Unconditionality

It’s fall, which means the rain falls on everyone in Portland, whether they have had the best day of their life or the worst. Whether a loved one has died or a loved one is proposing, whether one has tenderly dressed the wounds of a homeless person who has slept with the wrong person for the eighty-fifth time, whether a person has lost their job or just gotten news that their lifelong dream is coming into its own — It rains on all without comment.

Portland rain is, in that sense unconditional. Unconditional love is a theme playing underneath every important song of my life; whether as a parent, a lover, a daughter, friend or coach. Only when Love transcends incidental chemistry to fill the air with unconditionality does it become something worth laying down your life for — and therefore, something worth LIVING FOR!

I have known about this theme my whole life and have been impressed with the gap between my ideals, and the knowledge that possess in some inner cove concerning ultimate love, and yet how far I fall from that ideal.

I think unconditional love, when the rubber meets the road is like an exercise program: Incredibly hard at first, or when you’re breaking down in order to build up — and then effervescently wonderful once you find your flow and you’re IN it.

A friend, Lu, posted a website on her facebook called enjoyparenting.com, in which Scott Noelle lays out the features of unconditionality as a state in which one is connected to a sense of wellbeing untouchable by what is happening – a place where we act on life to create joy; even to entice joy’s emergence from a situation. Noelle contrasts that with understanding  joy as something that happens to us, like getting a shot at the doctor’s, or having money drop from the sky on our little human heads (metaphors mine.) Noelle describes “Attraction Parenting” as kids sensing a parent’s unconditionally wellbeing and wanting to align with that place in themselves. I have certainly seen that in the times I find my wellspring of wait – where I can let the tantrums and fussy-rums cascade on without trying to build a damn, ultimately they do want to find their way to center; to love deep and wide as the ocean of being fully known and understood.

What about the times I don’t want to exercise, so to speak? When I’m tired and I want the easy way out, or any way out? What about when I’m fed up with being the adult and I feel more like the kid with the tantrum? I can, for one thing, observe the fact that we are thing same — the kid’s not having life go as she wants it and it is too much to handle and her nerves are exploding in a fit. It’s the same with me — I’m not having life life go as I want it, and I’m basically in the same boat, only varying in the degree and form in which I express the identical state — the fit to be tied, totally unraveling state. I’m the same as a my kid, and that is a point of empathy, humility and understanding. I can look her in the eye and respect the experience she’s having, cause I get it. I’m so there.

I can also think about what my deepest needs are. Like, I may have a need for a peaceful wake-up period in the morning, or a restful night sleep, or a peaceful time with my kids, but are these needs worth the flight or flee response that implies that I have to either kill or be killed by my kid? “You’re killing me.” The phrase has actually come to mind on several occasions when it seems like the barrage of endless issues and fits piles up without ceasing. What I actually need more than for the kids behavior to stop? Let’s play it out to the fullest, most uninhibited extent: My kid doesn’t stop “killing me,” so I either leave my child or kill them. Does that make sense? The same child that I would easily lay down my life to protect, I want to kill?

It doesn’t. Because ultimate I have a deeper need to love, serve, honor and promote the life of my child, even than I have to survive. If I’m clear that the ultimate goal is unconditional love in the service of Life, then I can die happily, if necessary, and in the meantime, I can call myself off the cliff of conditionality, with an invitation back into the inner sanctum of understanding, love, peace and joy.

Which is a much more wonderful place to be than in survival city, if you feel what I’m saying.

Rainbows, Vampires and Peds

I’m lying on my pullout bed, listening to the sound of raindrops. The first quiet in a while. So many thoughts and feelings wash over me. It’s been a wacky week. A week ago I was on a train, snuggled into the crook of my husband’s arm, sans kids, on our way to Vancouver, BC. We were together all weekend, getting Canadian haircuts, playing madlibs, watching a rainbow birth itself through the dark and pouring sky, burning away the clouds at Stanly Park; observing the nightlife from the safe and happy distance of a Blenz Coffee shop ( sipping the most delectable dark hot chocolate); eating little plates of food at a fine wine bar called Uva — the only patrons not buying drinks. My mom was watching the kids, with the help of our sitter, taking them to eat at The Laughing Planet everyday, watching Gabe gorge himself on rice and beans, making candles from a Hearth Song kid and taking many trips to the glass elevator.

The week following the weekend in BC has been hard, screeching, fussing, demanding needs filling my ears, at the same time my heart has been working to grow to include these sounds, this intensity in its circle of unconditional love.

On Tuesday I have my first coaching session with Cassi, my mentor coach. I want to focus on being more effective, with less effort. The single thread that emerges from our banter and reflection is Unconditional Love. It is my highest calling, my yearning to live it, show it and impart it on an international scale and I’m being vetted by three little angelic beings who can get devilishly under my skin and inch me toward the cliff of insanity, where the choice between survival instinct and unconditional love so easily gets clouded by too much cortisol, other wise known as “you were on my last nerve ten minutes ago.” At which point, I go in the bathroom to cool off. When I come out, like a rainbow, out of nowhere, out of what seems like obliterating clouds of unending tantrums, an angelic hands touches me face and asks to read a story. A little body snuggles in. A sweet voice asks for an orange.

Speaking of cortisol, I have to spit on a stick as part of some lab work I’m having done. The other lab work I had completed on the hospital where my Love works this morning.  Wouldn’t you know it, I show up at his hospital and he isn’t even there — off on a pediatrics rotation at some other institution, which he doesn’t like as much as his regular hospital. The other night he told me about how a nurse accidentally gave a kid a double dose of antibiotics and how his orders sometimes not are followed through on. It’s hit or miss. That’s how I felt this morning trying to get Nika out of bed and dressed in clean clothes. But you expect to not always have your orders followed as a parent, challenging though it may be. It’s disconcerting to think at some hospitals it’s really touch and go about whether the staff actually does what the physicians instruct them to do in the way of tests, medicines and documentation. Interestingly enough, the same hospital that lacks consistency on carrying out orders is haywire anal about professional dress — God forbid you wear scrubs to work unless you are post call. Which my Love will be tomorrow when he either gets up or keeps being up for early morning rounds.

Waiting for my name to be called outside the lab, I eel sad. I wish my guy were here. I picture him swishing around in his white coat and I wish he were here, about to walk around the corner. The staff is lovely though. The art in the hallway is fun, and the flobotomist was cool. He asks me if I’m ready for him to steal my blood and I retort, “Well, it’s that time of year.” I ask him how he got into the business of stealing people’s blood. “It got out of the Navy and this was pretty much the only thing I was qualified to do,” he says.

“What do you want to do?”

“Oh I think I want to go into Health Care Administration and start making a positive difference in how things work instead of what I usually do, just complaining about it.”

I tell him how great it is that he is choosing to act for something positive instead of simply whining about things that could be improved. It’s nice to meet people like that. I walk out with less blood and a happier spirit.

On the way out, I treat myself to a gingerbread latte.

Feline Voyers, Flying Saucers & Silly Lovers

Whoosh whoosh is the sound outside my window as cars zip by on the wet roads. I find it comforting — soothing.

I’ve been feeling incredibly happy and thankful lately. Except for a few days when I felt sad — my father in law was in the hospital on his birthday, my husband pissed me off and I couldn’t even fight with him until the next day, and I found myself reading doomsday theories about the year 2012. I like the Portland weather this week as a metaphor for life: a light rain here and there, then a down pour, then a sudden showing of blue sky, a blowing of winds, then a peaceful, gentle moistness, like a calm blanket.

I like Life. It’s sort of wonderful and fun and incredible that we actually get to influence it, and yet we have ultimate to let go of control if we want to savor the ride fully. Like sex.

On that topic, it has been hard to find a few minutes totally alone. On a few days, when the kids have been in school, we have imagined it was just us, only to have a pair of yellow eyes stare curiously at us from under the blankets. Privacy has become an intimate joke. It’s fun to laugh about life, about sex, about feline voyers and little kids who clamor onto the bed, following a Blues Clues episode that finishes before we do. Life cracks me up.

On Tues, my Love and I have a little time to sneak out of the house like teenagers to enjoy hanging out with each other. We find ourselves at Urban Grind, a fun coffee shop on 14th St, with lime green walls, comfy sofas and a picture of Princess Di staring cynically at the pastries. Our hot chocolate is sumptuous and our local pockets are hot, savory and delicious. My Love and I  snuggle, talk, laugh — it’s amazing to enjoy life together. I love the way love and friendship have come into their own with us. It’s far more wonderful than the first days.

Across from us a young woman says, “You guys are cute.” I’m happy and giddy and flattered.” “I bet you would be surprised to hear we have three kids at home,” I say.

“Yes I would. You certainly don’t act like a couple that has three kids at home — and I think that’s a good thing.”

We chat with our new friend, Sarah. It turns out her boyfriend is a massage therapist. She asks what we do.

“I’ve heard of Life Coaching,” She says. My boyfriend was telling me he met someone who he talked about doing a barter with for message and life coaching.”

“That was me!” I say.

Small world.

Nika and I have been savoring the fun of mother-daughter times. We went ice skating last week on her day off from school. After tumbling once, I said, “are you okay?”  She looked me in face and said, “I’m strong, I’m tough and nothing can get to me.” After ice skating we nibbled mall sushi and chicken teryaki, and split a smoothie for the road. I’ve been letting her sit up front with me, in spite of the law. I feel she is old and enough and tall enough, and I have never been prone to follow rules that don’t seem to apply.

In the evening, after the little ones had been storied with Happy Birthday in Katroo, tucked in, snuggled in and eased to sleep, Nika and I have our usual tea. We enjoy a chat and she introduces me to a tiny furry friend named Cuddles, on load to her from her buddy upstairs. Nika introduces me not only to Cuddles, but also to the house she has created for the little fuzzy plastic creature, replete with a rug, fire place, sleeping pad and magnetic flying saucer. Only thing was is the flying saucer won’t fit in the house without obscuring the lovely rug, so Nika wants to build Cuddles a garage. Which we do, using a mini-milk carton, scissors, paper, a pen and a pink crayon. Apparently Cuddles likes pink.

As I am finishing up some work in later evening, a little man appears sleepy-eyed in his pajamas in front of me. It’s Gabe. I sit him him on the toilet and usher him back to bed. Two night-wakings from his sister later, the three of us are snuggled in bed in time for morning. “One more snuggle and then let’s get up,” says Gabe.” “Snuggle me first” says Avriana. Everyone gets snuggled and when Gabe ascertains that the quota has been met he asserts, “Okay, now let’s get up!”

It’s a brand new day. A few clients, lots of hugs, lunch for two in an empty house (other than the feline,) a trip to the toy store once the little ones are home from preschool, an Avsi tantrum on the way home from the toystore and then an interval of silence without kids or husband. They’re at target buying sneakers, kitty toys, a light vacuum cleaner and a digital timer. I’m here with  only the sound of the dishwasher and the street car arriving and departing to the rhythms outside our window.

In the evening, after a coaching session, I head out for Tai Chi. The movements feels so clean, flowing and rhythmic. It’s easy to get lost in it, until you wonder if you’re doing well or wishing you hadn’t lost pace there with that arm. It takes a moment to come back to the movement, to the effortlessness of freedom blending with methodical harmony.

“Where’s your man?” Our Tai Chi teacher quin inquires.

“He’s still on night float.”

When I get home, only Nika is still awake in her darkened room. She is calling my name. I hug her and stay for a minute, but I can tell she’s getting wound up. Soon she is upside down in a shoulder stand and out comes the loudest fart. I pat her head, hug and kiss her one more time and exit the premises. Once she has settled down, I come back in for one more hug.

“Why do you always leave when I fart she asks?”

“I only leave when you get wild AND you fart. Like when you do tricks and it happens to makes a fart come out. If you were lying peacefully in your bed and a fart happened to come out, I might go “ew” but I wouldn’t leave.

“I’m so gassy,” she says with big puppy eyes.

“Do you think aloe will really help?”

“Yes honey, I think it will help. Good night sweet Nika.”

Pure Luxuriant Freedom

It’s Thursday afternoon and that hubby of mine is preparing to leave. During night float, it always seems like he’s leaving and coming back from a trip. He looks up at me while bent over, stuffing a few items into his bag on his way out.

“Why don’t you take a retreat Friday evening. Take a train somewhere or stay in a hotel and have some time.”

I don’t know if it’d the bags under my eyes or the strain in my posture on my way to the fridge to fetch something for someone, or a comment I made recently about the weight of night float equaling “on-call” night after night on the home front addressing pee accidents, bed shuffling and 3am toddler wars over pillow territory. I do know that in every feasible way, this one person, this love of my life puts my wellbeing first. It’s who he is.

I roll over the idea in my head.

“I committed to take the kids to Isobel’s Family Movie Night. Would you be up for taking them?”

“What time is it?”

“6:30.”

“Sounds good.”

It’s Friday afternoon before I have a chance to hop on priceline.  “Ask for what you want,” I tell myself as I type in my bid: $40 for a 3 star hotel.

I get it! In fact, I get an UPGRADE to a 3 1/2 star hotel in Lake Oswego!

Off I go.

The first thing I do upon entering my room is survey the bed. I am smitten with fancy hotel beds — the lovely piles of down pillows; the frilly comforters; the wide berth, the freedom to get frisky and jump on the mattresses with gleeful, with unmatched elation. Once I’m satisfied with the bed, I take off my shoes and lie down, propping pillow to perfection and looking out the window at a lovely view of green and peachy leaves punctuating the crisp October sky. What could be better? I breathe. It takes a while to feel that breath easing itself into the peaceful contentment of having nothing to do and no where to go.

I order room service, which is delivered in timely, professional, fabulous fashion. The woman who comes to my room asks brightly where I’d like the tray. I motion to the coffee table and smile back. “We’ll start there.” I’m picturing eventually moving the setup onto the bed, but the table seems a fitting place to begin for the time being. What makes this room service experience perfect is that the person who offered the service seems immensely pleased herself, like she knows how incredibly awesome it is that she has the power to make someone’s day amazing through what she does.

I take slow, sumptuous bites of triple cheese chicken quesadilla, takin in the quiet, the open space, the fact that, in addition to the utter absence of people making demands on me,  I even have a break from having to care for my own basic needs, other than to pick up the phone and tell helpful, upbeat people what I’d like to have placed in front of me. Oh what ecstatic happiness! I chew another mouthful of quesadilla draped in guacamole.

When I’m finished with the tray, I open the door, prop it with my foot and scoot the tray into the fall. Only I scoot a little too far and my foot loses its holding on the door, which swings resolutely shut. I’m locked out.

I traipse downstairs to the lobby in my PJs and barefeet. It’s a little embarrassing, but also a little liberating. The same person is working at the front desk when I tell my silly little story. He hands me another key, no questions asked. “Your other keys will still work.”

That’s another thing I love about elegant hotels. They assume your inner classiness and trustworthiness. No questions asked. you’re here, you’re wonderful. And they treat you the same even when you paid $40 on priceline.

In the evening I take out a book from my bag, Speaking Peace in a World of Conflict by Marshall Rosenberg. It revolutionizes at least two ideas I’ve had and I find tears in my eyes. Having time away from the ones I love opens up this space for evaluating the ways I interact, what I truly want to offer them. From a place of space, I can hear the song of our hearts so much more clearly.  Lovely songs of the beautiful souls we each embody; songs which at home easily gets lost in a sea of everybody’s needs screeching in my ears at a pitch that grates. I write down a few quick notes to self and then wonder what to do next with this precious open time to do what I feel like doing.

Dusk has paved the way for nightfall and I’m simultaneously exhausted and hyper. I feel like a kid again — what a mix of feeling tired and fully of life and possibility and giddiness  pouring through every cell, all at once.

I turn on the radio and jump on the bed like a kid. I dance freely, back and forth from floor to bed. I let go and I’m free. I’m full of life. I’m so thankful. I’m so thankful. I’m so thankful for THIS! This time, this moment, this movement of feet and pillows and swaying, bouncing, graceful, punchy, wacky, fun LIFE flowing in me.

What I’m all danced out, I spend a little more time in stillness, simply being open, here and there praying, with my prayers interrupted by an inner debate over whether to purchase an overpriced pay-per-view chic flick that I’d totally love to watch. Usually I’ say forget it.

I go for it, with the press of one button, adding 14.99 to my bill, and watch the most laugh out-loud-yet-totally-predictable-yet-touching comedy I’ve seen in a while. That’s the Ugly Truth.

In the room next door I hear a family: a baby wails or laughs from time to time and a toddler talks about trucks. I think how wonderful kids are. I’m happy. I’m happy here, for this time, free of having to do for others, yet opening my tank and letting it fill so I will be equipped to let the lil’ one’s in my life drink something healthy and wondrous from me when I open the door of apartment 209 in the morrow.

Tuesday

It’s a clear, blue fall day — crisp, perfect, as far as fall weather is concerned.

Somehow, it seems too lovely a day to have smashed my own rear view mirror, but that’s exactly what I did. Or maybe it was the perfect day to do it, because it seemed like such a lovely day I wasn’t paying as detailed attention to the clearance of the rear view mirror as I was backing out of our itsy bitsy parking spot past an impossible concrete post. I don’t use that mirror anyway. It’s the right one. I look in my left and over my shoulder. The right one’s just for looks. Well it’s lost it’s looks, but maybe it can be taped.

Avriana and Gabriel come home after a fabulous day at school — a wonderful trend which is emerging. Erin continues to be somewhat floored by how “with it” Avriana is for a 2 + year old.  Avriana possibly has her first love: Apparently she told Finnigan, her classmate, “I love you.” He said, “I love you too, Avriana.” Gabriel has taken an interest in what you are “supposed to do with your extra food.” Erin referred him to Daphne, a little girl in the class. She instructed him to put it back in his back and he said, “Okay, great!” Apparently, he was satisfied with the consult.

My Love is on night float, which is a lalala way of saying he is working the night shift. He is home around 12:30a, after sleeping a couple of hours at the hospital, arriving a tad before the little ones and me home from preschool pickup in time, in time to take Gabe with him to his Dermatology appointment, while Avriana stays with me for her follow-up home visit with Dr. Pepel  to see the outcome of her allergy testing.

Avriana is allergic to wheat and diary. I seem to be the only one in the family who can handle diary. I feel somehow proud of that fact. It is, at least one physiological things I have going for me amid some health challenges that my MD/ND says will take 2-3 years to heal in full. I’m impatient. I long for the quick fix.

In pretty much every area of life, I’m being forced to learn to be a marathon runner, whereas by nature I’m a sprinter. Parenting is not a sprint, nor is undergoing your husband’s medical training, or healing a lifetime of excess cortisol’s impact on the body. I have always held on to the idea that “I am not a marathon runner; I’m a sprinter,” and I’m quite certain that is why our Loving, Annoying, Infinite Creator has clearly surmised that this identification with what I am not/won’t be/can’t do, is simply a story I made up that needs to be proven false.

That Creator seems to especially like to discard our favorite stories, like the ones that have to do with “I will never,” or “I’m not a this or that.” I said “I will NEVER move back to New England once I had escaped to Pennsylvania for college. When that crystal intuition led me back in an oh-so-dark hour, I went. I met my hubby in an old little Methodist church in a small town called Maynard, a bit outside Boston. My hubby said, “I will never marry a woman who has been previously married and I CERTAINLY won’t marry anyone with a child.” Well then he met me. Never, or I won’t work like a promise, it seems.

The other day, our street was closed for the Portland Marathon. I asked my Love, who has run two marathons and is more of an even-pacer that I am by instinct, “Do you miss running in a marathon?” “I always miss running a marathon” He answered sweetly, nostalgically. I thought, maybe I’ll have to give training for a marathon a try.

A few minutes before it’s time for the good doctor to leave us for the night, he kisses the kids, takes out the trash and the two of us take a quick walk and attempt to slide down our favorite railing in a new position. Hubby loses balance and all of a sudden, he is hanging like an awkward monkey upside down by one arm and I’m trying to pull him up.  Back on his feet, Hubby tells me about his Derm appointment. “I’m sitting there in the waiting room, all scruffy, hanging out with my son and when they call my name, they address me as Dr.”

“And how did that make you feel, Dr,” I tease, tickling him under the armpit.

“Pretty funny.”

“Do you feel like a doctor yet?” I ask.

“Actually, yeah. Most of the time.” He gives me a goofy look.

Nika arrives home from school sporting her pink-monkey backpack. She wants me to give her some learning assignments. I have her read a story and answer some questions about it; I do a homemade spelling list. She wants more and more, saying, “Oh yes, Mamasua, keep giving me work; all I want is to be an excellent learner and student.” This is my kid who, a year ago aspired to be a make -believe character named Karly-the-waitress. Later when I put my little girl to bed, we are talking about how the work at her school is too easy. She says, “School is just for friends…oh well, maybe I’ll learn a thing or two.”

I do the same thing as everyone else

Today I’m dropping my two little ones off at preschool for the very first time. A friend who knows the kids well is with me. After the big drop-off, our next stop is the DMV for take two of my Oregon Driver’s License. I’m hoping it’s not the first of a series of outtakes.  In any event, it is a big day for for my little ones and for me!

As soon as we enter the school doors, Gabe and Avsi are off in a heartbeat, free and at home in this new environment, like fish released into a sheltered pond. It is a tingly, fulfilling feeling to see them free and independent, yet protected. Avriana immediately climbs up the generous wooden ladder into the loft area and starts reading a story to her “baby.” Above her is a with a rectangular mirror on the ceiling, offering a new perspective, should she want one. Gabe involves himself with the fire truck briefly before gravitating toward the cash register with all those delicious numbers to punch. Gabe is the only child I have ever met who prefers workbooks and calculators to Elmo or kid games or Toy Story.  I’m sure there are others like him, I just haven’t met them.

I chat with the Teacher, Erin. I offer my utter gratitude for who she is and what she does — the way she attends to the little ones, connecting with them where they’re at and helping them create a learning plan based on their interests. “Well, isn’t that what you do for big people?” Erin asks with a giddy smile. She continues: “You offer preschool for adults.”

It’s true, in a way. I help people do a take-two of preschool wonderment – that phase of life where you can b whatever you want, without limitations: a hero or a mommy, a cash-register operator or a gourmet chef. You can play with using the same tools for different purposes: a broom can be used for cleaning or for flying; a cape can belong to Little Red Riding Hood or Superman. You can paint with whatever color you want, and you can mix your colors in a way that inspires the socks out of you, and a teacher like Erin isn’t going to tell you “you didn’t do it right.”

Even a lesser preschool teacher than Erin would never tell a kid “Grow up and get an office job that pays the bills and just try to get through life, because that’s all that can be expected.” In a school like Erin’s, you can help each other build something, or you can do your own thing for a while. You can make choices, as long as you aren’t hurting anyone. And even if you hurt someone, you aren’t labeled bad – you have the opportunity to have the implications of your actions pointed out: “I think when you waved that block in the air like a spaceship it hit sally in the face. I think she’s hurting. What could you do to help her feel better? What’s a safer way to play with blocks for next time?

Imagine a world free of condemnation and full of opportunities for discovery and reconciliation?

I think if there’s one thing I do for my coaching clients, it’s help them get back to that place of innocent wonderment, full of possibility. It’s so easy for grownups seal ourselves up in a box built of shoulds, when life is full of choices and implications and infinite ways to interact with those implications.

After I have given my little ones kissing hands and hugs (more for my sake than theirs, apparently,) my friend and I head to the DMV. I finally pass the test. Phew. While my papers are getting processed I chat with this jolly, warm-hearted African guy works at the DMV. Last time I was here, he teased me and asked, “Can you speak Swahili?” I said in my loudest voice, “Jambo Sana!” It’s one of highlights a remember from a kids CD — one of the ones that gets played over and over. Jambo Sana is the only song I like on that disk.

Today my African friend comments about my New Jersey license plate and asks about where I’m from originally. I tell him I grew up in Massachusetts and he suddenly gets an odd, confused frown from forehead to chin. “I went to Massachusetts once. To Boston. If you smile at people and say ‘Good Morning!’ they look at you like you’re crazy. Like they’re thinking, What’s wrong with you?” I went to the gas station to ask for directions, and nobody even help me. They just look at you like, Find it yourself.”

I can only nod with understanding. Every place has its hidden diamonds, if you know where and how to look. On some level, everyone and everything is a diamond, hidden or shining to lesser or greater degrees.

That being said, it is a lovely thing to live in an open, friendly place that celebrates  friendliness, consideration and openness toward others.

In the afternoon I get a call from a woman who works with Prepaid Legal. One of the services they provide is protection from identity theft. “I help people find their identities” she says. Funny, I say, “I do the same thing you do. You help people find their identities on the outside; I help people find their identities on the inside.”

When I pick up Avsi & Gabe, there faces are bright and enthusiastic with fullness and wonder. In effervescent screeches they tell me about their day. A few hours later, Nika gets home from Chapman Elementary School, happy, tired and ready for quick hugs and then she off to her room to lose and find herself in a book. Like her mom, Nika prefers real books over contrived homework.

As we chat and snuggle later in the evening, after the kiddos are in bed, she says, “Can I homeschool? School is too easy. It’s so boring.”I mentioned how much she likes friends and how, as much as I like playing, I can’t do it all day. She has this look of recognition, remembering when we DID homeschool. Maybe we will again someday, but for now, he needs a crew of classmates to chase around on the playground and her new best friend, with whom she plays Pegasus and daily makes a home out of the large leafy tree that sits watch over recess a few meters from the playground.

“Well, can we do a little homeschooling together on our own, like maybe Mondays and Thursdays when I get home from school?”

“Absolutely.”

“Do you love me Mama? I want to hear you say it.”

“Yes Nikasua. If all the 7 year-old girls in the universe were lined up, I would pick you, 100%!

“Really?”

“Yep.”