We had a fan-freakin'-tastic day, one too splendid not to write about. And that got me thinking.
I miss writing about our homeschooling.
I loved the Honey House Kindgarden project, the blog I kept of Woody's kindergarten year. It was sometimes hard finding time to write up those 180 posts in eight months, but it was fun, and I think I benefited from the regular opportunities to reflect on how things were going in our first year of homeschooling. And it's what I think about half the day anyway, so why not? I won't make a commitment to an exact number by an exact point in time, but I trust that I'll settle into a rhythm of a couple of posts a week.
So, we'll try the homeschooling blog again. There's no agenda. No hidden or explicit wish to convert the world to homeschooling, or other homeschoolers to unschoolers. Rather, I hope to offer pictures and pictures-in-words of what everyday learning looks like in our lives. There may be a handful of half-baked philosophy cookies tossed around, too. From them you can take what you will. I hope it's often encouragement to do what brings out the wonderful in you and your family, and to learn and let learn.
And so, we begin again:
At the Tuesday farmers market this morning we ate blueberries right out of the basket for breakfast. Blackberries, too, and one or two fat cherry tomatoes. Woody talked with one of the vendors about having long hair and his plans to cut it before it gets ponytail-length.
We went to the library afterward to look for a book on the history of fire, inspired by yesterday morning's experimental torches made from long sticks, pine cones, and strips of fabric soaked in olive oil. (Fox refused to put on shoes to go in the library, but agreed to black socks, which he stretched up to his knees and seemed proud as punch to have on his feet.)
Turns out there is no such children's book on the history of fire. Not even Amazon had one that seemed right. Maybe we'll write one, but in the mean time, Woody picked up the storybook Jalapeno Bagels. The book had a recipe in the back that we are going to try out this afternoon.
In the bathroom at the library, Fox opened the door as I sat on the toilet. I lost my composure for a moment, and may or may not have channeled a banshee ancestor; hard to tell, as I blacked out from embarrassment briefly. But we all recovered. I apologized. We looked at miniature school rooms on the way out and stopped at the co-op for the peppers for the bagel recipe.
We also sought crackers, and Woody, all on his own, went up to an employee, said, "Excuse me," and asked for help. Then he led Fox and I right to them. Aisle 2. It was a growing-up moment, just like this morning when he told me, "Mom, just saying 'butt' doesn't make me laugh anymore. I'm too old for that," rendering my best parenting technique obsolete in an instant.
Some friends suggested I not give up so soon, but accept that as a challenge to explore the offerings of age-appropriate scatological humor more fully. My sisters and I had permutation upon permutation of fart-names for one another growing up. Inexplicably, Fart Blossom attached itself to me. I'll report back on how well this more mature silliness goes over.
Thanks for reading, and keeping up with us over here. Smell you later.