fried

So my modem exploded on Sunday night.

We'd steam cleaned our carpets on Saturday, and had to move all furniture, which included the computer desk, and which included the modem, which meant things got unplugged. Sounds simple enough, right?

Then we went away for the weekend, and when we got back (from an amazing trip with lots to write about), we moved the furniture back in. And I saw all these lovely little cords, and unwound them, and set up the computer again. I thought to myself, I'm going to write all about the things we saw and the things we did, and I'm going to put all these lovely photos up. And I grabbed a nice cord with a nice end bit and plugged it into the modem.

Nothing happened.

And then…

BANG! (Which was super super loud and made me hurl the modem onto the floor. I am not a brave person.)

And then…

SMOKE billowed gently out of the holes of the modem. So sweetly, as though it was just a little campfire, and was waving hello. So nice of it.

Except. I now had a dead modem.

And I still do.

So I borrowed a friend's modem and tried to make it work, but it needs somebody with an actual brain for technology to work it. Medic!

And I've tried to log into my blog with two different iphones. No luck!

And now I'm writing this on my mother's computer, while she waits for me to GET OFF so we can go on our "date." Which will be lovely—I haven't had a date with my mum in a very, very long time.

So I'm going, I'm going already. :)

But I really needed to get onto this blog to say, I'm here! I have things to say! I can't wait to say them! But I'm not going to say them today. Or even tomorrow, unless I manage to figure this all out by then.

I need to go to Modem School. I need me a Teacher! I need to learn me some computer stuff! Where do I enrol????!

a conversation

I saw a mum yesterday, a parent from my daughter's old school.

She said, "I know you from somewhere!"

Oh, me too! I said. (But I didn't try to remember where, because whenever this happens, I wrack and wrack my brains and nothing comes out. It's exhausting. Me and my pea-sized memory for practical things. But I do know who is dating Justin Timberlake. My memory is very selective. But this is now what is known as a TANGENT and I really should get back to the subject).

Anyway, she figured it out and said, "Happy Hills School?" (not the school's real name, of course)

Ah! I said. That would be from a long time ago! How are you?

We started to chat. Her daughter had been in kindergarten when my daughter began Year 1. We had a mutual acquaintance. We made small talk about how her daughter was doing now, and I asked, So who is her teacher this year?

"She's got Miss Bliff* this year. But next year I'm hoping she'll get Mrs Nibble.* She's a lot more firm than Miss Bliff. I think she's just what Millie* needs. Millie doesn't want her. She said she's scared of her. She likes Miss Bliff because she's fun. But I think with Mrs Nibble she'll finally learn something. Haha!"

Ah.

Now. Mrs Nibble was my daughter's teacher in Year 1, Term one. In the first couple of weeks of term, Mrs Nibble liked to say, "Here's your work. If you don't finish it in time, you'll have to stay in at recess/lunch."

She also used sharp words and didn't let other kids help my daughter when she was overwhelmed. She got angry with my girl for crying. She also berated her, without any kindness, in front of me. The term my daughter was with her, my girl turned from someone who absolutely loved school into someone who couldn't let me leave her sight.

Sure, I know, you can't blame one person for this. Yes, my daughter is sensitive. She gets anxious, very anxious in certain situations. This teacher and my girl were, perhaps, simply not a good fit. Some kids love her, I have heard. The parent I spoke to does. She is not a bad person. Just a firm, no nonsense teacher. Some people believe this is the best kind of teacher a kid could have.

But it makes me think of an article by Jan Hunt, from The Natural Child Project:

"Einstein wrote, "It is a very grave mistake to think that the enjoyment of seeing and searching can be promoted by means of coercion."

…

Most parents understand how difficult it is for their children to learn something when they are rushed, threatened, or given failing grades. John Holt warned that "we think badly, and even perceive badly, or not at all, when we are anxious or afraid... when we make children afraid, we stop learning dead in its tracks." "

In the environment of a firm, no nonsense teacher who used words that made my girl anxious and scared, my daughter's desire to learn and love of learning stopped dead. I have never been a fan of this style of teaching (or of detentions or collective punishment), but having read John Holt, and others who advocate teaching with respect, kindness, and reassurance, and having seen how this approach works so beautifully, I now want to YELL Holt's message from the roof tops.

When you make a child afraid! I will yell.

You stop learning! (I'll use a megaphone, I think. Maybe with an amp attached)

Dead!

In its tracks !!!

And this message will echo against the mountains; it will ride over hills and over land; it will sift in through schoolroom windows; spread into the minds of teachers and students and parents alike. It will be heard.

Oh how I wish it could be.

*none of these names are real, of course. Though they are lovely names, and perhaps they are real for someone else. I sure hope so.

new eyes

I looked around my house the other day and saw clutter. Clutter everywhere, clutter as far as the eye could see. Wow, I thought, my place looks like a bomb hit it. How did I end up living like this?

Then I took a deep breath, and looked again with new eyes. And everything I saw was a sign of learning.

Books on the couch, drawings on the desks, lego on the floor, cardboard constructions on all the surfaces, toys being made, and toy worlds in various states of existence and dismantlement (not a word, but I don't care!). They were all a sign that my kids were busy: creating, thinking, doing, being.

So I decided to look at my house instead as the Artists' Studio. Or perhaps our Lab? Or maybe our Workshop of the Mind. A place where thoughts and ideas brew and spread and get together to make new thoughts and ideas… (and where hardly anything ever gets put away!)

And I felt a whole lot better.

But then (in fact just this moment) I read the blog of my new friend, Jessica.

She is making room in her home, taking the things she doesn't need and finding a place for them where they might be needed (and wanted and loved) more. Goodwill, Freecycle, her church—stuff is leaving her house and bringing with it a whole lot of heart.

I'm sure there are many, many things in our house that could be elsewhere. Not necessarily the clutter (I mean, ahem, valuable stuff), that is currently being used, but the things crammed on shelves, in boxes, in cupboards, all these quiet and unused, waiting things. They could be bringing someone else joy, right this very minute.

So, I might have to look around with new eyes, all over again.

owning it

Yesterday, my girl decided to finish her owl.

On Monday, I had made a series of felt animals for a little friend of mine who was turning 6. I made a mama owl, three baby owls and a fox. I also wrote a story for her about these little critters (which is kind of becoming my thing—sometimes I write stories for kids on their birthdays. I love to do it, and it brings me and them a whole heap of joy).

My kids loved watching me make these things, write my words, read the story out loud at this sweet girl's birthday party. And while I was making my animals, my girl decided to make herself an owl too.

I showed her the sketch I was using to make my owls, and she consulted an owl I'd already made. She cut out all the parts and pieces she needed. This would be a blue owl, with blue eyes, blue thread and one single brown thing—the beak.

We sewed at different times of the day, with me sewing my owls and fox and my girl sewing on a wing, a button eye, another eye, another wing. I didn't help at all, and we were so content, stitching away companionably like two old biddies in our rocking chairs.

The next day was my little friend's party and we spent the whole day out. But first thing next morning, my girl went to finish her owl.

She hadn't been sewing long when I heard sounds of total frustration. I heard sighs, and "Oh no"s and then some yelling which turned into wails. I was sitting in the next room and I totally wanted to rush over and see what was wrong. I also wanted to fix it, whatever was making her sad.

But I also knew that if I belted on over there, she would think that was how things worked. You get stuck. You wail. You wait for Mum.

That makes sense if you're trying to squeeze through a doggy door, perhaps, and you're not a dog. Or have ended up on the roof, with no ladder…with someone juggling chainsaws nearby…in a thunderstorm. Mum should totally come. Running.

But if you're trying to master something new, something you have chosen to do, then I think it's worth learning a different skill. Wailing randomly and waiting for rescue shouldn't apply here.

I thought, consciously, I'm going to let her figure this one out. Either she'll have a good cry, then try again. Or, she will come, and ask for help. Either way, she will own her choice.

She stormed around the room a bit, yelled a bit more, then came to find me.

"Mum," she said, quietly, "Could you please help me with this?"

Turned out she had a knot, a big one in her blanket stitch. Turned out—and she had more of a cry here—that she always got knots, and she couldn't do blanket stitch, and "You never get knots, Mum, and I get them all the time!"

"Actually," I said (as I tried, and tried to unpick this knot), "actually, I get knots a lot too. I get them, and they're really frustrating. Aren't they?"

She nodded.

"Like, really frustrating. I get knots, and I pick them out, and then I keep going. It's harder when you're feeling impatient. If you're pulling too hard, then it just gets tighter. Doesn't it?"

She nodded again.

"You just have to be patient," I said. As I kept trying to undo this doozy of a knot. This mother of all knots. This nightmare of a knot. This undoable, un-unknottable knot.

"Guess what," I said.

"What," said my girl.

"Sometimes I get knots that I can't undo. Then I have to cut them out, and start all over again."

"No," breathed my girl.

"Yes," I said. "This happens to me all the time!"

Amazing.

So we cut the knot out.

We rethreaded the needle.

And then I proceeded to slowly, painstakingly, step-by-tiny-step, show my girl—who really, really wanted to learn—how to do a blanket stitch.

There were re-dos and moments of frustration and little tips of things I'd learned, while she did every single stitch herself.

There were moments of try this way, isn't this easier, and hey, look at that stitch, that's awesome…until suddenly, almost impossibly simply, my girl was rocking her blanket stitch. She owned that stitch. She had become Queen of the Stitch.

Her smile was so big.

And I thought, I'm teaching you something. I'm sitting here, giving you a lesson. I thought, How does this fit, in the Freedom Experiment?

It fits exactly. Because the Freedom Experiment has never been about leaving my kids alone. It has never been about having them experience all their learning without me helping, or sharing, or learning myself.

Sure, the Freedom Experiment is about independence, and empowerment, and ownership. It is about choosing a path, and finding obstacles, and finding ways around those obstacles.

But finding a way 'round includes asking someone to help, sometimes. Isn't that ownership, in itself? Saying, Hey, I'd like some help. I don't actually have this skill or this knowledge, and I'd like someone to guide me, please.

There's a place for mentors, and teachers, and helpers and guides. Absolutely. And a place for kindness and relieving frustration and reassurance. There's room for showing and teaching—as long, I think, as it's with the intention of creating strength, not powerlessness.

My girl's new skill wasn't just learning to sew a blanket stitch. It was also asking, simply and calmly, for help.

My new skill was waiting to be asked.

(And when my girl came downstairs for her cuddle this morning, she said, "Where's my owl?"

I said, "On your desk."

And she said, "I made him myself. I did the whole thing myself!"

"Yes, sweetheart," I said. "You did.")

Here he is. His name is Hoot'n Toot'n.

Isn't he a handsome fellow?

here. I. am.

Here I am.

The kids are in bed, tucked in, snuggled and sleeping. I'm listening to music so beautiful my heart creaks. My husband is out walking the dog. The night has come.

This morning I was greeted with cuddles in bed, with presents at the dining table, homemade cards, more cuddles... … Yes, you guessed it. Today marked the anniversary of me being born.

I am so glad I was.

Here I am.

Sitting and crying. Crying (just a little), and overwhelmed (just a lot).

Because I am in awe of the love I have in my life.

Love from others for me. Love from me to others. So much love I don't know how I can possibly carry it all inside me. I feel like soon it will pour out of my skin, in colours you can only find in sunlight and rain.

I said to my daughter just before she fell asleep.

Do you know that I love you so much that when I wake up in the morning, I can't wait to see you? Sometimes I wake up before you, and all I want is for you to wake up, so the day can begin and I can share it with you.

She said just before she fell asleep.

Mum, sometimes I wake up and I can't tell if you're awake because your door is shut. And I want to come in and cuddle you, but I don't want to wake you. I don't want to wake you if you are tired.

(note to self: sleep with door wide open…!)

I said to my son just before he fell asleep.

I love you so much. Thank you for being my boy. I am so so glad I am your mummy. I am so glad you exist.

He said, just before he fell asleep.

I am so so glad you are my mummy. I am so glad I am your boy. You're the best mummy ever.

Every night, I feel their love pulling me, a line tugging gently, like a thread unravelling a little as I walk down the stairs, and they drift to sleep.

When the kids have gone to bed, the night stretches out in front of me, all mine. I can stay up all night if I want and no-one will ask me for anything. I can, if I want, stay up 'til 2am, writing, thinking, dreaming. Sometimes I do, and when I go to bed, I'm utterly, totally, wiped out.

But every morning, every single time I wake up, I feel the same way. I can't wait to see my boy and my girl.

I can't wait to breathe them in.

And in this moment, I feel full to overflowing with gratitude.

Because today I get to mark my existence. I get to say, Here I am.

And I am surrounded by beauty.

I am lucky to have a dog who presses his nose against my hand, and to have mangoes. Lucky to have my health, a roof, a bed, kids who make me do my loud, embarrassing laugh, and a husband who believes I can do no wrong. Lucky to have a lap for a cat and a cat for a lap. Lucky to notice that moment just after the sun has set, when everything, everything all around, is alight. Like the whole world is glowing.

Tonight, that is how I feel. Like my whole world is glowing.

I am filled with light. Lit from within.

And all my colours are pouring out.

my girl

Yesterday was my girl's 8th birthday.

How did that happen?

I remember when she arrived, long limbed and peaceful, resting on my chest. She was so peaceful in fact, that I kept asking, "Is she all right? Is she alive?"

Of course, said the midwives. Just hold her umbilical cord, here. You will feel her heart beating.

Which is the moment my heart joined hers. Even as she became her own person, separate from me. She became mine always, her heart and my heart intertwined.

Which makes it just so extraordinary, that she is eight, that she is growing before my very eyes into her own, unique and independant person. Someone who, these days, simply does not need her mother by her side at all times.

•

Almost two years ago, just before we pulled my girl out of school, she was a wreck. As close to having a nervous breakdown as I've ever seen anyone. She barely ate; she couldn't sleep unless I lay with her the whole night. She cried at the drop of a hat and she would not, could not, leave my side.

Her fear was like a mountain lion, prowling through our house, claiming all our territory. School had become a terror for her; she curled up on the kitchen floor in the mornings, literally begging not to go.

I had to rescue her.

People supposedly 'in the know' said, "She will never learn resilience if you take her out of school now. It is just separation anxiety. Leave her to us. Leave her at the gate. Leave her and walk away."

I couldn't do it. On the second day of the second term of the most miserable year of her school life, we simply turned away from the classroom door and went back to the car. A friend stopped us on the way to the parking lot—I told her we were done, finished, leaving, and she said, "Please let me take her. She'll be all right once you're gone."

No.

She will be all right, I thought, once she knows I will not leave her to this. She will be all right once she knows I have her back, always. She will be all right when she knows she is safe.

Within two weeks of leaving school, my girl was eating, sleeping in her own bed, and smiling.

Within a month, she was becoming friends with other homeschoolers, tentatively (and with me close by).

Within the year, she was a completely different person to the terrified little girl I took out of school.

People who knew her then and see her now say, It's incredible.

I know. She is incredible. She knows we are there for her and that gives her wings. She tests those wings more and more, stretching further and further, every single day.

It is beautiful to watch. Actually, it is stunning.

•

So yesterday, my girl spent her special day with friends she's made on her homeschooling journey.

We had planned to go cuddle kittens at the RSPCA, but her friends rang and said "Please, please come over now! We just can't wait 'til later."

We ended up spending the day with them, because my girl loves them to pieces—they make her shine from the inside.

She is her true self when she is with them, and barely notices whether I come or go.

She is alight, alive, independent, entirely sure of who she is. She is the person she has become, after finding safety and finding wings.

She is also a girl separate from me.

Yesterday, I wasn't the centre of my girl's universe. Which was a bit hard to see at first, the space between me and her, when it feels like just a second ago that she came out, long-limbed and peaceful, connected to me by a cord and a heart beat.

Part of me wanted her to myself. Wanted the girl who stuck close, the girl who needed me to function. Because then I was needed, and vital, and because then I could keep the identity I've grown used to. That of rescuer, prince on horseback, knight in shining armour, superhero.

But yesterday she didn't need that kind of mum. In fact, I'd say she's pretty much done with that kind of mum, for the most part.

On the occasion of my girl's 8th birthday, I faced the fact that, every day, with steps going forward and some back, my daughter will grow and become her own person—more and more herself, more and more apart from me.

And that the wings she has grown are everything I dreamed of.

•

But today,

I will get my morning cuddles, and for that moment I will be her bright star.

(Even if she then dashes off to play with her new remote controlled car, building a crash outfit for it so she can battle her brother's car).

And I will always love her. And she will love me.

(Even if sometimes I annoy her by being too clingy, and have some separation anxiety)

And I will always be her mum.

(Even if sometimes I gallop up to rescue her, only to find she did it for herself)

Happy Birthday, beautiful girl. I do love you so.

(And ha.

I just had to remove a teeny tiny black spider from the carpet so my girl could play there.

So I have a purpose still!

Where's my cape?)

somewhere beautiful

Once upon a time, a boy and a girl

(well, actually a man and a woman.

But they're not sure they have ever grown up…)

went on a date.

But it wasn't your regular date

which starts around dinner time and

ends when you pay the babysitter.

No. This was a BIG date.

One involving a long journey, three whole days away from children,

and a lot of music.

The woman was nervous, because she had never been away from her kids this long.

The man was excited, because he really wanted to hang out with his wife and share something with her that he loved.

Both of them wanted to go, and weren't sure they should leave, and they dithered a little…

But the kind, wonderful people

who had offered to be with their children,

and wanted to be with their children, look after them, enjoy them,

all said they really, really ought to go.

(And the children were unbelievably excited at the prospect of all those sleepovers!)

So the man and the woman

were free to leave.

They left on a Friday night.

They drove their van,

which they were going to sleep in,

like hippies, or University students,

or,

like people living on the single income of a music teacher.

They drove into the night…

the woman beginning to relax a little bit more, and a little bit more

as the road unwound itself in front of them.

The first night

they slept in a little campground by a river,

and the woman saw a possum scuttling up a tree.

And she loved that she could see stars through the windows of the van

as she lay inside, beside the man she loved,

drifting off to sleep…

The next morning, they looked for the river, but it was hiding beside some trees.

They did see the moon, though…

It was

still and pale in the sky,

worn to a nub by all that shining.

They drove on

and the rain began to come down

and the man sang along to and over the top of

the hip-hop on the radio,

jazz lines over the electro-drum beat.

When they got there, it was raining.

And it rained and

rained

and rained.

People dashed from venue to venue,

where, inside,

they were rocked into stillness

by the sounds

they heard.

And when the man listened to the music

he loved

next to the woman he loved,

he cried.

There was so much beauty,

everyone there sharing a single vision—

to enjoy

something that is as hard to pin down as a star or

a field-flung butterfly

or dreams.

And the woman heard things that made her shiver and smile with delight.

And she called her children every day and they were happy.

And at night she slept next to the man, and heard the rain dance on the van roof.

Like it knew how her heart was dancing,

how the man's heart was full,

how good

this moment

was.

And then, just like that, and after all that joy,

the festival was done

and it was time to go home.

(eating pizza at night by streetlamp, after the very last concert was over)

The man and the woman

drove and drove and drove and drove.

And sometimes the rain came, and the fog,

and the road curved and bent with the hills.

And sometimes the man and the woman talked and sometimes they were

silent.

As they carried the beauty

back…

to share

with their children.