Finding Joy

Why Homeschool for One Year? Another reason...

2013-09-05T12:02:00.000-04:00

In the next few posts, I am highlighting my best reasons to invest one year of your family's life in homeschooling. Everyone may not be cut out for the full commitment of all school years, but taking a leap of faith for one year changed everything for my family.

Reason- You understand your child's strengths and weaknesses- in school and out.

Discover Individual Talents in Your Kids

American public schools are institutions of education created during the Industrial Revolution modeling the factory method of turning out many identical products. Well done, nineteenth century! The twentieth century folks were so busy inventing, warring and communicating they saw no reason to change the educational status quo. More masses came in and churned out with little room for variation. "If it ain't broke, don't fix it" was the mantra. However, bureaucracy created a No Child Left Behind and a no child gets ahead atmosphere. Over and over again, schools taught to the middle- hoping the lower students could jump in and hang on while the higher students fend for themselves (without getting too far ahead, of course.) The twenty-first century kids have inherited a broken system - still some good parts in there, but how can you mend the fissures?

Parents must step in and fill in the cracks left by public education, and a fantastic way to detect the WEAKNESSES of your children's learning is to spend a whole year being their teacher.

Turn Weaknesses into Strengths

When our oldest struggled in math, I assumed she wasn't paying attention in class so I asked, "Who are you sitting by in class? Did you ask the teacher questions? Why are you so behind? Are you just talking the whole class instead of listening?" As our homeschool year progressed, I realized ALL of these were the wrong questions. Had I asked her MATH questions, I might of discovered her true weaknesses sooner. She struggled in 6th grade math because she never understood 2nd grade math. Over the years, her gaps in basic calculation and concepts grew wider. By the start of 7th grade, she had no hope of understanding geometric formulas when she still didn't grasp place value.

Our one year of home school enabled me to see that my daughter's problem in math was not socializing- it was a true inability to think mathematically. Instead of degrading her self-esteem with accusations and assignments beyond her mind's grasp, we took the time to step back and review/reteach basic concepts. We returned to multiplication facts, money concepts and basic computation. I created concrete examples for everything from place value to algebraic expressions. As the year progressed, her confidence in math grew along with her deeper understanding of complex math skills. We had the TIME to back up and then catch up with her grade level. She finished our home school year ahead of her grade. When she reentered public school the next year, her trust in her math abilities continued and she received her first "Exceeds Expectations" in math on the end of 8th grade test. Her weakness turned into a strength thanks to our one year of home school. (Math wasn't the only deficiency we discovered in our children's education: see my posts Home School Opening Day and Mommy Dearest?.)

Home schooling or rather ROAD schooling allowed us to uncover STRENGTHS in our children not measured in school.

Uncover Hidden Talents:
Wyatt navigated our family from the start of
Route 66 in Santa Monica, CA to the
Route 66 Cafe in Inverness, Scotland.

After traveling the United States for nine months, we landed in the United Kingdom for a final family adventure. Eschewing automobiles, we traversed England and Scotland using their amazing railway system. After only a few days, we exited with luggage in hand for another train transfer. Greg and I counted bags and looked up to discover we were following our son to the necessary platform. Wyatt navigated our family through tunnels, up stairs and over tracks to arrive on time for our connecting train. Regular school would never have taught him this skill.

Bring Out New Passions for Your Children

My husband is a chef and loves to cook for his family, but usually did so alone in the kitchen while the kids completed homework, played with friends or careened from sporting engagement to music or dance lesson. Home school allowed us to decide on our children's curriculum so along with math and reading, cooking class was a part of our home school. Each child embraced their father's careful instruction on knife skills and mise en place, but our youngest developed a passion for baking. At eight years old, she graduated from the Easy Bake Oven to full range and oven rights. She baked cakes of all shapes and sizes and became accomplished at decorating her confections. Now a ten-year-old regular education fifth grader, she baked, frosted and labeled a plant cell for her science project. (Wow! And she didn't see it on Pinterest, either!) Cooking was another strength that would never have been discovered in elementary school.

Yum! Plant Cell!

I am grateful for our one year home school with our children for many reasons, but I think bringing to light our children's strengths and weaknesses at such a young age is enough.

Why Homeschool for One Year? Reason...

2013-08-26T10:45:00.000-04:00

Reason-
Your kids will talk to you about school.

Before our one year homeschool adventure, it was like pulling teeth to get a detailed answer to: "What did you do at school today?". Shuffling in the door, dropping book bags and heading straight for food, they answered, "Nothing much."

Nothing, but the world. Nothing, but algebraic equations and the essay format. Nothing, but the laws of gravity and the Declaration of Independence. Saying "nothing" implied: "Nothing you would understand, Mom. What's for dinner?"

Today, after one year of my husband and I teaching our children everything from photosynthesis to the Pythagorean theorem, the kids spill everything.

"How was school today?"

"Mom, you're not going to believe what we did with Newton's laws of motion. We performed two experiments, and oh! I need your help to make a balloon car that demonstrates Newton's law: for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction."

Our fourteen-year-old shares activities and classwork never before surfaced in conversation. She asks questions about math and listens to our answers (most of the time.)
Our twelve-year-old asks me to take him to the library to check out the next book in his current literary obsession and explains the plot to me in detail as I drive.
Our ten-year-old wants me to practice division facts while she enjoys her after school snack. When she misses one, she listens as I explain different ways of getting the right answer.

So WHY does one year of homeschool get your kids talking about school?

1-They know you know about school. Simple answer, but before we home schooled, our kids clearly understood that their parents went to school and even knew that we did quite well while we were there. But that was a long time ago. What could possibly apply to their school world today? After working day after day with the kids on everything from handwriting to marine biology, they have a deeper understanding of our knowledge. They know we know and respect us more as a result.

2-They know you care about their education. When we quit our jobs to dedicate one year of our lives to teaching and traveling the world, our kids registered the significance we placed on their education. I'm not saying the only way children will feel you care about their education is through home schooling. Obviously, many parents stress this importance daily in overseeing homework and attending open houses, conferences and PTA meetings. I simply mean that I discovered the quantity of time spent with my child over specific lessons in math or history created a bond between us that I never expected. Their doubts or questions about what we expected of their learning disappeared. They know we are willing to go to any lengths to prepare them for life on planet Earth.

Talking about school may seem a banal or trite reason to home school. Some may say a whole year is an enormous sacrifice for such a minute accomplishment. I know that one year helped me discover the joy in little things... like talking about school with my kids.

Reasons to Homeschool for (at least) One Year

2013-08-22T10:50:00.000-04:00

My Two Cents

If you've read my blog, you know my husband and I quit our jobs and took our kids out of public education to homeschool and travel for one year. Would we have liked to live this fantasy life longer? Of Course! But life goes on... We must feed and clothe the children, as well as, educate them so back home we went- back to jobs, back to school, back to reality.

As our reality progressed, I realized we continue to reap the benefits of our one-year homeschool experience with our kids. Our family's dynamics changed forever from that year of constant companionship. Although our kids are back to the grindstone of public education and we experience the frustration of putting our kids development in the hands of others, I know we created a bond with them that will enrich our relationships for the rest of our lives.

Many parents have spoken with me about our experience. The homeschool parents are interested in our travel curriculum, but can't believe I only home schooled for a year. (Their manners dictate they thinly veil their horror of us returning our kids to public school so they aren't rude- just a bit incredulous.) Other parents are envious of our time off from work- wishing they had the funds to enable their family to take a year off with their kids. I understand both points of view. To the homeschool parents I say, "We wish we could continue, but we have to feed the kids." To the public school parents I say, "We sacrificed a lot to enable our one year family sabbatical, but it was worth it."

Both sides ask me, "What's the point of home schooling for only one year?"

The answer to this question is my platform for societal reform (Yes, I believe some parents need a wake-up call!) I want to share with the world how our home school travels have shaped our family life.

Stay tuned to read about reasons to homeschool for only one year. Perhaps, your family life could benefit, too.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Canada

2013-06-17T12:07:00.000-04:00

I can laugh about it now... sort of. If I think about it too deeply, I get pissed all over again.

Here's our side of the story...

The windshield wipers slapped in time to The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald as our family approached the Canadian Border. Our history lesson was finished for the day thanks to Gordon Lightfoot.
Greg rolled down his window as we pulled up to the border’s drive-through window. Sliding our five passports into the extended metal drawer, he greeted the guard with a smile.

The guard recited as she flipped through our passports, “Do you have any alcohol, tobacco or weapons in your car?”

We had driven eighteen hundred miles up the east coast from South Carolina to Maine with three kids. Of course, we had alcohol in our car. A cigarette might have helped, but I didn’t smoke. Weapons? Last week, Wyatt fashioned a slingshot out of two pencils and his sisters’ ponytail holders. Did that count? Just yesterday, Emma beat Anabel into submission with her Teddy. Should we declare her stuffed animal as a lethal weapon? Whenever an authority figure asked me a question, I panicked regardless of guilt. I assumed they could read my mind to uncover some past indiscretion.

Sharing my thoughts, Greg responded to the French-Canadian border guard with his best poker face, “We have some blueberry beer from Maine and a bottle of gin. No tobacco or weapons.”

Frowning at the overflowing rear compartment of our Ford Excursion we affectionately called, the family truckster, she said, “Pull over just ahead.”

No photos of our story after this one... I was afraid of confiscation.

Two guards, armed to the teeth, approached our vehicle with clipboards in hand and said, “Please vacate your automobile leaving everything inside.” A family of five Americans entering Canada on an October morning seemed to be subversive stuff. Unfazed, the kids bickered as they scrambled over notebooks and travel games exiting the car. Greg winced as two cans hit the ground and rolled toward the guards’ feet. He was more embarrassed by our mess than fearful of possible contraband.

Smiling as the chilly northern wind hit my face, I turned on the Southern charm. “How are y’all?” No response. “We’re so excited to be in Canada! We’re on a family sabbatical…traveling America to teach our kids first hand about history and geography and different cultures…” I rattled on about our one-year radical lifestyle change while one Francophone guard- a man wearing ladies’ glasses- wrote down our make, model, tag number and passport information and the other began searching our car. They spoke to each other in French, so I moved closer to put my twenty-year-old college French into practice.

Threatened by a woman in mom jeans and a knotted scarf, the armed guard stopped my progress with a brisk flash of his clipboard in my face. “Step away from zee vehicle!”

I prepared to push aside the papers of the rude officer and teach him some manners- fifteen years in public education taught me how to deal with impertinence- when the other guard (a man sans glasses – see, I know some French) unfolded himself from our car holding a carton of bullets in his hand; So much for my indignation. Our kids, silent for the first time in eight hundred miles, huddled against the cold as their father was frisked on top of the family truckster. The guard in little girl glasses demanded to know where the gun was. He yelled loudly to be heard over the swooshing sound of other cars smoothly crossing the border.

“At home, locked in a gun safe in Georgia,” Greg answered to the hood of the car.

“Sir, we don’t have a gun with us; we are traveling with children.” I reminded him little eyes were watching with a glance towards our traumatized kids. The other guard gestured for Greg to stand. Seeing the look in Greg's eyes as he put his wallet and change back in his pockets, I began to explain. “We have used the bullet box for years to keep the glove compartment’s light off. It is heavy and just the right size.” They ignored me and began stripping our ten-year-old car.

Lost something in your car? Cross the US/Canada border from Maine to Quebec, and the Canadian Gestapo will find it for you. After pulling out three weeks’ worth of luggage and laundry, home school projects and portfolios, along with Skittles and empty Coke cans, they gleefully discovered a three-inch butterfly knife covered in sticky-kid-crumb debris under the backseat in the crack between the loose carpet and the rusty seat frame. Greg owned the knife when I met him 24 years ago. It was like the one Emilio Estevez flipped out in a flash of light in the movie, The Outsiders- you know the knife was cool if it made Emilio Estevez look tough. We had not seen the knife in years, but because they dug it out of our car twenty-feet past the border’s drive-through window, and we had “not declared that we were carrying weapons,” that once cool, now Fruit Loop-encrusted knife was costing us five hundred bucks.

Southern graces gone, I pleaded, “How do we declare something we didn’t know was there?” I tried to appeal to their sympathy by sharing how we quit our jobs to take a life break and travel with our rapidly growing kids. After inspecting every inch of our car, they should have surmised that we were not the Rockefellers. “We don’t have five hundred dollars to give you.”

Without a hint of irony, the guard in pink, bedazzled glasses said, “We take Veeza and MasterCard.”

Greg said I blacked out at this point. He feared my arrest as I began speaking in tongue from the darkness of my anger and quickly returned me to our car with the kids before he followed the guards inside the building. I couldn’t believe how calm he was.

Signing the receipt, Greg couldn’t resist asking, “What? No line for a tip?” The French Canadians stared. He left before they arrested him for having a sense of humor.

The Joy of Food in Maine

2013-05-23T10:54:00.001-04:00

Greg grinned like Emma in a candy store as we stood in the enormous warehouse of lobsters at Young’s Lobster Pound. Water circulated through the giant tanks each holding grosses of lobsters of varying sizes.

“How do we chose?” I asked.

“I don’t think you can make a wrong choice here. The only decision we have to make is: how many?” Greg said.

“One’s enough for me.” I ate frugally when we traveled. (I’d be thin if we stayed on the road. I blame a house full of inexpensive meals for my fat.)

“Are you kidding? At five dollars a pound, I could eat a hundred dollars worth, but I’ll settle for fifty.”

We ordered five lobsters and a bag of mussels. We strolled out on the deck while the guys behind the counter caught and steamed our meal. Twenty miles north of Camden lay the tiny town of Belfast, Maine. The moon rose above the surrounding mountains and reflected gently on the water of the cove. Sailboats, dinghies and lobster boats lined the water’s edge. All fishermen were anchored for the night. I wondered about the men and women who lived in this remote town. The ragged coast of Maine had a charm separate from the languid allure of South Carolina’s low country. Locals dotted the tables on the deck. It was Friday night and they had brought their own bottles for enjoying with the fresh seafood by the water. May through October were heavenly months here, but you had hell to pay in the winter. We spotted several family snow plows already out and ready for winter on our drive up the Maine coast.

My first bite of sweet lobster meat dripping in melted butter was too good to swallow. I determined to invent a buttered lobster candy as soon as we returned to South Carolina so I could hold this flavor in my mouth as long as possible. The crisp, light wine washed the taste from my mouth too soon, but complemented the seafood sublimely. Conversation came to a standstill as Greg and I cracked claws and tails in unison. The perfection of each bite had me matching Greg’s pace, but I couldn’t match his culinary skill. He popped the tail off the body with one twist and delighted as he licked up the delicate tomalley before digging into the dense meat of the tail. Who cares about Paralytic Shellfish Poisoning? When in Rome…and Maine, the FDA be damned!

Camden’s harbor housed several restaurants tucked along the waterfront. We chose Fresh hoping to taste fresh, locally sourced food. The parents ordered lobster rolls while Wyatt and Emma went for the grass-fed hamburgers. Anabel surprised us all when she chose the catch of the day with a side of brussel sprouts. Has any parent ever heard a child order brussel sprouts? I noted the date and the time in case this was a news worthy event.

Our waitress was curious about our family. “Are you on vacation?”

“Sort of. We’re homeschooling our kids and teaching them about America from the road,” I said. People wondered why our kids weren’t in school in October. It made me uncomfortable at first, but the more we traveled, the more I began to open up about our adventure. It seemed every time I shared our story we made a connection with someone.

“You’re from Georgia? Ten years ago, I lived in Alpharetta, Georgia,” said the waitress.

“Our home is just ten miles from Alpharetta.”

“What a coincidence! I think taking a year off to spend with your kids is terrific. What a great experience for you and your kids! I have six children myself and would love to spend a year traveling with them.”

“You should do it. We’re living proof of: if there’s a will, there’s a way. We sold our car and rented out our home in Georgia to help pay for our travels,” I said.

She surprised me when she said, “Oh, it’s not the money that would stop me. I’d love to do it, but I learned a long time ago that I need to miss my kids.”

I smiled, but thought, “How awful. I hate to miss my kids. That’s why we’re doing this- we were missing their childhoods.”

The waitress returned with our food and our discussion ended. We enjoyed all the food, but the best thing served were the brussel sprouts. They were blanched and then roasted with garlic, onions and butter. Anabel got mad at us picking them off her plate. Who would have thought we’d have a family squabble over eating too many brussel sprouts?

After lunch, we discovered Maine’s Round Top ice cream at Camden Cone. We tasted samples of each ice cream way too long since I could have ordered each person’s flavor without asking. We were all drawn to one selection for a personality reason. I will try the one that is regional thinking it will help me learn more about the area; Greg will go for the most unusual thinking different is better and who knows when he’ll be able to try it again, right?; Anabel will chose the most old-fashioned flavor thinking it may have been eaten in days gone by; Wyatt goes for the messiest because that’s what ten year old boys do; and Emma will choose the one that looks healthy, but really contains the most sugar because she wants to make good choices, but is still just a kid. Our final flavor decisions were: Vanilla, Strawberry, Ginger, Blueberry and Chocolate. (Can you match who got which? Submit your answer to The Joy of Food Show 555 Burbank Studios, Los Angeles, California.)

Just when Greg thought there was nothing better than Maine lobster, he discovered the fried clam belly boat in Bar Harbor. Crisp on the outside yet juicy in the middle, the clams warmed our bellies during our foggy day touring Fisherman’s Bay. We didn’t let a little drizzle stop us from seeing this Christmas Card town.

That evening, with the kids tucked in the room with another pizza, Greg and I explored Bar Harbor’s nightlife. Let the party begin! The town looked ghostly as we walked from restaurant to restaurant sampling local delicacies. One ingredient began to stand out: not lobster… blueberries. From fried chicken with blueberry sauce and roasted pork with a blueberry wine reduction to wild blueberry beer and fried blueberry pie, I was in blueberry heaven. At each bar, Greg asked for a blueberry brandy, but no local moonshine was available in town. If he could sample homemade peach brandy in Georgia, he was sure a Mainer made the blueberry form somewhere…

Before leaving for Canada, we enjoyed Maine’s famous lobster rolls at Lunt’s Lobster Pound just outside of Acadia National Forest. Hunks of tail meat covering a fresh roll dotted with spicy mayonnaise satisfied Greg and the kids, but I thought the roll took away from the subtle sweetness of the lobster. (Please note: this is the first time I have ever preferred a meal without the bread.)

We fell in love with the people and food of this northern state and looked forward to returning when we had more time to get to know it better. Maybe someone we meet will hook Greg up with some blueberry brandy.

Road Scholars- Fear of Boredom in Salem, Massachusetts

2013-04-23T23:55:00.000-04:00

Kierkegaard said, “Boredom is the root of all evil.” In the case of the Salem Witch Trials, he was correct. Historians have debated the cause of the fanatical witch hunt for ages, but after one visit to Salem, Massachusetts I knew boredom started it all.

Our morning leaving Boston began in the most irksome way: a dead battery. The family truckster died of boredom sitting in a hotel parking garage for two days. We joined Triple A auto club for this supposition, so Greg made the call and a mechanic was duly dispatched. Greg stood by our vehicle while the kids and I sat on the curb waiting.

Triple A called. “Traffic on I-90 is shutdown. The mechanic is looking for side streets to your location. It may be another thirty minutes.”

Wyatt leaned his head on my shoulder. Emma sprawled over the curb with her head in my lap. Anabel paced with her dad. We waited.

The mechanic called. “Wheh is youh cah pahked? I can’t find the entrance.” Greg explained the back alley/underground entrance to the Hyatt Hotel. We waited.

(Are you bored yet? I fell asleep while writing this.)

Finally, the mechanic found our vehicle and assessed that we needed two new batteries to the tune of $350.

“Aw, you’re kidding me! I had those replaced last year. They can’t be dead yet!” Greg said knowing three hundred and fifty dollars was not in our budget.

“Wheh’d you get ‘em? You can return ‘em fa a refund. If you got’em at a Triple A affiliate, I won’t chahge you.”

Greg couldn’t remember, but called our hometown mechanic to find out. Suddenly, Greg’s ennui was relieved by the slowest Southern drawl in one ear and a Southie’s rapid dropping of Rs in the other. I kept the kids out of the way while Greg’s brain tried to translate.

Georgia mechanic:

“Hey, Greg. How’re you? Yeah. Heard y’all were traveling. Where’re y’all at? Boston, you say. Well, how bout that. What’s that bout your car? Yeah. We replaced them batteries for you… let me see… seems like it was last year. Where’d we get the batteries? Let’s see… seems like it was that place down the road…”

Boston mechanic:

“Wheh’d he get ‘em? Wheh’d he get ‘em? We got a Auto Zone ‘round the corneh can deliveh them a sap.”

Georgia mechanic:

“Well, Greg. I’m trying to think. Most times we get our parts from that Auto Zone up the road in Macedonia. You know the one just past the church there. Yeah. Down by the Ace Hardware. But now I’ma thinking we might of got‘em at that other place.”

Greg to the Boston mechanic while still listening to our old mechanic:

“Order them. I’ll take the dead batteries with me and sort it out later.” Boredom cost us $350 bucks; evil, indeed.

Two hours later, we arrived at the village of Salem in time for the noon tour at Salem’s Witch Museum. Walking up to the door I pointed to a statue in the street. “Look kids! They have a statue of a witch.”

“Mom, that’s a pilgrim man.”

“Oh. Yeah. I see that now. Roger Conant- first settler of Salem, 1626. Never mind.”

The Salem Witch Museum tour began with a interactive show that took us through the entire witch trial drama. We were led into a church/court-like room and sat around the edges of the stage on benches. The lights were dimmed and only a circle of names glowed in the middle of the room. I had goosebumps. Then, a curtain opened and an animatronic pilgrim came out to tell the story. My goosebumps receded.

Seventeenth Century New England’s Puritan culture demanded that children be seen and not heard- and I thought waiting for a mechanic was boring. In January of 1692, Salem Village wanted to get rid of their new minister, Reverend Samuel Parris, having become disenchanted by his greed. Parris’s nine-year-old daughter, Betty, felt the stress in the household and sought release. It was the dead of winter with the entire village covered in snow. What can a girl do to fight stress and boredom? Gather your girlfriends for some fortune telling with the family’s Barbados slave, of course. Betty and her friends, Abigail Williams and Ann Putnam delighted in the devilish entertainment of Tibuta’s tales. What could make this more fun? Pretending to be afflicted and possessed, obviously. Soon Betty began writhing on the floor and speaking gibberish. When Ann and Abigail saw the great diversion Betty was having, they joined in. Each cowered under chairs, frightened of unseen specters. They convulsed in fits and flung themselves against walls and furniture. The honorable Reverend Cotton Mather said upon witnessing their afflictions, “The girls’ agonies could not possibly be dissembled.” Without natural causes, the Puritans declared the girls to be under supernatural control… bewitched.

In March, the girls pointed their undulating fingers toward three of the town’s lowest folks: a beggar- Sarah Good, an infirm- Sarah Osburn, and Tibuta- the slave whose tales first broke the boredom. Osburn declared her innocence, as did Good, but Good declared Osburn to be a witch. Tibuta, thanks to the lashes of her master- the good Reverend Parris, sang like a bird. She confessed to being a witch and enchanted the entire village with her stories of Satan’s army of black dogs, red cats, yellow birds and a white haired man who made her sign the devil’s book. She claimed there were several undiscovered witches living in Salem whose primary goal was to destroy Puritanism. Ironically, the Salem Witch Hunt almost did just that.

Within six months, hundreds were arrested and twenty-two were tried and convicted of witchcraft. The bored girls put on an entertaining show at each trial: Ann suddenly goes limp. Abigail and Betty shriek in response. Ann jerks awake and begins flying about the room flapping her arms as wings and screeching an ungodly sound. The overwrought judges implore her to name her tormentors. She silently points another finger. Puritans from near and far came to witness the nineteen innocent villagers hung till their deaths at Gallows Hill. Five more- including one infant- died in prison awaiting their trials. One man, Giles Cory, refused to enter a plea of innocence or guilt and was pressed to death with massive stones added atop him- one at a time- by his neighbors hoping to make him confess.

At this point in the multimedia show, Emma climbed in my lap. The mannequin Giles Cory grimaced in great pain as the stones lowered onto his body. This was not part of her elementary school’s reenactment of the Pilgrims at Plymouth Rock. It was our children’s first exposure to the dour side of Puritan life. Between the stone pressing and the grotesque statue of Satan, I hoped Emma didn’t have nightmares due to this history lesson. But reservations aside, what a way to learn about history! We had witnessed the positive effects of the pilgrim spirit with the American Revolution, and we were seeing what happened when that Puritanical work ethic turned into fanaticism.

After reading the names of the twenty-five people who died in the Salem Witch Hunt, we were guided into the second phase of the tour: the history of witches and the devastating results of witch hunts around the world from the Middle Ages to present day. From midwifery to the Wizard of Oz, the transformation of women healers to wicked witches with green skin and pointy hats would have been comical if it wasn’t so disturbing. Then, the museum’s attempts to promote an understanding of the Wicca religion today would have been moving if it wasn’t for the comical pandering of Bewitched items for sale in the museum gift shop. I loved Samantha, but the old episode- the one where she was chased around Salem by an enchanted bed warmer from Nathaniel Hawthorn’s House of Seven Gables- playing in the background as we shopped for a Christmas tree ornament of a witch made the whole thing feel silly. But at least, I wasn’t bored.

Before leaving Salem, we discussed hysteria and false accusations over a delicious lunch of comfort food at the Scratch Kitchen.

“I think teenagers blow everything out of proportion,” said the girl who would be turning thirteen in six months. Anabel gleaned another reason not to grow up from our tour of Salem.

Downplaying age as a factor, I said, “I think the lesson is: beware of bored people. Now finish your grilled cheese and let’s head to Maine!”

The Joy of Food- Julia Child's Boston

2013-04-09T16:43:00.000-04:00

A slight breeze touched my face as I peered into the grocer’s window. A pyramid of giant, orange pumpkins surrounded by their apple minions in red, green and yellow happily greeted passers-by, inviting them to stop, look and come inside. I opened the door and stepped into the world of Julia Child. (Okay, for those readers who know the Savenor’s that Julia shopped is not on Charles Street I confess: exhaustion made me settle. I wanted to step inside the original shop, but time and energy prevented me from walking the extra two and a half miles across the Charles River to Kirkland Street in Cambridge.)
In 1963, Savenor’s door opened daily to Julia and her insatiable excitement for food. She said, “You don't have to cook fancy or complicated masterpieces - just good food from fresh ingredients.” Savenor’s supplied her fresh ingredients and she shopped their store near her Cambridge, Massachusetts home each day before filming her cooking show, The French Chef.

The original Kirkland Street location opened in 1939 by Lithuanian immigrant, Ibrahim Savenor. When Julia Child and her husband, Paul, moved to Cambridge in 1961, Julia made fast friends with Savenor’s son, Jack, while discussing their common passion, food. Julia believed friends were the most important ingredient to a happy life and loved entertaining. She wrote in Mastering the Art of French Cooking, “Just like becoming an expert in wine–you learn by drinking it, the best you can afford–you learn about great food by finding the best there is, whether simple or luxurious. Then, you savor it, analyze it, and discuss it with your companions, and you compare it with other experiences.” Food was always meant to be shared and discussed with friends.

Alone, I stalked the rows of Savenor’s simple and luxurious food. Fresh fruits and veggies encased in wooden bins. Signature sauces and rubs lined three shelves. The back wall contained the meats. Beef bones, beef cheeks, beef ribs- every beef imaginable was lovingly placed in the case by the butcher giving understanding to Child’s quote about her friend, Jack Savenor, “Every woman should kiss their butcher.” Lamb chops, pork belly, and chicken legs were ready for all the servant-less cooks of Boston. They just needed the courage of their convictions to choose. I was drawn to one cooler door by its sign: fats and lards. Duck fat, goose fat, rendered lard. Oh, my! And I thought my sweet southern grandmother backward for insisting on cooking with lard rather than Crisco. Savenor’s sold lard by each perfected ounce. Greg swore by it stating simply, “Fat equals flavor.” I smiled as I closed the cooler door; Julia Child would have loved my Greg.

The Manchester

After ogling the game and specialty meats- they sold kangaroo, ostrich, python, and a variety of others- I made my way to the sandwich counter for dinner. Our first night in Boston had been spent paying homage to history at America’s oldest restaurant, The Union Oyster House, which has been in continuous operation as a restaurant since 1826. We sat in the Kennedy booth, JFK’s favorite spot, and enjoyed some “wicked-good chowda,” but we dined on straight forward seafood. I was hoping to experiment with some take-out from Julia’s gourmet purveyor. Twenty minutes later, I walked back up Charles Street with cheese, grapes, olives and three sandwiches for our family to share: the Arricia- house-made porketta and house pickled fennel drizzled with local honey on an Iggy’s farmhouse roll, the Manchester- double smoked bacon, fresh avocado, vine-ripened tomato, fresh mixed greens, and spicy aioli on Iggy’s cibatta roll, and the Toulouse- crisped duck confit, pickled root vegetables, sautéed savoy cabbage with pancetta, and spicy aioli on an Iggy’s torta roll. Julia would have been pleased, especially since I discovered through Savenor’s an unknown source: Iggy’s Bread of the World.

Iggy’s was the dream child of Igor and Ludmilla Ivanovic (yes, those are their real names) after the couple met while working at Eli’s Bakery in New York. They fell in love with bread and each other, moved to Massachusetts and created their family business. For eighteen years, they have been baking breads for restaurants, farmer’s markets and kitchen tables out of their Cambridge store. The Savenor’s folks shared the couple’s love of bread story with me while they layered, spiced and sliced our sandwiches. Simple and luxurious ingredients on fresh bread. Who could ask for more?

Greg could. “You only got three sandwiches? I’m starving.”

“I thought that would be enough for us. We had those huge Boston Barkers for lunch.”

“Hey, we toured all of Fenway Park and walked from the harbor to the hotel and half the Freedom Trail today. Your two meals of brunch and lupper are not cutting it for me,” Greg said before taking a huge bite of the Manchester.

The kids devoured the other two sandwiches while I nibbled the grapes and cheese. I nicked one bite from Wyatt and almost lost a finger. Greg begrudgingly handed over the other half of his sandwich to Anabel and said, “Let’s check out Chinatown for dinner. Kids, do y’all want to come?”

Anabel was the first to pipe up. “We’re good.” Their little legs could only take so much, but their mouths were still going. They finished the cheese and grapes while waiting on the shower.

I tucked each into bed with a book before Greg and I headed across the street to Boston’s Chinatown. I knew nothing about this area having researched American history and Julia Child for this trip, but Greg had clearly done his homework as he marched us passed several delightful looking restaurants to a basement establishment called The Best Little Restaurant.

With high hopes for the food, I noted they were not named the Best Little Decorated Restaurant. Clean, white table cloths were as far as their decor went. We were seated in the back near a table of six Chinese businessmen. I entertained Greg with each man’s role in the Chinese mafia while he chose our dishes. I had no idea what was coming, but the waiter smiled as Greg ordered.

When the platter of chicken feet arrived at our table, I understood the waiter’s amusement. “Did you mean to order this?” I asked. I wanted to try new foods, but this was crossing the line.

“Yes! This looks awesome!” Greg dived in.

“Are you kidding me? It’s jellied chicken feet!” Then, I thought, “What would Julia do? If Paul had ordered her a plate of chicken feet, she would have eaten it with pleasure.” I stared at the platter. The feet glistened in the romantic glow of florescent lights. They jiggled on their journey from the platter to Greg’s plate. He forked one and brought it to his lips. I could hear it squish between his teeth. Screw Julia. I was not trying the chicken feet.

I sated my hunger with Greg’s other choices: lobster with ginger and scallions and spareribs with garlic sauce. The delicate lobster melted in my mouth without squishing. The crisp, caramelized coating on the outside of ribs punctuated our discussion of the Cantonese food with crunches and smacks. We declared it wasn’t the best little Chinese food we’d ever eaten, but it was damn good.
With tummies full, we walked back to our hotel tying up our many threads of conversation before returning to the kids. From the Green Monster to the toiling at MIT, from Savenor’s shelves to the fictitious machinations of Boston’s Chinese mafia, we talked without interruption. It was bliss.

Stealing a line from Julia and Paul Child, I said, “You are the bread to my butter; the breath to my life.”

“And you are the cheese to this conversation.”

“Ah! Thanks, Honey.”

Julia was right. Everything- except chicken feet- tasted better when shared with your best friend.

Family Road Scholars: Tourists in Boston

2013-04-02T17:09:00.000-04:00

By day six of our road trip, I relinquished my teacher reins and placed them firmly in the claws of Lobstaman. Lobstaman was our driver and guide on the Old Town Trolley Tours in Boston. Spending so much time with my kids, I had grown emotionally and no longer needed to prove I knew it all for my family. Plus, I was worn out. In my former life, I would rather have died than look like a tourist, but now I was a mother with three children to teach and only one full day to do it. I had never been to Boston so the trolley tour and harbor cruise made sense.

We hopped on the tour across from the state building near the top of Beacon Hill and next to Boston Common. Lobstaman began his lessons in history and regional phonetics immediately.

“Climb on, folks, and grab a seat. We gotta book it outta here to stay on schedule. Where you guys from?”

“Atlanta!” Greg shouted over the roar of the wind as Lobstaman gunned it down Beacon Street and hung a right onto School.

“That’s wicked good ‘cause I was gonna make you stand if you were Nooyawkahs.”

Laughing at New York’s expense, I settled next to the trolley’s open window and let Lobstaman’s corny jokes and the fall breeze lighten my mood. I thought, “Is there anything better than a crisp, clear autumn day? Who would want to be sitting in a beige, concrete-block walled classroom on a day like this?”

Our group rattled along the streets of Boston deciphering the American history as we went. To our right, the Old South Meeting House where the People of Boston assembled and planned the Boston Tea Party in December 1773. I thought all was done in secrecy, but in reality posters were plastered all over the city exclaiming the meetings to discuss responses to the Tea Act:

Friends! Brethren! Countrymen! That worst of Plagues, the detested tea shipped for this port by the East India Company, is now arrived in the Harbor; the hour of destruction, or manly opposition to the machinations of Tyranny stares you in the Face…

“Machinations of Tyranny…” How vivid! The People first planned to meet at Faneuil Hall, but over five thousand showed up, so they moved to the larger Old South Meeting House. Again, I was mistaken in my understanding of The Boston Tea Party. I thought it was a few brave souls-not thousands! After a month of dead-end negotiations and unsuccessful pressure-plays with the loyalist tea purveyors, the People left it to the Sons of Liberty to carry out the final plan to prevent the tea from hitting shore and a tax being due upon it. On the night of December 16, 1773, the Sons of Liberty, numbering 116 Mohawk Indian impersonators, sneaked aboard the three tea ships moored in the harbor and dumped 342 chests of British tea overboard. So much for my image of Sam Adams and three other dudes doing all the work. Actually, the whole event was carried out in a gentlemanly manner with the dumpers sweeping the decks clean and replacing a broken lock after their peaceful protest was complete.

Our trolley tour included a harbor cruise that pointed out the location of the Tea Party- although historians believe the actual watery location was covered by landfill of the ever growing City of Boston many years ago so the official historical plague rests at the corner of Congress and Purchase Street. On board our ship, we watched as the water glimmered in the late September sun. I didn’t tell the kids about the true garbage-filled historic site; Boston harbor was more poetic.

“When legend becomes fact, print the legend,” Greg said quoting his favorite movie, The Man Who Shot Liberty Valance.

“And they did.” We leaned against the rails admiring our view of the blue sky, shimmering water, and the stars and stripes flapping in the wind. This Colonial America trip was bringing out the patriot in us all.

After viewing the USS Constitution, “Old Ironsides” from the War of 1812 fame, we resumed our trolley tour, rolling around Bunker Hill, and eventually rattling past the Old North Church from whence the “Two if by sea” lights shined causing Paul Revere’s famous ride- another fictionalized event in American history thanks to William Wadsworth Longfellow’s iconic poem. The more we toured America the more I began to realize how skewed my elementary education had been. All my teachers took the Liberty Valance movie quote to heart. In teaching my own kids, I wanted to get it right. The facts of the “midnight ride” were this:

Actively engaged in the patriot’s cause, Paul Revere warned John Hancock, Sam Adams, and the town of Lexington that the ‘British were coming’ three days before his ride. He set up a signal system for warning patriots in Charlestown of the moment and direction of the British’s movement in case Revere couldn’t leave Boston- in other words, the lights in the Old North Church were not for him. But he made it across the Charles River and safely traveled on horseback to Lexington only to be captured by four British soldiers in route to Concord. Luckily, there were three riders on this famous midnight ride: Revere, William Dawes and Dr. Samuel Prescott. Only Prescott reached Concord to alert the Minute Men to hide their storehouse of ammunitions and prepare to face the British in time. This field trip year was becoming an education for all of us and a hell of a lot more work than I expected just researching all the historical facts.

The trolley jolted to a stop. Downtown traffic snarled as rush hour approached giving us a break from the onslaught of facts, but we couldn’t escape the intertwining of history with modern America. With a graveyard to our right and a bar to our left, I could see Sam Adams’ headstone out of the corner of one eye and people drinking Sam Adams’ beer out of the other.

“Man, I’m thirsty,” I said.

“Ready to hop off?” Greg’s interest was waning. There was only so much information a person could process in a day.

“We’re not far from Fenway Park. Why don’t you and Wyatt hop off there for a tour and the girls and I will continue on to Cambridge?” Greg agreed immediately. Baseball always perked him up.

We waved the boys goodbye in the shadow of the Green Monster. Greg back-kicked Wyatt in his rear end as they approached the ticket booth. The Atlanta Braves and the Boston Red Sox were out of the pennant race, but the love of baseball continued. Visiting all the major league parks was a bucket list item for Greg. He checked off Turner Field, Old Yankee Stadium, Camden Yard, and now, Fenway- only twenty-six to go.

Crossing the Charles River over the Harvard Bridge to Cambridge, Boston College crew boats sliced the water with precision navigating around sailboats and Boston whalers. We didn’t see many rowing teams in the South, and this Georgia Bulldog felt a little in awe as we entered the campus of Massachusetts Institute of Technology. I taught gifted children for over ten years where we considered MIT the holy grail of universities with Harvard a close second. The girls and I smiled into the crisp late afternoon breeze ready to increase our intelligence by osmosis; we must glean something from being this close to our nation’s brain trust. My eyes swept the campus squares ready to note any student behavior, their dress, walk or general demeanor, that might give insight into the brilliance needed to gain admission to this school. Nothing. No one in sight. Any given Friday in September on University of Georgia’s campus would show kids of every color celebrating life without parents; girls in dresses outside sorority houses, boys in jeans tackling one another on lawns, kids shouting and laughing- just happy to be alive. On MIT’s campus at four o’clock on Friday afternoon, every light was on in the industrial-like buildings, while tumbleweeds drifted through the parks and streets. Apparently, attending MIT took a more diligent work ethic than your run-of-the-mill SEC university. On this glorious afternoon, I was thankful for my average education. I bet no MIT graduate would quit her job to take off and explore the world with her family. Go, Slacker University!

Our trolley tour ended, but I wanted more of Boston. Anabel and Emma did not.

“Let’s walk through the Common and back to Charles Street. I want to take a look in the shops.”

“I’m so tired,” said Emma.

“Me, too. Can we go back to the hotel?” asked Anabel.

“It’s beautiful out. Who knows when we’ll be back to Boston… come on, girls, stick with me.” I tried to convince them to power through and walk Beacon Hill with me, but my heart wasn’t in it. I loved sharing a new city with my kids, but nothing beats exploring all alone.

Savenor's Shop Window

With Greg and Wyatt at the ballpark and Anabel and Emma tucked in the hotel room with a movie, I walked. I walked through the Common to the most delightful street in America: Charles Street. Shop windows displayed autumnal colors in clothing and food, in antiques and even pharmaceutical products. From slate gray arm chairs with red and gold throw pillows to a pyramid of Gold Bond Powder, each purveyor did their part to give the street a seasonal feel. A burnt orange and taupe scarf called my name, but budget-minded, I averted my eyes. Mothers and nannies strolled the youngest of each robust brood of children reminiscent of the Kennedy clan. Down a side street to my left was the Charles River with a lone man maneuvering a kayak off the hood of his Subaru. Up a street to my right were Beacon Hill’s brass door knockers and elaborate window boxes filled with tangerine mums, purple and white cineraria and yellow tinged juniper against a background of variegated ivy. I smiled as I passed every person, shop and door. I walked without stopping until I arrived at Savenor’s.

Speaker at the Great American Homeschool Convention

2013-03-11T23:06:00.000-04:00

March 14–16, 2013

TD Convention Center

(Greenville, SC)

I am thrilled to announce that I will be speaking this weekend at the Great American Homeschool Convention in Greenville, SC.

I am so excited about my Saturday workshop on A Family Field Trip Year, where I will be sharing information about our travel year. This workshop will be at 10 am on Saturday in the TD Convention Center. I will have a great travel games giveaway, as well as, many tips for road school families.

Session Description:

(102A) JENNIFER K. BROOKS (Critical Thinking Company) A Family Field Trip YearJennifer Brooks and her husband, Greg, recently completed a field trip year with their three children where they traveled the USA and the UK as they homeschooled their kids. Jennifer taught in public school for 15 years with 10 of those years spent in gifted education. She is the author of Teaching Technology Through Interest Projects and the upcoming Surfin’ the Net Safari- Science. Whether traveling to world historic locations with her family or teaching a classroom of gifted students, Jennifer believes in the power of hands-on, interest-based education. Her popular blog, Brooks Sabbatical, documents her transition from public education to homeschool teacher and her family’s travels during their field trip year.

A Family Field Trip Year
I will describe how my husband and I decided to take a year off from normal (and stressful) commitments to travel and “road” school our children. Our creative financial planning for our travels will be shared. My transition from public education to homeschool teacher enabled me to better understand my own children’s education needs. Our hands-on learning and field trip curriculum transformed our family, creating a closer bond between kids and parents- resulting in a happier outlook on life for all.

I will also be speaking about my curriculum in my book, Teaching Technology Through Interest Projects, on Friday at 1 pm in the TD Convention Center. My publisher, The Critical Thinking Company, will be on site selling my book and their other fabulous teaching materials.

Session Description:

(102A) JENNIFER K. BROOKS (Critical Thinking Company) Teaching Technology Through Interest Projects.
Teaching Technology Through Interest Projects
The curriculum in Teaching Technology Through Interest Projects allows students of all ages to explore their enthusiasm and passion for an individual topic of their choosing, within or without an assigned subject area. My session will demonstrate how parents can capitalize on their children’s interests to make learning complex technology research skills and computer presentation programs fun. I will demonstrate easy-to-follow instructions for creating dynamic, independent projects using three different media: slideshows (PowerPoint, Keynote), documentary movies (Windows Live Movie Maker, Photo Story 3, iMovie), and animations (Scratch).

For more information about the Great American Homeschool Convention, please visit their official website: http://www.southeasthomeschoolconvention.com

Home School Immersion- Philadelphia, PA

2013-03-03T22:00:00.000-05:00

I enjoyed watching Greg get shocked after our hellish drive from Virginia to Philadelphia. I dared him to do it again just for fun and he did; what did that say about the patriarch of our family? Good thing I made our travel decisions. Well, most of them – Greg had planned special restaurant reservations using this year as his personal culinary tour of America.

Yesterday’s four-hour drive took eight and Greg blamed my poor navigational skills. He cussed me right along with the construction workers and broken down cars because when I planned our route up I95, I called the DOT to give the green light on their resurfacing project, right after I magically visited several homes along the way to sabotage their cars. The kids tuned him out as they put in another Disney DVD- how did the pioneers manage to travel in a covered wagon for hundreds of miles without a DVD player? Worrying we wouldn’t make that evening’s dinner reservations at Morimoto’s, he spun a web of frustration that covered my mood as well as his. By the time we checked into the Embassy Suites, ordered pizza for the kids, and changed for dinner, I didn’t want to look at him. He could forget about hundred-dollar sushi. When he emerged from the bedroom, showered and smelling of Aramis and whiskey, I changed my mind. It felt so good to find my husband sexy again. We had spent the last three days in our children’s constant company; a night alone would be just the ticket to soothe our frayed nerves.

By the next morning, we had reconnected, but I still took pleasure in watching Greg shock himself with the electricity experiment at the Ben Franklin Institute. We all tried it; the museum contained hundreds of hands-on experiments and we tried everyone. Wyatt delighted in the colossal heart traversing each artery and vein. Anabel explored climate change by creating an erosive environment and discovered ways of improving topsoil. Emma studied electricity by lighting a tiny city with girl power- she turned the wheel of an electromagnet and boom- lights.

The museum helped teach all these science topics and more with instructors stationed in each room. A retired surgeon volunteering in the human body area explained the intricacies of the brain. He conducted a couple of experiments on Wyatt challenging him with a few brainteasers. An entomologist demonstrated metamorphosis as Emma handled a caterpillar, a chrysalis and a butterfly. Anabel watched in fascinated horror at a video of an open-heart surgery, then worked a shift in a simulated ER with the guidance of a volunteer nurse. Taking advantage of expert knowledge made home schooling fun for the kids and easy for the parents.

Wyatt wanted to live at the Franklin Institute, but we assured him Philadelphia had more to offer.

“It’s time to go, Bud. We’ll be back.” I headed for the exit.

“Promise? I want to ride the flight simulator again.”

“I promise we’ll return someday. We’re only here two days and we still haven’t seen Independence Hall and the Liberty Bell. We’ve got to move on.”

Wyatt’s shoulders slumped as the disappointment enveloped his whole body. Our kids did not transition well. They were slow to warm up to new experiences and once hot, abhorred letting them go. Traveling to successive cities in two to three day spurts was cruel treatment for these children.

Wyatt said, “This sucks,” under his breath as we walked out the door. I didn’t know whether to laugh, cry or just smack him across the top of his head. I was thrilled to have a child that loved museums, sad that we couldn’t afford to stay in one city longer, and pissed at having an ungrateful brat who didn’t appreciate his privileges. This year was turning into a roller coaster of emotions.

Quick travel had its advantages, though. It was powerful to go from the encapsulated world of Williamsburg circa 1775 to Philadelphia’s Independence Hall circa 1776. I couldn’t help but feel in awe of the whole place. Thomas Jefferson, Ben Franklin, John Adams, George Washington sat here, argued here, laughed here, thought here. And we were the winners of their radical experiment of self-government.

The tour, led by National Park Rangers, gave another great history lesson to all of us, but especially the kids. Emma was hearing a lot of this information for the first time. I was proud of the close attention she paid. I didn’t know how much it meant to her at age eight, but she was listening. First, we were led from the east wing into the judicial room where the colonists held court. After a brief explanation of the British and American court system, we walked into the Signing Room- the room in all the portraits of the signing of the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution. George Washington’s chair as president of the Constitutional Convention was still there presiding over all.

Suddenly, I felt so blessed to have this opportunity with our family. Whatever the consequences of this life break, I knew I would never regret it. Again, the power of certainty engulfed me. Not since falling in love with Greg and our children had I felt so sure of myself.

Anabel placed her hand in mine as we crossed the street to view the Liberty Bell. We spoke for the first time since entering the Signing Room.

“That was cool,” she said.

“Yep.” Sometimes, words were deficient, but I could have sworn I heard Lee Greenwood singing in the distance. (Cue redneck truck driving by blaring, “I’m proud to be an American.”)

Home School Immersion- Colonial Williamsburg

2013-02-19T13:20:00.000-05:00

Teaching your own children brings to mind the old Proverb: "You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him drink." Traveling to teach our children about history and culture doesn't ensure they will learn it; all we can do is lead them to it and hope they drink... Case in point: Our Williamsburg Visit.

We shuffled our three kids and two dolls out the door and headed for the Royal Governor’s mansion.

A persnickety man assuming we were the hired help answered Emma’s timid knock on the mansion’s front door. It seemed there was a Royal Ball that evening and he was desperate.

“From your casual attire, I can see you are not a guest of the Governor’s tonight so you must be the new servants. Please come in and I’ll show you around,” he said as we entered the heavily armed foyer. Swords, scabbards, pistols, and rifles lined the walls from floor to ceiling. He explained that this was a customary display of the power of the British government and we would be expected to dust them later. “Let’s go through to the ballroom. I think Mrs. Brown, the housekeeper is there and she’ll find you more suitable clothing and better explain your duties for the night. It is going to be a grand celebration of Queen Charlotte’s birthday.”

Greg and I smiled as we followed the enthusiastic actor through the home. The kids were mesmerized. Emma pulled my sleeve as we walked and asked, “Are we really going to get some clothes like his?”

I whispered, “Sorry, darling, but I don’t think so… that would be neat though, wouldn’t it?” She giggled to hide her disappointment.

The historical actor stayed in character throughout our tour of the mansion. After a while, we let ourselves slip back in time to 1775. He referred to the recent skirmish near Concord and Lexington and held all of Boston in complete contempt for their ungrateful behavior in the past few months.

“How could anyone disrespect our King by dumping his tea into the water? Disgraceful!” He was definitely a loyalist.

As we wandered the rooms, I discovered I couldn’t stop grinning. Greg looked at me like I’d lost my mind.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m great. I’m just happy.”

“About what?” He wasn’t a history convert yet.

“This is it.” I waved my hand around the beautiful ballroom with its portraits of the King and Queen flanking the double doors. I pointed at the kids standing near our guide with rapt attention as he told of the grand traditions of the British and complained about upstarts like Thomas Jefferson and George Washington who took it all for granted. “This is what I dreamed about for home school,” I whispered. “I have always wanted to teach by immersion. Go and see places in person instead of just reading about them in books. I just can’t believe we’re here. We are actually doing it!”

Greg and I trailed the others out into the gardens. Wyatt spotted a maze and raced Emma to it. Anabel sauntered through a vine-covered pathway. Greg and I meandered around the King’s gardens and found our way to the kitchens where a woman was demonstrating beer making. The smell knocked me back as I entered the small outbuilding. I decided to hang by the scullery door and listen rather see close-up. She banked her fire and stirred a large pot full of water, grain, hops and yeast. She explained that in colonial days everyone drank beer- even the children because the water was contaminated. Brewers made two different types: a large beer- heavy ale or porter for adults and a small beer- very weak but bacteria free for children. The local brewers were usually cooks in the kitchens of larger estates and servants were sometimes paid with a stipend of weak beer. Imported beers were for the wealthy while most common townsfolk drank a local brew. George Washington reportedly loved porters and Thomas Jefferson preferred lighter ales. I couldn’t wait for our dinner in the local pub to taste both to see with which founding father I agreed.

Brewing a pint...or two.

The remainder of our day was spent along Gloucester Street in the shopping district of Colonial Williamsburg. The kids perused the 18^th century wares and bought some costumes and games with the money they earned washing golf carts on Fripp. We toured the home where Jefferson studied law and watched the blacksmith and wheelwright’s demonstrations. As we neared the House of Burgesses, we noticed a shift in sentiment towards the British among the reenactments. No longer were the town’s folk spouting praises for the King. Minutemen were marching along the streets and drilling in the courtyard. A man stood on an expounding plank talking of freedom and the rights of men.

Our last stop was the Virginia Capital building where a riot had recently taken place. The Royal Governor and his advisors had left in the middle of the night leaving their food still on their plates in their private meeting room. A few months prior, Patrick Henry delivered his “Give me liberty or give me death” speech during a covert meeting to the Virginia convention in Richmond and rebellion took hold in Williamsburg. Patrick Henry was named the new governor and the capital building was the site of the first Declaration of Rights in America. I tried to instill the magnitude of how awe-inspiring it was to stand where our founding fathers stood.

“Anabel, Thomas Jefferson studied law in this building. Wyatt, this is where the first group of people agreed that all men were created equal and free. Emma, Patrick Henry said in this room, ‘If this be treason, make the most of it!’ Can you imagine taking such a risk? If they had been caught by the British they would have been killed!” I gave the kids a wide-eyed look for emphasis. They stared back at me speechless. I had them. They were as interested in history as I.

Then, Emma opened her mouth and said, “Did they have ice cream in colonial times, Mommy?”

Wyatt turned to his sister. “Ooo! I’d really like some ice cream!”

Anabel shook her head as if coming back from a daze. “Are we getting ice cream? I want some.”

Oh well, I had them for a moment, which was better than never at all.

**This is an excerpt from my upcoming memoir about our family field trip year. Check out the original blogs from our trip to Colonial Williamsburg:

Budgeting for Williamsburg

Our Long Day's Journey into the Past...Part One (I said it was long!)

Our long day’s journey into the past… Part two (so tired and only our first stop)

Leaving Williamsburg

Book Club- Traveling with Pomegranates by Sue Monk Kidd*

2013-02-05T19:12:00.000-05:00

The Desperate and Downtrodden Book Club- Episode 2- Traveling with Pomegranates by Sue Monk Kidd

Fade in theme music. Roll opening titles. Cue Host.

Host- Welcome to The Desperate and Downtrodden Book Club! On this show, we explore books that inspire and uplift the desperate and downtrodden. Please welcome my guest, best known as the author of the New York Times Bestsellers, The Secret Life of Bees and The Mermaid’s Chair, Sue Monk Kidd!

Pause for audience applause.

Sue Monk Kidd- Hello, Everyone! Thanks for having me on your show, Jenny.

Host- I am so pleased to have you here to discuss your latest work- Traveling with Pomegranates: a mesmerizing memoir of a mother and daughter struggling with transition- you turning 50 and realizing you needed something more in your career and your daughter, Anne, leaving the security of college, unsure of her future, and facing failure for the first time. How was it working with your daughter?

Sue Monk Kidd- It was fantastic when she wasn’t depressed and I wasn’t self-absorbed in my own fears of failure in writing my first novel.

Host- Wow! Thanks for being so honest, Sue. We don’t often get that on television. As a career woman and a mother, I gleaned motivation from both of your mêlées with life. I related to Anne’s crippling uncertainty of her life’s ambition and your all-consuming need for more substance in your career. How did traveling Greece and Turkey facilitate your choices?

Sue Monk Kidd- Traveling puts relationships in a pressure cooker. You can’t hide your emotions for long on a three-week tour; eventually, your inner thoughts come out. Although difficult, it is cathartic. Also, traveling allows you to explore new facets of your soul. I have always gravitated to the spiritual and seek out locations that feed my chi. Greece and Turkey are teeming with transcendent locales. Put family and spiritual journeys together and you have a recipe for change.

Host- So if someone was burned out and bored with her life, would you recommend traveling with her family to facilitate her deep-seeded need for change?

Sue Monk Kidd- I would tell that woman to set forth on her journey and not look back. As Auntie Mame said, “Life is a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death.”

Host- So you're telling me to do it- quit my job and spend a year traveling with my family and searching my soul for answers to what to do during my next stage in life.

Sue Monk Kidd- I didn’t say…

Host- That’s all the time we have today.

Sue Monk Kidd- But, I…

Host- Thank you so much, Ms. Monk Kidd, for being my second guest. Her life-altering book is Traveling with Pomegranates. If you are seeking a new life, The Desperate and Downtrodden Book Club also recommends Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert, my debut guest- don’t cheat yourself by just watching the movie; Julia Roberts is great, but it glosses over her spiritual search- and Under the Tuscan Sun by Francis Mayes - if you’re pressed for time, this one is okay to just watch the movie; the film demonstrates three-act life renewal better than the eloquent, but elongated Mayes memoir. (I mean she goes on and on about renovations and Etruscan tombs and never shows us her life.) Tune in next time when my guest will be the ghost of Jane Austen.

Fade in music. Roll end credits. Fade out.

* The author wishes to be truthful and admit that although she met Sue Monk Kidd at an author’s luncheon at the University of South Carolina- Beaufort, she did not conduct an interview with her about her book. The actual conversation went something like this:

Author- I loved The Secret Life of Bees!

Sue Monk Kidd- Thank you, I’m so pleased to hear that.

Author- (Handing Ms. Monk Kidd a new copy of Traveling with Pomegranates for her to sign) When I was a girl, I had bees in my closet, too. Sometimes at night, I can still hear their buzzing.

Sue Monk Kidd- (Smiling as she hands the signed book back) Small world; I hope you enjoy my new book.

Author- Thank you, I’m sure I will.

From the Mouths of Babes*

2013-01-27T21:30:00.000-05:00

A sleeping child is a beautiful thing.

Kids are hard work. They wear on your nerves, test your patience and put a constant strain on your pocketbook. With kids around, the laundry piles to the ceiling and the cupboard is always bare. That box of crackers you bought for the cheesy chicken casserole for dinner is gone thanks to the neighborhood kids and your daughter's giving nature. She cut up all the cheese, too, so you'll have to go back to the store. Oh, and there is no milk for your coffee... again.

Kids have never ending needs that must be met. One kid perpetually asks, "What's for dinner?" even though you just fed them yesterday. One kid has outgrown their shoes even though you bought the last pair two sizes too big. Another kid has the unmitigated gall to ask you to help them with social studies homework even though you spent an hour with them the night before going over slope-intercept form in math. Must you help with social studies, too? Good grief!

So why do we put up with them?

Because they are pretty darn funny. Greg and I would have kicked ours out years ago if they were not so entertaining. While writing about our family sabbatical year, I stumbled upon several gems that endeared us to our children long after their cherub faces thinned and they became too big to cuddle. Here are some of my favorites:

Overheard from the Mouths of Babes-

While playing with their dolls:
Anabel: Do babies really say goo-goo, gaga?
Emma: Yes, but only the stupid ones.

While playing Wii Party:
Wyatt: I can't help it that I'm good at it.
Anabel: You're just good at being lucky. How much skill does it take to press a button and have the spinner land on your number?
Wyatt: More than you'd think actually...

While trying to steal my book light:
Mommy: Put that back.
Emma: Can I just use it tonight?
Mommy: No, you'll lose it. You can buy your own light with the $50 you have.
Emma: I wouldn't spend my $50 on a book light.
Mommy: Why not? They're only $3.
Emma: That's exactly why I wouldn't spend $50 on one.

While getting ready for bed:
Emma: Can I get some of the tools dentist use?
Mommy: Why? Do you want to be a dentist when you grow up?
Emma: It would be fun, but I don't think they'd let someone who's had so many cavities be a dentist. Or would they? I'd know more about it than a kid who never had any.

While trying to talk my husband into taking me to a movie for date night:
Greg: I don't know. What movie do you want to see?
Me: The one with Bradley Cooper.
Wyatt: Ooper Duper! (Said just like Peter Boyle's monster in Young Frankenstein.)

As long as they keep the laughs coming, I guess we'll let them hang around... Laughter may not fold the clothes, but it sure helps it go a little faster.

*For those readers with no sense of humor, this post was written with my tongue firmly in my cheek. I love my kids dearly and would never kick them by the wayside. Greg, on the other hand...

Road Scholars: A Sampler of Learning in Colonial Williamsburg

2013-01-12T10:46:00.001-05:00

Founded in 1699 as Virginia’s new colonial capital, Williamsburg thrived under colonial economics. The proximity of the bustling port of Yorktown and America’s first successful colony, Jamestown caused early leaders to choose the site of Middle Plantation, Williamsburg’s original name, for the home of Virginia’s first university- The College of William and Mary founded in 1693. After the burning of the state house in Jamestown in 1698, William and Mary students lobbied to have the colonial capital relocated near the college and thus, Williamsburg, named for King William III of England, was born. It soon became the southern center for politics, culture and education. Mixing those three powerful ingredients into one location produced a haven for thought leaders of the American Revolution. George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, and Patrick Henry all cut their teeth in the pubs of Williamsburg before heading to Virginia’s House of Burgesses and on to the Continental Congress. As we entered the preservation area just off North England Street, I wanted to instill the fact that our nation’s founding fathers walked the very streets we traversed. The idea of humans having the fundamental rights of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness began in this town. I had goose bumps. Greg had a headache. Yesterday’s long drive through a deluge of rain did not improve his interest in history. I determined to convert him along with the kids.

“The guide says start in the Gateway Building. Ooo! It’s got a kid’s corner with hands on activities! Let’s go check it out!” Grabbing Emma’s hand, I marched my clan into our first stop. To their credit, they smiled, feigning interest, which I took as a show of appreciation of all the hard work I had done in planning this trip. Mothers always wanted to believe the best of their family.

An 18th century costumed citizen offering to show Emma and Anabel the sewing nook met us inside the door of the dimly lit, barn-like structure. I followed the girls while Greg and Wyatt gravitated to the large Frenchman's map of the town from the seventeen hundreds. Since Montessori school, Wyatt had a fascination with maps. He and his dad oriented themselves with the lay of the surrounding land. Williamsburg was built on high ground in the middle of the Virginia peninsula almost equidistant to Yorktown and Jamestown forming one corner of the Historic Triangle. Studying the map, one could easily see why the current location was much more desirable to Jamestown’s early settlers. Jamestown was built on the banks of a mosquito-ridden marshy area off the James River. How colonists survived the bloodletting, much less the malaria was a miracle. I was thankful the reproduction map did not include the modern addition of Bush Gardens Park; I had omitted mentioning an amusement park was nearby. Wyatt lived for roller coasters, but I wanted new family learning experiences this year- not the same old melting from the heat while standing in a long line reading t-shirts and tattoos.

“Mommy, look what I made!”

I turned from the map to see Emma holding a perfectly stitched letter E. Most might have thought it was a C or an F; I could have agreed with them if they'd said a G even, but I knew it was the most beautiful E I’d ever seen.

“It’s E for Emma and E for Elizabeth, too.” Emma had also brought her colonial American Girl doll, Elizabeth -Felicity’s best friend, with her to enhance the Williamsburg experience. We had a three-week supply of school assignments, clothes, DVDs, granola, juice boxes and wine crammed in the car already. What difference did two dolls in fragile, historical costumes make?

“I can see that. Good job! You’re quite a little seamstress. Are you ready to make a whole sampler?”

“What’s a sampler?”

“See that picture on the wall with the alphabet and numbers? That’s called a sampler because it was a sample of all different kinds of stitches and patterns used for making their own clothes and decorations. Girls used spent their free time practicing their sewing. They couldn't go to the mall to buy their dresses. They had to sew them.” We stepped closer to the framed sampler to see the individual stitches.

“That must have taken a long time – like all day,” Emma said.

“Emma, you don’t have a clue. That must have taken a week to do all that.” Anabel didn’t want to grow up, but she relished being the big sister who thought she knew everything or at least more than her eight-year-old sister.

A Sample of a Sampler

“Girls. Look at the intricate designs. Sure, there’s the simple alphabet and numbers that may not have taken weeks to finish, but look at the vines scrolling around the outer frame. Look at the animals across the bottom. The girl who made this took her time. She didn’t rush to finish so she could watch TV or talk on the phone. She focused on one activity and put herself in her work. I bet these were the animals she saw outside her window.” Deer, dogs, and birds of a variety species peppered the lower half in blues, greens and browns. Flowers popped up along the vines in reds, yellows and pinks. This was a work of art by Betsy- age 12. Suddenly, I longed for the stillness of mind and body to create such beauty. Could a 21^st century, multi-tasking woman slow down enough to handle such tedious work? I couldn’t go forty-five minutes without checking my phone (My sister bet me. I only made it twenty-nine minutes and I lost ten bucks. Sucker bet.) It was highly doubtful I could sit still long enough to accomplish Emma’s letter E.

Lost Without Biscuits

2013-01-08T18:00:00.000-05:00

Lost. I checked my iPhone again still hoping for a signal. We had counted on technology for guidance on our east coast excursion, but in the backwoods of Carolina- only 45 minutes from home and barely over the county line- we were stranded up the Congo River with no civilization in sight.

“No, there’s a building up ahead. Don’t freak out, Jenny,” Greg said after admitting our plan to use the iPhone GPS as our map sucked. He was ready to stop for directions under the pretense of buying ice.

I read the sign. “Harold’s Country Club. Never heard of it, have you?”

“Looks open.”

“What kind of country club is open at seven in the morning?”

“Don’t know, but I’ll find out.” Greg pulled into the gravel lot, bypassing the gas pumps near the front door that advertised unleaded for $1.21 a gallon and opened his door. The kids sleeping in the backseat ruffled their throw blankets, but didn’t rouse.

Eyeing the bag of bananas and granola bars beside me, I whispered to Greg before he closed the door, “Get me a country ham biscuit.” Smoked and salty, country ham on a buttermilk biscuit cured depression and the common cold. It made friends out of bloodlust enemies. (If served at talks between Hamas and Israeli leaders, peace would ensue, but alas, their common disdain for pork products keeps them at war.)

The night before, I lectured the kids for an hour about our strict budget for this trip. I packed travel-friendly breakfasts and snacks to save money, eat healthier, and save time- a mother’s trifecta. Morning changed my fit and frugal intentions. Getting a family of five on the road by six a.m. coupled with a sleepless night of travel-anxiety driven images of head-on collisions, mangled bodies, child abductions, or appendix ruptures at two AM, hundreds of miles from our pediatrician, made me ravenous. After all the packing, planning and panicking, didn’t I deserve a special treat? Maybe I should get two biscuits. As I scrambled out of the car to catch Greg, he exited the country club door with a smile on his face.

“Did you get directions?”

“Yes,” he replied still grinning while pulling a bag of ice out of the cooler.

Seeing he held no food, I assumed he forgot my breakfast and walked toward their front door. “Did they have any biscuits?”

“No, but they have draft beer if you want one.”

Briefly considering his odd offer before commonsense resumed, I asked, “At seven o’clock in the morning?”

As we returned to the car without beer or biscuits, Greg explained that Harold’s Country Club was not a store. It was a bar, pool hall, dance club and restaurant that serves steak on Saturday nights and, apparently, has regulars who come in early on Friday mornings. When Greg walked in the door, the bar maid didn’t bat an eye. She grabbed a fresh glass, readied it under a tap and asked, “What can I get you?”

As we pulled out, heading in the correct direction toward I-95 North with our long-awaited east coast Taste of America Tour in front of us, all my husband could say was, “I can’t wait till we get back. We’ve gotta go there!” Greg was intrigued. Pool, music, beer AND steaks in a “country” club on a back road in South Carolina? He had found a kindred place he knew he liked before he’d really even been there.

I nodded and unwrapped a granola bar. I might have supported his enthusiasm to return if Harold’s sold country ham biscuits.

Pelican Plunge Redux

2013-01-02T00:50:00.001-05:00

The 5th Annual New Year's Day Pelican Plunge marked two members of the Brooks Family going off the deep end... literally. Wyatt, age 11, joined his insane dad, age old enough to know better, in plunging into the fifty degree Atlantic waters as a symbolic way to ring in the new year. Last January first saw Greg celebrating our sabbatical year with a groovy group of like-minded folks dunking themselves for fun and fundraising for the South Carolina parks system. This year, my guys and about 300 other ~~nuts~~ brave individuals did their part for silliness and charity. And I thought I was proud last year! (See my New Year's Pride post from last year.)

Pre- Plunge

The Brooks girls were not as ~~stupid~~ courageous as our men. When asked if they wanted to do it, the answer, in stereo, was a resounding no. Honestly, we didn't think Emma was even coming along to watch. As Greg and Wyatt dug out their bathing suits, Emma sauntered through saying, "Can I stay home? I'm just not in the mood to watch people run into cold water." My question: When is anyone EVER in the MOOD to watch people run into cold water? Regardless, we all piled in the minivan and headed to Hunting Island for the one o'clock event.

As the onlookers lined the beach, the swimmers counted down. Wyatt and Greg were front and center and prepared to go all the way under the water. Greg warned Wyatt that some participants wimp out by only going in knee deep, but the Brooks' men would go in whole hog-meaning a complete, full body dunk. Wyatt agreed... it was all or nothing. I videoed as they ran, but soon lost my men in the mob.

I scanned the shore searching for them amid the splashing and shrieking, and suddenly, Wyatt emerged victorious:

Super (Cold) Wyatt

Greg, being a repeat offender, stayed in the water and swam around a bit longer, but joined in Wyatt's victory lap (searching for Anabel and Emma with the towels) a couple of minutes later.

My Fellows: Post-Plunge

As we drove away, I commented since one Brooks took the leap last year, and two plunged this year, there must be three Pelican Plungers for next year. Looking at the girls, I asked, "So who is going next year?"

Without missing a beat, Wyatt said, "Daddy, Anabel and Emma. I'm never doing that again!" As with everything, time will tell... He seemed to recover quite well in the hot tub:

We hope all have a Happy New Year 2013!

Christmas Visions

2012-12-24T14:31:00.003-05:00

While children have visions of sugarplums dancing in their heads on Christmas Eve, mothers have visions of children's faces lighting up as they open their long-wanted gifts, or visions of smiles erupting into laughter as the kids attempt to create the perfect gingerbread houses, which collapse from the weight of the gum drops (oh, well, more to eat) or visions of loved ones singing carols and eating and drinking good food with good cheer.

Those visions are what keep us moms going... through the crowds, through the flu, through the bills, through the mess, through the tears. Christmas visions of happy children and a loving family always keep us going.

After the flu, we finally made it to see Santa

On this Christmas Eve, if you're tired from shopping and cooking or haven't recovered from the flu (like me) REMEMBER: if it takes a little imagination to embellish your reality - so be it. Use it. It's a gift from God, too. Keep the happy visions. Remember the smiles and forget the tears. and always Love All.

Author-Self-Portrait
(I always want to look like this at Christmas so
I'm pretending as my present this year.)

I end with one of my favorite Christmas poems by Roald Dahl... I hope it brings you a smile:

Where art thou, Mother Christmas?

Where are thou, Mother Christmas?
I only wish I knew
Why Father should get all the praise
And no-one mentions you.

I'll bet you buy the presents
And wrap them large and small
While all the time that rotten swine
Pretends he's done it all.

So Hail to Mother Christmas
Who shoulders all the work
And down with Father Christmas
That unmitigated jerk.

- Roald Dahl

Christmas Memories

2012-12-21T14:51:00.001-05:00

Christmas is a celebration of family. The birth of God's child and the promise of salvation for all His people. When Jesus was born, He created a family: a family of Joseph, Mary and Jesus and a family of God's children.

As a mother, I feel my main responsibility at Christmas is to create memories for my family. I prefer they be happy memories, but sometimes it doesn't work that way.

Two years ago in Canton, Georgia, a rare event occurred- we had a white Christmas. Thick, fluffy flakes fell quietly all day creating an unforgettable winter wonderland in our own backyard. Unfortunately, if you asked Anabel about that Christmas, she'd reply, "It was awful. I was sick all week with pneumonia." Many things are beyond a mother's control and occasionally, even Mother Nature fails to impress.

When I was a child, my brother desperately wanted a dirt bike. Like Ralphie in A Christmas Story, he tried every way he could think of to obtain that bike. He left copies of Dirt Bike magazine in conspicuous places around the house. He talked about places he could ride nearby- how helpful he would be taking the trails to the store to pick up milk or a loaf of bread. Each mention triggered the same response: "No way, it's too dangerous," much like Ralphie's constantly heard refrain, "You'll shoot your eye out!" My little brother's last ditch effort was to ask Santa and felt certain his request would be granted. On Christmas morning, he opened his circa 1977 loot, which ironically contained an Evel Knevel doll and ramp, but no dirt bike appeared. Opening the last present, he pulled out a silver spiraled coil and his face lit up. Looking at this item, his nine-year-old-wishful-thinking mind saw shocks for a dirt bike. The note on the bag said to look on the carport for the rest of the gift and sheer joy carried him across the room. He flung open the door to reveal... a trampoline. The coil was a spring not a shock.

Of the many cheerful Christmases I experienced as a child, this one I remember the most vividly. Why? Was it because all the others were the same with each of us children receiving all that we asked for? Difference does make unique memories.

Thanks to our sabbatical journey last year, we experienced an unusual Christmas. I loved decorating with our homemade ornaments and the few distinctive travel ornaments we had gathered in cities on our journeys during the year. Since the kids had no friends on the island, I enjoyed creating special activities for them to do in preparation for Christmas Day. We had no family to visit last year so we reveled in the quiet day by reading aloud to our children. We baked without rush and cooked without agenda. We walked on the beach and wrote wishes in the sand. I will always treasure last Christmas, but if you asked the children, they would probably say, "Last Christmas was so boring! It didn't feel like Christmas at all." Oh well, not every Christmas is perfect, but I bet they'll always remember it.

Visit my posts on our unusual Christmas last year:

A Very Santa Weekend

Going Coastal for Christmas

Keeping the Kids Busy While Waiting for the Big Guy

Which Christmas do you remember the most? Why? (This is not part of a psychological study. I'm just curious...)

Life Break Coach- Midlife Crisis Ultimate Solution

2012-12-13T22:01:00.002-05:00

Could a year of traveling save my sanity?

Greg made me lose my original train of thought after nixing my Eat, Love, Pray reenactment, but the seed of the idea took hold in my mind and I began watering it carefully and bringing it out for a little sun now and then. I capitulated my fantasy of following Elizabeth Gilbert’s exact steps. We didn’t have to travel to Italy, India and Indonesia to change our lives; nevertheless, the more I thought about it, the more strongly I felt that something drastic must happen. Just taking the kids out of activities couldn’t turn around our lives.

I searched phrases like “taking a break”, “getting away”, and “life break” online. My first two searches resulted in 50 ways to leave your lover and 101 ways get away with murder- no help, but I bookmarked those for future reference. When I searched life break, I struck gold. I discovered there were other people who wanted to take a break from life; so much so, there was a link to an actual life break coach. I thought, “You have got to be kidding me! Who needs a life break coach when you have girlfriends and martinis?” So I decided to run my brainstorm by my friends.

While Greg taught a night class, I threw mac and cheese at the kids, slung some applesauce their way to include the fruit group and got everyone to shower, finish homework and prepare book bags and lunches for the next day. All accomplished by 8:15! Wearing a supermom glow that resembled a sweaty sheen, I was shaking the martinis as Bridget and Jane arrived. Anxious to share my ideas, I tossed back a pink drink and launched into my plan.

“Greg and I want to take a family sabbatical.” Of course, Greg didn’t know it yet. I used “sabbatical” as a nice term for “quitting” our jobs- it sounded better to me and was part of the psychological game I played to convince myself I wasn’t a complete slacker.

“What’s a family sabbatical?” asked Bridget as she sipped her cocktail.

Would you travel with these kids?

I gave my rehearsed answer in one breath. “Basically, we quit our jobs, rent our home and road school our kids while traveling the highways and byways of the great USA and abroad for one year.”

They laughed. Maybe I did need a life coach.

“What? That’s insane," Bridget managed to say between giggles. "Drop everything and see the world?”

“That would be nuts," interrupted Jane. "Not work? Not send the kids to school? Not participate in a thousand activities, committees, or sports?” She finished her drink in one gulp.

I realized they weren’t taking me seriously. Looking each one in the eye, I said, “I’m dead serious.”

“Holy cow, you are," said Jane. “Take me with you!"

“Lord! Me, too.”

“So you don’t think I’m crazy?”

“People may call the doctors and carry you to Milledgeville faster than your head can hit a pillow, but personally, I think it’s the sanest thing I’ve heard in a long time!” said Bridget. The martinis were kicking in.

Fueled with my friends’ approval, I expounded on my rationalized plans for our one-year off the grid. "We could rent out our house- furnished, of course.”

“You would leave all your stuff?” said Bridget.

“Who would rent this big house- furnished?” asked Jane.

“There must be some business people that will only be in town temporarily,” I said. “Or a family relocating, but don’t know where they want to buy yet. Our house would be perfect for them. We have our retirement savings, but if we rent the house it will help cover the loss of my paycheck which goes to the home’s mortgage and utilities anyway."

“Jenny, you’ve obviously thought this through, but can you really afford to take a year off from work? Would they hold your job for you?”

“This has been my obsession for months. Public Ed teachers sign an annual contract so there’s no guaranteeing my job. If I don’t sign next year’s contract, they won’t hold my position. But you know what? I’m okay with that. I desperately want to change careers. Sitting in the faculty meeting last week, I looked around at the dead stares on most of the faces. They looked like prison inmates- all serving out their thirty years.”

“I know,” said Bridget. “I’m one of the inmates. Only eight years to go.”

“I’m only at the halfway point! I have fifteen more years till retirement,” I said. “I don’t want to spend that time constantly doing the math: ten years and twenty-six days till I can retire- if I use sick leave days- only nine years and forty-eight days to go... I love the kids, but I am sick of the government mandates and being treated like a sheep in a herd rather than a responsible professional.”

“I am sick of teaching to the almighty test,” said Bridget.

“Me, too,” I said. “The prospect of another fifteen years of this motivated me to write up my Interest Projects curriculum and try to get it published. I never imagined I’d actually get an offer. It felt so good to finally follow through with something. Since I signed the contract for my resource book last month,” I held my glass high in the air for a toast. “I believe in dreams again.”

We all gave a little “Whoop!”

I continued, “I’ve always fantasized about writing for a living. If we take a family sabbatical, I could use the time off to finish writing and editing the book, and then, hopefully, write more.”

“But you said you wouldn’t see a penny of royalty money for two years. Can you still afford to quit?” Ever practical, Jane always grounded me.

I shrugged. “I could sell my car to help with travel expenses. We’d only need one car anyway, if we were all traveling together. Our two rental houses are leased so we’ll have some income. We’ve always wanted to spend more time at the Fripp Island rental home; it really needs fixing up, so we could stay there when it’s not rented and work on the house in-between trips. The kids can help with the renovations and are the perfect ages for home school and travel- old enough to remember everywhere we go, but young enough to not need to be surgically separated from their friends. Plus, I’ve always wondered what home schooling would be like.”

“School at the beach would be a dream!” said Bridget. “You’ve got a plan; I say go for it.”

“Greg’s mother died when she was only forty-five years old. I turn forty-four next month. The older I get the younger she gets. Emily worked hard all her life, but never lived to enjoy one day of retirement. If this is going to be the last year of my life, I want it to mean something. Even if it’s not my last year- which I sincerely hope- I am running out of time to change my life.”

“Grandma Moses started painting in her eighties,” said Jane.

I smiled. “True. But let’s be real… I’m no Grandma Moses.” I paused to take a breath and another sip. “I don’t know what it is, but I just can’t shake this feeling of: it’s now or never.”

“I would toast to that, but I’m out of drink.” Bridget waggled her empty glass at me. We enjoyed another round or three- honestly, I was so drunk on their approval, I stopped counting. With a green light from my friends, I was ready to unveil the final plan to my husband.

Greatest Husband Ever!

I expected a long list of arguments against the possibility of our taking a family sabbatical and it taking months to win him over, but Greg loved the idea. Since our discussion, he had been thinking of chucking it all, too. After hours of talking, Greg summed up our stream of rationalizations with, “We take one year of our retirement now while we are young and healthy enough to enjoy it and spend it traveling with our kids while they are still young enough to want to be with us.” (I ask you, how is that crazier than divorce and drugs?)

Life Break Coach- Midlife Crisis- Extreme Option

2012-12-12T15:44:00.000-05:00

Racking my already afflicted brain for solutions to my midlife crisis, I remembered reading Elizabeth Gilbert’s Eat, Pray, Love; of course, it took me six weeks to finish it because it’s hard to lose yourself in the decadence of Italian food when interrupted by a child coming down with a stomach virus just as you settle in for a good read at night- Nothing like cleaning up half-digested spaghetti to ruin a detailed, Italian foodie description. Driving to work the next day, halfway between sick children and school kids, I began to get bitter.

“Why can’t I take a year off to explore the world and my spirituality? I would kick ass at meditation! I mastered the art of yoga during the one class I tried last fall when we joined the YMCA. Too bad, I only had time to drop the kids for swim lessons now. After one yoga class, I’m sure I’m ready to work with a Guru.” My mind continued down this daydream. “If I found a good Guru, would they allow kids in an Ashram? I know we could get pizza in Italy so they’d eat there, but do they serve chicken fingers in India? By the time we get to Indonesia, the kids will be seasoned travelers begging for Balinese rice crackers and fish, I just know it. Greg would love Italy and Bali, but India I’m not so sure… I bet I could get him to scrub floors for our Guru in India if I promised him a romp on the beach in Bali.” And so I was off…

After a couple of days, my mind really started to pick up steam. I was typing my resignation and looking at flights when I made the mistake of mentioning my fantasy to Greg.

“Are you nuts? Spend a year finding “ourselves”? We aren’t lost, Jenny, just burned out.” He also answered my questions concerning the kids. “We can’t get them to sit still with crayons and a coloring book in our church for forty-five minutes; how are we gonna get them to meditate for eight hours in an Ashram in India?” After nixing my rope and duct tape proposal, he continued. “Is this a family trip you’re planning or a defection? Sounds like you’ve got a nice year outlined for yourself. Let me know where you are so I can send you the kids’ addresses… I suppose my cousin would take one. Your parents aren't fit so no one’s going there, but your sister likes the little one...”

“Why can’t you raise them? They’re your kids, too!”

“I’ll be too busy touring the country with the band. If you get to leave the kids to live out a fantasy, then so do I!” And so our adult discussion of separate fantasy lives went.

We weren't exactly on the road to a solution... yet.

Life Break Coach- Midlife Crisis Options 3 - 8

2012-12-11T14:33:00.002-05:00

Trying to overcome my boredom with life, I first considered the easiest choices for radical lifestyle change- 1- SEX and 2- DRUGS- but swiftly ruled them out. No pills or quick thrills for this lady! Marrying a rock and roll musician was enough for me.

There has to be other options to help me through my fear of death (Isn't that what a midlife crisis is, after all?)...

Brainstorming other stereotypical ways people have reacted to the reality of their own mortality, this is what I came up with:

3. Buy an expensive sports car.
4. Dress too young for my age, i.e. wear a thong.
5. Have plastic surgery.
6. Get a tattoo or pierce something: bellybutton, nose, nipple, etc.
7. Make your adolescent or tween child your friend.
8. Have an extreme experience - skydiving, free falling, bungee jumping, etc.

Let's look at these one by one...

Option 3- Sports Car
Greg and I could buy a tricked-out, fifty to hundred thousand dollar sports car and cruise the roads together. Not a bad idea. I love riding through the mountains or over the water in the low country and I'm sure a really nice car that the kids haven't trashed would make the experience even better. With the top down and the wind flowing through our hair, Greg and I could reconnect and relax as we see new places together. Most sports cars are only two seaters, which enables plenty of alone time for our marriage. We could plan romantic weekend getaways. I am liking this idea more and more. What could possibly be wrong with this solution? After spending years trying to have children, we appreciate the miracle that each of our three babies is and feel the time with them is fleeting. We had ten years as that childless couple; there will be plenty of time together after the kids head to college. We want family time now so no sports car for us.

Option 4- Dress too young
No one wants to see me in a thong. Next, option.

Option 5- Plastic Surgery
While I am guilty of staring in the mirror at every wrinkle and flaw on my face and body, I am proud of each laugh line and crease. Also, I endured years of in vitro procedures and surgeries so I am through with needles and knives for this lifetime. (If they come up with a surgically-free way of sucking fat off my thighs, I will reconsider this option.)

Option 6- Tattoos and Piercings
See Option 5. (Full Disclosure- Greg got a tattoo when he turned thirty and would love to embellish it if given the chance. I think he's nuts.)

Option 7- Kids as Friends
I have so many problems with this course of action. While I adore my children and love spending time with them, I know that my kids need a mom not a friend. They need guidance not a playmate. Growing up, I had a friend whose mother dumped all her financial worries, career fears and romantic musings on her fourteen-year-old daughter. Instead of her being a stable rock on which my friend could rely, her mother burdened her with grown up problems too young, greatly damaging their relationship. I remember being shocked at how my friend argued with her mom, and then mortified when her mom wanted to go out with us when we turned sixteen. I believe parents need their own friends to unwind with as do their children. Parents and children's bonds grow stronger when each understands their defined role.

Option 8- Extreme Experiences
This option has me thinking. How does one define extreme experience? When I Googled it, I got skydiving, bungee jumping, and base jumping. Do I really need to list the reasons why this is not a viable option for a mother of three? However, I am totally up for an extreme experience in lifestyle changes. (I think the only lasting lifestyle change from jumping out of a plane would be if the parachute didn't open.)

Now my question is: What extremes am I willing to go to find joy in my life?

Life Break Coach- Midlife Crisis Option 2

2012-12-11T08:45:00.000-05:00

If an extra-marital affair is out, what is another option for dealing with my midlife crisis?

I could go on drugs. The legal ones. You know- Prozac, Valium, Paxil, Zoloft, etc. – like my doctor suggested when I told her how stressed I felt- how I wanted to jump out of my skin occasionally.

That is normal, right? Everyone feels that way at midlife- that's what makes it a CRISIS. We are the drug nation. All my life I've heard, "Feel bad? Take a pill." I get that for an infection, a major illness, or even a bad headache, but should I force my brain to attend to the sometimes mind-numbing American way of working to live, and living through our kids, or worse, television? Am I really depressed or just bored?

My parents went the anti-depressant route after the devastating death of my brother. John had been the golden child, but was lost to painkillers years before his death. When he died, a major part of my parents died with him. I had hoped the anti-depressants would bring them back, but with no therapy at work with the medications, there was little positive change; I have never heard of drugs mending a broken heart, anyway. A few years later, my mother broke her back in a bus accident at work. Her only solace after my brother's loss had been gardening and even that was taken from her. It's no wonder that drugs became a crutch for my mom and dad. My sister and I tried to help to no avail. After multiple surgeries, all we could do was watch as our mother slowly retreated into an Oxycontin haze. Our father dealt with the situation looking like Richard Nixon campaigning for president holding two V signs in the air- only Daddy’s Vs weren’t for Victory; they were for Vodka and Valium.

Not my dad...but eerily similar.

While I have friends for whom medication and therapy have been very successful, I believe I am more bored with my life than depressed about it. And losing, for all intents and purposes, three immediate family members to the pitfalls of medication, I calmly - I didn't want her to think I was nuts- said, "No, thank you," to my doctor. (Besides, I think the drugs for boredom fall more in the recreational variety, which I don't think my doctor would recommend...)

Option three, please...

Life Break Coach- Midlife Crisis Option 1

2012-11-30T18:08:00.004-05:00

I could have an affair with one of the many men beating down my door. What man wouldn’t want an overweight, middle-aged, mother of three? Unfortunately, this would inevitably lead to divorce, family upheaval, and dating (Gasp!) again. A few of my friends have made this choice in the throes of mid-life. They succeeded in changing their lives, but at a high price. Their families were ripped apart and hearts were broken. In addition to the emotional expense, years of marital financial planning ended with substantial funds lost to lawyers, new living expenses and early withdrawal penalty fees. I guess this seems a small price to pay to the hopeless and unloved. Personally, I would rather spend the money on a long vacation.

Even if I looked like Diane Lane and Oliver Martinez was trying to seduce me into following him to the back room of a restaurant to have a wild, passionate tête-à-tête, I wouldn't be unfaithful to my husband. After twenty-two years of marriage and three kids, I was still madly in love (if not always in like) with Greg; I was just too tired to demonstrate it. The only thing I fantasized about was baking bread. (I know. My husband is a lucky man.) While running through the mall to pick up another birthday present, I stopped in Williams-Sonoma and gravitated to a book on bread baking. Thumbing the pages, I felt consumed with envy. I was jealous of the author having the time to grow and feed a starter, work the dough, wait for the rise, and then, bake the bread. I put down the book with a sigh and glanced at my cellphone’s clock- Yep, late again. Something was really wrong when a person didn’t have time to dream. How could I possibly have time for an affair?

What is Option #2?

Life Break Coach- Identifying the Problem- Part 2

2012-11-14T14:25:00.003-05:00

Does this sound like YOU? (read part 1)

After work, my daughter asked me to play a game with her and I automatically said no. I didn't even consider it. I had so many papers to grade and forms to fill out for my 101 students that I didn't even think about taking a break to play with my rapidly growing eight-year-old girl. As she walked away, I could hear "The Cat's in the Cradle" playing on the radio in my head. I actually liked that song when I was a kid- not a favorite now. I wasn't some corporate, high-paid executive, jetting all over the world for power meetings, but I was missing my kids' childhoods just the same. When I thought about it I realized I spent more time with other people's children than my own.

My life exhausted me without fulfillment. I collapsed into bed each night bone-tired, but bored and unable to sleep. My exhaustion made me cranky and in constant need of a nap. More and more, I worried that there was something physically wrong with me. When I spoke with friends about this, they all said they felt the same way and added, “But hey, what are ya gonna do?” How did we get into this competitive American marathon of running non-stop from our mid-twenties to our mid-sixties? If I were this tired in my forties, how would I ever enjoy retirement life?

I started fantasizing about baking bread. (I know. My husband is a lucky man.) While running through the mall to pick up a birthday present, I stopped in Williams-Sonoma and gravitated to a book on bread baking. Thumbing the pages, I felt consumed with envy. I was jealous of the author having the time to grow and feed a starter, work the dough, wait for the rise, and then, bake the bread. I put down the book with a sigh and glanced at my cellphone’s clock- Yep, late again. Something was really wrong when a person didn’t have time to dream.

I couldn't sleep or enjoy my husband and children because I had built an over-scheduled life that made me stressed and unhappy. There had to be something better. But at midlife, what choices did the dissatisfied have?

LOOK FOR MY NEXT POST: Options

Life Break Coach- Identifying the Problem Part 1

2012-11-13T10:12:00.001-05:00

At the age of forty-three, I found myself stuck in suburbanite purgatory frantic to escape. I felt like the woman in that Far Side cartoon- the one where a couple are in a car, studying a map, lost in the country of Nowhere, when they come upon a road sign that reads, “Entering the middle,” and the woman says, “Well, this is just going from bad to worse.”

One morning, I woke up and realized my husband and I were that couple, except we weren’t just driving through- we were living in “Nowhere” with every waking minute filled with middle of life details and responsibilities. From practices to meetings, from rehearsals to lessons, we weren’t enjoying our children; heck, we hardly ever saw them.

One time, picking up our oldest, Anabel, after chorus practice, I drove right past her. I didn’t recognize her standing on the sidewalk because she had grown seven inches that year. Usually, when I saw Anabel, she was sitting in the car (ear buds in- listening to her iPod) on our way to the next obligation or lying in bed (ear buds in- listening to her iPod) as I kissed her goodnight when I got home from work or meetings. I was teaching at two schools, writing a book, running the kids around to their schools, music lessons, baseball, dance, horseback riding, academic bowl, friends, church, along with volunteer work of student mentoring, chaperoning field trips and being PTA president. “No” was not part of my vocabulary. I realized our family hardly knew each other. Things were definitely going from bad to worse.

If this sounds like you, you may need a life break... Read Part 2.