Letter to Bean: The Self-Driven Child and Homework

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Letter to Bean: The Self-Driven Child and Homework

Dearest Bean,

As the life popsicle of Meme’s brain slowly melts - certain calcified memories persevere. They form the popsicle stick in this metaphor.

One of Meme’s popsicle stick memories is about not being offered the choice to become a serious pianist. Apparently, Meme’s parents were told that Meme had sufficient innate piano ability to become a virtuoso if given the proper instruction. Meme’s parents declined, deciding they wanted her to have a “normal childhood” (whatever the hell that means). Meme did not know this opportunity existed until many many years later.

Even now, she can no longer remember the name of her sister, where she was born, what day it is, but the piano memory? Sharp and intact. “Corinna, I could have been a concert pianist! I would have loved that!! I could have been so good. I love music!”

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Letter to my children: Being in the Middle, Middle-Aged, or Sandwich Generation

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Dearests Beloveds,

I hope very much when you are my age I am compos mentis enough to remember what it is like to be in the middle. If not, this is why your Momma is writing, and you are welcome. Feel free to throw it in my face and have me reread - I would be honored.

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Letter to my children: Laughing contests and carnal pleasures

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Dearest Beloveds,

A few days before I headed to the hospital for my Bone Marrow Transplant, we were at dinner.

“Let’s play Animal, Vegetable, Mineral!” Clamored Bean.

“Hmmm, I am not quite sure that Momma can handle another game like last night. What was I trying to guess - a Cheetar?”

“No, Momma, it was a CheePho, half cheetah half phoenix.”

“Right, okay, I think my head may have exploded with that one.”

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Letter to my children: On presents

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Letter to my children: On presents

Dearest Beloveds,

I want to share these anecdotes with you for two reasons. Primarily when I write them down I get to relive my joy. Additionally I savor the stories of my childhood that I have been told. Despite the potential for teasing as they are shared in the years to come - I think they are wonderful, uplifting, amazing. These personality nuggets make up you as you - glorious, unique, and inimitable you. They are treasures because you are treasures.

About a week before Christmas both of you became concerned that you wanted to give gifts.

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Letter to my children: On unicorns at breakfast and Schoolsteading

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Dearest Beloveds,

The latest addition to our Homesteading Homeschooling life arrived yesterday. (I think I am am going to combine those into Schoolsteading - like Femivore.) The barn. The barn to house the stuff/equipment that seems to have multiplied in the not even 8 years that we have lived here. It is a glorious empty space and soon will have a gardening niche, beekeeping corner, handtool alley, heavy saw plaza, Tentrr station, and riding equipment boulevard - can’t wait.

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Letter to my children: On choosing a mate

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Letter to my children: On choosing a mate

Dearest Beloveds,

The word mate is so funny to me - it rhymes with skate, connotes zoos, and makes me feel as though I need a tail. Partner is a good word too, but it also works for businesses. Though, I guess, a marriage is rather like running a business (servant leadership, open book finance, negotiating, the art of compromise, long term planning, a vision - thank you Zingermans) especially once children get added to the mix. Husband and wife are loverly as well. But I think mate is the best word for what I want to talk about.

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Letter to my Bean: The Birds and the Bees

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Letter to my Bean: The Birds and the Bees

Dearest Bean,

This is one of my favorite stories to tell. The story of how you came to us. You already know that you were born and carried to term in the womb of our dear friend K – but the why and wherefore, we haven’t yet delved into. Yours my dear, is a story of medical magic and glory. The gift of your birth reset your mother’s justice scale with the medical establishment (and if that is confusing, ask your father).

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Letters to my children: De-pod-ing

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Dearest Beloveds,

I am not sure if this should be spelled depodding, or depoding (rhymes with coding), so I am going to embrace the over utilization of the dash and go with de-pod-ing. (Un-pod-ing sounds even weirder).

De-pod-ing (verb) - to de-pod The act of untangling the psychological, physical, and emotional rules/barriers/mandates that have been in place since March 2020 per Covid-19.

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