The options for homeschooling high school are as varied as they are for younger ages, but now those options seem to carry a lot more weight, especially with “college” looming on the horizon. My homeschooling friends are talking about transcripts and college courses and distance learning and how the heck are they going to do science labs in their kitchen.

So, when my now-eighth-grade daughter announced definitively that she wants to start public high school in the fall, I was a bit relieved. Sad, but relieved.

I’m sad because, damn, I’m going to miss her. I know the ages of 13 and 14 are supposed to be hell with teens, but I’ve really enjoyed this more mature person in our house who still tells me a lot about her friends and her life. I love how she sees the world and how she’s approaching this next chapter in her story. Oh sure, we still snip and snap at each other like I did with my mom, but she still comes in for a goodnight hug or wants to tell me some big long story about something she saw online.

I’m excited for her too. Our town’s high school has so much to offer, and over the years, she has made some good friends who can’t wait for her to join them.

And, yes, I’m a bit relieved that someone else will be there to talk her through Algebra I and World History II. But boy am I hoping that I gave her enough of a foundation to stand on when she’s in those college-prep classes.

But here’s the big question: Will it be weird if I walk her to the bus stop on that first day of school and cry as my baby boards a public school bus for the first time? I’ll wear sunglasses. And promise I won’t chase the bus down the street as it drives away.

On some days, it feels like a challenge. See me? I’m becoming your equal. I’m not your little girl anymore.

That’s mostly in my head, of course. She is still my little girl who needs my help, advice, and cash (of course) to get through the days. But, she often reminds me that she’s not a baby anymore through her words, actions, and the occasional disdainful headshake that let’s me know that I am so, so, so not cool.

But it’s an amazing thing to see the kids literally growing up (and up), having their own (strong) opinions, making their own decisions (good and bad), and just generally going from being little kids to teens.

I’m pretty okay with this. But the day I wake up and my other two are towering over me? I may need some time to myself that day to collect my thoughts.

Funny how “sure things” can become “not sure things” so quickly.

I’ve been plagued for the past few months by the reappearance of an old and not-so-welcome friend: Asthma. I used to blithely wave away the notion that asthma was any big deal for me, but it’s become a bigger deal this winter for reasons I can’t really ascertain. Tweaks in medications, short stints of Prednisone, a newly acquired Nebulizer. . .all these things work for a bit. . .but then I’m back to sucking air like a fish out of water whenever I try to run more than a mile.

Today should have been  my “March” race day. A 5k to support autism research, it was the only race I could fit into a jam-packed month. But, a recent head cold had settled into my chest and walking up the stairs was proving difficult. How could I run 3.1 miles when a walking the dog around the block was an effort?

So, instead of pinning  a number to my chest, I decided to slog out 3-ish miles alone, at my own pace, in my rainy neighborhood. It was slow going, with lots (and lots) of walking (and coughing) breaks. I got soaking wet. And pissed off. And worried. And frustrated.

I know my woes are no different from the runner with a reoccurring hamstring injury that is always in the back of their minds, or the swimmer whose shoulder tweaks during a workout, pulling them out of the pool while it heals.

And I know running has been so good for me and for my breathing overall. And that it will only take a few good weeks to get back to where I was before I got sick. But, right now, I just would really, really love to breathe like a normal person.

And run like someone who’s been working at it for two years, and not like a pack-a-day smoker who just decided to get off the couch.

Almost-13 year old girl. Wants to be 15. Spends days with headphones on and iPod in hand.

10 1/2 year old girl. Loves the “big girls”, but not quite ready to leave behind her little-girl ways

9 year old boy. Has no concept of “budget” yet.

List #1

LEGO Mindstorms EV3; Minecraft for PC; Swedish fish; LEGO sets; soda; money; iPhone; email account; candy; remote-control helicopter-car-boat; a bird; a rat; DS games; Wii games; a trip to anywhere; Wii U; a go-cart; iPad; a boat; a car; a kite; a Wii remote; a sled; laser guns

List #2

iPhone 5S (or 5C); EM Cosmetics: Life Pallet in “Day Life”, lipstick in light pink, lip gloss, concealer, eyebrow touch up, definition enhancer; SORRY! (the game); Just Dance 2014; Otterbox in Berry; Noise-canceling headphones; Divergent 4+6 necklace; Divergent rings; Totoro plushie

List #3

Good-smelling perfume; purse that goes around shoulder; Elizabeth’s hair fixed (her American Girl doll); a bedside table; a picture or poster–in pink–to go next to bed; her ears pierced; pink water bottle (to match bedroom)

This year, she will. Not with Boston Ballet (their ballet school is even more of a drive than the one we are currently attending), but with the Franklin Performing Arts Company which puts on a lovely Nutcracker every year, starring, coincidentally, two Boston Ballet soloists. She will be both a “party girl” and a “Marzipan” (sometimes called Pastorale.)

So when we were invited again last week to see this year’s Boston Ballet’s Nutcracker, we went with excitement building that Jilly will soon be part of her own company’s production.

And, oh, they do put on such a beautiful ballet. It helps that their location, the Boston Opera House sets the mood perfectly for a night of holiday magic.

And the dancers are exquisite.

The story is sweet and so entertaining.

Though what I liked best was sharing this experience with a little girl who last year was dreaming about dancing in the Nutcracker, and this year, will.

Many thanks to the Boston Ballet for inviting us to attend opening night of Mikko Nissenen’s Nutcracker. Shows will run through the end of the month and will really get you into the Christmas spirit.

For those of you in my neck of the woods, the Franklin Performing Arts Company’s Nutcracker will run December 14-15. Not into ballet? My oldest daughter, Belly, will appear in FPAC’s brand-new production, Carol’s Christmas, the following weekend. I don’t think my son’s fencing school is putting on any holiday-themed shows though. Maybe next year.

FOUR MONTHS. Think about this: Why the heck did she need a playgroup at four months of age?

Let this be a cautionary tale to you new parents. Because, after a few months of pleasant chatting with other moms while our babies kicked their chubby legs on blankets spread carefully over the rug, the little buggers started reaching out and taking each other’s toys. I later remember the three little boys and three little girls all lurching around on unsteady legs, so excited to have someone their size to push over or hold onto when the world got spinny.

And, just like that, my daughter had a social life. And she knew there was a world “out there” that she wanted to explore.

So explore we did.

We went to “mommy and me*” gymnastics, swimming, and music classes that consisted of her swinging a tambourine around in my lap while we sang the most godawful tunes. As she got older, we added art classes, dance instruction, the “everyone gets a trophy” soccer teams, and group nature hikes where we drove twenty minutes to collected the same leaves and acorns I could collect in my backyard.

The whole time, I thought I was so smart. We weren’t overdoing it. Even as she got older, her activities never became of the “five day a week” variety like I saw with some of her peers.

But, I kept having children. And they too learned about playgroups and gymnastics and art classes. Last year, they even took indoor rock climbing classes!

Because I apparently forgot the whole mathematical rule that says (and I paraphrase): If you keep having children and keep adding activities, the cumulative effect will be that you will become batshit crazy. Or X + Y = *(@)#&!(*!!!!!!!!!!!!

This year, when I tried to assemble our jigsaw puzzle of a schedule using a color-coded spreadsheet, I had a revelation that I shared with Liz: “NEVER SIGN YOUR CHILDREN UP FOR ANYTHING.” Because now that they are 8, 10, and 12, they know there are so many things out there to do, and the world is their oyster.**

As homeschoolers, I could have had three children happily whittling away on the porch, who later go off to tend their backyard garden, or who retire inside to knit and read. I could’ve smugly laughed at all those parents who need color-coded spreadsheets to keep track of the days. They could’ve been hermits, and not even lonely hermits, because they have each other. And the squirrels in the back yard.

Instead, I’ve become that person in a minivan driving to the performing arts school, dropping off two kids so I can then drive the third to swim lessons, before picking up the other two, and rushing everyone home for an 8pm dinner.

It all started, I swear, with that playgroup when my oldest was four months old.

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*we live in a more enlightened time now where these classes are called “parent/child”, but back a dozen years, things weren’t so politically correct

**provided their parents can afford it; horseback riding lessons, hockey, and skiing are still on the back burner for that reason

Fortunately, there is no reason for the absence other than being a little tired of writing about my life and also getting a bit addicted by the immediacy of Facebook. You mean I can write two sentences in my Facebook status update and have 15 comments in 10 minutes, versus spending an hour editing a post? 

But Facebook posts seem lost within hours even though I’m sure they are still on some server. And maybe this can just be my own little space to talk and sometimes even say something worth reading.

2013 has been a pretty great year so far. I felt almost guilty on the phone with a good friend who is going through a tough patch when she asked, “What’s new with you?” Um. . .really, everything is. . .okay. Nothing too exciting to report. Nothing gossip-worthy. Nothing but putting one day in front of another day, looking back, and saying, “Things are going well.”

What else?

She turned twelve (and got her braces off!):

She turned ten:

He’s still eight:

My mama turned seventy!

I finished a half marathon:

We took a cruise—our first ever!

We did this in Bermuda:

She’s coming back.

This one is doing just dandy.

And we’re going here again.

We are still homeschooling, and I’m gearing up to have a 7th (gulp), 5th, and 3rd grader in September.

So, what’s new with you?

Wishing you all a Merry Christmas (or a Happy Tuesday!)

May you all get some special snuggle time today.

Two years ago, on December 22, 2004 , my father never woke up from his night’s sleep. He had been suffering from cancer and, yes, suffering is the operative word. By the end, cancer had robbed him of his ability to walk, eat, drink and even lie comfortably, but it never did rob him of his mind. Indeed, the day before he died, as he felt his eyesight and hearing fading, he told my mother that he thought he was ‘shutting down’. He was aware of it all, and for that I am grateful because I never really lost the essence of my father, my daddy, my children’s Opa.

After he died, I felt like he was gone. Yes, his ashes were in a box on my mother’s dresser and his voice on her answering machine, but he was gone. I would never see him again watching Speedvision; I would never be able to argue/joke with him about politics; I’d never see the way his eyes shown when they looked at one of my three children, his grandchildren. Two years later, the knowledge that he is gone can take my breath away, make my eyes fill with tears and make my voice catch. It seems unbelievable that it can be true.

And while I can accept that his physical self is gone, I am beginning to think that maybe he isn’t really gone. There have been little things. Like, the time I was about to listen to a liberal call-in radio show, and the show suddenly went to static (that was him protesting my political leanings). Or, when we went up to an inn in Vermont with my mom and my sister’s family and found a Fleetwood Mac CD in the stereo. As corny and superstitious as it sounds, I know he had some part in it being there, Stevie Nicks fan that he was.

Then, there are other, more subtle ways in which I can feel my father’s presence. In fact, if I pay attention, I see that he is everywhere.

I see his gait–straight-legged and stiff–in the way my son walks across the floor.

I see his craftmanship and attention to detail in my husband’s work around the house. I imagine that he is standing by his son-in-law, providing the same quiet guidance he offered during his life.

The taste of a fresh tomato, a just-picked zucchini or a crunchy pole bean remind me of the garden he tended year after year in my youth.

I hear the synthesized plinkings of Mannheim Steamroller on the radio, groan and then think of how much he liked that Christmas music, even though his musical tastes were normally much better than that.

Red Sox games on the radio, kielbasa cooking on the grill, the roar of lawn equipment and the murmer of late-night television—these are the sounds of my youth that remind me of my father.

When Belly tickles my feet, I remember how he laughed from his hospital bed as she tickled his toes and warmed his heart. When Jilly leans over to kiss me, I remember how she took turns kissing him and then me, over and over, when she was nearly one year old. And when D does anything sweet, a hundred times a day, I feel the warmth in my heart that my dad must have felt the day we appeared in his hospital room holding his three-day old grandson.

A lot of people have said to me that it must be hard to have my father’s “deathiversary” fall so close to Christmas. In many ways this is true. That first Christmas was a blur of strong emotion. Now, though, I feel like this time of year, when we are all trying to spend as much time with family as we can, when we are remembering to be a little kinder to each other, when we are reliving traditions and celebrations of years past, this may be the best time for me to stop, pay attention to his presence all around me and just remember.

Please don’t find me.

Please don’t find me.

I wake up in a panic and tell myself, “you are okay—go back to sleep.”

The dreams are terrifying. But they aren’t real.

My heart hurts for those families in Newtown, Connecticut who are waking up this morning, hoping it was all a nightmare.