It’s Monday again and, for the first time in several weeks, instead of squeezing school lessons haphazardly into our day, I spent a large portion of the weekend planning and writing out plans for each third grade lesson that we would finish during the first part of this week. My intention at the beginning the current school year was to plan more effectively than last year so that my daughter, who tends to be much more interested in her own projects than schoolwork (so say we all), can have more visual/list-based cues that could help her stay on task. My plan was working brilliantly until our family became so busy with Fall activities that I lost my planning momentum.

This week would be different. With my planning, I would get us back on track and regain our far gone momentum. During breakfast, we read a Social Studies lesson about Elissa (Dido) of Carthage that would be the starting point to a day’s worth of Social Studies lessons. Afterwards, we went on a walk in our neighborhood to diffuse the grumpy, snippy mood in which we all awoke. My daughter and I were trying to figure out what kind of daily rhythm would be most conducive to both the completion of school work and to time for her numerous personal projects. But, that short stroll changed all my fruitful planning without intending to do so.

We noticed that some native wildflowers had started blooming and this lead to the collection and plant identification of 7 different species of wildflowers in our neighborhood. The tiny blossoms and their gentle existence changed the course of our week. We spent the entire day looking through regional plant guides and making field notes and sketches of our native plants. This seemingly small segue is actually a huge part of homeschooling. This is ultimately the ability to roam; it is one of the greatest benefits of homeschooling.

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The last time I posted about our family happenings, we were moving into a new house. It was a very emotional experience for everyone involved. A lot of feelings were raging about leaving our home of nine years and most of our little unit didn’t know how to deal with any of it. Little did we know that before we were settled, before the boxes were unpacked, we would encounter an even bigger emotional avalanche.

Today is the five month anniversary of the passing our dear pup Max. I haven’t been able to bring myself to write about it because no words are adequate. We still miss him enormously. We talk about him daily. We long for all of the, seemingly, little things that he contributed to our family – the clinking of his collar; the sleepy slinking off the bed which turned into a tail-wagging greeting at the door every time anyone came home; the grunting of dissatisfaction if we, heaven forbid, attempted to move our legs while sleeping; his nightly checks at each door before he fell asleep for the night. There are countless moments that happen throughout the day still, five months later, which remind us of how terribly we miss our Max.

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I am walking with my seven-year-old daughter to visit her house – a place where two completely dissimilar trees intertwine and form a perfect little space for my magical girl to climb. She deemed this her own many years ago when she was the only kid in the family and has since then created additional spaces to house the little ones who followed. My son’s house is next door in a little pine. Along the same strip of land, adjacent to a canal, are several other tree houses designated for cousins. But the main resident here is the little girl holding my hand as we walk to her tree for the last time. You see, this week we are moving. Due to work-commute logistics and the phenomenon of ever-growing children, we had to find a new house. Our whole brood is saddened to leave though the little three-year-old hurricane is perpetually ready for a new adventure; my husband is looking at things in a rational and positive light; my girl and I have been mourning our move before it even happens. We’ve found a lovely new house, we are heartbroken to leave.  

Nine years ago, my husband and I crossed the threshold of this 1,000 square foot dwelling and decided to live here. Honestly, it wasn’t so much that we fell in love with the space. It was nice. The neighborhood was nice. The townhouse was nice. The surrounding area was nice. But it wasn’t a matter of love at first sight. It was a matter of convenience. We had to move out of an expensive apartment as we adjusted to one income while I finished my Bachelor’s degree and a friend was moving and interested in renting out her townhouse. We simply thought it was advantageous for everyone. Nine years later, I think it was serendipity.

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It has been a devastating week in Central Florida after a senseless act of hatred claimed 49 lives and left 53 people injured – some still fighting for their lives. Of course, as a community, we have mourned previous mass shootings. We have shed tears for the victims and families of cities around the country and around the world. We have held our babies closer after all of these tragic events. We have dealt with the heavy hearts. We have tried to put ourselves in the shoes of the affected communities. We have listened to Obama give the aftermath speech time and time again. But this was different. This was right in our backyard, an hour away. The deadliest mass shooting in U.S. history. An hour away from home. In Orlando, where my (now) husband and I used to go when we skipped school (sorry, parents); where I went to college and got lost in parking garages searching for my car on an all-too-regular basis; where my husband commutes for work daily; where we take our kids on weekend trips. This time, it was our community.

This was the first time that there was no way to shelter our 7-year-old daughter from tragedy. While the week was spent trying to avoid the news in the company of our kids and trying to stay informed by quietly reading the Orlando updates; there was no way to shield this. My girl and I had to have a conversation about hate, about how someone could possibly inflict such carnage by singling out a specific demographic. We had to talk about the LGBTQ community as a safe haven and why we need to support something that should just be a given. We had to talk about how we would feel if her aunts were targeted simply because they loved one another. And with this talk, I had to erase a part of my daughter’s innocence.

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New Year’s Eve, people! New. Year’s. Eve! December 31 is always a complete mixture of emotions for me. There is excitement about prospects of the new year – new opportunities, new beginnings, new adventures. But there is a simultaneous twinge of sadness. I have always been terrible with goodbyes. Saying a farewell to a whole year of time is very difficult. All of a sudden, after mostly not giving much thought to the passing of each individual day, week, or month, time feels fleeting and the goodbye is conclusive and nostalgic. The touching moments from the year quickly stream through my memory as I squeeze my family tight knowing that this year, this beautiful year, is something that will not ever repeat itself. I find myself stubbornly wishing the ball would drop slower while eagerly anticipating the mark of January 1. Inevitably, time moves forward and then excitement strikes.

The elation of the new year lies in the new, untarnished possibilities and in the hopes and resolutions to better ourselves, our families, our lives. It’s difficult to find this same level of urgency for personal revolution at any other time unless you’re having a mortality check moment. This need for renewal certainly never happens en masse as is it does during this two-day transition from old to new year. I love hearing my loved ones’ hopes, upcoming plans, and decisions to make changes both big and small. So far, I haven’t heard anyone resolve to buy more superfluous stuff, consume more crap, spend less time focusing on people they care about, read less, yell more, take life for granted, and be less present. We perpetually strive to simplify our avalanche of clutter – both mental and physical – during this wake-up call of a new year and any of the aforementioned resolutions would be a contradiction to that sentiment of simplification and personal growth.

My biggest resolution for 2016 encompasses the quintessential new year’s hopes to be present, rid myself of excess, not take things or moments for granted. All of these hopes diverge into one main resolution to believe, just believe, and allow myself to be engulfed in magic. This thought came to me a few weeks ago when my daughter was giving a living room ballet performance while my son accompanied the dancing with a dramatized, operatic version of his own making. The dancer illustrated every detail of her costume and the set scenery as she twirled across the carpet nearly missing the coffee table. And then she said four simple words that struck me profoundly; “I’m wearing pointe shoes.”

Here I was sitting in the same spot for at least the hundredth time attentively watching the performance as always when I realized that I’m continuously being invited to believe in and reach a magical realm which I subconsciously choose not to enter. I sit on the periphery and lovingly watch the happenings inside, but I never fully enter. Yes, I play along. Yes, I pretend. Yes, I pay attention. But never have I really watched the dance while truly visualizing everything laid out before me. Never have I distanced myself from all of my mental distractions to see the pointe shoes on my barefooted dancer.

It’s not just about pretending with children. I have my ballet en pointe performance with operatic accompaniment and you have your own magic waiting – perhaps, it’s a new adventure unfolding, a new path in life, or a seemingly unattainable move. No matter the magic, 2016 is the year to start believing. The admission to this magical realm is free, but there is one stipulation for attendance; you must believe. Really, truly believe.

As the ball drops a year from now and I squeeze my people close, I want to close my eyes and see the magical moments which engulfed me and I hope you can close your eyes and witness the magic which you have created, too. Happy new year!

It’s Thanksgiving week here in the States, the official beginning to the holiday season. Finally, the weather has chilled delivering a festive feeling. Like every year, we’ll be celebrating all that we have to be thankful for by spending time with family. And then, if the biggest retailers have their way, we will be rushing out to spend all the money we have (or don’t have) on tons of useless clutter that we don’t really need on Black Friday. This afternoon I heard an advertisement on the radio that Toys R Us – which on a regular day is basically a sensory overload command station – will be opening their doors at 5 p.m. on Thanksgiving Day. So make sure you shove that turkey in your mouth very quickly so you don’t miss the deals. I would rather pay someone not to take part in any of this Black Friday shenanigans, especially at Toys R Us. But it’s all in the name of showing the people that we care about them with loads of stuff, right? The more stuff the better, they tell us.

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It’s safe to say that we have all experienced the difficulty of post-vacation. It doesn’t much matter where you went or what you did – on vacation, away from the daily minutiae (no matter how much you love your life), you become a different you. You are freer, more apt to experience new things, more likely to try new foods, you see amazing things that open your eyes to an array of new possibilities. You don’t care about getting to bed on time, because you’re on vacation! Who cares? You drink a pina colada, or five. Vacation.

Then you come home. And like a slow, annoying punch to the throat, all your normal responsibilities trickle in. It’s not that the tasks themselves are so horrible, but after seeing more of life than you do on a regular basis, all the minor details seem so absolutely insignificant, mundane to the core. Grocery shopping and laundry, seriously? The onslaught of insignificant chores is enough to induce a minor (or not so minor) depressive state. Your mind starts to examine the idea of how seldom you can feasibly travel and at that point you just want to hide under a rock for a while.

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I am a firm believer that experiences leave much bigger impression than do textbooks, so when we embarked on the homeschooling journey with our eldest kid a year ago, I told myself that field trips were a must. How much do you remember from textbooks or worksheets as opposed being “in the wild”? I’m guessing that the ratio is heavily weighted towards getting more memorable information from the real-life experiences of field trips.

My husband was lucky enough to live in Germany for a couple years as a kid. For his fifth grade trip, Dan’s teacher orchestrated a series of fundraisers so that her students could go to Holland for a week. Holland, people, HOLLAND. More than twenty years later, what do you think is one of Dan’s most prevalent school memories? It wasn’t his history textbooks that glorified Columbus, it wasn’t the hundreds of math worksheets, or any of the busy work. A school experience which he remembers more vividly than most was that fifth grade trip to Holland. Understandably so, how can a worksheet leave the same impression as stepping into Anne Frank’s hideaway? A weeklong field-trip to Holland is certainly not feasible for us currently, but we work with what we have and we savor the small field trips to parks, nature preserves, and science centers, because they absolutely still count.

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Today, my grandfather Ivan would have been 101. More than 15 years have passed since he died, but his family still spends this day reaching out to one another and remembering him.

It’s been so long, why do we still get together in the familial circles available to us in our current cities all over the globe? Why do we still cook the meals that he cooked (superior to anything we could possibly put together)? Why do we pass along anecdotes containing his warmth, his kindness, and his generosity to our children, many of whom were born more than a decade after his passing? Why is it that we still care?

Maybe it’s so that we don’t forget a person so dear to our hearts. Maybe it’s because it brings us a twinge of pain that our children, his great-grandchildren, will never be able to be in the presence of his strength and valour, his encompassing warmth and kindness. Or maybe we hope that through these stories, we are passing onto our children little pieces of a person who we wish was still physically with us. Perhaps through these miniscule remembrances, we bestow upon our children things which Dedushka Vania cannot pass on himself. And more than anything, we hope that some of his greatest attributes will make their way into our children’s personalities.

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There was really no precipice. All of a sudden, the contents of our house just went from being desirable to being an absolute nuisance. Up until a couple of years ago, our familial mentality was basically, “Yes, we’ll take these bizilbigs, blumtoopas, and wums. We might need them someday.” We stored these random objects in an assortment of boxes, which until very recently were filled to capacity. It may have been the arrival of our second child a year and a half ago that spawned this need to purge our possessions. Adding one little person to our living space may have been the breaking point in not being able to functionally fit in our space.

I liken humans to an organic substance that grows to fit into absolutely any volume. No matter what size your space is, you will grow into it. If you take a family of four living comfortably in a 1,000 sq. foot house and transplant the same people into a 2,500 sq. foot house, there is little doubt that those same four people will magically inhabit the entirety of the larger house to the same capacity as they had their smaller dwelling. We do have friends and family that are able to maintain an amazing amount of order in their homes regardless of square footage. Their beautiful living rooms are always immaculate and airy. I have an aunt whose house has not changed in literally decades. Every tea cup can be found in the exact spot in which it was housed circa 1976. Bless your pristine organization techniques and being able to maintain such structure. We, on the other hand, are the people that return from vacation and walk around a still-packed suitcase for a month before realizing that we’re missing a shoe. Even if we are getting a bit better about this, maintaining our 1,000 sq. feet of living space is really the maximum of our capabilities.

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