Background: We all went to Splash Country yesterday. It was hot and sunny, and we all got completely worn out.
More background: Freaktoe needs protein first thing in the morning. Don’t know why, but when she doesn’t get it shortly after she wakes up, she’s a different kid.
Still more background: Freaktoe is now 9. Slappy is 3. And by the way, I don’t really call our eldest Freaktoe anywhere except on this blog, but I do sometimes call the little nugget Slappy.
Fade in. It’s a little after 8:00 a.m., and I had a little more than 30 minutes to feed the kids before I needed to get myself ready so we could all make it to church on time. Slappy, still groggy and resembling a miniature homeless person, was wandering back and forth in the hall, begging anyone who would listen for her morning sippy cup of milk. Freaktoe was in front of the computer. I couldn’t immediately tell how long she’d been there, but it would become apparent soon enough.
“Freaktoe, time for breakfast. We’re out of bacon. What’s it gonna be? Peanut butter toast or vanilla Carnation?”
“Muffins.”
Not one of the choices, I thought before Slappy chimed in, whine-meter on 11. “May you get me some milk?”
“Just a minute, Slappy. We don’t have time for muffins.”
Freaktoe lost it immediately, which told me two things, neither of them good: (1) the protein window of opportunity had opened and closed; and (2) things were about to get ugly.
“Peanut butter is disGUSTing! I want muffins!” Stomp, stomp, stomp she went down the hall. When she was gone, Slappy re-appeared and reminded me that she wanted her milk. As if I’d forgotten the thirty appeals in the last sixty seconds.
Well, I sent Freaktoe to time out and turned my attention to Angela, who, in her defense, was busy doing something useful, I just can’t remember what. “Where’s Slappy’s sippy cup?”
Angela and Freaktoe responded at the same time. Freaktoe, as always, was first and loudest. “I HATE . . . Both sippy . . . PEANUT BUTTER . . . cups are . . . I WANT . . . dirty . . . MUFFINS!
After the echoed subsided, I drummed up every last ounce of false enthusiasm I had and said, “Slappy, how about some milk in a big-girl cup?”
Then Slappy lost it, bristling against the added pressures of growing older. “I don’t want a big-girl cup! I want a sippy cup!” To emphasize her point, she threw herself on the carpet and thrashed about like a beached flounder trying in vain to convulse itself back into the surf. Okay, then. Noted.
Before I could deal with that, Freaktoe started intentionally making choking noises over in the time-out chair. “Ack! Ack! Ack, Ack!” She started doing this within the last two weeks. Don’t know why. One of life’s little mysteries.
“Freaktoe, stop acting like a baby.”
Freaktoe didn’t care for this comment. She broke out in tears and went running down the hall to hide and cry. For a moment, I could hear nothing but “DON’T CALL ME A BABY!!!” rising and falling in pitch like a passing ambulance. As it faded, Slappy’s lament filled the void. “I WANT A SIPPY CUP!”
Breathing deeply, I fixed some peanut butter toast for both Freaktoe and Slappy and poured some milk into a small plastic glass for Slappy.
The cacophony of Freaktoe’s distant bawling and Slappy’s not-distant-enough screaming continued while I drank my chocolate Carnation. Eventually, though, I had Slappy and Freaktoe sulking, but sitting at the table trying to keep from diluting their peanut butter with residual tears.
It was quiet. The squall had passed and left little damage in its wake. Patience and wisdom had prevailed, and the girls had come to terms with life’s terrible disappointments. It was smooth sailing from here.
“Freaktoe, whatcha want to drink? Milk or water?”
“Water,” she says.
And then I had an idea. A Grinch-ish, wonderful, awful idea.
What would happen if I now washed out the sippy cup, filled it with milk, and gave it to
. . . Freaktoe?
Oh, how the sparks would fly!
Well, there’s no good way to finish this story except by lying, because I didn’t actually do it. I’m generally not a fan of intentionally inflicting permanent emotional damage on my loved ones. I’m happy to report that Freaktoe ate her protein and Slappy drank her milk out of a big-girl cup.
And I still have my sanity. But it could go at any moment.
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Still been busy with the job and with the Hillbilly Holiday videos. On the videos, I believe I’ve ended up with five of them:
- The View
- The Family
- The Fear
- The Sounds
- The Moves
The View is the only one that’s done, and I think it turned out pretty well. I’m going to see if I can post it for download when I get them all done.
But right now there’s that small matter of the homeschooling snake. Last week to notify the state that Freaktoe’s going solo. It appears that in Tennessee, homeschoolers have three options: (1) register with the Local Education Agency (”LEA”), a.k.a. your local school district; (2) register with a Church Related School (”CRS”), a.k.a. an umbrella school, as a homeschooler; or (3) “attend” a CRS (and still educate your child at home) as a satellite. Call them the Big Brother, the Umbrella, and the Satellite.
Big Brother
So what’s the difference? If you go the Big Brother route, you have to register with the LEA before August 1 of each year. Contact the LEA — you can find yours here — and get a couple of forms from them. You can also download the forms here. You’ll have to tell them the names, ages, and grades of your kids, and you’ll need to generally describe what subjects you’re going to teach. You’ll also have to give your own name and address. If you’re teaching K-8, you’ll need to tell them you have a high school diploma or a GED, and if you’re teaching high school, you’ll need to tell them you have a bachelor’s degree. You’ll then need to tell them how many hours you plan to teach per day (minimum of 4 hours per day for 180 days per year), and you’ll need to attach proof that your kid is up to date on immunizations. Don’t worry, it’s all on the forms. Much simpler than most private school application forms.
If you go this route, 5th, 7th, and 9th graders will need to take standardized tests during the school year. When it’s all said and done, your kid gets no diploma from the LEA.
Umbrella Schools
For some of the more paranoid types, the forms appear to be a deal breaker, and so they associate themselves with a CRS. There are two ways to do so: CRS homeschooling, and CRS satellite.
If you go the CRS homeschooling route, you don’t need to register with the LEA for elementary education, and you don’t need a bachelor’s to teach high schoolers at home. But you still have to test, and you still have to register high schoolers with the LEA. Unless . . .
Satellite Schools
. . . you go the CRS satellite route. Under this scenario, you’re basically treated as a staff member of the CRS and your home is treated as an extension of its campus. You don’t need to register with the LEA. You don’t need to test. You don’t need a bachelor’s to teach high schoolers. But . . .
. . . you do need to comply with your particular CRS requirements. There’s a list of Tennessee CRS’s here. They’re all different, so choose carefully. They may offer diplomas and other benefits, but they cost money and they have their own requirements, such as hours taught, curriculum, etc.
What To Do?
I’d say that for this year, we’ll go with Big Brother. We’re not especially paranoid. Freaktoe will be in 4th grade, so testing and teaching high schoolers without a bachelor’s are not issues. Even if they were, I’m ambivalent on the testing issue, and Angela has a bachelor’s. In elementary education. Finally, diplomas are not an issue in the 4th grade. Throw on top of all of that the flexibility and cost (free!) of the LEA option, and we have a winner — Door Number One, the LEA.
Downloading the forms now.
Another snake bites the dust.
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By the way, Kay Brooks’ TNHomeEd.com is by far the best source of information on homeschooling in Tennessee that I’ve found. Check out her site for all of the above information in much more detail.
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Jeff Foxworthy’s You Might be a Redneck If . . . 2005 Calendar for today, Tuesday, July 19:
You might be a redneck if . . . all your wedding guests were seated on the same side of the church.
And since SKBubba is no longer blogging, I’ll say it: Okay, then.
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Yeah, I’m slacking. Been working on Hillbilly Holiday videos, and nothing else has really captured my attention enough to blog about it.
So there.
But here’s a tidbit. Never buy anything online without first checking for coupons or promo codes. Check out the following sites before checking out online:
Thanks to Kim Komando, who as always, is a wealth of information, for the compilation. There are almost certainly more, and some are almost certain to pop up in the Google ads above. So check ‘em out and save some money.
Back with more later.
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It’s a two milestone day! First, I reached 1,000 visitors, and second, I received my first hate mail via comment to a post! Woo-hooo!
Okay, okay, the comment is pretty tame, but it’s still a waypost of some sort, is it not?
The comment was in response to this post expressing dismay over the selection of Oliver Stone as director for the first big budget 9-11 film. Here’s the comment, verbatim, except for the ****, of course:
Oliver Stone is more than inapt to direct this movie. I think your issue with him is that he isnt a neo-con like yourself. let them make the movie and b**** about something that matters in the world and not who is the director of a movie. Scott in miami out
Um, okay. Google “define:inapt”, and here’s what you get:
awkward: not elegant or graceful in expression; “an awkward prose style”; “a clumsy apology”; “his cumbersome writing style”; “if the rumor is true, can anything be more inept than to repeat it now?”
Forgive the snark, but the commenter’s use of the word “inapt” was too ironically apt to ignore.
B**** about something that matters in the world?
Few things matter more than terrorism these days, and any film about 9-11 must necessarily be about terrorism. You can’t divorce a film from its content. This movie, for better or worse, will go a long way toward defining the historical view of that day.
Already, memories have faded. Can you really recall, really dredge up the horror you felt as you watched slow motion footage of one of the planes simply disappear into the tower just before multiple floors of the building exploded into gigantic orange and black discs of fire? Can you really still feel the same bitter ache in your gut that you felt when you realized the small specks dropping along the silver facade of the tower were people — men, women, fathers, mothers — who had made the terrible choice of death by cement over death by flame? Can you really still recall the magnitude of your disbelief when the blankets of billowing smoke cleared to reveal that the towers were not simply ablaze but gone?
Can you really recall your heart stirring to righteous anger upon seeing footage of cheering muslims, dancing in the streets in celebration of our pain?
Perhaps a little. But pain and anger subside. Wounds heal. Memories fade. They continue to dissipate, scatter, grow faint each day as we get on with our lives. They transition into history.
Few will re-view the actual television coverage of that day. Instead, they will rely on historians’ summaries of the event captured in books, films, and other media. And history is defined as much by historians as by the histories they record.
The contest to define the character and import of 9-11 is already underway. On 9-12, we were in one accord, bound together by a simple, clear fact: a sinister band of evil people wanted to murder us and we needed to stop them at any cost. But as memories have faded, hearts have healed, and costs have come due, we have become more susceptible to outrageous claims and cloudy thinking. Our love affair with nuance has muddied the waters. Will historians capture the clarity of the 9-12 view of 9-11 or will time dilute and confuse its meaning?
The future depends on the history we create today. Not just the events of today, but the way we today memorialize the events of yesterday.
And few things in this world matter more.
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The Anchoress, experiencing a Job-like descent into darkness, beautifully articulates the mature Christian’s response to debilitating burdens.
Anchoress, I do not know who you are, but I pray for you and I thank God for your example. May your sons continue to imbue music into the ear of your heart.
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A must-read/listen. Small excerpt:
They did not bomb London because there is insufficient transparency in Congress about the Gitmo detainees; they bombed London because it is part of the Zionist-Crusader Conspiracy run by the sons of monkeys and pigs, who must submit or die.
Any questions?
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There figures to be some serious pushback on the decision to have Oliver Stone direct the first big-budget 9-11 film.
Ugh. I like Nicholas Cage, who will star, but Oliver Stone? Come on.
Here’s the real story of the last two individuals to be rescued from the WTC, sans leftist conspiracy theory. The story will need to be told and re-told and re-told as a rampart to the inevitable revisionist history to follow.
Oliver Stone? Ugh.
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My 90-something Grandma is moving, leaving the only home I ever knew her to have in the quaint little town of Richland, Iowa, not far from where the ice cream cops hand out citations for good behavior, and setting out for an elder community in Des Moines.
Naturally, everyone’s a bit uneasy about the transition, and because I’m a lawyer in the long term care industry, I’ve been asked to check out the place and its people.
I could be the facility’s worst nightmare, but that’s not me. So let’s just have a look around, shall we?
The community is called Beaverdale Estates. It’s not an assisted living facility, but a retirement community. (The continuum of long term care goes from skilled nursing facilities (SNFs, pronouned “sniffs”), which is what we do, to nursing facilities, to assisted living facilities (ALFs), to apartment and retirement communities targeted toward serving seniors and home health services.) I’ve heard that the only sector more heavily regulated than SNFs is nuclear energy, and from my experience, I don’t doubt it. You can find out just about anything you want to about SNFs and NFs, as they are subject to annual and other surveys, and the results of those surveys are public information.
ALFs are not nearly (not yet) so regulated, so it’s more difficult to find information on them. And it’s even more difficult to find critical information on retirement communities.
I was able to find out, however, that Beaverdale Estates is owned and managed by Holiday Retirement Corp., which is apparently the largest retirement housing company in the world. Here’s some puffery from their website. Their site also offers some specifics on Beaverdale Estates, and the place looks nice.
But biggest doesn’t always translate into best, right? So let’s dig a little deeper.
Holiday meets Better Business Bureau membership requirements and has a satisfactory record of having resolved customer complaints. Search for yourself here. Type “Holiday Retirement Corporation” into the search box.
A free Hoover’s factsheet is here, and it includes options for more information for a fee.
A search in the Westlaw allcases database revealed only a couple of workers’ comp cases, some complicated bankruptcy case in Connecticut involving a claim by a Holiday affiliate against a bankrupt debtor, and a slip and fall case filed against Holiday in Louisiana, which Holiday won on summary judgment.
So, based on what little information is out there, it looks good. Go visit, have a meal, talk to the folks. Assuming those things check out, it appears that Granny will be in good hands.
And she deserves the best.
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Rain.
Rain.
Horrid headache.
Because of the rain.
Five inches of rain, remnants of Tropical Storm Cindy. Don’t know where she came from, just know she’s some unwelcome windbag visiting from somewhere south of here, making my head pound.
Go away.
And so it’s probably just a lazy evening of reading until it’s late enough that I can fall asleep secure in the knowledge that I won’t wake up until it’s time.
C.S. Lewis tonight. Amazing guy. Proof that the tenets common to all Christians are sufficiently multi-layered to hold our interest for eternity without succumbing to the perverse temptation of making things interesting by focusing on the minutiae of our denominational differences.
Mere Christianity, indeed.
Odd. When I first typed “denominational,” it came out “demoninational.” Hmmm. Nothing to it, I’m sure. Probably a result of too much time listening to Rindercella in anticipation of Hillbilly Holiday, 2005. But still, hmmm.
Anyway, I learned the other day that Disney’s releasing Lewis’ The Chronicles of Narnia this Christmas season. Check out the trailer for The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe here. Can’t tell if it’s the only one planned, or if they’re going to do some or all of the others. I predict they’ll get 90% of the Harry Potter crowd and almost all of the Christian families crowd who generally don’t see many movies.
Notwithstanding people like this, I think it’ll be huge.
December 9, 2005. Plan to be there.
In the meantime, do like Freaktoe and I are doing, and read the books. She just finished The Horse and His Boy, and I, just having finished The Magician’s Nephew, am starting The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe.
Or, if you just want to watch something, rent Shadowlands.
And thank our God for Clive Staples.
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Ding! Snake’s done! Come and get it!
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So now I’m fully refreshed and ready to re-enter the blogosphere. Where to start? Sort through the various draft posts, re-read, link, and comment? De-brief on the Hillbilly Holiday? More interesting patents?
Oh, but there’s a surprise appointment with a 400-pound futon to consider. The thing’s packaged in a cardboard box the size of a coffin, which I guess I should view as a bonus, because I’ll probably need it for that very purpose after pushing the thing up the stairs.
You see, it’s all part of the re-designing of the office into a home school room for Freaktoe. Which reminds me, I need to figure out what to do, what requirements to meet, what bureaucractic hoops I need to navigate to make the government happy.
For now, though, all I need to know is that I have until August 1st to give notice to the State that our precious little Freaktoe is withdrawing from society into the cult of at-home-education. So, I guess I’ll get started on July 31st, when that snake flits its wriggling, forked tongue and rears back to bite. Because tonight, the 400 pound coffin just down the hall is hissing.
Thanks to TNHomeEd.com for boiling it all down for me.
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Yawn.
I’m awake.
. . .
Okay, okay! I’m up!
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Remember the 80-page “birthing of a pudgy legal document [that had] apparently rendered me unable to write short sentences“? Well, the asset purchase contemplated therein came to fruition last Friday, and I spent the better part of two weeks gittin her done. Quitting time last week was 10:00 p.m., 12:45 a.m., 12:15 a.m., 11:45 p.m., and 6:00 p.m., Monday through Friday respectively. This past weekend was devoted to recovering and recalibrating my internal clock.
And so passes a fortnight of blog-lessness. How much more blogless could it have been? None. None more blogless.
Thinking about all I had to do, and blog about — from compiling all of the Hillbilly Holiday posts into a nice, neat little package (a la The Sundry Perils of Bunk-Bedding); to debriefing on the actual realization of the vacation; to posting some pics; to catching up on what’s been going on in the world outside the four corners of the beastly Asset Purchase Agreement, etc. — had me a tad overwhelmed.
So I’m starting slow. Easing into it. Groaning, creaking, rolling over after a hard sleep with pasty, rancid breath to peck you on the forehead before shuffling across the Barbie-littered carpet to the shower and its promise of at least something approaching full consciousness.
And boring you to death.
But at least it’s none more blogless. But I think we’ve established that it could not have been none more blogless. Or is it none more bloglessness? Blogness?
Ah, who cares?
I’m going back to bed.
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