Mah Blog

If I were posting on here, I would have made a few more vitriolic statements about my vile disgust for spanking. But I wasn't. I think I did a fairly decent job of gilding my disdain.

Sharon Steele As it seems that this discussion is coming to a close, I will thank you all for a thoughtful discourse. For us, parenthood has been a constant evaluation and reevaluation of what is working and what is broken. This article reinforced my firm resolve that corporal punishment is an outdated form of discipline. Would we spank an Altzheimer's patient for wandering? Never. Why? Because our elderly have an intrinsic right to feel safe. Our children are entitled to the same respect. It seems to me that in an effort to go back to a simpler time (larger families, backyard gardens, bike riding, drinking from the hose, etc. ) we have thrown the baby out with the bathwater, so to speak. We know so much more about the psyche and the dignity of the human person now. Is the objective in parenting solely "obedience?" If so, spank on. I am quite sure that spanking will produce obedient children. If the objective is a deference out of respect and love? There are other ways to achieve that end.

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Apples and Trees

Apparently the aforementioned don't fall far from one another because of this:

An Ode to Jackie Robinson

Football, baseball, cross-country too

Jackie Robinson, which will you choose?

The Brooklyn Dodgers called your name

And you went down in the Hall of  Fame

 By Michael K. Steele

Fanciful wordplay must run in the family because I think Michael "hit a home run" with this little bit of poetic brilliance.

I'm Mad More than Sad

Read The Story Here

I don't claim to know how much other families shelter their children from the ills of the world. I can only tell you that I remember how it felt to be a kid and to be afraid of the dangers that seemed to lurk. When I was in Kindergarten a young, blonde girl was kidnapped from her own block in Northern California (where I lived at the time) when walking to school. My grandfather escorted me to and from school to ease my fears that something similar could happen to me.

When my brother was born and I was 5 years old, there was a rash of SIDS deaths. I remember being afraid to go in and greet my beloved baby brother in the morning in case he might have been claimed a victim of his slumbering. My parents explained to me the improbability of SIDS in a non-smoking household and made sure there was an open line of communication for when I became afraid.

This morning as I was drinking my coffee and checking my email, I came across an alert from the County Police Department regarding the elementary school where our neighborhood children attend. Someone had called in a bomb threat and the school wanted to alert everyone that the kids were being held in a "safe location," while they scoured the school for explosive devices and to "not come to the school to pick up your children."

Wait, WHAT?!

Not come to the school to pick up the children? That was some kind of joke, right? Where is a more safe location than with their mama? And while I understand that it would be a logistical nightmare to release the children to their parents en masse, I am certain that there could have been some sort of compromise worked out where once the "All Clear" was given, they could have checked the children out the way they would on a Half-Day.

If I wanted to come and pick up my children from a place where I sensed even the most remote possibility of danger, and was denied that right? I am pretty sure they would have more to worry about than some measly, improbable bomb threat.

Today I am thanking God that I have been afforded the privilege of homeschooling. While the children at the local school were being herded into a "safe location" without access to their families, we were eating breakfast together and thanking God for his bounty.

Organic Science

We have been quietly incubating chicken eggs here at the Steele Family Farm for the past several weeks. I say "quietly" because last year we were showoffily incubating eggs and out of 36ish fertilized eggs we hatched N-O-N-E.

To make matters worse, when we finally gave up the ghost and decided to bury the barren eggs, one exploded with the force of a hand grenade sending foul smelling shelly-schrapnel for yards around.  Upon perceiving the explosion, I screamed and hit the dirt as if an actual bomb was going off.  I digress.

You can imagine, after that ordeal, the children have been squealing with delight for the past few days as one of our precious eggs has been bouncing around the incubator like a Mexican Jumping Bean.  This morning when we went to check on the egg, the bouncing was accompanied by the sweetest little high pitched chirp one could imagine. All of this merriment was coming from the inside of a completely intact egg.

She bounced and chirped and squealed and rolled until late this morning when we found our long hoped for pip.  It was then we decided to name our pet Pippin: a nod to both the process of hatching and our dearly beloved Hobbits. Even though we technically completed our prescribed curriculum for the day, nobody could take their minds or their eyes off the incubator where Pippi was slowly tap-tap-tapping away at her little safe haven.

First pips

At noontime, we left Ben at home to keep watch over the incubator and we set out to purchase some last minute items to make the brooder super comfy for Pippi.  About halfway through our outing, I received a call from an ecstatically nervous Ben. The chick was hatching! She had one foot out! " Oh Mommy! I can see her head and her eyes," he exclaimed half-breathless. "Her feathers are a ginger color! She's breathing so hard!" I listened quietly to a boy discover the miracles of new life. His voice cracked, "Oh! Mommy! She's out! She made it! She is looking all around, she just looked straight at me! Oh I will always love her."

Pippin

On the other end of the phone I listened to a boy on the cusp of adolescence as he embraced the rugged fragility of new life. We congratulated one another, I promised to drive fast-but not too fast-to get home, and we hung up the phone.

We then arrived at the Southern States farm supply store. The younger children and I made our way through the sliding doors determined to bring home the finest amenities for our sweet hatchling.  It was then that we stumbled upon a large aluminum brooder filled with day-old baby chicks cheeping with joy to the delight of the passers-by.  With some degree of unanimity we all decided that in addition to bedding and medicated feed - sweet Pippi at home would be getting some new sisters. We couldn't think of anything more lovely to give to our long awaited chick than a large family.

The Sisters

Epilogue: The kids went ahead and decided that I could name one of the chicks and I named her Dorothy Day.

Dorothy Day (she's the cutest!)

Pt 3 - Compression and Release

or "When I grow up I want to plan the prom."

I'll sell it to you for $100.

Grant and I met and all the stars in the galaxy aligned. Or something like that. We loved eachother with that kind of crazy, wackadoo, makes-no-sense-but-who-really-cares kind of love from some of our very first dates. We used to go out and talk about stuff because it was like, "Ok, look, I know we are going to get married and all, but we really ought to get to know eachother first."

I was in my last semester of college and taking a break from my life in California. Grant was a new college graduate making a name for himself in his firm. I don't want to be all trite and cliche and say that there were fireworks when we were together - but one of our first dates was on 4th of July in DC. So yes. There were fireworks.

One particular date in our series of "getting-to-know-you" encounters was on a canoe at Fountainhead. We talked about who we were and where we'd been. He asked me why I was an English major. 

"Well, I suppose I like to write," I said, "and I've always been told I was good at it." No brainer.

"So what do you intend to do with it?" Grant asked, true to his practical self.

"I don't know. Teach high school. Plan the prom."

**********************************************

Last week I spent the entire week preparing for the play. I rehearsed lines with the kids, studied hair styles and stitched together last minute costumes. When all was said and done, the show was fabulous and my home life was in ruin. As we were driving home from the show, I felt a shockwave of realization, "THE EPIPHANY PARTY!"

I told my friend and fellow homeschool mom that I would make table decorations for the annual homeschool Epiphany party - and I had made absolutely no movement forward on that front. 

My kids aren't having a traditional school experience like I had. There will be no Homecoming Queen or Prom King for them. The resources are limited - we operate without much of a budget - and the expectations are high. We want our kids to be Holy and Scholarly - not cool. And when you get right down to it - we are so uncool that sometimes it even makes my public school sensibilities cringe.

Sunday morning after Church, Annie and I sat down in our dining room and set before us all of the leftover crafting items from the play. We made a plan for  two different types of table decor; we spent no money and we did no research. We giggled at our mistakes and iced our glue-gun burned fingertips. It was female bonding at it's finest and our output looked homemade. We felt nothing but pride.

The party was what we expected: lots of little tots joyfully running around, junior high boys on one side - girls on the other, while parents mingled and teens attempted to swing dance. The only thing that could be described as "cool" at this party would have been the sub-arctic temperature of the room we occupied. Annie and my humble decorations sat in the middle of the tables - a tribute to the places we thought we'd be - and the places we have ended up.

Nothing says "Epiphany" like Lily of the Valley?

The clothespins following the star? Brillz.

              

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