Grooming Tips for the Uninitiated

I believe I've mentioned before that I'm not exactly what you might call a girly girl. (If I haven't - what was I thinking? There's enough blog fodder there to last for months!) I do try to stay presentable, of course, even if my standards are way lower than those of most of the ladies I know. (Hint: I do not have makeup. None. Don't even own a tube of lipstick.Seriously.)

For me, grooming generally involves brushing and flossing (the former everyday, the latter as often as I remember, or when an overwhelming sense of guilt prompts me to action, or when a visit to the dentist is imminent.), washing my hair (Suave shampoo and conditioner, often not even matching scents), and shaving (for special occasions, or at least before doing so would clog the bathtub drain - whichever comes first). Beyond hacking back the tangled undergrowth of underarm hair once in a while, and battling bad breath, I'm not over fussy when it comes to grooming. That is why it is all the more perplexing (to me, and especially to them) that God gifted me with three lovely girls.

My younger two, so far, are on board with my fuss-free philosophy. In fact, they'd probably never brush their teeth or hair, if given the chance. However, my oldest daughter is dangerously close to actually being a teenager, and even more dangerously close to acting like one. She has discovered all kinds of new-fangled things: like straightening irons, sweeping updos, and 'product'. This last one really threw me for a loop. I took her for a simple haircut about a year ago, and she and the stylist (barber, for us oldschool types) chatted away comfortably about 'product' the whole time. Seriously - it was liking trying to decipher a secret code. From what I gathered, there is apparently shampoo and conditioner out there that does stuff other than just get your hair clean and tangle free. I'm not exactly clear on all the details, but I have learned that it costs more than 88 cents a bottle, and is dearly coveted by my daughter. I'll have to look into this more.

For now, I am just trying to keep up. When she asks me about a specific nail painting technique or piece of fancy-pants hair technology, I usually just smile and nod. (And call my girly friends.) But, despite feeling like a blind person in a foreign (and expensive) land, I couldn't be happier. This is why motherhood is so great - I'm going to get to learn something new right alongside her. Inside I am screaming, "Don't buy into the Hollywood lies! You're beautiful the way you are! Run! Escape! Flee while you still can!" But, I somehow doubt that haranguing my pre-teen with these esoteric sentiments would be the best choice. So, I'm gonna learn to get girly too, even if it comically (though temporarily) disfigures us both. Remember - I'm going to have to teach this girl about makeup in a few years. Yikes.

For now, she's grateful for my help - however little I have to offer, and I am learning how to browse in the cosmetic and haircare aisle without breaking out into spots, seizures, or sermons. I think we're going to make it through this, and (if I can get past my prejudices and preconceived notions) we might even look good doing so. Watch out world - the Farrier girls are coming thru! Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go figure out what on earth shine serum and straightening balm are. They sound like the perfect antidote to expensive dental and orthodontic visits, but I'm betting I've got it all wrong...

Corrupting the Youth

Socrates and I - we're like two peas in a pod. We both like to hang around all day in comfy clothes, have a little bit extra around the middle, and have been accused of corrupting the youth. For him, of course, the outcome of such accusations didn't go well. (Note to self : stay away from mobs and Hemlock.) Thankfully (at least, so far) no one in any official position who could cause me anything more than minor annoyance has questioned my motives when it comes to teaching. Faithful readers, I am going to let you in on a little secret that some of you might not know - though I am fully trained, licensed, and equipped to be a standard classroom teacher, I would rather take a sound beating than do so.

Let me be clear - I have nothing but the utmost respect for public schools and their superintendents, principals, teachers, etc.... But, I've seen their job, and I do not want it. I don't envy them the gags and tied hands that come with mandated curriculum, the endless carrot and stick of chasing standardized test scores, and the ceaseless internal politics inherent in the system. No, I'd rather circumvent all of that and spend my time corrupti...er, uh, teaching the youth. At first, I started with my own. After all, who better to experiment on than flesh and blood? I'm ultimately responsible for them anyway, so I figure I have the right to corrupt them as much as I want. The thing is - they loved it. Positively thrived. We did all sorts of unorthodox and heretical things - like teaching division before multiplication, coloring outside the lines, introducing ancient history before we even studied basic maps skills, and going out into the world around us to learn about the world around us. It was nuts, but it was working. And, aside from the occasional query about socialization or prom, most people were cool with our choice in lifestyle and education. That is, until the chicken incident.

When I was 25 years old, I embarked on a grand new adventure.. And, because we like we like to do stuff together, my then five-year-old and one-year-old came along for the ride as well. In fact, it was totally a family affair, with three generations of us present and excitedly peering over what I immediately recognized as one of the most powerful science lessons I'd ever taught - the innards of decapitated hen. That's right, the family that butchers together, stays together... or something like that. We processed around 20 birds that day, but the real 'meat' of the experience for me (couldn't help myself there - sorry) was the learning.

Do you know how cool the inside of a chicken looks? Are you aware of the amazing similarities (and differences) between chicken anatomy and human anatomy? If you are, you'll know what a privilege it is to see God's handiwork laid out in front of you even as you experience it silently humming away inside of you. If you're not, you're probably still worriedly wondering where your gizzard is. At any rate, just as our roundabout explorations of division and multiplication had taught me more about math than I had ever previously known, and our forays into the real world taught me more about life than I had learned in my 17 years of formal education, that one day showed me the reality of the scripture that says we are fearfully and wonderfully made better than just about any other thing I had experienced during my first quarter-century of life. Wow. I was hooked.

I started telling everyone I knew about the experience. My children excitedly chimed in in the background, "tell 'em about the guts, mommy! Tell 'em about the guts!" However, instead of being met with enthusiasm or curiosity, people looked at me like I was covered in innards, and not just talking about them. Apparently, not everyone is on board with allowing children to see nature at its best. In fact, one person suggested that I was damaging my children's psyches, and another went so far as to suggest that this was borderline child abuse. There I go again - corrupting the youth. Socrates, my friend, I feel your pain.

Well, wasn't this a fine mess I'd gotten myself into? What was I to do? On the one hand, I could choose to deny myself and my children the opportunity to learn about the glorious handiwork of our Creator in order to shield them from whatever unpleasantness it was that such opportunities supposedly contained. On the other hand, I could - well - just not. I could just not care what people thought. I could just just not worry about the opinions of others. I could just not take the conventional road. Hmmm... what to do, what to do?

Our next butchering experience was even more fantastic - hogs. Wow! We then moved on in quick succession to sheep and goats. It was glorious. Not only did we get to enjoy (and learn about!) the lifecycle of animals raised in fresh air and sunshine, but we also got to give our beloved livestock a quick, painless, and humane end. (And, of course, there was also all that fresh, yummy, healthy meat.)  My kids can tell a spleen from a kidney. They know not to contaminate the work surface with bile. And, more importantly, they also know where to find the bile and what it looks like. We have poked and prodded, stuck our fingers down aortas, tested the strength and stretch of various tissues, and even laid out whole body systems to explore.

After a while, the enthusiasm my children had could not be contained, and they began (once again) telling friends and family about their experiences. Slowly, reluctantly, even painfully people started coming around to at least being willing to be curious, if not entirely certain about whether to join in the fun or run for the hills. Eventually, with much coaxing and encouragement, butchering day at our house became a social occasion. There would be curious eyes and tentative fingers everywhere as we talked our way through anatomy and biology and chemistry and theology. It had happened - I had branched out beyond just corrupting my own youth, and had started doing so to my children's friends as well. When would it end?

I suppose there must have been a point at which Socrates knew he had crossed the line. Somewhere along the way he had gone from being an educational pariah to a local hero because of his unorthodox traveling classroom and his endless rhetorical questions, but he had to push it. He couldn't be content just raising awareness, introducing new ideas, and living outside the status quo.  Boy, do Socrates and I ever have a lot in common! I, too, have kept pushing. I speak openly, now, about how much fun it is to home school. I no longer fear to tell people that we choose real-world experiences (even butchering!) to augment our learning. And, just last week, I did the unthinkable and brought a set of sheep lungs, complete with trachea, to forty or so young children between the ages of five and twelve. That's right - I was no longer taking the children to the guts, but had branched out into taking the guts to the children.

It was a beautiful specimen - very pink and healthy and fully intact. The initial 'ewwww's changed to 'oooohhhh's when the kids first got to see the lungs up close and experience their beauty and magic. The best part of the day were the excited 'aaahhhhhh!'s that came when I inflated the lungs to their full capacity. Now those kids fully and deeply know what I learned and my kids learned during our first day of butchering - indeed, we are fearfully and wonderfully made.


So, I guess I have a choice to make once again. Am I going to learn from my buddy Socrates and back off before the disapproving crowd rushes in, or will I (like he) continue to corrupt the youth every chance I get? Tough decision. Hmmm.... what to do, what to do? I guess I'll have to get back to you on that. Next week I'm supposed to be teaching about the nervous system, and if I'm going to have a brain to take in, I need to start making phone calls.

(p.s. - I really did inflate a set of sheep lungs, and it really was a rockin' experience. You can see the video for yourself here. Science and learning are cool.)

Canning

Tomorrow I am going to introduce my dear, life-long friend to the mystery and alchemy of canning. Just like the 'scientists' of yore who labored over bubbling pots and boiling beakers, I like to think of canning as a mystical art form. The perfect beauty and bounty of summertime being distilled and preserved forever (or at least a year or two) - making it possible to taste June in January, sunshine in snowstorms, green growth in grey skies.

I am (don't tell!) actually pretty new to canning. I put my first pears and peaches into jars just a few years ago - busily humming away late into the night, paring knife flashing, canner steaming on the stovetop. I was hooked from the first 'pop' of a sealed jar. My mom canned some when I was a kid, as did her mother before her.  I have vague but comfortable memories of it. I like to think that this, like so many other things I do, is a return to something important from my heritage - something I have grown up enough to now be proud of.

Last summer my daughter would sneak upstairs and sit on the counter next to me as I worked. It was late, and she should have been in bed, but I couldn't help but feel, deep in my bones, that it was more important for her to be putting in the memories of canning as I put the peaches in the jars than it was for her to get enough sleep - at least for that night. So, we canned together. I washed the fruit, blanched it, and squished the skins off, the sink turning a murky pink color. I let her halve the peaches and remove the pits. We both had juice dribbling down our chins and off our elbows, nightgowns smudged and damp. It was well past midnight before the last jar sealed and we went to bed. I don't remember what we said, but I know it was good. Surrounded by fresh fruit and jars and history and heritage as we were - how could it not have been wonderful?

I know we're staring off small - just a few pints of homemade salsa - but I hope my friend gets hooked on canning, just like I did. Not only because I want someone I can share recipes with and trade produce with and ask to borrow a jar lifer or a canning funnel from once in a while, but because I want the people I love to get the very best from life. And, I can't imagine anything better than that late night with my daughter, the satisfaction of a cupboard full of gleaming jars, and knowing that you have been a part of something important from the past, and are making it possible for that something important to continue in the future.

Besides - it means I'll get to spend a whole afternoon in the kitchen with my dear, life-long friend and six children, watching our progress wide-eyed and eagerly, and grinning in delight when they hear the jars seal. What could be better than that?

Pregnancy - Nature's Hostile Body Takeover

Warning: This blog contains mature content that is not suitable for children. Or men. Sorry, guys... This one is for the ladies only. Don't say you haven't been warned!


I am now just over three years out from my last pregnancy. It is a bit off putting to be in public, surrounded by pregnant women and nursing moms, and to realize that I have aged out (or, as I prefer to think of it, 'experienced out') of that club. I really thought that babies and bellies would be my reality for eternity. After all, I have spent 2 1/2 years pregnant, 5 years breastfeeding, 3 days in labor, and exactly 38,465,342.8 hours worrying about parenting decisions I've either made, am making, or have yet to make. Being a mom isn't for the fainthearted.

No one tells you what it's going to be like, do they? I mean, I know part of that is our fault, as new mothers, because we are so convinced we know what we're doing that when a well-meaning friend tries to give us advice, we roll our eyes and snicker behind our hands at them. "Well, sure you had to use a pacifier with YOUR baby, but MINE won't have any anxiety issues, and therefore won't need external comforting." Spoken like a true preggo or newbie. Just wait until the middle the night about 3 days in - you know, right after you've gone home from the hospital and it's just you and Angel Baby staring at each other by the glow of the nightlight. You'll be desperately digging in the bottom of the diaper bag to find that pacifier too, momma. Trust me on this one.

No, new moms aren't known for their willingness to take advice, but maybe that's because they feel ever so slightly lied to. Let me give you an example. When a pregnant mom asks me what pregnancy was like, I tell the truth - it was wonderful. I loved every minute of it. Couldn't believe what a magical experience it was. Would do it again in a heartbeat. Etc... This, of course, is the perspective I have about it now. You know, now that I'm on the other side of it. Now that it is becoming a memory. Now that I've reaped the rewards. I'm not lying when I say that pregnancy is awesome, but perhaps I'm also not telling the truth, the WHOLE truth, and nothing but the truth as I might have been experiencing it at the time.

The whole truth, of course, involves a bit of unpleasantness. It involves aches in body parts I didn't even know I had. Before I got pregnant I was only vaguely aware of being in possession of a cervix.  I had never seen said cervix. I didn't have an owner's manual on it, had never changed its oil or had it tuned, and I certainly didn't know it could hurt. Further, I never guessed that it would become fair game for discussions with colleagues after visits to the doctor. Let's face it - it's fair game for discussion with everyone near the end, when even great-aunt Lucy will ask how far dilated you are. (This is the same woman, by the way, who always chastised you for not acting like more of a lady when you were young, and now she's hollering into the phone to see how stretched and skewed your most private of parts has become.) By the end of it all, 3 doctors, 10 medical students, 18 nurses, and a cleaning lady who doesn't know how to knock before entering will all have seen the very same cervix you've still not been properly introduced to.

The whole truth also involves, shall we say... anatomical reorganization. These are similar to the theories discussed in college geology classes - poles shifting and causing wobbles and a loss of balance, new hilly eruptions and subsequent foliage cover, bulges in the equator, and the heartbreaking, gradual sinking of northern mountain ranges. Stuff just doesn't stay put when you're pregnant. Your belly button thrusts forward, as if trying to escape the disruptions to its previously-peaceful domain. Your feet widen. Your organs squish and slosh (sometimes even leaking). Fact of the matter is, you even get new body parts. It's true. Look it up. (Or, if you're pregnant, just look down.) Let me explain...


The human body is full of strange sounding parts. You have to wonder if the only reason some people go into medicine is because no other area of science or technology would hire them because of their funny names. They only backed into stellar careers in gastroenterology or otoloaryngology because their initial interviews at, say, NASA or the National Parks Service went something like this: 


"I'm terribly sorry, Mr... uh....Kiesselbach, is it? Though your credentials are excellent, we can't run the risk of you discovering something truly remarkable and then wanting to name it after yourself. It's just a PR nightmare. Have you ever considered medicine, though?" 

So, that's why we now have parts inside each and every one of us that sound like they're more likely to be out of a Star Wars movie than a medical text. I kid you not - if you looked hard enough (and knew where to look) you could find your very own Hydatid of Morgangi (didn't he rule the Mongols in the mid 1500's?), Islets of Langerhans (makes you want to vacation there some time, doesn't it?), Space of Moll (right next to the Black Hole of Moll), and White Line of Tolt (every bit as spectacular as the White Cliffs of Dover, but not nearly as crowded). 

Anyway, these funny little innards are silently working away inside you all the time. But, when you're pregnant and breastfeeding is the only time that your Montgomery's Tubercles kick into gear. They're actually little bumps around your nipples that secrete a special oil to keep things properly lubed for breastfeeding. Montgomery originally described these glands as "a constellation of miniature nipples scattered over a milky way." Very poetic. Most women, however, describe them as just another part of the hostile body takeover that is pregnancy. Oily bumps. On your breasts, no less. Great. Unfortunately, they go perfectly with those dark hairs you sprout on your upper lip and the unexpected gift that is urinary incontinence. You see why pregnant women don't exactly fall for my 'everything is beautiful' explanation of motherhood?

No, one cannot deny that there are some parts of pregnancy that aren't all glowing beauty. Here's the thing, though - that doesn't all magically go away when you give birth. That first post-baby look in the mirror is quite a shock. Your breasts sag. Your belly is floppy. Your stretch marks shine. Your leg hair is thicker. You see things you haven't seen in 9 months, and they're not pretty. Worst of all, you're convinced you're never going to be the same again. And, I've got to level with you here - you won't. Sure, things will get better. Heck, you might even get back into your old clothes and look just as smokin' as you did before, but you will still be forever changed. You will regard your body with new respect. You will cherish the memories, and honor the sacrifices it has made. Those aren't stretch marks - they're battle scars, and you've earned 'em, momma -  just like you've earned a special membership into the exclusive Mommy club, and the right to tell expectant mothers the same truth about pregnancy you heard all along- it's absolutely wonderful!

Menu Minimalism

Tonight we're having beef for dinner. Each afternoon around 4:00, I seem to know that much, and not much more. Despite four or so years of being a vegan, the hub for my meal planning still comes down to which animal gave its life in order for me to eat, at least for supper. (The rules for lunch, of course, are totally different.) Anyway, so I find myself with a cut of meat in hand (sometimes literally) and no other plans. Oh, I could go for the usual side dishes that I fix every other night of the week, but is that the kind of person I want to be - a mac and cheese user? A woman with a frozen vegetable habit? Is that how I want my children to remember me!?

I could go old school - meat, potatoes, and a vegetable. This suits my 1950's housewife fantasy nicely. (Funny thing, that fantasy. Never once has my house become magically cleaner, my children more polite, or the shows on my television more G-Rated just because I put on a frilly apron and high heels. Go figure. It has once induced my husband to ask for a mixed drink, however, upon returning home from work. ) Besides just the all-American appeal, the trifecta meal planning method also does make for some darn tasty eats. Alas, it also invariably requires me to rummage in cupboards, dig through the freezer, and uncover a bag of taties that's been sitting too close to the window (sprouting), or too long in the dark (moldy). Curses, foiled again.

Never one to do anything in moderation, I then swing back to my hippy-trippy days, seeking to recall what were once the superstars of my kitchen reportoire, but which will now just be side dishes for my slab-o-meat. This, I am sure, is exactly how ex-Country stars feel at having to follow up children's singing groups and local talent shows on County Fair stages across the nation. So, will it be black beans and rice? Rice and red beans? Spanish Rice and refried beans? (Perhaps I am beginning to see why I am no longer a vegan. Hmm....) A quick thumb through my tattered New Farm Cook Book doesn't yield any appealing solutions for tonight, though it does remind me that the people who think I'm crunchy-granola now just don't even have a clue about ol' Earth Momma Annie at the height of her broomstick skirts and Birkenstocks days.

All of my freezer-fumblings, fifties-fantasies, and Farm cookbook remembrances have cost me an hour, and yet I am nowhere closer to having a side dish in mind. Meat and....? Meat and.....? Let's face it, I'm going to rely on my same old standbys that I always do. It will be meat and canned corn, probably with tortilla chips, because that's how we roll around here, baby. Why? Because we always seem to have canned corn and tortilla chips around, and I know that my famiy will eat them. Sometimes I might throw in some cilantro, or serve some salsa up on the side, but when it comes to supper I've got my Fave Five (give or take) ingredients that see me through. They are my go-to items, and as long as they never let me down, how can I turn my back on them?

It's good to know that I can still whip up a pot roast with mashed potatoes and gravy and broccoli with cheese sauce that would make the Beav's mom proud. Or, that my quinoa tabouleh recipe is still where I can find it should the need arise. (I can't help it - I'm chuckling here because I know good and well that at least three people reading this blog will not only mangle the pronounciation of that dish, but also spend several seconds wondering if perhaps I just made up some gibberish words to make myself look hippyfied. One of you might even Google it.)

Tonight, I will have beef and canned corn and tortilla chips. Tomorrow night I will have chicken with mac and cheese and a frozen vegetable. The night after that I will mix things up and have lamb with canned corn and mac and cheese (tricky,  no?). But - here's where the 1950's potluck mentality meets with my creative flower child - the next night, I shall have a casserole. And everyone knows, that it's no holds barred on casserole night...