Suck it up and get over yourself!

With the release of my first book, I have met a major goal in my life. I have more books to write, including a sequel to Tears, and there are many other writing accomplishments I must face. However, I put my life on hold to get published, and now is the time to meld writing and living. I’m in this for the long haul, and I still have children to raise, a husband to tend to, and my own self to take care of.

Time to start exercising again. Time to dust off my hobbies. Time to get the homeschooling in order. Time to rejuvenate my soul.

So I jumped into something wild and crazy: I’m taking tap and ballet classes.

Last year, my kids took ballet, and I was so proud of them when it came time for recital. They worked hard all year, and they performed beautifully. But a part of me wanted to be dancing on stage too.

I swore to myself that next year, I would be.

When there is something I want to learn or achieve, I absorb myself in it. Pouring over the schedule, I settled on three classes: Adult Ballet, Intermediate/Advanced Tap for ages 8+ (Makani and I take this one together), and Lyrical Ballet for ages 8+ (Rowena and I take this one together). Then I added some Zumba from the YMCA to my schedule to help get me in shape. I need to build my strength and endurance if I want to be good at this.

Yeah, I don’t do anything half-heartedly.

Did I mention that I have no tap or ballet experience? Three years ago, I did some belly dancing, and twelve years ago, I learned some swing dancing. Other than that, I am clueless.

Walking into my first tap dance and lyrical ballet classes was awkward. I’m twice the height of any of the other students. I thought ages 8+ meant there’d be a wide variety of students, maybe some teenagers, but no, they are all 8-year-olds.

10 eight year olds and ME. I felt like an awkward giant among Lilliputians.

But once we got to learning, my focus changed. I have a challenge to face, and so the awkwardness faded. I caught on pretty easily to both Tap and Lyrical Ballet. Tap dancing is rhythmical, and since I am mathematically and musically inclined and analytical, my brain caught on with two lessons. I’m loving doing this with Makani. She is also inclined to patterns, and I’m impressed with how easily she’s following the instructions.

Rowena does Lyrical Ballet with me. She’s such a little sweetheart, and I like the way she smiles at me as we stand side by side at the barre. She’s one of the most tender-hearted children I’ve ever known, and one word of correction sends her into fits of depression. This is my chance to build her up and encourage her.

My Lyrical Ballet teacher is a beautiful black man. (Strangely, he is embarrassed that his knees are so dark. I don't quite understand that.) I love the mop of braids he has for hair and his goatee. Excitable, a little effeminate, and pleased as apple pie to have me and Rowena in the class. Did I mention excitable? He’d make a vivid character in a book.

I am so thankful that he takes the class so slowly. He stops everything to correct a student who has a toe in the wrong direction. I am good at copying and I’m learning quickly, but Rowena struggled with form at first. My mommy’s heart thrilled to watch him take the time to gently help her out. She’s improving, and I’m so proud of her. I can hear him now as he helps her adjust her feet, “Yes. Yes. Yes!” Did I mention excitable?

Now here’s where my challenge really begins: Adult Ballet Class.

Our teacher is a white man with curly hair and a quirky sense of humor, but there’s nothing effeminate about this one. Not very excitable either. Where the black teacher takes things slow, this one moves us quickly from one set of exercises to the next. And believe me, the difficulty of this class is tenfold compared to the Lyrical Ballet.

I am the only student who has no prior ballet experience. In fact, one of my fellow students is a teacher at the dance studio. When he calls out those French words, I struggle to figure out what they mean. He says fifth position with arms in first. Huh? I look around at my classmates and try to follow along.

He gave us this exercise that goes something like this: First position, tendu left foot in out in, step out plié down and up. Then you repeat it backwards to return to your original position. Then repeat to the right, then to the left. Then to the back and the front. Then you do it all again in the exact opposite rotation. Pivot toward the bar so that you are facing the opposite direction and do it all on the right foot. Pivot again, this time away from the bar. Start from the beginning—only this time in fifth position.

And don’t forget the appropriate arm movements! Not that I had any clue what those arm positions should be. Oh, and when you tendu to the side, switch between returning your foot to the front and to the back.

That’s only one out of 10 patterns he had for us. The other exercises are just as complicated.

Week one, he took it slow, and he stood at the front of the class, going through the steps with us. I can copy anything, and I stuck pretty well to the moves, following along as he did them. Week two, he demonstrated, but when it came time for us to do it, he only called the moves. I was utterly lost.

Lost and embarrassed, especially when even the new people kept up with him without a problem.

Maybe I bit off more than I could chew. Maybe I should focus on the beginner classes. Maybe I could try again next year after a year with the Lilliputians.

But when have I ever given up before? It’s not that I think I can’t handle the challenge. For Pete's sake, I have written 4 novels, one of which is published, and have several short stories in anthologies. I'm sure that a few more weeks, and I’ll be fine. Well, maybe not fine, but passable. By the end of the year, I’ll be fine. My real problem was everyone watching me flounder as I work to get my bearings.

Suck it up and get over yourself, I scolded.

Week three. I was almost passable, and Lyrical Ballet is now too easy. Furthermore, I can do the buffalo and the Irish step in Tap Dance.

Maybe next week, I’ll actually hold the fifth position relevé for 32 counts without wobbling.

First Day of School

Today was the first day of the Webb School of Independence--the beginning of our third year of home schooling. I spent the weekend setting up our school room and my office (which is all one big room). The books are neatly stacked. Can I manage to keep things organized? I am thankful that I have a better system this year.

I can't begin to tell you how exciting it is to watch them learn and enjoy it. Now that they are all in bed and the day is done, I got all these warm and fuzzy feelings burning in the pit of my stomach. It's called joy and pride in a job well done. This is why I home school. Because learning should be exciting, spontaneous, and simple. Learning should be the central part of life.

We don't do tests. We read and write and do math. Raise some frogs, collect insects for pets, have lots of time to run wild, listen to music, dance. And we talk. I know they are learning because they talk to me. I remember when our electricity went out after a storm, and Makani (barely 6 years old at the time) explained to Rowena why the lights wouldn't work. Then her grandma comes over, and she tells her all about the roly poly--how it lives, how it grows, the various names it's called. That's how I test them. I listen.

Rowena and I have been working on reading all year, but she is finally beginning to understand. She can sound out words now, and her sweet little face lights up when she gets it right. Then I have her write the story she read and draw a picture. Today she read "that rat is sad" and then wrote it in her notebook. She practically preens when she is done with her lessons. And I want to cry with joy to see how confident she is becoming.

Makani read a chapter out of her book Meet Felicity, a historical fiction, and then wrote a short synopsis. We had to discuss that Mr. Merriman, Felicity's father, couldn't have elevators in his store and that Felicity didn't know what a computer was. In the course of her writing, Makani learned how to spell three new words: special, thought, and computer.

Kaylee is too little for school, but she wants that special time with Mommy too. So I did a puzzle with her and had her draw. She pretended to write, and then I read her some books. She sees me give reading lessons to Rowena, so she pretends to read too. But I've learned not to push it. I won't be even trying to teach her to read until she is at least 5. We're not in a hurry.

Then lessons were done, but Makani wanted a music lesson and to do a craft and to draw another picture and to read another book and to keep me up all night long with more projects. "One subject a night, girl," I said. I have to do lessons with her sisters as well, after all. And I still work all day and have writing to do and my own studies.

They do math everyday in the mornings, and art, music, reading, and physical activity is a constant part of their day. Everything else is one short hour at the end of the day. Could you imagine? An education with no tests and a school that only lasts 30 minutes in the morning and an hour in the evening? What kind of people would that make?

a toast to dreams and to children

Today is my oldest daughter's 7th birthday. Earlier this week, she said to me, "Mommy, I want you to ask your boss if you can stay home on my birthday." It broke my heart to tell her no. I'm a contractor and I don't get vacation time. If I don't go to work, I don't get paid. Someday--before the kids are all grown up--I pray that my writing efforts succeed and I can finally work from home.

So today I raise a toast to dreams and someday when our dreams all come true. To children with their innocence and their faith and their love. And to Makani with her eager love for learning, her vivid imagination, and those little freckles splattered across her cheeks.

From the Mouths of Babes

Saturday afternoon, I was feeding my youngest Kaylee, who gobbled up all her food. Boy, that girl has an appetite. When I come home from work each day, she tells me how much she has grown. 

So yesterday as I set food in front of her, she told me that she eats to be strong. 

"I'm strong," she said, "because I'm going to be a perret when I grow up!"

"A parrot?"

"No, a perret!" she said angrily.

"A parent?"

"No, a perret!" She was quite upset.

"Oh, a pirate!"

"Yes, I'm going to be a pirate that do anything." She threw her hands up in the air in celebration. "Anything I want to."

Oh, anything she wants to, huh? I think she's a little confused. It's supposed to be The Pirates Who Don't Do Anything, not the pirates that do anything they want to. She has a rude awakening waiting for her.

Princess Kick-Butt

I read this article about parents who want to stomp out the princess mentality and was quite perturbed by what was said.

I guess I could somewhat understand these parents. Before I had three little girls of my own, I thought, in my arrogance and foolishness, that if I ever had a girl she wouldn't wear pink, play with Barbies, or watch princess movies. And she most definitely won't decorate her room in a princess theme or wear Disney princess clothes.

Yeah, well, I got over it. I grew up and realized girls are girls. I have three of them who love nothing better than dresses that twirl around them as they dance. And I can often find all three of them, wearing sundresses, as they search for toads and slugs and worms and play in the mud in the backyard. They climb trees and wrestle and dream of being pirates or ninjas or faeries or kittens.

Yesterday, two of them had out their toy swords, fighting the neighbor boys with their nerf guns. They like to watch Disney princess movies, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, and anything about animals. They love all animals and bugs and study science and explore their world.

We just painted Makani's room purple. We're going to decorate it with sea turtles. And we painted Kaylee & Rowena's room pink. We'll decorate with rainbows. And some nights, I make up stories about three little princesses who climb out of the castle wall and ride their ponies into great adventures. We read stories about princesses with sass like The Princess and the Pizza or about princesses with gumption like Princesses are Not Quitters.

And someday we will read The Little Princess, a story about a girl from a rich family who falls on hard times. Her father always told her she was his little princess, and now that she is all alone and treated as a slave, she finds the courage and the hope and the imagination to keep going. Because she believes that all girls are princesses. No matter what their station, she treats everyone with kindness like a princess should.

So this is what those three little girls have taught me about princesses:

• Girls are princesses. That's just the way it is.
• Princesses are adventurers.
• Princesses are innovators.
• Princesses explore.
• Princesses never quit.
• Princesses are courageous.
• Princesses are warriors.
• Princesses care about others.

So tell me again? Why don't we want our girls to be princesses?

I've never been into poetry, but author Michele Torrey has a brilliant poem, entitled Princess on her blog. It reminds me of my own childhood adventures, exploring and playing and pretending grand stories where I was the princess. Please check it out. Enjoy.

From the Mouth of Babes

Children make such wonderful writing material.

My littlest daughter--she's three years old--came running out of her bedroom at the end of naptime wearing nothing but her diaper.

"Where's you clothes?" I said.

"I'm naked," she says, "because I'm a boy."

"You're a boy?"

"Yes, I'm a boy shine-shess."

"A what?"

"A boy shine-shess."

"And boy shine-shesses don't have clothes?"

"Yes."

And what may I ask is a boy shine-shess? A scientist. (If it wasn't for TJ, I wouldn't have figured it out.)

So why is it that boy scientists don't wear clothes? I have no idea. Beats me.

What goes on in children's heads? Hmm, I'd really like to know.