With a Year's Worth of Stuff Bottled Up Inside My Head

So it is just over a year since I have attempted to blog here. Just over a year since I have given myself the power and freedom to just dump whatever it is, inside my head, out on the page. I thought I would blog about writing here, or about unschooling my three children here... and perhaps I have, occasionally, with various degrees of success. I have never had much success in dividing my life into spheres. The writing me, the mom me, the farmers market manager me, the me that is attempting to help publish books for others... it's all just me, really.

I am who I am.

And I've long stopped apologizing for my varied interests and focuses. You hear that, ME? I'm not going to say I am sorry any more. It's not a lack of focus, an inability to commit, or a fear of failure (or success!) I love writing. I wouldn't give up the last 19 years of holding motherhood as my primary "job" for anything. I absolutely love the way that my work as farmers market manager has given me roots in this community and has helped me to feel more at home. I get a kick out of formatting books for publication (and I'm pretty darned good at it). I'm not a half-bad editor either... except for my own work. (I suck at editing my own work.)

I am a creative being, who adores the orderly nature and power of a spreadsheet.

Is that weird? Well so be it. That's who I am.

This evening, I went to a reading of Notable Kansas Authors at the William Allen White Library on ESU's campus. Notable Authors include my good friend, Cheryl Unruh, and my friend and co-author (Green Bike), Kevin Rabas. I almost didn't go, because I've been in a stay-at-home frame of mind, of late, but I talked myself into going at the last minute because I have never been let down by the experience of listening to story tellers. Notable authors also include the prolific, Max McCoy and Jim Hoy, both of whom I have very much enjoyed listening to in the past.

Sure enough, The event was barely getting started as my mind started collecting ideas and inspirations. Why am I not writing? I asked (inside my head). Okay, I mean, I am writing (novel-in-progress, 3rd draft) but why am I not writing this... and this... and this... and this?

Oh, if only there were more hours in the day.

I've got enough projects to keep me busy through the sundown of my life.

There's plenty to share... inside my head, there's no need to hide it.

If I know it makes my heart smile, I shall say YES!

Missing

Sometimes I really miss the person who had time to devote to blogging all that was inside her head. Sometimes when I feel I have the time these days, I just sit and stare at the screen. Then I turn the computer off and go to bed.

At the same time, I'm happy to be busy and outside of my head more than I used to be. I think I needed the space away from myself. I think I needed the break from my own inner thoughts and obsessions.

Somewhere there is a balance between the two.

Someday I will find it.

18 Years of Parenting

She didn't come with a set of instructions. We just sort of muddled through, picking up the details we needed to know along the way, understanding that we would make mistakes and need forgiving.

She was my first close-encounter with my very own kind of miracle. The fact of her existence, evidence of my creative power, took my breath away. Then came the mind-boggling comprehension that she was mine, yet not mine at all.

I began to understand, quite early, how quickly this was all going to happen. The years rolling one right onto another, how effortlessly she grew from a baby to one who toddles to one who speaks and dreams and continues to alter the course of our daily rituals. I'd never been more content to simply observe, to drop everything I was and become for someone else, for however long she needed me, and then I would become again.

So here we are on the first day of year 18, with all its legal significance. She can vote. She can sign her own health forms. She can serve on a jury. She can maintain her finances privately if she so desires. And while I have no worries that she is capable, I have had moments of anxiety. Have I prepared her? Was there something big and profound I was suppose to have passed along by now that maybe I have forgotten?

Yet, it is a day like any other. A day we will continue to evolve in our relationship, she and I. A day we will continue to celebrate, both individually and together. A day when we will look back on where we've been, and look forward to all there is still before us.

Today I have been a mother for 18 years.

She continues to amaze me.

Anticipating Change and Enjoying the Creative Fuel it Brings

I've always maintained the belief that creativity begets creativity. Writing, painting, composing... it doesn't matter the form. One creative act leads to ideas for at least two more. Most of the time I would claim to be engaged in creative work on pretty much a daily basis. Most often it is writing, but I've been known to draw a picture, pick out a tune on the piano, experiment with recipes or take photographs all with that same satisfied-at-having-created-something feeling.

I also enjoy spending time doing more rote, logistical type things that I've come to think of as creativity fueling. I enjoy being busy, productive, and there are certain tasks that I know I can turn to when my mind needs time to process its more unruly thoughts. I am delighted by spreadsheets, for instance, and I take pride in the management systems I have created with them to aid my work with the farmers market or in managing the billing and bookkeeping for my husband's law office practice. I suppose the act of generating a good spreadsheet is creative, but the act of using a good spreadsheet is incredibly satisfying (especially if you are confident of all of the mathematical functions because you placed them there yourself for reasons you fully understand). I place a number here, and it calculates this, that, and another.

Sometimes my creative mode turns more habitual, however, and I come to the realization that I've not so much been creating as going through the motions simply because I think of myself as a creating kind of person. Perhaps I am writing the same words in a different tense, or putting them to paper in cursive rather than print. Maybe I have turned to doodling for the sake of filling blank space. Or I am serving the same dish meal after meal and forgetting what everything tastes like. Sometimes I am so practiced at what I do that I can fall into the habit of work without really feeling the satisfaction of actually having created something.

It is interesting to look back at my life and see these patterns of actively and passively engaging with the creative process, and the pattern of falling into ruts (usually caused by finding a pattern that works so well I never want it to end). When I was younger, I was more prone to get caught up in the fear of changing things, but now I've almost come to the point of looking forward to those moments. I might recognize that I am getting stuck in a groove, but am more content than I used to be to wait for the right moment. I'm less likely to feel the need to hang on to actions or routines because they once worked. Situations change. I change. My creative process changes. Sometimes I have to do something different in order to move forward and move my creative life to a place of greater satisfaction.

It may be that I've come to anticipate those changes so much that the knowledge that they are coming is enough to fuel a resurgence of creativity. The hubby and I had an idea last week. It was a big idea, for us. An idea that would involve a new house and a new business. I don't know where that idea is going to go, or if it is going to go at all, but I have felt that opening of my mind. I'm ready for change. I'm ready to switch up my routine in a bigger than usual way.

Just the idea of making this move has resulted in an flurry of creative energy. It's infused my market work, my law office work, and my writing. I've got more ideas on the plate than I have room for, but I'm happy that way. I'm coming to the end of each day exhausted and satisfied. I'm excited about that open state of mind, the feeling that anything is possible, and whatever it ends up being, it will be good.

Sorting through the Voices in My Head

Sometimes I find myself sorting through a whole slew of responses, inside my head, that are not actually my own. I was sitting at the table when my middle kid (age 15) came in from a bike ride this evening. I kept thinking that there was something funny about the way the light was reflecting off her hair. Her hair is generally light brown. She was blond when she was little, but it's much darker now. Finally, it hit me.

Me: Did you dye your hair red?

Middle Munchkin (big grin): Yes... Yes I did.

Inside my head, I heard my mother gasp in dismay. In her world, hair dye was made to cover grey hair, and it was supposed to look so natural that nobody suspected. To be asked if she colored her hair was an insult. Inside my head, my mother... and possible my grandmother... shook their heads and worried. Coloring one's hair... especially something wild like red... just might lead down other dangerous and forbidden roads.

Finally, I heard my own voice.

Me: Cool. It looks really good.

Misery and Happiness

It takes a certain amount of effort to be miserable. It simply takes a different kind of effort to be happy. 

These are not Ann Patchett's exact words, but I've been reading Ann Patchett and this thought is one of my take-aways from Truth & Beauty: A Friendship. 

I picked up Ann at the library a couple of weeks ago - This Is the Story of a Happy Marriage. The book was billed as a collection of essays about commitment. I absolutely loved it. I devoured every essay, and a few of them I read twice. There were portions I wanted to print in big letters and wallpaper my room with them. She writes such lovely words. I wonder how it is I had not discovered her before now.

And so my love-affair with yet another writer begins. When I returned the book of essays, I checked out one of her fiction and non-fiction books. I made it through Truth & Beauty in about three days, which is very speedy for me, as I always have at least two or three books going at a time and, except for weekends, my reading time is often limited to the few minutes I can keep my eyes open before going to bed. I will admit that I took Sunday as a sick day. I came home from "camp" (a Friday and Saturday event with my daughter) with a head cold and so threw myself upon the couch on Sunday with a box of tissues, a few pillows, a blanket, and the book.

Unlike This is a Story..., Truth & Beauty was heartbreaking in content; yet still lovely in its way with words. 

It left me dwelling on the above.... on the effort of being miserable vs. being happy... I see this so often in life. (Or perhaps, more accurately, so often of Facebook, where people tend to put both their misery and happiness in words.) 

Far too often I think people get into the habit of demanding that their misery be noticed.

I'm sad. I'm lonely. Nobody loves me. Why doesn't anyone appreciate me?

I wonder why it is so hard to see the problem of focusing on what brings us down. Only occasionally am I drawn to respond. I might comment or send a private note to someone who truly seems to be suffering, but more often I turn away. 

Does that make me cold hearted? Does that make me a bad friend?

It's not the occasional, "Hey, I'm having a tough day," that I'm talking about. We are only human, after all. I don't mind the now-and-then harrumph, or enough already, or man life sucks! But I have friends who have truly gone through some serious pain and loss and, yet, they still manage to smile and show their sunny side as much or more often than they frown out loud.

My issue is the people who dwell there. The people who seem intent on expending all their energy on feelings misery when it seems that those feelings are primarily being generated by the person to create more misery. It's as if it were a contest and they want everyone to know that they are winning. As if collecting the "oh you poor thing" comments actually makes life any better.

Manipulating others into feeling sorry for you only confirms that you are a sad and sorry person. Trust me. It doesn't make you feel any better except maybe for that brief moment of connection when someone looks your way (or comments on your wall). In the long wrong you have done nothing to improve your state of mind or state of being.

Truth & Beauty was about a friendship... a lovely friendship that spanned twenty years. But honestly? As much as I admired Ann, and even admired her friend, to some extent, I found myself midway through the book thinking that I would never be a person, like Ann, who has that depth of kind and generous. I have many friends that I consider life-long, but I don't know that I could/would put up with the things Ann dealt with in her relationship with Lucy Grealy.

Is my bar too high? Do I have unrealistic expectations that all of my friends should be stronger? Wiser? More capable?

Perhaps the truth is that I find the line between happiness and misery too easy to cross myself. I fear tying myself to people who are so freely miserable. I've found myself in the position of purposely getting out of these relationships in the past. I let them drag me down until I finally see it, they are trying to take me with them and beginning to succeed. Maybe I am the one who is not strong enough. Maybe if I were stronger, I could spread enough sunshine for both of us.

What I wish these people could see is that dwelling on what is wrong in life makes the wrong things grow big until it is hard to see beyond the shadows they cast. 

When instead, I've tackled my own grey clouds with a quest to bring a smile to someone else's face, I find that I can smile easier, as well. It works. I find happiness by focusing on good. To dwell on them, especially publicly, where I get feedback, only makes them last longer and grow darker. 

I don't want to be a person who runs from people who are in pain. I know that there are times in life when we simply have to embrace what is, even when it's hard and/or sad beyond reason. But I also don't want to be a person who exerts all my effort on chosing misery.

I hope that I am wise enough to see the difference.

Inspiration at a Funeral

I went to a funeral on Friday. The deceased was the grandfather of a friend. He was also a client of the hubby's. I'd met him a few times. I remembered him as a very friendly man who was very proud of his granddaughter. She was our connection, and he was pleased to meet me, I felt, because of my relationship to her. That was several years ago, before I even thought of her as friend, to be honest. She was a market board member. She was someone in the growing field of "people I now know" in our new home of Emporia. Making these connections, matching grandfathers to granddaughters, is part of the process of becoming a member of a community when you are new.

I have had the good fortune to get to know this man's daughter, as well. She was my most faithful volunteer in my first years working as the market manager. I got to know her on our frequent Saturday mornings together. I absorbed her stories about her daughter, about her own grandkids, about her mother who had recently passed away, and her husband, also recently gone. I missed her this past year, when a new marriage and life events took her elsewhere for our usual Saturdays. We would hug when our paths crossed and we'd catch up, as best we could, and I would feel, again, as if my roots had grown deeper in this community. I loved the way she called her father, Daddy. It made my heart ache to hear the stories as she watched him decline and cared for him as his health failed. Her smile kept going strongly.

I don't usually expect to grow teary-eyed over the death of people I've known from a distance, people I've known for very little time, to be honest. Yet I pulled out a tissue as I listened to the stories, the letters written by daughters and granddaughter, and I felt proud to have known this man for a brief moment, but moreso to know his family and to have the opportunity to know them better in years to come.

I left a funeral today feeling inspired to be a more generous and kinder person. To be the kind of person Bill Wygle would have called friend. To be the kind of person to whom people say their goodbyes with tears and good stories and hugs... and even some laughter.

Having Fun

I pulled out a photo book at random. It covered most of 2007, and a bit of 2008. The hubby and I flipped through the pages, enjoying the mini walk down memory lane, wondering at how much our three children had changed in such a short amount of time. Middle Munchkin was soon looking along with us, drawn by our smiles and our laughter.

"You guys make having kids sound like fun," she said.

It is fun. It's been nothing but fun. It's still fun. I'd do it all again, if given a choice. I'd relive every moment.

Munchkin Boy & Middle Munchkin ~ 2007

A Never Ending Awe

Munchkin Boy, my baby, is thirteen now. When I back him up against the fancy-schmancey "family tree" where I've marked the tops of kid heads for nearly 18 years, he's almost 3/4 of an inch taller than he was two months ago on his birthday, which was nearly 5 inches taller than he was on his 12th birthday, which is exactly 3 inches higer than the sharpie mark designated "Tracy," added a few years ago when Munchkin #1 was eager to see if she was passing me in height. (She didn't. We are exactly the same height, though she generally has better posture than I do.)

I take pride in being a mother who pays attention, who soaks in every detail, yet I find myself sitting at the kitchen table sometimes, absorbed in something... maybe mundane or perhaps profane... and my attention is drawn by something as simple as a word or phrase...

"neural pathways"

...and I tune in to a conversation about one's taste in music being less a conscious decision than a recognition by the brain that a melody is similar or different from those you most frequently listen to.

Sometimes these moments feel like waking after a long, long sleep. Who are these people in my house? Where did they come from? How is it that they come up with all of these marvelous thoughts, all of their very own making?

I often associate this kind of awe with the early days of motherhood, days of babes in arms, a time when I simply could not get enough of holding them, watching them sleep, listening to them breathe. There is this memory of a feeling of having grown more than twice my size, on the inside, somewhere in the vicinity of my heart and my brain, struggling with the wonder that I had anything to do, at all, with someone so whole and complete and entirely independent.

I think to myself, wasn't it just yesterday? Because I thought I was doing a good job of paying attention, yet we've gotten from there to here is such a short, short time.

My attention may be drawn by the fact that his pants are too short, again, but my mind gets stuck on the fact that I am looking a full three inches up into his blue, blue eyes, that I know are the same color as mine, and have often made me think of my dad, my grandfather, in the 13 years this little big guy has been in my life.

I look up to all three of my children, my son now literally as well as figuratively.

And I continue to be filled with awe.

Happy 23rd Anniversary to My One and Only

So the truth is, I never meant to fall in love. Not in happily-ever-after-till-death-do-us-part love, anyway. I had this idea, at the ripe old age of 18, that a woman didn’t need marriage… didn’t need a man… didn’t need any relationship that might stand in the way of a career and an exciting, fun-filled live of travel and accomplishment. It’s funny how I still believe that, yet I’m glad I found mine. Whatever the hurdles, the trial and error, the ups and downs, I would spend the last 23 years the very same way if given the chance.

I didn’t think of him as “the one” for several years. Certainly not the summer we met. He was fun. He was new and exciting. With him, I had a voice I was not accustomed to using, except perhaps at the tail end of parties, when I was past drunk and still upright and the mood of adolescent debauchery had turned philosophical. We talked about things; ideas that were deep and wide and it was nice that it didn’t require an abundance of alcohol to get myself to speak my thoughts out loud as words. 

I liked that about him. 

Being with him was a little bit like doing drugs… all of the buzz, none of the day-after hangover.

I didn’t think of him as “the one” those first few years… weekend drives between two colleges, countless letters written on spiral notebook paper, our first apartment together in Lawrence… somewhere along the line we decided to get married. I loved him. At least per my limited understanding of love at the time. It seemed the practical thing to do, get married. It assured our future together in some very real and tangible ways and that somehow frightened me less than the idea of us growing in different directions and eventually apart. We were moving forward, most definitely, as a couple, rather than as two individuals who just happened to enjoy spending time together.

I’m not even sure I thought of him as “the one” when we got married on December 29, 1990. It was the coldest day in Dodge City, Kansas in something like 50 years. I don’t remember much about the cold. Only that it is the first thing people talked about for many years when they talked about our wedding. Several family members did not make it to the event. It was that kind of cold; the kind of where cars wouldn’t start and people were afraid of being stranded, even for short road trips, because of the deepness of the chill. 

The sky is blue in our wedding photographs. The ground is white, but not freshly so. The oreos were stuck to the windshield of our car so solidly that they required multiple blasts from a carwash hose on the way to Wichita to clear the window enough that we could see. We added ice, but at least we had visibility.

The whole experience of meeting him and falling in love and getting married a short two and a half years later still feels like something of an out-of-body experience for me. The wedding, especially; I was never a center-stage kind of girl. I never dreamed of tiaras and princess gowns and spotlights. I was still operating under the assumption that I should do what was expected of me. I grew past that, eventually. We both did. And I have to give him at least half the credit for what we’ve become. 

Authentic. Real. Both perfect and imperfect in our made-for-each-other ways. Yin and yang in some respects; oil and water in others. 

Ultimately, we have both grown stronger in our visions of ourselves, both individually and together, and after 23 years the fact that we are still speaking—still each other’s first choice for company and entertainment— would seem to be a good sign. 

Sometimes, looking back on my life with him, it feels more like we blundered into a relationship and were just lucky it turned out to be a good thing. We grew up together, in many ways. We had disagreements. We made some mistakes. Hell, we are likely still making new ones.

More often I think of it in terms of what we deserve, because we worked for it. Some days it came easy; some days it felt like a never-ending chore, this act of living together in happiness and harmony.

Somewhere along the line—likely years after marrying him, believe it or not—I decided he was “the one” and I guess he must have made that decision, too. Perhaps earlier than me. I really couldn’t say for sure. But the commitment that feels real and binding was made long after the out-of-body-experience of the early years of our dating and eventual marriage had taken place. My memories of us as a couple at some point grow more solid.

The fairy tale divisions that made up my understanding of a modern woman versus my mother’s generation had blurred by then and I understood that we were building our own life to be what we wanted it to be.

I was never one to dwell on doubts, but was always well aware that I had choices. And the fact was that I kept choosing him, over and over again. One might think that after 23 years it’s simply habit. But I think it is not. It remains a choice. And I pick him again, to be “the one”… and only.

Let’s see where the next 23 years takes us, Bubs.

published also at www.TracyMillionSimmons.com

The year to come...

Image from www. mashable.com

Once upon a time I was the self-proclaimed Queen of New Year's resolutions. Actually, I think a friend first called me that, but I latched on to the title and did not forget it. I not only made resolutions, sometimes spending the entire month of December analyzing and planning them, I stuck fast to them...

All.

Year.

Long.

Those were the days of always learning something new, trying on new hats, pushing myself outside of my comfort zone... Perhaps I had a lot of becoming to accomplish.

Somewhere along the way I started slowing down. The need to create checklists of goals and accomplishments started feeling less urgent. On my list of goals for each year, "spend more time in the moment" became a common theme. I found myself skipping a year, or declaring something like "more of the same" and calling it good.

I have no desire to make a resolution these days. At least, not a year-long commitment. Not one that requires me to plot my path farther than a few steps or so ahead. I prefer the wiggle room these days. I prefer the luxury of feeling no pressure when I wake up in the morning; maybe I will accomplish a lot, maybe I will just sit with my cup of coffee and absorb every aspect of the moment. Stillness can be awesome, too.

While this means that I can't tell you when the next book will be finished and I can't even tell you which of my works-in-progress is my focus for the moment, it doesn't mean I won't continue to be industrious... writing and otherwise.

Somewhere inside my head there is a younger, more idealistic me who is a bit disappointed in my current approach to progress. She might even be accusing me of being a bit too lackadaisical. Her approach certainly served its purpose during its time. She calls now and then and I find myself pulling out my planning notebook again... but then I look up and see that the sun is shining, an interesting conversation is taking place, or a new idea for a new story has just hit me and I'm off to follow it for a while. For now, I feel the moment calling me. I don't want to be so busy looking to the future that I forget to take advantage of what the day is offering.

I am looking forward to 2014 -- all 365 glorious, unknown days of it.



published also at www.TracyMillionSimmons.com

Moving my Musings

I've decided to move my musings to my new site altogether. I'm not taking this site down, but obviously am spreading myself thin, so will be blogging about writing pursuits, books and probably even some family stuff (whatever comes to mind) at www.TracyMillionSimmons.com. Please feel free to follow me there, if interested. Even better, change any links you may have to this site if they remain.

Thanks for following along for the journey. It's been fun, and is only promising to be more fun!

They asked, "What do you want to do for Mother's Day?"

...and I said I wanted to go to the castle at Ha Ha Tonka State Park. It's been on my list of things to see for years.

What a lovely weekend with my family.

It was perfect!

Thinking Out Loud About Blog Direction: Unschooling, and Life

So the hubby asked if he should take this blog off his to-read list and I said, "No. Not yet. There's still a lot of stuff bubbling around inside my head and who knows when I will decide I need a spot to put it. Yet, I recognize that my track record has been so poor, of late, that I've pretty much lost what readership I may have once had.

I've been thinking that perhaps it's time to turn the talk here back to unschooling... or raising kids and family life and personal reflections, like back in the olden days.

I started this blog in 2005, primarily as a writing blog, but quickly realized I had more I wanted to talk about so I broadened my scope. Even during my quiet periods, I've been reluctant to give up blogging all together. I think partly because so often I have regretted that I took down my original blog (called an online journal back then) from the late 1990s. Then partly, as well, because I grow frustrated with the lack of control regarding format and storage of information on Facebook. Now that I've most definitely moved my writing thoughts elsewhere, I am left mulling over where "Inside My Head" belongs in the grand scheme of things.

Rather than mull silently, I might as well share.

Here, I let my mind wander...

My children are now ages 17 (I just had to ask her to confirm that), 14, and 12. These sound like awfully big numbers to me. This means that it was 12 years ago that I did not put my first child on the big yellow school bus. I remember thinking, at that time, that I was fairly certain I was doing the right thing. Three or four years earlier I had reluctantly agreed to give homeschooling a try when it was time to send her off to kindergarten. She was about 3 when I discovered the term unschooling. I was following my gut, but also reading voraciously and engaging with total strangers in some of the most powerful, thought provoking and eye opening conversations I have been a part of my entire life.

I wrote a lot about my life with children when the kids were little. In many ways, I was documenting the details I've always been fearful would escape me. It was really no more than a continuation of habit I've pretty much had for as long as I've been able to hold a pencil, the narration of my own life. But as well, I was making a record for myself, proof that unschooling worked, perhaps, or evidence I could turn to when I came up against doubts.

Then at some point I stopped writing... or stopped sharing it, for better or worse. Overcome with shyness, perhaps, as I was introducing myself to my new community. A struggle with a bit of depression, more accurately, as I succumbed to physical roadblocks and faced the reality of my mortality. But the learning never stopped and the belief in my children and in what they were capable of never stopped growing.

In the years since I became a mother I have spent tremendous energy exploring and connecting the dots in my world, and along the way these three children of mine have become my greatest allies, my co-conspirators on this journey we call life. No longer was I testing a method of educating them, we were simply living and learning and making mistakes and celebrating successes. We were learning from each other and learning apart, and at some point I must have realized I was no longer worried about screwing things up and wishing I had done it differently. I did it exactly right, even in all the times I ended up doing it wrong. I freed myself from the bonds of traditional thinking and action, initially with regard to educating children, and it grew to be so much more than that.

Sometimes I feel as if I am still in the act of falling into something special, enabling and powerful. Most often, I feel how this way of living has become habit. It's simply the way I look at things. It's the assumptions I make about the nature of people, young and old, and how open I have come to the belief that anything is possible. When I forget this, my children are pretty good at reminding me, often through a simple act or comment that they wouldn't even note as important.

A friend recently asked me what my daughter was going to do once she graduates. I simply shrugged and said I honestly have no idea, and I know enough by now to know that it's okay. How to explain that "graduation" is a concept that really doesn't even fit our plans? Yet she is designing her graduation announcement with her own blend of wit and sarcasm thrown in, and we've spent some time brainstorming her "I'm headed out into the world" party... or not... for lack of a better term for it. She is defining her future right now and has been, and I expect she will be for many years to come. I've never been in a hurry for her to grow up and leave the nest, and I don't really expect her to slip into traditional roles that children play when she's been free of them all her life. We talk a lot about what is happening to her age-mates in public schools. We've adopted terminology over the years to help answer questions that are inevitably sometimes asked. Sometimes we use it, and sometimes we are content to shrug and simply say it doesn't apply.

I don't know that I understand any more about raising (or certainly educating) children today than I did 17 years ago when I was only just beginning. I do know that trust in yourself and trust in them is the biggest part of the puzzle. I also know that whatever you figure out with kid #1, is likely to befuddle you again when the second kid comes along. I know I am going to continue to make mistakes and so are they. I know we will learn from most of them, and some we will simply try to put behind us. I know the success and joy we experience are going to far outweigh any stumbles.

Sometimes I am still baffled that not every family chooses to live this way. Sometimes I meet someone who seems to tackle it all -- the job, the parenting, the schoolhouse, the world -- in such an impressive way that I wonder, for a moment, if I and my family might have been one of them. My children don't share these doubts. I have asked, and they have answered. Yet I ask again, and they assure me if they change their minds and want to try something more traditional, they will certainly speak up and let me know. Of that, I have no doubts. My children have learned nothing if not to speak their minds.

I am thinking I am going to spend a little time writing here about my children again. If you have any questions about unschooling, I am happy to try to answer. I can share our experiences, at the very least.

Sunday Book Review....

Nah, just kidding. I'm moving my book reviews to my author page. If you've stopped by, check it out. My first novel is now available in both print and as an ebook.

Or... join the Virtual Book Tour... happening now.

Tiger Hunting, by Tracy Million Simmons
When Jeni returns to her childhood home in western Kansas, she never imagines that she'll be hunting a white tiger escaped from the circus or competing with an ape for the affections of the boy she once loved. While she waits for the man she's left behind to notice she's not coming back, she reconnects with her family and works to pick up the pieces of her life. 

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Tracy Million Simmons takes the reader on a fun romp across the High Plains of southwest Kansas in a hunt for an escaped white tiger. With an engaging story of loss, family expectations, and finding one's way, Simmons shows us that home can be the greatest healer of all.

~ Cheryl Unruh, author & columnist, Flyover People: Life on the Ground in a Rectangular State

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The right amount of magic! 

Tiger Hunting is a winner from the start. Most of us have lost our direction at one time or another. Follow Jeni as her search leads through the most unexpected events around Tracy Million Simmons' own stomping grounds of Dodge City, Kansas. 

This book comes with a wonderful insight (for some of us) into the mysterious way a woman's mind works.) 

I welcome this white tiger to Kansas.

~ Max Yoho, author, Me and Aunt Izzy and The Moon Butter Route

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Tracy Million Simmons writes with heartfelt warmth and humor when she develops her characters and their relationships in this entertaining and delightful story.

~ Gloria Zachgo, author, The Rocking Horse

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Drum roll, please....

I did it.

Or I'm doing it.

Or something like that.

Tracy Million Simmons (author page)

Let it Snow, Let it Snow

I have to admit that having two major snow storms in as many weeks has left me feeling a bit discombobulated. Though I often get a charge from shaking up my routine, when something shakes it up for me I don't always flow as smoothly as I wish I did. Since work and home aren't that far apart, and the whole family tends to be in one place or the other more often than not, it's tempting to just try to maintain the normal rhythms of our life even when area schools are closing or (more significant for hubby) the courthouse closes.

But home is simply a more comfortable place to be when it is grey and cold, or thick and wet as this second bought of snow has been. The ground is white, but shoveling the drive and around the office this round was like cleaning up after the spill of a giant slushie machine. The kids freed up the path to the drain under the street and then we all stood listening to the roar of water beneath us as it rushed away.

We had about 24 hours straight of snow coming down in one form or another. Sometimes I would look out to see giant fluffy flakes. Sometimes it was so wet it was just rain. Only once, about 3am this morning, did it actually look something like a blizzard. I peeked out my window to see nothing but white. As I stared, the snow lessened and the tree at our corner became visible.

Our power has remained on throughout, thank goodness. We brought the cat home from the office just because we worried that she might get cold if things got as bad as they were predicting it might. She spent a few hours hiding beneath the girls' beds, like she'd never been here before, and finally settled down and relaxed about the time they were ready to call it a night. She's a lovable cat who just doesn't understand why her affection is not welcome all hours of the day or night.

Since our dishwasher pump died about the same time the snow started, we've been taking turns washing dishes by hand. Oddly, perhaps because of all the quality lounging at-home time, our kitchen looks better and more tidy than usual. Actually having moments of wondering if the dishwasher is a tool we truly need after all.

I also loaded a bag with all I could imagine I might need to finish up some projects for the market. So I have had some incredibly productive list-ticking time, as well. I had a small build-up of projects that simply needed time free of distractions.

What a Snow Day is Good For... It's Simply Good

I don't know why I still think of it as a snow day; it is simply a day full of snow and for that I am grateful. I mostly took the opportunity to work from home, which I often do anyway. Mostly, I have spent the day being thankful that we have some sort of moisture falling from the sky. It is desperately needed and any form will do. Our whole community must be truly understanding the lack, as I've seen very few complaints about the cold and snow on Facebook today.

 These are early morning photos. When I went to bed last night, it still wasn't snowing and I was beginning to think this was going to be another disappointing hype by the weathermen. I was so pleased to look out this morning and see actual flakes falling. I love the way the flash on the camera lights them up.

We walked downtown to hubby's office today to collect our snow shovels. Cleared the sidewalk in front of and beside the office, then walked back using our snow shovels as walking sticks. Was about a two hour journey. I took my camera, thinking I'd take the opportunity to get some great photos of Emporia under snow, but realized too late that I'd left my memory card in the computer.

It was a very pleasant walk, however, and the kids and hubby took the time to help a couple of stuck cars dig out of the snow. It was fairly quiet downtown, but the folks who were out were friendly and relaxed. Very little wind, so the cold was comfortable even for being out for an extended time.

Our afternoon was filled with lots of snow watching, chocolate cake with coconut/pecan frosting, and cups of hot coffee or chocolate. Now we've got chilly in the crockpot and the snow in the air is growing thick again. I won't even mind having to shovel the snow again tomorrow.

Crazy Making in a Good Way

Tonight an acquaintance said, "I don't know how you spend all day, every day with your children. It would drive me insane. The time I do spend makes me crazy."

I never have a clue how to respond to stuff like this. Laugh it off? Pretend to feel a little crazy, too? Try to explain that I don't necessarily spend every minute of every day... or my theory that spending more time together actually makes it easier to be together (true for husbands and for kids).

My son tried to inject a little levity into the conversation. "Well the truth is, we're just perfect kids," he said.

"It's teamwork, isn't it Bud?" I finally came up with.

He just grinned.

Life isn't always easy, but it's almost always fun.... or at least crazy making in a good way. I really think it all depends on how you look at it.

I see a beautiful, colorful tree. Bonus, it needs no water.

Biscuits & Gravy

Today was a Farmers Market day with the bonus of biscuits & gravy (Friends of the Market fundraiser). I love biscuits and gravy, but it is true that they don't go down the way they used to. I think the very act of eating them is more about nostalgia than anything. As a food, they are heavy and full of flour and salt. Yum, none-the-less. I enjoyed them. And I enjoyed that so many people joined us at the market today and seemed to enjoy them, as well.

My mother always made biscuits and gravy from scratch. For much of my childhood I would say it was a staple breakfast for us... at least through the winter months. She'd pull them from the oven and immediately split them open and stick a pat of butter inside before dropping them in a basket covered with a dish towel. They would still be warm when you opened them and the butter would be melted and wonderful.

I had a special method for eating biscuits and gravy. The first I would pull from the basket and devour the soft bready-covered-in-butter inside. I would scrape it clean with my teeth, then enjoy the more crunchy outer portion of the biscuit. Biscuits two and three were eaten together. These were split in half and laid out on my plate, biscuit tops on one side and biscuit bottoms on the other. They were the main course. I'd spoon the gravy over them. Mom would tell the story about how Grandma Million's gravy (my dad's mom) was always smooth, but Mom couldn't seem to make anything but lumpy gravy. I'd tell Mom that the lumps were the best part. I was pretty sure gravy was intended to be lumpy.

There was always bacon on biscuits and gravy day. Not a crazy amount. If you were lucky, you'd get two half-slices. Mom could make a package of bacon last longer than anyone I know. I never allowed my bacon to touch the gravy. Bacon was carefully stacked on the side of the plate. I enjoyed little bites between biscuits, but never mixed the two.

Finally, when the plate was clean of gravy and the bacon gone, I'd have that final biscuit. This one I'd top with Mom's homemade preserves. Usually strawberry or peach jelly. It was a dessert biscuit. A perfect end to the first meal of the day.

Breakfasts around here these days tend to be fruit shakes and granola. We go through an occasional oatmeal craze. Biscuits and gravy are rare, but do happen on the occasional special morning, a holiday or maybe somebody's birthday. One of the kids will sometimes make a tray of biscuits, usually inspired, I think, by a particularly tasty looking jar of jam brought home from the farmers market.

Morning Lingers, a biscuit memory I wrote several years ago.