Writing is a terrific way to organize my thoughts. By the time I type the final sentence, I’ve usually managed to minimize the importance, find the humor, or determine that I’M the quirky partner. Even Dr. Phil couldn’t get better results.

It is with the above in mind that I seek to examine hubby’s sports obsession. When not at work, my husband can usually be found participating in, attending, viewing, or listening to some sports event. I know he isn’t the only male affected in this way. Even our pastor greets my husband with a shoulder clap and a gruff-voiced comment like, “Hey! How ’bout them Pit Bulls?!” (or some equally aggressive sounding mascot).

Although I’ve tried, I’ve never been able to understand the masculine interest in mastering the ball. That is the goal of most popular sports, after all. Participants attempt to whack a ball with a stick, stuff a ball in a net, kick a ball over a line, or coax a ball into a hole. I’ve considered checking out hockey, just for the novelty of the puck.

My spouse and I realize there are areas where we will never understand each other. Wrapping up a discussion destined to go nowhere, one of us will usually offer, “Well, I guess it’s just one of those Mars/Venus things.” The passion for sports does seem to be gender-related. Marveling at the sight of my mate, doing his victory dance in front of some televised sport, I’ve been known to sigh and declare, “Testosterone!”  Wisely, my husband has so far refrained from looking heavenward and muttering, “Estrogen!” under his breath in return.

My own disinterest in sports is so severe that I’m ignorant of even the most basic rules of the game. When my husband and I were dating, we attended a football event where I resorted to watching him surreptitiously, so I’d know when to cheer. When he stood, I did likewise. When he shouted, “All right!”, I attempted to match his jubilant smile. When he offered a high five, I didn’t let on that I would have preferred quiet hand holding. Somehow, I failed to recognize the signs of things to come.

Driving by the local high school, I admit to being puzzled by the women populating the bleachers. I can only assume that they’re in attendance to cheer for their children. Moms cheer for anything their children do . . . Try a bite of vegetables, use the potty chair, bat a touchdown or kick a home run.

I can’t quite resolve the income discrepancy between a farmer (who fills empty stomachs), a babysitter (who cares for precious children), and a basketball player. (Remind me what they do again?) My own days are spent focused on activies that put meals on the table, fill drawers with clean clothing, and render the bathtub free of grime. A results-oriented person, I seldom make time for things with no practical purpose, and it’s difficult for me to acknowledge that entertainment value can translate to dollars and cents. 

That, perhaps, is what I’ll take from this post. If life is about achieving balance, then I’m probably a bit off-kilter. At the end, considering what we’ve done with our lives, I imagine I will be able to provide a short list of accomplishments and a long list of things I wish I’d done. My husband, confident that he’s fulfilled his most important responsibilities, will simply grin and say, “I’ve had a GREAT time!”

What’s That, You Say?

I didn’t recognize the number appearing on my caller ID, but I answered my phone anyway. “Am I speaking to Kelly?” the caller asked.

After confirming that she was, indeed, speaking to the right person, she identified herself as head of a contest I had recently entered. The task was to design a logo for a newly-created community program. The winner would receive a cash prize and, of course, the satisfaction of seeing their creation in use around town.

Delighted, I felt little tremors of anticipation in my limbs and my mind begain to race. There’s only ONE reason she would be calling me! How much was that cash prize again?

“We REALLY liked your logo entry,” she gushed. “It was very unique!”

I blushed. I had actually been quite proud of it myself.

“We received so many LOVELY entries!” she continued. I began congratulating myself. Yeah, but you’re calling ME, lady, so mine must have been the BEST!

“We have such talented people in our town!” she carried on, as I smiled modestly at the phone receiver.

Her next words took a minute to sink in. “Unfortunately, we could only choose one winner, and we chose someone else’s entry. I’m calling all of the entrants today to let them know.”

WHAT?! So I didn’t win, after all. Okay, I’m a good sport. I don’t expect to win every contest I enter, or even MOST of them. But, this was certainly an unconventional way of letting down a “loser”. Whatever happened to a politely worded form letter?

After swallowing a gulp of disappointment, I thanked the woman for letting me know and started looking for humor in the situation. (It’s usually there somewhere, if you look hard enough.)

I began thinking about other times people didn’t stop to consider the impact their initial words can have on another’s emotions.

I once accompanied my husband to a youth camp, where he was to be camp nurse. Each student was supposed to have a medical release, which allowed my husband to treat their splinters, mosquito bites, and homesickness. One boy appeared at our cabin in the wee hours of the morning, complaining of a headache. Unable to find his medical release, my husband was forced to call the boy’s mother for permission to give him Tylenol. I realized hubby had reached an answering machine when I heard him say, “This is Andy’s camp nurse. Please call me as soon as possible.”

Horrified when I saw him about to hang up, I began jumping up and down and waving my arms around wildly. “Tell her he’s OKAY!” I insisted. “She’s going to WORRY!”

Since I was seven months pregnant at the time, my husband stared at my antics in disbelief for a moment. Finally comprehending my concern, he hurriedly turned back to the phone. “It’s a headache . . .” he managed to fit in before the answering machine cut him off.

I take credit for receiving a perfectly calm return call from Mrs. Andy’s Mother a few minutes later.

Working in a hospital emergency room, I often witnessed telephone calls made by patients receiving treatment for a cold or other minor illness that began something like this:

“Hi, Mom? This is Jill. Jack and I are here in the emergency room.”

In the interest of minding my own business, I had to restrain the impulse to jump up and down to get their attention. (I was almost always pregnant during those years, too.) I suspect a few of those calls were intentionally worded that way to provide a moment of drama for someone bored enough to seek treatment for a stubbed toe at 3 a.m. Most of the callers, though, just hadn’t stopped to think about the reaction of the person on the other end of the line. I am certain they stopped initiating phone conversations that way once they became parents themselves.

I have also been caught off guard due to things NOT said. Years ago, I reluctantly agreed to accompany a friend to an aerobic exercise class. Arriving at her home, I found the front door opened wide and a pool of blood on her front porch. Telltale spatters trailed to the street in front of her house, where her car was nowhere to be seen. No one answered my tentative knocks at her door.

This was pre-cellphone era so, greatly concerned, I hopped back into my car and drove to the nearest hospital E.R. I arrived just in time to see my friend’s husband help her back into their car, looking quite pale. Knowing the hospital wouldn’t tell me what had happened, I turned around and drove back to her house, where I learned she had cut her hand washing dishes and, “Boy, did it bleed a lot!” It was a very minor injury, requiring only a butterfly bandage. I quickly forgave her for worrying me because, after all, she was wounded and too panicked to think about leaving a note.

Besides, I had been looking for a good excuse to miss that exercise class.

It’s Mine, All Mine

One of my blog posts has surprised me, receiving more views than any other and generating a lot of email. It’s A Satire, a little story I wrote that compares the public school system to a fictitious public nutrition system.

Unfortunately, many people have emailed to say they’ve “read it somewhere before” and hinted (or outright accused me) of plagiarism. Now someone has left a tactful comment to that effect.

I assure you, that story originated in my own head. (I am not boasting about that. It’s not always a good thing!) I didn’t even get the IDEA for it from someone else’s work. It’s a comparison I’ve used many times to explain my unpopular belief that government schools should not even exist. I decided to try and put it in story form and composed it mentally during a couple of long sessions in the shower.

Although I read everything about homeschooling that I can get my hands on, I have never seen the same comparison. If someone could point me in the direction of a similar essay, I’d be grateful. My Internet searches have been unsuccessful.

I’m a bit insulted that someone might think I’d use other people’s work without crediting them, but I remind myself that the people who have emailed don’t really know me. I suppose I should just be flattered that they think my work is good enough to steal.

Musings in My Head

Riddled with guilt, I am finally putting pen to paper once again (metaphorically speaking). In full dramatic mode, I picture myself clutching a goose quill, crumpled pieces of parchment littering the floor beneath my feet. The only trouble is, you can’t crumple a computer monitor. (If you know that to be a false statement, I’m going to have to ask for details.)

The source of my angst is an online blog writing class I am taking . . . or, rather, AM TRYING to take. You see, this assignment:

POST AN ENTRY ON YOUR BLOG

. . . was due a couple of weeks ago. I just can’t respond to the command of “Blog!” the way a dog responds to “Fetch!” or “Roll Over!” Because I really, really want to complete this course, I spent some of my thinking time in the shower mulling over my dilemma. That’s where it occurred to me that the inability to blog on command is probably a legitimate post topic.

Determined to catch up, I began looking over some of the lessons I’d missed. There it was: Curing Writer’s Block! Did I mention this course covers EVERYTHING? One of the things that has led to my guilt-ridden condition is that students taking the blogging course are directed to read and comment on each other’s blogs . . . another assignment I have been sadly neglecting. Yes, new bloggers and bloggers-to-be! If you take this course, you will have INSTANT READERS! Be honest. You want them. You know you do!

One of the blogging course’s taglines is “Tired of Writing a Boring Blog?” That was the attraction for me, as I have a somewhat neurotic fear of my readers hitting their Back buttons too quickly. I expected to receive some tips on setting up and maintaining a blog, as well as critique of my posts. What I didn’t expect was the therapeutic advantage. When my classmates and I commented on each others’ About Me pages, it was pointed out that my page was about my family instead. I was directed to write a page that was actually about ME (a direction I will follow very shortly). I took some extra-long showers to ponder the significance of that realization.

As difficult as I find writing on demand, it is equally difficult for me NOT to write when the urge strikes. For many years, I considered myself more of a poet than a writer, so this is a fitting place to share the following poem I wrote almost thirty years ago.

How many sheets of paper
Have I filled with senseless rhymes?
And why must these ideas appear
At such ungodly times?
How often have you slept alone
As daylight filtered in
And I was busily engaged
With paper and with pen?
My, “Just a minute . . . I’ll be there!”
Falls on your deafened ear.
You fell asleep two hours ago,
While I’ve been scribbling here!
My vice is neither food nor drink;
It’s musings in my head.
Until the words are written down,
I just don’t go to bed.

If you want to read about the class I’m taking, click the little graphic below.

If you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas.

 

 My apologies to dog lovers. My father is one. My friend Amy is one. While I respect their choice of companion animal and have nothing against canines in general, a dog is just not right for me at this time. 

Do you like those online quizzes? You know, the kind that claim to analyze your personality based on your favorite cartoon character, the color you paint your toenails, or the shape of your earlobes?

I stumbled upon a quiz that proposed to tell me what kind of writer I am, based on my chosen pet. Having recently adopted Steve, a leopard gecko of my very own, I was intrigued.

I learned that I “require solitude. You are a self-sufficient person and independent thinker. You are a mysterious mix of rebelliousness and grace with an engaging touch of slime. Your hidden talent is the ability to change and reinvent yourself easily. You write best when you’re uninterrupted and undisturbed for longer periods of time. Your spouse, family, and friends think they have you pegged, but when you shed your skin, you baffle them once again.”

That analysis is frighteningly accurate. Despite my larger-than-average family size, I do require solitude. That’s why access to the personal pink paradise that I call my office is by invitation only. I agree that I’m self-sufficient and independent, which probably accounts for the sometimes bewildered expression in My Husband’s eyes. Graceful, rebellious, and slimy . . . they’re all “me” on occasion. And I certainly do write best when I’m “uninterrupted and undisturbed for longer periods of time”, which explains why it’s been a month since I last posted anything on my poor, neglected blog.

Still, I think choosing Steve as a pet is more indicative of the stage I am in my life than my overall personality. I considered a dog or a cat and quickly dismissed the traditional companion animal.  As the mother of six kids, I just don’t need something else that tries to crawl up in my lap when I sit down.

I wouldn’t welcome a pet who wakes me to go potty, crowds me out of my bed, or vomits on the carpet. I have children who do all that. While I’ll gladly give up some sleep for my own flesh and blood, I fear the same behavior from something furry and four-legged would have me planning a trip to the nearest pound.

Wandering the pet store, in search of an animal to add some life to my office space, I rejected the obvious choices one by one. Having battled mice in my kitchen cupboards on a number of occasions, I don’t want any small, sharp-toothed creatures that go scritch-scritch-scritch in the night. Proceeding to the more exotic pets, I decided that tarantulas are featured in too many horror movies. Hermit crabs are too small to be interesting, and turtles were unavailable. Being an ancestor of Eve, I didn’t even consider the yellow-eyed snake. I was immediately attracted to the friendly-looking gecko with a smile on his face.

I’m pleased with  my choice. I can nurture and interact with Steve . . . when I have time. Adult geckos don’t even eat every day. (Why couldn’t I share THAT particular attribute?) I took great delight in setting up the perfect habitat for him, much as I enjoy decorating my own living space. As a gesture of love, I recently bought him half of a coconut shell, with a door cut in it. When he ventured inside and poked his head out, I felt as fulfilled as most people do when witnessing their canine friend’s excitement over a new squeaky toy.

Geckos can live fifteen years. With luck, I could still be hunting live bugs as a special treat for Steve while the other senior citizens are out walking their dogs.

So, fellow bloggers, what kind of writer are YOU?

http://www.writingontherun.com/quiz.html

 

Presenting an Image

My first computer boasted a monstrous monitor displaying a dark green background with yellow text. That’s it. No graphics. No sound. Mouse optional.

I’ve obviously had a longstanding love affair with computers but, when it comes to blogging, Middle Son would call me a “noob”. I’m still trying to figure out why people blog in the first place. I mulled it over for a good thirty seconds and reached the conclusion that it’s a matter of image. In our blogs, we can present a somewhat more polished image of ourselves than we perhaps deserve.

Based on my four whole days as a blogger, I am offering the following seven suggestions for assuring your blog presents the image of your choice.

1. Present a youthful image. Use a ten-year-old picture of yourself as an avatar.

2. Present an educated image. Keep a dictionary and thesaurus open in a separate window. Refer to both frequently when writing your posts.

3. Present a tidy image. Crop the stacks of unwashed dishes from the background of your photographs.

4. Present a maternal image. Freely post pictures of your offspring. Use a paint program to add pants to children who were caught on camera wearing nothing but their underwear.

5. Present a productive image. Alter the date stamp of your blog posts to disguise the amount of time you spend sitting in front of your computer.

6. Present a popular image. Pay friends and family to leave comments.

7. Present a thinner image. See number one.

I’ve actually only tried six of these. In the interest of preserving my hard-won image, I won’t divulge which ones.

A Merry Heart Doeth Good

So, apparently a few of my friends DO own computers. Someone let me know they felt a rather crude remark I made in my initial post was inappropriate, given that I am a Christian.

Well, now. I did give the rebuke some consideration. The offending phrase refers to a conversation between me and My Husband. I’m flesh-of-his-flesh-bone-of-his-bone, so I feel free to banter with him in a manner that I wouldn’t with anyone else. I think it’s okay to acknowledge the special relationship shared by a husband and wife. (Song of Solomon sure does.)

I’m pleased and grateful to worship a God who cared enough to gift us with such nonessentials as color, love . . . and humor.

I’ve written poetry that would bring tears to your eyes, and a training manual that is the epitome of efficient, informative communication. If it’s okay with you, I’ll keep this blog lighthearted and fun. I promise it will never exceed a PG rating.

A Grey-haired Geek

The term “grey-haired geek” leaped spontaneously from my lips as I tried in vain to communicate with a non-technology-minded acquaintance. I said it apologetically, as if our inability to understand each other was due to some flaw in my own personality: “I know you aren’t interested in this. I’m such a grey-haired geek!”

Delighted with my impromptu use of alliteration, I ran home and Googled the term. (Who am I kidding here? I pulled my handheld computer from my pocket and Googled it on the spot.) The search returned no results. With fear in my heart, I tried it without the hyphen and with an alternate spelling of “grey”. Oh, joy! It hadn’t been used! I had just named my blog-to-be!

Please do not leave comments saying someone else is using it now. I do not wish to be so enlightened. I have avoided Googling it again, because ignorance can be bliss. You see, all this time, I have remained blogless . . . for simple want of a name!

In my circle of friends, being forty-something with a passion for computers is considered akin to having a third eye. (Okay, so I’m closer to fifty. Stop interrupting, and just read my blog.) There are still several families in our homeschool co-op who are without email. Yes . . . I actually have to send POSTCARDS to these people. (Click here for the definition of “postcard”.) I offered to build a website for the group. One science-minded member thought I was suggesting something similar to an ant farm, only with spiders. To borrow a phrase from someone who’s funnier than I will ever be, “I am not making this up”.

My children admit to dismay over my ability to comprehend their text messaging shorthand. Their father (who is also My Husband, because it’s friendlier that way) is of the same mindset as my friends. The only mouse he has ever been really comfortable with is the one I had him dump from a trap last week. (That’s another reason he’s remained My Husband.) He does like to play games on the computer, but when I once told him he should close his browser, he was deeply offended. We won’t even discuss the conversation that ensued when I mentioned that I needed more RAM.

So, as soon as I click “Publish”, my blogging journey will begin. Without computers, many of my friends will be unable to read this. That could be a blessing in disguise.