Get Ma a Spritzer, It’s Over!

The Plunge

Mix me a spritzer and cue the Barry Manilow…the time has come. As I sit beside the blow-up pool in my backyard, sipping equal parts chardonnay and pineapple seltzer, I hear Barry singing softly in my ears, “Looks like we made it.” (PS I was today years old when I realized that the rest of the song consists of dirty 70’s sex lyrics.) Here at Oz Academy for Fine Young Boys, we have officially completed our first year of homeschooling and it looks like we made it. How did we do? Well, you know I’m ‘bout to tell you all about it.

We started this journey because there was no way that my one-eared, hard of hearing Nugget was going to survive in a world of masks. Not only did he struggle just to wear one (because one needs two ears for those things…) but he needs to see lips move to know who’s talking. It became quickly apparent that if the entire school was masked-up, 2^nd grade would be a wash for him. For clarification- I’m absolutely not anti-mask. In fact, I’ve relished the opportunity masks have provided for me to literally tell the world to ‘suck it’ behind the safety of my Wonder Woman face covering for the past year. And when this fat girl broke her front tooth on a chicken wing and was too scared of COVID to go to the dentist for 4 months, I loved that no one aside from those in my household had a clue. (ICYMI – here’s the tale) But when decisions were being made last summer, I knew we had to take the plunge. And, in our family, if we plunge one, we plunge all, so Number 1 came along too. (Middle school has been my jam for about 20 years so he was covered.)

Still, walking away from the system we’ve all known was hard. I’ve been a teacher for a lot of years, in a lot of places and in a lot of subjects over the years. In that time, I’ve developed some pretty granola crunchy ideas and philosophies about how to teach. Those crunchy ideas got reaffirmed as I dipped my toe into the public-school systems and watched special ed kids like my Nugget get shoved into the corners. If I was ever going to put my philosophies to the test, COVID was providing an opportunity, but I wasn’t sure if I had the cajones to take it. Could we really learn at home? Would they drive me insane? Did I have the ability to teach every subject? Would my kids turn into total freaks? I mean, with this weirdo for a mother, their freak quotient was already high. Most of all, would they resent the fact that I chose to experiment with an entire year of their educational lives?(Due to their crazy Turkish father, whose warning for everything is, ‘You do that and you can die.’ I’ve been building up therapy funds since birth so I was covered if they did.)

Well, I am pleased to say that this year was a smashing success and totally worth it. We spent hours on Cape Cod chasing seals and exploring salt marshes. We investigated Egypt by mummifying Barbies and making death masks. We researched their Ottoman heritage, built up Turkish vocab and learned their genetic link to Genghis Khan. (Which explained so much.) We dissected lobsters and owl pellets, measured the sizes of whales down our driveway and blew up lots of things – sometimes intentionally. We identified turds in our yard (fox, in case you were curious) and built Spartan helmets. We modeled the feudal system with Skittles and learned to make stuffed grape leaves. We hiked bogs and built catapults, wrote ridiculous tales and researched politics. We watched Young Frankenstein and read Mary Shelley. We studied chemical reactions and made Periodic table trading cards. Nugs went from reading below grade level at the end of 1^st grade to reading way above grade level and Number 1 read more novels than he has in his life and actually enjoyed it. They had book-talks with Aunties and practiced Turkish with family. And while Number 1 mastered pre-Algebra, Nugs went from not quite getting addition in his sped math class to starting multiplication with Mom. We. Kicked. Ass. And we did twice the work in half the time.

There were also days I wanted to set them on fire. At least once a month I threatened to call a sub – their father – because I couldn’t stand them anymore. (As Number 1 said, “There is absolutely nothing worse than Baba helping with math Mom. Nothing.” They can’t even imagine how bad it would be to have him teach English since he’s still working on it himself.) There were freezing winter days I made them go outside because they were asshats and I dealt with constant panic that I wasn’t doing enough. I haven’t peed alone since before COVID and there was literally never a break. I’m far more exhausted than after a year at school, but…it was worth it. I got to stop time. I got to spend extra time with my babies before they’re teenagers. I got to snuggle and read books in front of the fire on winter afternoons and teach my kids favorite lessons from my own years of teaching. I got to have picnics on the beach on a weekday and sleep a little later every morning. Most of all, we made our already tight bond even tighter. 

As the world creeps towards normal, decisions had to be made. After three years on a wait-list, Number 1 got into an awesome charter school for 8^th grade. He was nervous to accept the offer but he’s excited too. I’ve decided to stay out of school for a little while longer because Nugs and I are doing it again. After comparing the progress he made homeschooled versus traditional school there was no contest. Teaching your own kids all subjects is a butt ton more work than teaching one subject to 200 middle schoolers, but it’s way more fun. It’s not for the faint of heart but if your liver can handle the wine it takes and your patience is epic, I highly recommend homeschooling. But maybe check with me again after a year alone with my ADHD super spaz, just to be sure. Until then, Barry and I will be by the pool or maybe at the Copacabana, spritzer in hand.

My Home Is a Love Den For Turkeys And I Am Displeased

Lookin’ For Love in All the Wrong Places…

Here’s a quick recap for those that may need it: 

Three years ago, this crazy broad and her family bought a house in the woods of New England, but we were woefully unprepared for the vast amount of nature that comes with a house in the woods. We’ve spent the past three years fending off attacks by nature from vicious beasts like snakes, turtles, frogs, squirrels and chipmunks. We have not always prevailed. And now, amid a global pandemic and world-wide mayhem we add to this another enemy, the wild turkey. Readers, as if hunting squirrels in our garage apartment and driving the snakes back to the bogs were not enough, now we’ve got a freakin’ turkey problem and her name is Debby, the horny turkey. 

            A couple weeks ago as I was upstairs making the beds, I heard a god-awful gurgling coming from the front yard. It sounded like a geriatric neighbor practicing Mongolian throat singing. Since I have no geriatric Mongolian neighbors, I sought answers and immediately found them. A big ass tom turkey was struttin’ through our property, tailfeathers flared, wailing and lookin’ for love. 

            While I’m not wooed by the sound of gurgling, apparently the hens of New England are because within moments a crew of female turkeys came crusin’ up my driveway like they pay the mortgage here. Debby, (the largest and hoochiest) led the crew. Debby gargled back at Tom Selleck (as Nugget has named him) and they all headed into the ravine for a little lovin’. At least that’s what I assumed. Not wanting to be a turkey voyeur, I pulled the blinds and left them to what I assumed was the business of procreation. 

            Fast forward to the other day when Nugget and I were deep into some double digit, second grade subtraction and once again a gurgling Mongolian throat singer seemed to be in my yard. My incredibly ADHD child threw down his pencil. “What the hell is that?”

            “I don’t know probably a sick bird. Just keep working.”

            “How am I thupposed to work like thith Mom?” (For those of you following along, it’s been a year without in-person speech therapy, and I’ll let you guess how that lisp of his ith.”)

His attention was shot so we slipped on our jackets and slid outside. 

It took one bar of the gurgling-tune to identify him. “Tom Selleck is back.” I said.

            “Yeth he ith.”

Seconds later Tom’s gurgling was joined by a similar gurgle from Debby. Debby was with the same four hoochies who’d been rollin’ in the ravine with Tom the week prior. We spotted them in the woods on the other side of our driveway, a little too close to the house. Maybe they needed a change of scenery. Maybe turkey mating requires multiple venues. Not sure and not interested in knowing more about turkey love so I crept across the driveway towards the woods and yelled. “Debby! I know what you’re doing in there! Find a new love den!”

            I don’t know if they left but it did quiet them down. My neighbors, however, likely think I have lost my damn mind. It was worth it though because Nugget gave me a whole three minutes of math afterwards. (A record for my little spaz.)

            After these episodes I decided to do some research because knowledge is power. I turned to my good friend Google and learned that April is prime mating season for wild turkeys in the Northeast. The males fight it out to see who gets the property rights, (Clearly Tom Selleck was the victor of our yard.) then the winner pushes out his plume and struts to draw the girls his way. Within the pack of hens there is a hierarchy – as in Debby is the leader of the gang and she is not about to let any Tiffany or Lacey step up on her man without a full on smackdown. Turkey love is literally like an episode of Jerry Springer. And where does Debby head to once she’s knocked up with Tom Selleck’s love spawn? A nice thicket with fallen trees on an overlook…like the ones right beside our house. Debby will repeatedly hook up with Tom Selleck until their love is secured with 9-12 eggs. For the love of god Debby! 9 to 12????? (Maybe we should rename her Debby Duggar) Then Debby sets up camp atop her eggs for the next 26-28 days.

            Debby still hasn’t hit the magic number yet though. How do I know? Today, as I was putting away the homeschool bin, I leaned into my bay window and what should I see on my front step? DEBBY! That crazy hen was scanning my yard looking for Tom Selleck! I thought there was a toddler on my step at first glance. Debbie is that big. She is Amazonian by turkey standards at well over 3 feet tall. Plus, girlfriend has some egg-laying hips. She’s the alpha hoochie for a reason. 

            My boys had just gone outside for a break when they saw her too. I screamed. They screamed. Debby screamed. I yelled through the window. “Debby! Get your ass out of here! Get off my step!” but Debby ignored me. I went to the door to shoo her off and the boys freaked. 

            “No MOM! Debby can kill you!” Number 1 screamed. “I saw it on the internet!”

            “Theth a bitch!” Nugget added. (I swear, we really are working on his potty mouth.) “I’m gonna have a turkey thandwicth for lunch juth to be mean. Take that Debbie!”

            I flung the door open hoping to catch her off guard. “Debby get your whorin’ ass off my front step! Get out! Go!” She rolled her little turkey eyes, gobbled at me and eventually relented as I shooed her back into the ravine. But she’ll be back. You can’t get rid of a horny turkey that easily…or so I read.

            When the Turk came back to the house from his above-garage office for lunch, we told him the whole Debby tale to which he asked, “Did she knock on door?”

“What?”

He stifled a laugh, “Maybe Debby get confused and was look for me. She thought they say go find handsome Turk, not go find handsome turkey.” 

            Ugh. Dad jokes.

Tonight, I’m putting some turkey burgers on the grill…just to make sure Debby knows who the real alpha hen is ‘round these woods. Watch yo-self Debby.

Talk Nerdy To Me

If you’d asked me when the Turk and I got hitched, fifteen years ago, “What’s your love language?” I would have laughed. Our love language was most likely something that included no verbalization. While we had several commonalties, our respective native languages were not included in that list. (His English was rough at best and my Turkish consisted of about ten words.)  Over the years, his English got much better (though his smart-assed children find great joy in mocking it) and I learned Turkish, so we’ve come a long way. But our love-language is still something many of the less nerdy would consider a foreign language.

To the outside eye, my husband The Turk, and I appear to be polar opposites. He’s a Turkish city boy and I grew up on a farm in Iowa before finding my true home in Philly. He’s analytical and I’m impulsive. He’s mathematical and I’m artsy. He’s quiet and reserved and I suffer from verbal diarrhea on the reg. He has to be either comfortable or drunk to get chatty and I gab like a Jewish grandmother on uppers to the check-out lady at the food store. We’re literally the poster children for “Opposites Attract.” But then there is science.

Years ago, through a crazy turn of events, I found myself teaching science and quickly learned that I’d missed my calling. Like so many 80’s ladies, I was dissuaded from the sciences and sent down a more delicate path in high school. But as a surly gal in her 40’s I embraced my new career and nerded hard. I became obsessed with freshwater conservation and biology. I took workshops, sat through webinars, and absorbed water knowledge like…well like a sponge. Runoff, contamination, macroinvertebrates, microorganisms, speed, turbidity, cyanobacteria, I loved all of it. So did the Turk. See, my husband isn’t just an engineer, he’s an environmental engineer specializing in water. Cue maximum bonding.

Suddenly all those years of editing the English on his work reports made sense. I understood terms like DO, BOD, and all the other acronyms he bandied about. For the first time our work actually had common ground. He urged me to go back to school and follow my passion for science and I was ready…until his company relocated us to Boston.  

While water science was my new jam, someone had to parent our children through a cross country move and in any relocation that goes to the lower earner. (Spoiler alert: When you’re married to an engineer and you have three degrees in the arts, you always lose.) I’m what is referred to in the expat community as the “trailing spouse.” The trailing spouse is the one who gives up his or her career to follow the higher paid spouse while also running the household before starting life all over again with each relocation. I’ve trailed the Turk to two different countries and four different states. He only had to be the trailing spouse once and he only lasted 6 months. It stinks but it’s reality.

Though my dreams of going back to school for a degree in science were dashed, our unexpected shift to homeschooling this year (Thanks Covid.) allowed me to immerse my kids in all the science their little brains can hold. Between shooting off rockets powered by Alka-Seltzer and growing different forms of mold, dissecting crustaceans and analyzing the acidity of sour candy, I’m getting my fill. When we start cataloging the macroinvertebrates from the bogs behind our house next month, I’ll be in heaven.

But there’s even more. For the past couple years, The Turk has been finishing his Masters in Engineering and my man of science, like many others, falls off the rails when it comes to the literary side of things. He can do calculations that take a ream of paper and three full days but ask the man to write an opinion paper and he’s a blubbering fool. Lucky for him he has a hot wife with an understanding of water and a degree in writing. (Full disclosure, he is doing this in his second language so I will cut him slack.)

I’ve spent the past two years proofing papers on microbiological processes, helping prep presentations on nitrogen dominance in effluent and editing the grammar on essays explaining the failure of the passivation layer which led to the lead contamination. I’ve learned how to stop the spread of numerous deadly algae and the necessity of bacteria in wastewater. It may not be the advanced education I was planning on before the relocation but it’s a damn good one.

Most importantly, all this nerd-talk has given us a total love language. I’m not sure how normal couples work, before this our most passionate discussions revolved around world politics, but now scientific water discussions form our marital foundation. The Turk and I frequently sit by the fire, sipping wine, debating the merits of chlorination in antiquated water systems. We lay in bed talking about the results of various dissolved oxygen levels. We have date nights that include deep dives into microbiology and we discuss trihalomethanes like normal couples discuss…whatever normal couples discuss. 

I can’t imagine there is a soul in the universe that looked at the two of us 15 years ago, the costume designer and the environmental engineer, and dreamed we’d be here now. But people get older and, women especially, figure out what they were really meant to do and they get there however they can. The Turk still thinks I could become a water engineer. (He has far more faith in my math skills than he should but its freakin’ adorable.) But someone still has to raise these surly kids so that science degree might have to wait until I’m in my 60’s. His confidence in me is damn flattering though. For now, I’m cool with loving discussions around flocculation, sediment and biosolids with my nerdy husband and a nice Malbec. Dreamy.

Which is Better…This…or…This?

“Can you read the last two lines?” The doctor pointed to the card I was holding with his shiney new pointer to insure social distancing.

“Sure.” I was confident. Was it blurry? Yes, but I was certain I could get through those tiny letters with ease. “R – F – P – O – C – Z”

“Good job. Now can you read the bottom two lines?”

“I just did.”

The twelve-year-old optometrist shook his head slightly in a way that made it clear he was used to dealing with those in denial. “No, I’m sorry, but there are two more lines of letters below that one.”

My mouth fell open and my now failing eyes widened. “No way! Seriously?” I wiggled the card closer, then farther as I widened my eyes to the point they were close to bugging out of my head. (Let the record state, I was actually wearing my glasses.) Finally, I performed my recently adopted signature move: bowing my head to start at the top of my glasses then slowly tilting upwards and staring down in search of a sweet spot that would let me see something…anything…with a bit of clarity. That’s when I saw it. What I thought were just lines on the little card were actually letters but there was no chance in hell I was making out a single character. “I’ll be damned.”

Doogie Houser nodded knowingly. “Looks like it’s time to refresh that prescription.”

Obvi Doogie. Why else would I be sitting in an optometrist’s chair, fogging up my glasses in the midst of a surging pandemic?  If I could see the dust on my mantle from across the room, would I be in your office right now? No. I’d be home avoiding dusting. Since the beginning of this cootie-infused hell called 2020, I’d noticed my old bifocals were beginning to fail me. That’s when I patented my afore-mentioned head nod in search of a sweet spot in my progressives. As the year droned on I found myself upping the font size on my e-books as well as using old-lady mode on my laptop. Things were getting ugly. Faced with the new 2020 mask-glasses-perimenopause combo which results in frequent fogging, I found myself often trying to go sans spectacles. After I walked into a pumpkin display at the food store, I realized those days are over and Mama needed new specs.

I’ve worn glasses since 7^th grade but I’ve usually been able to survive without them in an emergency (or at least when they’re fogged over.)  But as 50 stares at me from the horizon, those days are gone. I got my first set of bifocals at 41 but I also had a newborn, so it wasn’t really a big whoop.  Upon reading my new prescription last week, I found I’d gone from a solidly mid-forties prescription of a +1.5 in my bifocals to a geriatric-leaning +2.0 this time around and the whoop was bigger, but Mama’s gotta see. A few years ago, another optometrist suggested I try the bifocal version of contacts where you wear two different lenses – one eye for distance and one for close-up. When I wasn’t even capable of finding the door to the exam room after putting them in, that idea died. Fortunately, the advent of on-line glasses purchasing has made it easy to have an array of funky and fabulous frames at my disposal to temper the pain. What a time to be blind! 

My husband, the Turk, however, is new to this game and he’s not dealing well with it. Since I was booking myself an appointment, I went ahead and booked him one too. He swore that was futile, but I’d seen him doing the wide-eyed, arm stretch thing to read fine print lately. He’s also blind as a bat at night and all of us white knuckle all the way home when he’s driving in the dark. However, he refuses to admit he’s night-blind. He has worn glasses for computer work for a few years but essentially, he’s a four-eyed noob.

His appointment was after mine, providing just enough time for us to hand-off kid care duties. He returned home just as I was filling two different carts on two different sites with frames I’d tried on virtually right on my sofa. “Well?” I prompted.

He handed me his new prescription. “I am fine. He say I just need little tweak.”

Glancing over his prescription I nearly exploded. “Did he say anything about the kind of glasses you need?”

“I don’t know. He talk a lot so I stop listening. What is he, 14? Why he look like kid?”

I stifled a giggle. “Did he mention the word bifocal?”

The Turk snapped his head at me. “NO! Why you say that word? I am not old.”  The Turk loves to remind me that I am older than him. He constantly points out that he is a child to my old age. He is 1 year and 9 months younger but to hear him, it sounds more like I’m Mrs. Robinson and he’s 19. 

A Cheshire cat grin spread across my face. These are the moments for which I live. I pointed to the glaring +2.0 on his prescription. “Looky, looky grandpa. There it is. That means you got bifocals.”

“NO!” He yelled, grabbing the paper from me then pulling it close, then far, then close again in an attempt to focus on the tiny print. “How this happen?”

As I went on a diatribe explaining the aging process to my clueless husband, I felt validated. Sure, I was older and had old lady eyes but now so did he. He didn’t even get to wean into the whole bifocals thing like I did, nor did he want to sooth the pain of aging with some purple frames or rhinestoned cat’-eyes. (Ugh. Straight men.)

BOTH of our new bifocals should be arriving next week so New Englanders, rest assured, the roads will be safe from the Turk soon. Personally, I look forward to returning to a life in 12 font and maybe even recognizing my children when they are more than 6 feet away. I can’t wait to see what I’ve been missing!

No Turkey in Turkey and Yet, I Survived

An accurate representation of how I look as I judge your choices

Can we talk? I know this year has sucked some major buffalo butt. I’m all in on that thought process but we’ve made it this far, right? And if you have a brain in your noggin and believe in science, you can see that we’re close to the end of this race so now is not the time to sprint but rather it’s time to keep slow and steady for a successful finish. (You just got a running analogy from a chunky gal on her sofa that hasn’t been running in 5 years! Epic.)  Yet suddenly, as I peer out at humanity from the comfort of little wooded compound, I see people sprintin’ like a bunch of damn fools because nothing seems to be as important right now as a slab of dry turkey with a side of family drama to celebrate Thanksgiving. 

Understand this: I don’t just love Thanksgiving. I obsess over it. If I had to choose only one holiday to celebrate for eternity, it would be Thanksgiving. It has always been my favorite for a variety of reasons, most of which being pie. I love to decorate for Thanksgiving, cook Thanksgiving food, menu plan for Thanksgiving…all of it. Scratch that, I do not love to food shop for Thanksgiving because a Karen will take you out with a sucker punch if you reach for the last brussels sprout when she’s got it on her menu, but otherwise, I love it all. But this year I will love Thanksgiving differently and you should too. 

I have some practice at this though so let me help you out. Back in my expat days I arrived in Turkey in January, giving me a solid ten months before it actually hit me that there would be no Thanksgiving or Christmas. As November drew near, there were no mentions of pilgrims or turkeys. (Ironically there are very few turkeys in Turkey and turkey is called hindi which is a derivative of Hindistan, their name for country of India….yet an Indian is called a hint. Confused? Samesies.) My husband, The Turk, had been in the US for a few years but he didn’t understand why Americans have a primal need to gorge on tryptophan on the last Thursday of November, but I assumed we’d find a way to mark the occasion. We didn’t. That morning, as my fellow Americans roasted birds and rolled out pies, I went to work teaching present continuous tense verbs to Turkish kids and supervising recess. I gave directions in broken Turkish for the middle school play that was written in English and ate kofte in the cafeteria after wishing my coworkers “Afiyet Olsun” (Enjoy your meal) before a weepy phone call home that evening. But, I survived. 

Thanksgiving didn’t happen that year, and it didn’t happen for the next two years either because that’s how life worked out. However, there were plenty more after we repatriated and thanks to those missed years, at the next Thanksgiving, the pumpkin pie was life changing and the slab of turkey tasted as good as a hot prime rib. Thanksgivings happen every year and sometimes, they just can’t unfold like the Martha Stewart dream in your head. But there’s always another one comin’ down the pike to try again.

Christmas in Turkey was much the same and I have a solid feeling that Christmas 2020 will need to be unconventional just like Thanksgiving 2020 needs to be. I didn’t have the same love for Christmas, but the ritual was still deep in my western soul. I love the warmth of the twinkle lights from trees dotting windows. I love the cheer, real or imagined, but mostly I love those two days off when things are closed and the expectation for productivity is nil. But Turkey is a Muslim country so no Jesus- no Christmas…at least not really. 

             I was lamenting the issue of missing Christmas one day at work when a coworker explained I was wrong. “Why you are saying that? We have Christmas here.”

            “Um no you don’t. Not only do we have to work on the 25^th, we also a faculty meeting.”

            “Of course, we work on 25 December. Why we not work on 25 December?”

“Because it’s Christmas.”

“No, is not.”

            “But it is.”

            “Is not.”

            “Christmas has been on December 25^th for my entire life and for the lives of those before me.”

            The young teacher crossed her arms defiantly as the lights glinted off her massive, gold necklace that spelled out ‘Allah’ in Arabic. “Is wrong. Christmas is January 1.”

            “Well, I’m sorry but according to Christianity and the Western world, Christmas is December 25^th.”

            “Is wrong.” She was steadfast.

            I didn’t want to get all Sister Margaret on her ass and school her in the concept of Christmas as taught through my seven billion years in Catechism, so I just nodded and headed off to my awaiting class of first grade Turks.

That evening the Turk confirmed my encounter. “She is right. Turks have no clue there is difference. I didn’t know until I go to America.” These were the days sans social media when people really didn’t know how Morgan in Montana or Ipek in Istanbul celebrated holidays via photos of their living rooms on Instagram. (Ahhhh the good old days when an influencer wasn’t even a thing.) “Just wait.” He said. “Next week they all put up trees and lights for New Year and have no idea that it is not Christmas.”

So, here’s the thing. Now is not the time to have a traditional holiday gathering. It sucks but we’ll live. This COVID crap-show is real and if you don’t know someone who has been directly affected, consider yourself incredibly lucky because I have dear friends who have had their lives devastated by this crap. There are many ways to celebrate the holidays -and like the Turks, many different days to do it too. Cook for your own little fam or eat a turkey hoagie in your jammies with a TastyKake pumpkin pie. You do you, just don’t do it in a big-ass, obnoxious group. I spent three years without Christmas or Thanksgiving and in the end, it made me into the over-the-top holiday diva I am today. Save the power so you are alive to go bigger next year.

Gobble, gobble and afiyet olsun from our bicultural house to you!

Homeschooling in Oz

We are almost two months into this homeschool madness and I am happy to say that not only has my wine consumption leveled out, but my kids have actually learned a few things. I know, right? I’m as surprised as you are on both counts! To be honest, unlike many parents who made this same choice to homeschool this year, I wasn’t jumping in blind to this whole education thing. In my 20 plus years I’ve taught some of society’s biggest asshats but I knew that even on my cherubs’ worst days, homeschooling them would not be that bad. Afterall, I taught English to entitled middle schoolers in a private school run by the Turkish mafia while nine months pregnant. I could certainly handle my two half-breed Turks.

Being the gal I am, I spent the month leading up to this adventure reading up on every style of homeschooling out there, from recreating school at home with a formal curriculum to the ultra-hippie unschooling (which is basically a damn free-for-all), before deciding on a spot in the middle. We’re taking an experiential, thematic, hands-on, cross-curricular, project-based educational approach here at Oz Academy. Oz Academy is the name I gave my little project not just because it’s a play on our last name, but because I can be either Glinda the Good Witch or Evillene the Wicked Witch at the drop of the hat. I like flexibility. 

So far, I’ve learned a lot through this whole experience. Like, I’ve learned that though I tried my best to make genetic odds work in my favor by mating with a math wiz, my kids did not get those genes. Conversely, I’ve learned that helping those students through that remedial 7^th grade math class last year was the most beneficial thing that ever happened in my teaching career. I’ve learned that spelling and English are boring, but they can be fun if you combine them with cool stuff like science and monster myths. I’ve learned that my Nugget isn’t possibly ADHD (as reported by past teachers) but rather he’s – hot freakin’ mess akin to a squirrel on a sugar high -level ADHD. I’ve learned my 7^th grader is a major slacker if left unattended and that my 2^nd grader didn’t really learn what he should’ve in 1^st grade. Most of all, I’ve learned that I am a big fan of not getting up at 4:30 in the morning to get to school by 7:00 and I much prefer a school day that starts at 9:00.

While there is a ton of work and I’m always tired from this process, I’m can’t imagine doing homeschool in a better geographical location. We’ve got the Mayflower and Wampanoags, Salem and Plymouth, the ocean and the bogs and so much more just minutes away. 

We’ve spent so much time on Cape Cod, we’re like the cousins the Kennedy’s don’t want to claim.

We’ve slogged through enough cranberry bogs to make our own Oceanspray commercial. (The boys are cran-grape dudes but I’m a purist)

We’ve caught snails and hermit crabs, dissected lobsters and used the leftovers for lobster rolls.

We’ve observed tides on the ocean side, then rushed across the Cape to compare the same tide on the bay side.

We’ve built Day of the Dead altars and the boys got to know about their grandfathers on both sides.

We’ve painted, drawn, sewn and sculpted.

We’ve mastered enough Turkish to get into trouble. (Nugget embraced the word ufak – pronounced like ooooo-f-u-c-k. It means small in Turkish but to Nugget it has many uses, none of them being small.)

We’ve biked miles and miles and kept Mom limping along.

We’ve made new homeschool friends and kept in touch with our homies.

We’ve read books about the Jersey Devil and compared the Boris Karloff Frankenstein with Mel Brooks’ version. 

We’ve become addicted to both the Munsters and the Adams Family.

We’ve fought over math and when it comes to pre-algebra, f-bombs have been dropped.

We’ve had to backtrack and re-teach, jump ahead and repeat.

We’ve cut days short when frustration was too much.

We’ve worked longer than expected and finished sooner than planned.

And we’ve had way more ups than downs. Ultimately, as the Covid rages again and politics crumble one thing has become clear. This decision to check out of society and take this less-than-standard approach to work and school was not an easy one but here in our little corner of the world one thing has been abundantly clear, we are exactly where we need to be in this moment and this mom is going to soak up every minute of it. (Even stinky farts when we’re snuggled in watching Morticia and Gomez.)

Perhaps the truth really came last week when the Turk eavesdropped as Nugget, my long-time special ed kid, was reading to me. That evening during cocktail hour the Turk said, “Honey, what happen to him? He can read. I hear him. He can read so good now.”

“I know right? He’s really taken off.” I beamed.

“I think maybe you know how to do this.”

*insert resting bitch face* “Ya think?”

Like I said, we’re right where we need to be.

Mother Nature Wants Me Dead and She’s Getting Closer Every Week

With much effort, I hobbled down the stairs Saturday morning. Each step required more grunting and wincing that normal but at least it was better than the week before. I may still be in my forties, but my knees didn’t get that memo. Through my best efforts of stuffing my body full of glucosamine chondroitin since about 1999, I have the knees of an 85-year-old. (Thanks genetics.) On top of that, for the second time in six years I’ve torn things inside my knee, but I’ll get to that later. That story involves a much larger animal than the one I was about to find in my living room.

“Mom, you’re not going to believe this, but it happened again.” Number 1 was wrapped up in a faux fur blanket on the sofa, sipping cocoa and watching his little brother swirl a flashlight into the fireplace like it was Studio 54. 

“Look Mom! He likth it.” Nugget switched the flashlight to flash mode and wiggled it around the dark insert just enough so I could catch a glimpse of something behind the glass, in the back corner.

“I think it’s a gerbil.” Number 1 declared.

“How in the hell would a gerbil get in our fireplace kid? What? He escaped the pet store, made a break for it but took a wrong turn which landed him on our roof before he fell down our chimney?” My son has officially hit that middle school age when all common sense and logic leaves them for a few years. (I’ve spent half of my life in middle-school so I’ve understand this horror.)

“Good point.” He nodded.

“I think itth a baby mouthe. Thee…he lookth like a baby mouthe.” As Nugget trained the light on the criminal in the corner, two little eyes glared at me.

“Oh I know you, you little…”

“No potty wordth Mom.”

This furry little fool staring out at me wasn’t the same one that was in my fireplace a month ago, but I’m pretty sure they were cousins. 

For the next few hours the furball in the fireplace and I stared at each other with distain. Thanks to the afore mentioned jacked-up knee situation, I had to spend significant time on the sofa, icing my gam and unfortunately, the sofa is directly parallel to the fireplace.

So what happened to the knee? Funny story. A couple weeks ago I was doing my miles in the cemetery across the street, rounding the corner on mile number two and a solid half-hour into solving a cold case on the true crime podcast blasting through my earphones. I had a little pain in my arthritic old knee so I thought I might end it early when my phone rang with a call from my neighbor.

“Hey, I’m right behind your house.”

“I know. Get out of there.”

“Huh?” This is when I saw my other neighbor waving at me from across the street like an airport worker flaggin’ in a big one.

“Get out. Brenda just called and there is a coyote behind you. Run.”

I froze. Instantly, I thought, “But I’m too fat to run!” but run I did. I didn’t look behind me or beside me, I just took off running as my neighbor flagged me in. It seemed the coyote ran into the woods behind me but was close enough to be considered the danger zone. Brenda explained she’d been trying to flag me down since she’d seen it start across the street but couldn’t catch my attention. She had no idea I was closing in on the perp from a ‘78 homicide on the podcast. 15 minutes later when my adrenaline subsided and I had to walk up the huge hill that is my driveway, it became clear that something in my knee had gone awry during my daring coyote escape. A week later the doctor confirmed, (after laughing hysterically at the how-it-happened segment of the appointment), thus leading to my horizontal position on the sofa when the Turk decided he was going to extract the beast in my fireplace. 

“I get him out now. He is so cute. We cannot let him die there.” 

“Come on, I might be cold-hearted but no one said anything about leaving the furball in there to die.”

The Turk was holding a towel as he went for the handle on the only thing separating my home from a soot-covered animal. 

“What’s your plan?”

“I just open and grab him.”

Visions of my family chasing a crazed rodent through three floors flashed before me. “Hell no fool. Have you seen that thing?” And that’s when the fluffy rodent took his cue and began jumping frantically in front of the fireplace door.

“What the hell he is doing?”

“If you took our ADHD 7 year-old, fed him lots of sugar and then turned him into a baby squirrel, that’s what is there.”

The Turk’s eyes bulged. “Whoa.” He threw Number 1 the towel. “You hold like net and catch him if he go crazy. I just open door a crack.

Number 1 rolled his eyes. “Baba, this is not a plan.”

“It is. I go fast and if I miss you catch him like a football.”

That’s when I couldn’t take any more. I had one working leg. I was in no shape to go squirrel hunting. I hobbled into the kitchen and returned to the scene with a jar of Jiff. “Here. Put this on a plate to distract him, then you can grab him and take him out.”

The Turk rolled his eyes. “That is stupid.”

“Actually Baba, that makes sense.” Number 1 went on to quote something he’d seen online about animal behavior to justify my plan and thankfully, eventually, convinced his insane father to give it a try. I wasn’t considering animal behavior. I was just going from a commonsense standpoint. If someone wanted to catch me, (aside from a coyote) I could be easily distracted by a little peanut-butter. Add chocolate to the peanut-butter and I’m yours.

Moments later, the Turk scooped up a peanut-butter covered furball and deposited him outside. Nugget followed behind with the remaining peanut-butter because he worried the little guy might still be hungry. “He can thare with hith thquirrel friends.”

Just another, typical weekend in our insane homestead. Thanks 2020!

Decisions Have Been Made…Forward Ho!

I started teaching by doing art classes for kids in college. After grad school I taught in Philadelphia, then in Turkey, Iowa, Indiana and Massachusetts. I’ve taught everything from art to science and a million things in-between. Until recently, (and except for teaching for the Turkish mafia at that one school…) I’ve always been in progressive education. I believe in progressive education because it’s hands-on, experiential, project based and above all else, student led. There is nothing like sitting with a class and asking them what they want to learn then boiling it down to a curriculum. For close to 25 years I have passionately followed my students on crazy academic adventures while touting the importance of making learners not memorizers. I’ve been watching light-bulb moments from surprising sources for my entire career and it has fed me.

Twice in my life I’ve ventured into public education, never lasting more than a couple years at best because public education is so very different than those places I’ve taught and it’s frustrating. Public education in the US is broken but tradition is strong and we’re all scared to change it. I was scared to change it. My own kids went through public education and we did ok for a while but this year, even before the world exploded and sent us all into our foxholes for home learning, I sensed my boys losing their light.

Nugget is in special education. Between being Hard of Hearing, ADHD (as hell!) and in need of occupational and speech therapies, he’s also very young for his grade so he needed that nudge that comes from special education. He wasn’t a huge fan of school but he did well for a few years, until first grade stole his light. When he couldn’t stay focused or keep up with the math, he was left to falter. He sunk into a hole whose sides were made of self-loathing, low confidence and a hatred of school. Thankfully, that’s about when Covid hit and I got a front seat to his situation.

Likewise, my 6^th grader was miserable. “Mom, it’s just so boring. Why do they just talk about things but never let us do it?” If I were not literally in his classes for my own job I would assume he was exaggerating but he wasn’t. I saw it every day myself. He was earning High Honors without doing homework or needing any help at home. Now, he’s no dummy but he’s also no boy genius. He simply wasn’t challenged, and it was killing him. He was bored and resentful.

I knew these things but like most of society, I wasn’t sure what to do. I’d always dreamed of homeschooling Nugget but finances didn’t allow for it. I knew his learning style wasn’t conductive to standard public-school methodology but what could I do until we could find a way for me to stay home? Plus, my view of homeschooling was very tainted by the anti-Darwin, militant Christian homeschoolers I’d met in Indiana. I didn’t want to be lumped into that.

We got Number 1 into a new charter school for the following year but in my gut I wasn’t sure that was the right move either. I waited anxiously all summer as the public turned on teachers, calling us everything from lazy union hacks to ungrateful slackers. (Hey? Weren’t you all just calling us heroes a few months ago when you got stuck teaching your own children and realized what buttheads they are? Whatevs.) I Zoomed into school committee and union negotiation meetings (while sucking back medicinal boxed wine) hoping, as the Quakers say, a way forward would open. But it didn’t and the union is still fighting valiantly.

Early on in this whole Covid mess, the Massachusetts head of education gave an empowering address about how this is the time to look at how we do things. This was the time for us to get progressive and make changes. My heart leapt as I screamed, “Hell yes!” startling my kids and cat. This was what I had been preaching for 20+ years. But now this is the same man who demands teachers sit in their classrooms to remotely address students because teachers should not be trusted to work from home. (Though we did it successfully for months prior.) It seemed that even in times as unprecedented as this and in a state as progressive as mine, the comfort of tradition paralyzes.

About a month ago, my husband, the Turk, and I were sipping cocktails in the treehouse and it all hit. “I can’t do this.” I said.

“Do what?”

“I can’t put the kids through this school mess. Nugget reads lips. He can’t read lips if everyone’s in a mask so it will be worse than last year and Number 1 is miserable. There is a better way to educate kids than this. I don’t want to do it like this for them.”

My dear husband simply said, “Don’t.”

“But what about money?”

“Honey, we have no money in Turkey and we make it. We have no money in Philadelphia and we make it. We always figure out. Now is for kids. We make it.”

Within days I devoured a million articles and books about homeschooling and soon found that there were very limited anti-Darwin militant Christian homeschoolers here in New England, but lots of hippies(and former teachers) like me that didn’t believe in the system anymore. I cheered along to podcasts about creating learners instead of memorizers as I went on my walks (I looked like a nutjob but I was moved.) and was empowered to rewrite my children’s education path and homeschool for the next year.

So Mrs. O is trading in her title. The boys helped create our curriculum and we managed to find a way to spend most of the first month at the beach doing everything from reading currents to analyzing bryozoans. (When mom taught science and dad is a water engineer, we go hard in the science zone.) We’re all excited about this new page and I’m proud of myself for putting my money where my mouth is and taking this philosophical plunge. The Quakers were right, a way forward did appear, just not where I was watching.

As is always the case with us, we never know what’s next so stay tuned because it’s bound to be interesting!

 

Fair Thee…Oh Well

I’m not sure how your summer has been, but here in Massachusetts it’s been less than awesome. In addition to sharks, (which are still eating people, if case you wondered,) we’ve added jellyfish the size of Micronesia that look like massive blood clots. Pretty. We’ve taken the nation’s standard mosquitoes and elevated ours to deadly EEE mosquitoes. Oh yes, our mosquitoes cause your brain to swell and, quite often kill you. Of course, our ‘hood was the first to reach critical threat level and we’ve had a dusk to dawn curfew for weeks that will continue until the first frost. Awesome. Then of course there’s the whole Covid mess keeping us locked up. Thanks to the Covid, you can’t come visit us unless you’re from a handful of nearby states and we can’t come see you either. And for the cherry on the sundae, we’re in a rare drought that has killed off half of my garden against my best attempts and it’s been hot as balls in a place that isn’t supposed to be hot as balls. So, how’s summer you ask? Pretty typical for this year. 2020 Sucks.

One of the worst parts about this summer of 2020 is that there is basically nothing to do besides whine, complain and fight about opening schools. (I have literally run out of eye-rolls for this whole school topic. Ugh. Make it end.) Generally during this time of year, I enjoy forcing my family to accompany me to arts festivals, county fairs, and freak fests. I make them oooooooh and ahhhhhhh at paintings of sand dollars and smell candles made by stinky hippies. I adore exposing my sheltered husband, The Turk, to freakish American things like renaissance faires and carnivals. I’ve forced him to tour various state fairs as I painstakingly regale him with tales of my childhood as a competitive cattle showman and pie baker while we snarf down fried fat topped with sugar. This is my happiness. This is summer.

But thanks to 2020 that joy was dashed. No funnel cakes. No gargantuan pumpkins. No cow poop. No polygamist lion tamers in Renaissance attire. No joy. 2020 sucks. Instead, we’ve done as we have for the past six months and stayed home. Thankfully, our 3-foot deep pool provides me with enough room to paddle around on a noodle and sip spritzers, otherwise, I’d have done a Thelma and Louise ending months ago.

While many friends have been given respite by sending the kids to grandma’s, 2020 meant grandma couldn’t visit because she was from one of “those” states. The Turk remains hidden in his basement office and I knew if I didn’t want to visit the Betty Ford Clinic post Covid, I needed a plan.

“Boys, it’s fair time.  We’re going to do 4-H projects like we’re prepping for the county fair!” I announced only to be met with the larger than average looks of confusion.

“Whath a 4-H?” Nugget lisped.

As a kid back in Iowa there was literally nothing to do. (I remind my kids of this when they whine that the ocean is cold. “Suck it up kids, there’s no ocean in Iowa.”) So to keep us busy, my parents put us in 4-H the day we hit the 9 year-old eligibility date, meaning our summers were completely devoted to preparing projects and animals for the county fair. This also meant my mother got to farm me out to those who held skills she did not. (80’s parents were legendary at that.) I went to her girlfriend Karen for sewing, Grandma Pete for upholstery and refinishing, Dad for woodworking and my other Grandma for pies and bread baking. By the time I was a teenager, I could Martha Stewart with the best of them and had the purple ribbons and State Fair cred to show for it and my mother had peace and quiet.

“We’re going to refinish, reupholster, paint, sand and sew.” And while most 12 and 7 year-old boys would likely run at such a suggestion, Covid boredom has been rough on the youth of America and they jumped at the prospect.

We started by stripping down some old stools from the garage. Nugget stripped off the  cracked and crumbled pleather like he’d been stripping his whole life and his brother was handy with the staple remover. Though I was reluctant at first, Nugget convinced me to turn him loose with the electric sander.

“Tthththththththththeeeeeeeeeeeeeee  Mmmmmmoooooooooommmmmmmmm!” His whole body shook and his teeth chattered the entire time but he was a master. Number 1 was our design lead. He chose a nice navy paint for the legs and three contrasting fabrics for the seats because, “That’s who we are as a family Mom, a colorful mess.”

It took a few days of hard work and lots of staples but we are now dining on our posh creations. The Turk was probably the most impressed and even sent photos to his mother in Turkey. “I cannot believe you guys made these and I cannot believe I like them.” We definitely earned a purple ribbon.

Next we sewed floor pillows for the living room with Number 1 running the sewing machine and Nugget taking on the role of lead stuffer. Those were a solid blue ribbon with state fair advancement.

We had one round of zucchini bread with zucchini from our garden, (Before death by drought) and it was bad. It would’ve gotten a white ribbon for sure but we took a second shot and upgraded to a recipe from Auntie Martha Stewart and hit it out of the park.  Likewise, Number 1 mastered a chocolate cookie recipe to die for.

Currently, we’re sanding down an old coffee table for a lesson about stain and then we’re learning to make pasta. This plan has kept them busy, excited and hopefully laid the ground for some life skills. So while we might not get the ribbons in real-life, we’re earning them. The only problem with this plan is that I didn’t get to farm them out for a damn thing yet. Friends that make wine, where are you? I’ll send them your way.

Here’s the final products so far!

 

Our stools

Our floor pillows

SQUIRREL in the Hole!

I know, I know. You’re sitting at home, hopefully staying a responsible six feet from every fool that does not share your immediate DNA or a significant love connection, and you are dying to know about any updates with the squirrels on the Ozemet Compound. (oh, FYI – I’ve recently decided to changed the title from homestead to compound since it sounds more badass and since I really haven’t left since somewhere around March. I’m considering putting in some driveway spikes to keep out the maskless if this crap continues much longer. My compound, my rules.) I get it readers. My pain is your entertainment. So, you’re up on the news. You’ve binge watched all your brain can handle and now you absolutely must know…did the squirrels finally come to kill the Turk? Don’t worry. I’ve got updates.

To recap our spring, we were invaded by squirrels (Of course we were because, 2020.) My husband, The Turk, used some hard-earned Turkish Commando experience to battle the furry bastards. He finally managed to trap a wayward squirrel, or as I like to call them, fluffy-tailed-rats, in our above-garage mother-in-law suite. While he caught one, weeks later we found his friend in a rough state of decomposition. Though a squirrel crime scene was disgusting, this was finally the necessary prod The Turk needed to begin the much-needed renovation and give us some extra space.

The first step was to clean up the crime scene then seal off the area so not one, single fluffy-tailed-rat could penetrate the premises ever again. While this put our human minds at ease, it really pissed off the squirrels who’d taken up residence.  During the process, numerous fluffy-tailed rats stalked, threatened and vowed retribution. They peered in the windows and stood on branches outside our bedroom squeaking what could only be death threats at the Turk for stealing back our home.

However, after the snakes moved in, (again, read all about the annual snake invasion here) things started to simmer down, until last weekend. The Turk and I were upstairs folding laundy when a kid-scream pierced our peace.

“BABA!!!! BABA!!! There’s a squirrel in the living room!”

The Turk ran down the stairs with impressive agility for one in his mid-forties.  “Where he?”

Number 1 son pointed franticly to the fire place, thankfully enclosed in a steel and glass fireplace insert. “He just ran by!”

“I thaw him Baba. He wath thoooooo fat!” Nugget chimmed in.

It took a few moments but as the Turk and his mini-Turks peered at the glass door of the fireplace insert, two tiny paws and a rodent-esqe face suddenly appeared. The Turk screamed like a 13-year-old girl at a KPop concert before taking full inventory of the situation.

“What he is doing? How he get there?”

“I’d say he’s trying to watch Bob’s Burgers with us Baba.” My exact-replica son quipped.

The Turk shot him a nasty glare and the 12-year-old had the good sense to shut his pie hole.

“Don’t open that fireplace door Baba! He’th totally gonna get out and run all over our house.” Nugget added, never one to be left out.

By the time I arrived on the scene the Turk was shining a flashlight around and making squirrel noises.

“There isn’t really a squirrel in there is there?” I’m not sure why I possibly doubted this, (Because, 2020.)

“He is here but he not showing his face. Look.” He shined his flashlight onto the glass to reveal a multitude of fluffy-tailed-rat handprints reminiscent of a window adjacent to a toddler car-seat.

The next morning, following my coffee with Al Roaker, I flipped off the television and a small face appeared below it. Two rodent hands framed a fat, black face in the glass of our fireplace insert. “HONEY!!!! HE’S BACK!”

This time the Turk flew to my side. “What is dat?”

“I’m not sure. I think it’s a mouse.”

“It so fat. Maybe it is rat.”

“If there is a damn rat in my fireplace it’s done. I’m moving. There is no other way.” (Some things are non-negotiable in my existence.) Thankfully at that moment he turned and revealed a battered and balding, yet still identifiable, fluffy tail. “He’s one of them.”

“That is it. Now I set trap. Game on bastard.”

I must admit, I love it when the Turk goes all Midnight Express. At this same moment our  large and incredibly surly cat sauntered by and glared at our new resident who was still peering out from behind the glass. “Get him Cengiz! Get the intruder.” I’d assumed that a lifelong housecat had some internal kill switch that would kick in whenever he was presented with a rodent. Nope. Cengiz gave me a look that said, “I am not your pawn woman” before taking his usual spot in the sun where he proceeded to lick his missing testicles.

Hours later the little face disappeared, and he hasn’t been seen since. In response, both the Turk and I began our preventative measures. I scheduled a chimney cleaning that I’d been putting off since last fall. I plan to have my chimney sweep investigate the invasion and put an end to any more. Meanwhile, the Turk has planned out a Rube Goldberg-esque contraption that will fit perfectly within the fireplace insert with all the bells and whistles necessary to scare off the entire squirrel community. All we can do now is cross our fingers and hope my chimney sweep shows up first.