On Homeschooling

I am seriously thinking about homeschooling my son.

The act of writing that down for the entire world to see makes me feel like I need to put my head between my legs and breathe deeply into a brown paper bag. I mean, there is just so much to consider with something as serious as his education, right?

I worry that I would be doing him a disservice especially when I consider the prospect of trying to teach him calculus or help him with some of the mathematical formulas needed in highschool physics. I worry about the accreditation process and how we will demonstrate that Dylan has earned a highschool diploma. How will colleges view him? Will he be eligible for scholarships? The prospect of forever altering the course of his life in a negative way is intimidating.

But then I look at his school experience so far. Most of Dylan's teachers through the years have been good. They were competent, compassionate educators and he has been fortunate. It's the social side of school that has been a problem for him. He's the square peg.

It's not a matter of trying to assess his personal responsibility, either. There is no doubt that my son brings a fair share of his social woes on himself. Absolutely. However, assigning blame doesn't contribute to fixing anything. Dylan sees himself through the distorted and often cruel eyes of his peers. He has sat with me, crying, trying desperately to figure out what he is doing wrong. He is not mainstream at all and there are times that he's downright offensive, albeit unconsciously. Unfortunately, he's too young yet to understand that his individuality, once tempered with restraint and empathy, will be something to be celebrated. My biggest fear is that as he ages and the pressures of fitting into a peer group grow louder, he will resort to some sort of drug (alcohol, pot, food) both to assimilate with an element of society that is more accepting of someone different and to self-medicate his lonliness away.

I saw in the news yesterday about the student gunman in Wisconsin who held a classroom full of his peers hostage. In this country, there have been forty five school shootings since 1996. I find that number really disconcerting because it wasn't that long ago when the very idea of gun violence on school property was unthinkable. My point here is that something has changed and we, as a society, have yet to adequately respond to it. We have twenty first century children stuck in a 1950's school system. Some do well; many don't.

So all of this weighs heavily as I contemplate a decision. I want to do what is right for Dylan but for the life of me, I haven't quite figured out what that is just yet.

The Joys of Pie

Thanksgiving was an easy, no fuss event this year, primarily for one reason.

I made pie crust that was better than my mother's.

I do not say that lightly as my mother's pie crust is nothing short of legendary. All of the women on that side of my family have well-developed baking skills. It's in our DNA. When I think back to the tastiest memories of my childhood (aside from fresh lobster off the pier in Shediac, New Brunswick), I remember buttery molasses cookies, moist chocolate cake, fresh bread and blueberry pie that made you lick the plate clean.

The thing with pie is that it's all about the crust. It really doesn't matter what you put in the middle because if your base is lackluster, the end result is always something mediocre. For YEARS, I laboured over my pie crust. I'd go through an entire can of Crisco® trying to make a single, 9" crust. I'd make a batch after batch of dough, only to have it fall apart so I'd throw it in the bin, cry and repeat the process. At some point, I'd call my mother, hysterical, begging her to walk me through the recipe and when she'd ask me if I was using ICE COLD water, I wanted to crawl through the phone and beat her with my rolling pin.

My more practical sister cousins urged me to give up the battle and just waltz down to the nearest grocery store and get some pre-made crusts. BLASPHEMY!! They reasoned that in the time that it would save me, I could drink several glasses of wine, which would help take the sting out of my inadequacy. I considered it.

But no, I was my mother's daughter. I would make pie crust from scratch and thus, I have dreaded every single holiday or special event since.

Until a miracle happened.

Her name is The Pioneer Woman. If you are not familiar with her, go visit. She's the type of woman you wish lived next door. She cooks with butter AND whiskey. You'll love her. And the pie crust recipe that she has shared with the world (find it here) is the best I've ever tasted.

I realize that to rhapsodize about pie crust likely makes me a complete loon and surprisingly, I'm okay with that. Several times over the holiday, it occured to me that I am my most relaxed when whipping something up in the kitchen.

Makes me think.

Tuesday

It's a ridiculous time in the morning to be up and awake but I couldn't sleep.

Yesterday, Olivia was evaluated by an orthopedic specialist for the accident to her thumb and this morning, she will be having surgery to repair the damage.

Surgery.

Under anesthesia.

I'm sure that she will be fine. As a matter of fact, the doctor told us that by the time we boarded the plane for New Zealand, the whole thing would be nothing but a memory. I really want to believe him.

I just now peeked into her room and it's funny. In spite of her gazelle-like legs and burgeoning teenage attitude, my sweet Livvie seemed awfully little to me this morning.

Domesticity

I'm not sure what has gotten into me lately but I have this overwhelming desire to nest.

I'm not pregnant. Thank God.

I don't know what it is. Perhaps I am replacing food with an irrational desire to clean, cook and decorate. Well, maybe not the decorate part because everyone knows that I am hopeless in that department but I'm wanting to host parties and just the other day, I watched a video which taught me how to properly crimp a pie crust.

I think it might be early onset dementia.

I'm wondering if this newfound domesticity is a byproduct of working from home. When I had to drag myself into an office everyday, the dust bunnies, unwashed laundry and furniture placement didn't register on my radar. Dinner every night was whatever could be cobbled together with the least amount of fuss because it was rare that I remember to pull something out of the freezer the night before. I coped, like most of us.

It's all different now.

I have recently purchased an apron. I wore it this weekend. Unselfconsciously. Dinner is a planned event every night. I find myself lingering in the storage aisles in the hardware store, fantasizing about drawer organizers and closet shelving. The butchers at Whole Foods recognize me now and we engage in discussions about braising briskets versus smoking them. It should be noted that I didn't even know what a brisket was three months ago.

This weird shift in my priorities is not a bad thing. It's just the tiniest bit disconcerting. I've been trying to identify what it is that I'm feeling lately because it's foreign and this morning, it dawned on me that I'm happy.

Without conditions.

Imagine that.

Fear

Saturday afternoon, Olivia and I were hanging out at home while Dallas and Dylan were at the gym. We were enjoying a little quiet time together, talking about our upcoming trip to New Zealand and listing all of the things that we wanted to do over our Christmas holidays. I was fluffing around in the kitchen and asked Liv if she would run out to the garage and grab a bottle of Pellegrino for me.

The next thing I heard was my baby screaming.

As a parent, you learn very early to discern between an angry scream, a hurt scream, a startled scream or a delighted scream.

The sound Olivia made was none of those.

It made my stomach contract and my heart race. Her scream was pure FEAR and I felt adreanaline course through my body as I sprinted down the hallway to her. For some reason, I expected to see an intruder and I have to tell you that unless he had a gun, that guy would not have fared well because Olivia's cry brought out a primal protective intinct that I had never experienced before. My scalp was tingling.

What I met with was Liv running to me, hands cupped together, blood dripping. We ran into the kitchen where there was light and I got my first glimpse of her injury. And it was bad.

Olivia had grabbed a big 750ml green glass bottle of Pellegrino from the fridge with her left hand and as she climbed two stairs, she slipped and fell on her left side with the bottle still in her hand. It shattered and sliced open her thumb. She had severed the radial artery and with each beat of her heart, it pulsated copious amounts of blood out the wound and down her palm. For a full second, I stared, horrified. Then, I began to talk to myself out loud.

"Pressure. We need pressure." I grabbed the nearest cloth which was one of our large, white cotton flour sacks that we use to dry dishes and wrapped it tightly around her hand.

"Put your arm up over your head, Liv," I told her and I got an ice pack out of the fridge to hold on top of the cut. She resisted as the pressure of the ice pack caused her considerable pain. "I don't feel very good in my belly, Mama," she said. We had to get to ER.

As I was backing out of the driveway, it occurred to me that I had no idea where I was going. Where the hell was the hospital? Do I call 911 and ask? Do I knock on neighbour's doors? All of this ran through my head in a matter of seconds. I called Dallas instead.

Before I could get a word out, Dallas was asking me how many reps he needed to do with the step ups in his new program since I'd just finished a month of it. Apparently, he had called a few minutes earlier during the heat of the accident and he thought I was returning his call.

"Dallas, where's the nearest hospital?" He didn't immediately reply. I looked over at Olivia and the dishtowel wrapped around her hand had turned crimson with her blood. I had to repeat the question, panic rising and struggling not to shriek into the phone. The communication finally cleared between us and Dallas told me how to get to what we hoped would be the nearest facility with an emergency room.

I sped, my hands shaking. I might have been shedding a few stress tears. Olivia said, "Mama, you've got to calm down." I looked over and she was lying back in her seat, pale, quiet and eerily composed. I have never been that scared in my life. "Don't go to sleep, baby," I said. "Okay Mama," was her reply.

Fortunately, the hospital was less than five minutes away and they took her right in. Olivia handled the whole thing really well although I will tell you that the process of freezing the thumb was just freaking HORRIBLE. It will be a long time before I'm able to get the sound of my child's pain out of my head and seeing the blood from her arterty rythmically spray all over the doctor is something I'll not soon forget.

On the ride home, Olivia told me that when she first cut herself and saw the blood, she screamed, not because it hurt but because she was afraid she "might not live anymore". I have to be brutally honest. When we were in the car and there was just so much blood and she was looking at me, blinking slowly, eyelids heavy and so adultlike in her mannerisms and me not knowing where in the world to take her, I had a moment of icy terror wondering if a child could bleed to death from her thumb. Stupid, I know but hey, I'm just keeping it real.

This is the aftermath of the whole ordeal and it doesn't look so bad, right? She will have to see a hand specialist because she severed the nerve but if ten stitches and a permanently numb tip is the worst of it, I'm feeling like we were pretty fortunate.