October 16, 2007
Besides the thousands in taxes we pay for schools we aren't attending, there are the thousands we're not paying for Montessori tuition.
And, in between, the thousands for homeschooling.
The textbooks run you in the hundreds. Then there are the ink cartridges and sundry other dozens of supplies you'll need. The library helps, a lot, but the fact of the matter is that it isn't enough.
From supplies and education materials and library fines there are also the big ticket items - especially the additional activities you pay for to make sure your child is getting the peer interaction and specialty learning that you can't provide. Like enrichment programs that run $35 a week, and sports clubs, and art or music lessons.
In Bear's case, it's worth it. He feels absolutely perfect in the studies he has. And even though he knows that reading and writing are hard, he doesn't feel behind. And this is a critical difference. One, I believe, that will really matter to his self-esteem down the road.
That said, it's become an interesting challenge to make do. At first, I really resented it. Like a fish resents the big invisible wall at the end of the tank, I tell you. But brandy helps.
Plus, and I'm gonna share this little private bit of wisdom with ya because, hell, why not... anyone can get used to just about anything. Including the added time and energy it takes to do things on the cheap.
I'm here to testify. I'm here to say it loud.
My goal is a field trip every other week. My budget? $20 per trip. I discovered it can be done. If you don't mind planning. A lot of planning. And being really, freakishly, flexible.
The key for us so far has been that most places have "free" days - usually when the rest of the world is at school or work.
A-diggity-ha, I tell you.
Like the Swedish Museum in Andersonville has this wicked cool Children's Museum where kids can re-enact pretty much life on a Swedish farm all the way through the immigration trip via steamer to establishing a farm in the American Midwest.
And it's free on the Tuesday of the second week of each month.
Once you do the algebra on that one, the rest of the plan is simple. Street parking costs a couple of quarters. Plus the Swedish bakery and the Erikson's Swedish market are both a couple of blocks away, so you can top off the visit with an authentic treat for only a couple of bucks.
....I've been thinking of starting a website and gathering all this, plus our experiences, but somehow it seems a little silly. Despite knowing how important all this is, and being proud of it, most of the time I still feel somewhat marginalized in my new role.
A meekness I can not explain, or shed.
But that said, here's some pictures of last week's and today's $20/day outings.
"I, Lord BedHead, do claim this lake for all redheads!"
(Frolicking at Berger Beach last Tuesday)
Playing in the Swedish Museum's Children's Museum's interactive '1800's Immigration' display
"Bear, dagnabbit, I know that Swedish grocery is around here somewhere..."
"Uh, Mommy? Look behind you."
Checking out the planet at the Chicago Museum of Science and Industry today. Prognosis? Not good. Looks like we're all on status Ernie...
Checking our bad selves out in the thermal imaging scan.
Bear and friend loving the exhibit where they display, using lights and bubbles, how sludge gets clean.
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Can.I.come.next.time?(Pardon.all.the.periods,my.spacebar.is.broken)October 14, 2007
Prior to hating voice mail, I had a nice sideline going in hating answering machines. But you get older, times change, and you gotta update your habits.
Basically, if you call me...I'll see your number on the Caller ID and call back. Ignoring that thwudda-thwudda noise that says you said something to the computer.
This is, on occasion, I'll admit, problematic.
"Hey, it's Elizabeth. You called?"
"Thank God you called back so fast. So what's the number?"
"The number?"
"Of the emergency vet?"
"You need an emergency vet?"
"I LEFT A MESSAGE!! Diddums has swallowed a hypodermic needle full of crack and I need the number of the vet that helped you that time when it happened to you."
"I have never....! Why? Uh, I mean...."
"I LEFT A MESSAGE! Didn't you listen? This is life or death, here! I mean, poor Diddums, I think he's dragging himself to a corner to...oh, what is that number?!"
So, sure. Once in a blue moon, it causes trouble that I avoid my voice mail.
On the job, it was not unknown for me to listen to my voice mail barely once a week, on Fridays....
"You have 17,000 new voice mails! What is your frequency, woman? You think I got nothing better to do than stuff myself full of chat from your people?"
Instant messages, email, and text messages I am fine with. Prompt, attentive, responsive. But the bugaboo of voice mail has remained my nemesis.
Recently, we decided to turn off our home line. We never use it much, and it's costing us $50 a month to, in essence, give chimney sweeps and siding companies a way to contact us about their seasonal promotions.
So I've given myself permission, even though there is still some dial tone on it, to ignore the thing altogether in preparation for it being gone.
CD gave me the fish eye this morning, the phone against his ear, after I asked him if he thought I'd missed a call I was expecting.
"Please check," I begged.
"We have 33 new voice mail messages," he said with an arch of his eyebrow.
I shrugged.
"Have you EVER checked the house line for voice mail?" he pondered.
"2004."
"Prove it."
I stuck out my tongue when he wasn't looking.
He pushed some buttons and listened a moment.
"Chimney sweep. Siding company. Chimney sweep. Credit card protection offer. Oh, Katie and some kid's mom are going somewhere and want to know if you want to go with," he relayed.
I looked interested.
"In SEPTEMBER," he added, all he-man snarky-like. "Computer talking, time sensitive offer. Hey, the counter tops are ready."
I looked in the kitchen where they are already installed. Turned back to the window, where I watched the drizzle that was delaying our annual pumpkin excursion .
He pushed more buttons. He listened some more. Counted them down for me. "20 more messages..." he sighed. "15, we're finally into October..." I scrunched my nose. "More computers, they love to leave messages...." I nodded. "5 more."
I waited.
He looked at me. "Sorry, hun," he said.
I shrugged.
"No big deal," I said.
But he knew better. He knew that this is why, deep down, I really hate voice mail. Because it never seems to be the locker of good news, of voices you really want to hear.
Ah, well.
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October 12, 2007
My husband spent much of his growing up years moving from small apartment to small apartment with his working dad.Despite all the years since, I suspect CD still harbors this deep need to roost. To be rooted, and never left.
Life has very little to do with what we see when we look into the mirror at ourselves.
The mirror sees a pink-haired woman, with too many curves and slightly creased with age.
But I see more than a reflection. I see a rebel, a mother, a free spirit, a lover. I see the scars from falls I took in small strips across my skin. And in my heart. I see my own eyes, and all the stories they hold.
I can't know what he sees. In me. In himself.
Other than this gnawing sense, that where you live shouldn't be a place easy to leave.
No amount of time could hope to completely erase this from him.
No amount of love, or help, or maturity can wipe clean the truths we cling to as children.
Maybe that's why it's so hard for him to think of selling this house. Why it is so incomprehensible to his heart that this home, that holds so many of the memories of us as a family, would belong to someone else.
And I begin to see it now.
Tomorrow, Bear tests up in karate to a blue belt. On Sunday, we take our annual trip to the pumpkin farm. When will there be time, he asks me, to get to that list of things we need to finish on the house.
And there it is, behind his eyes.
I begin to see it now.
This is home in a way that no place has been to him since he was his own son's age.
This is the place I always come back to, the bed I share with him. This is where we eat dinner. This is where Bear lays out his Magnetix creations for us to admire. These are the boxes with the winter sweaters. And over there is the bin with the Halloween decorations.
And as awareness began to dawn in my foggy head, I reached out to him.
It isn't each other we're leaving, I promise. If we sell this house and move - wherever we go, it will be home just as much as this place has been.
He nodded.
For years, I have been ready to go. To kick off a new adventure.
But it isn't only me that has to go.
And he's finding this house, hard to leave.
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October 10, 2007
Closed the windows, watched the trees bend against the coming of the autumn.
Finally.
Days ago, the bizarre Chicago heat helped killed a marathoner. And I began to wonder if the Global Warming would shout like a lion, after generations of roaming in like a lamb.
And rob us of all our seasons until we took notice and gave up our vans for hybrids.
But no.
Now I'm nervous because we sort of count on late September through early November to be almost 2 months of low electric and gas bills. The 'tween time of the thud of the ancient heater kicking in and the rumble of cool from the air conditioning.
And even more than the eternal burden of worrying about money is the selfish consideration that this should be the time of year that recharges my batteries.
This is my season, my breeze and fresh thoughts and packing away for the winter.
Have I been robbed of it?. From hot winds and dry dirt instantly into fluttering leaves and drizzling chill?
I've been counting on the emotional break I get with cool nights and warmish days and colored up leaves. This is my time of year to start making soup again. This is my time of year to write furiously, ideas too fast for my hands to type.
Instead I've got a case of emotional whiplash. Sitting in a hoodie and long pajama pants and giving Mother Nature a dirty look.
I feel out of sorts and robbed by the tumble of seasons.
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Heat has been on here for a month or so on and off. On for sure tonight as it's a balmy 27 out right now. Excuse me while I look for my fuzzy socks. 67 queries taking 0.0758 seconds, 191 records returned.
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