Today we painted. So we had a good day. It felt nice to stay home and not have to be careful what I said or how I moved. If I cussed I didn’t have to feel guilty. (My kids tune out my frustrated grumbling.) Really, I didn’t grumble much today other than when I slammed my finger twice in five minutes. I was using a sharp metal tool. That sucked donkey dick and yes I yelled “fuck”. I don’t feel bad. My kids just say, “Oh poor mommy. Do you need a kiss?”

I got a new letter of recommendation from my therapist. It is time to renew my medical card. I feel pretty shitty about the way I was described. It is simple and literal and accurate and yup my body sucks. But there are no cats in America and the streets are paved with cheese so everything will turn out fine.

“Do you like being this way?” No, not so much.

But today I got to paint a picture. (Bailey-I didn’t see your comment until I was wearing jammies.)

The kids helped a lot, more than you would guess by the final product. You can’t tell in the picture but I used a bunch of glitter all over. It’s sparkly and fun.

I’m going to bring the armoire like piece of furniture out of the playroom and create a false wall so that the kids can have a “play room” behind it in the corner of the garage. I’m going to bring the play kitchen out here.

Moving things around my house is satisfying to a ridiculous degree. I feel kind of lame about how much pleasure I get from rearranging my house.

Our needs change. I rearrange based on what best suits our current needs. The kids move through developmental stages and I rearrange their shit. They play with things more and with more intensity for a few weeks after a rearrange. They rediscover what they own.

I require my children to be self-starters. If you want to do something, do it. Don’t stand there and tell me to do it so you can watch and be entertained. Not so much. But I like reading educational theory books and rearranging the toys. It feels like teaching. Maybe I am still just “playing school”.

I feel self-conscious about the way I’m teaching my kids. I think that I am nurturing creativity, independence, and self-motivation. I think that because I’m following some theories I’ve read about.

I could sit here and bandy about theorist names, but I’m not trying to convince anyone that I’m right so whatever.

I get two chances in this lifetime to really teach children the way I theoretically think is best. That’s a complicated thing. Modeling and experience and practice and freedom. But how much freedom do my kids really have?

It’s complicated. How much freedom do most kids have? I’m pretty controlling about the things I’m controlling about. (We have chores, dernit. I require manners. I respond very poorly to pestering. Etc.)

I’ve asked Shanna a couple of times if she thinks that she will be sad about missing first grade. I asked her if she wanted to go. When I explained how many hours she would have to be there she changed her mind.

I don’t think I’m trapping them. I think I’m keeping them in a bubble. I have mixed feelings about that.

So many mixed feelings.

I think I’m going to stay home more for a bit. I need to focus more on the kids. At least, this is what I think I will do. Who knows. Maybe I’ll be a jerk and not pay attention to them. It will honestly depend on how much babysitting I figure out. When I “don’t pay attention to them” it means I sit in the room with them and read. I make lunch and clean up and answer questions and what have you. But I don’t do much directing. They have to entertain themselves. They are great at it. But they are hurricanes.

Mess, mess, everywhere! Cause that’s just the chaos we live in. I keep thinking about becoming like those wonderfully mean home schooling moms who only let their kids have art supplies and outside toys. I’ve read about it on the internet. I don’t think I will do it though. I don’t buy stuff for them. It just arrives. They have grandparents who are slowly mailing them a legacy of toys from multiple generations in their family. Oh man. I couldn’t say “no toys”. It would be fucked up.

So I sigh deeply and clean the fucking floor again. I don’t insist on them cleaning up their rooms most of the time. I do insist they clean up the living room. Common space must be respected. I do require you to clean the floor in your room often enough to vacuum because we get bugs. Whether I am a fascist or not I live in a swamp and them’s the rules buddy.

I feel sad that my therapist can accurately say that my relationships are short and argumentative. I hope my relationship with my children goes better than that. So far so good.

Time to run.