Mom & Pop Home School

Butterfly! The first one emerged today. We’re so excited! No time for much of a post, but just wanted to note that it’s happened–day 21. Fun, fun, fun.

Susy! The mystery photo is indeed of Bob, the king of our Madegascar hissing cockroaches. Here he is from a little further away:

Bob is about as long as your pinkie finger and likes carrots. So Susy, are you still hungry? I understand they serve these big roaches up all the time on Fear Factor. Eeew!

I have to admit I’m a little disappointed that out of the ten or so of you who stopped by yesterday only two of you were brave enough to venture a guess. But we got Doc on board (who, unless I miss my guess, is my brother. Hi, D.!) So it was worth it…lol. We’ll have to do this again sometime to give the rest of you a chance to play too.

Ok, I’m in a goofy sort of mood. Let’s play a game, shall we? Below is a close-up photograph of something that has been mentioned on this blog. Whoever guesses what it is first wins! Wins what? Aaaaahhhhmmmm….just…uh….wins. That’s all. Ok…um….ready? Go!

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The year is waning here in the West, and we all know what that means. What’s that you say? The red and gold glow of the sun on the leaves of the trees up and down all the mountainsides, and crisp autumn evenings under the harvest moon? Harvest festivals and hot spicy cider, pumpkin pies, and apple cobbler, and corn mazes? Well….yeah….but what I was thinking of was the tumble weeds. We’ve got some monsterous ones back behind the playhouse in the yard in that corner where all the neighborhood trash gets drifted in by the ceasless valley wind (we’d evict them, but new ones would move in almost immediately). We’ve got several doosies down the window wells, staring their prickly stares accusingly in at the basement windows (no, they may not come in from the cold). And there always seems to be a restless tumbleweed to dodge when out getting the mail. But the funniest was one that tried to execute a mad-dash hit and run on Sunshine and me in the K-Mart parking lot the other day. We were hurrying toward the store, holding the collars of our coats shut against the gusting, dusty wind with our free hands (I am not allowed to walk across the parking lot without holding someone’s hand), when all of a sudden, Sunshine looked up and saw a small herd of prarie bowling balls hurtling toward us. One veered away from the flock, evidently bent on running the two of us viciously down. “MOM!” shrilled Sunhine over the howl of the wind. “Look out! Here comes a trouble weed!”

Cricket invited a friend over this afternoon. He (1)looked up the phone number himself, (2) dialed the phone himself, (3) calmly and confidently identified himself to the person who answered the phone, and stated his business, (4) waited calmly for his friend to come to the phone, (5) conversed with said friend in a friendly manner, (6) checked with his Mom to see if an alternate time frame would be acceptible, (7) reported Mom’s response to the friend on the phone, (8) verified the arrangements, (9) appropriately ended the conversation, and (10) hung up the phone himself.

Now, those of you who have known Cricket for any length of time will probably be aware of this already, but for those of you who may be new to the picture here, THIS IS INCREDIBLE!!!!

Out of these ten steps, the number he would have seriously balked at, or needed coaching or other assistance, or completely melted down in the face of at around this time last year would have been in the neighborhood of….oh….say….ten. A year ago….well, six months ago, really, he might have been willing to talk on the phone if I gave him a script in advance, and practiced with him, dialed the phone for him, and stood there with my ear by the receiver prompting him when to say hello, when to start in on the script, when to say goodbye, and giving assistance if (when) at any point the friend on the other end of the conversation deviated too far from the prepared script. So I am REALLY PSYCHED over this. It’s a “we’ve come so FAR!!” moment.

But then, icing on the cake, I reminded him of his practice session with the boy at school last week, and how his speech homework was to (if it worked with the family holiday schedule) invite a friend over, offer two choices of activities, and let the friend choose. Cricket said he KNEW (silly MOM!), and he already had two activity choices picked out. He’s ON it. What a great kid.

Today we cleaned out the (extremely swampy–whew!) tank in which dwell Mom’s pair of African clawed frogs. While Mom was mucking out the muck, the frogs were in a dishpan of clean water on the table, and Sunshine was propped up next to them uttering periodic ear-splitting shrieks (oh how I wish I could figure out how to turn the volume down!) of delight and offering erudite observations on amphibians. “Look!” she called out, “This kinda frog has fingers! The boy frog is tickling the girl frog with his fingers. Mom, can frogs laugh?” That sort of thing. But my absolute favorite of her absolute pronouncements came when I allowed her to carefully touch the frogs. She tried to scoop one up in her hands, only to have it slide smoothly out of her grasp.

“Mom,” she announced wisely, “frogs are made of soap.”

We have a chrysalis!! Just one so far. I find it fascinating to watch the caterpillars getting ready to change. They go up to the filter paper at the top of the specimen jar and hang by their rear-end. Ok, actually I think they spin a little anchor with their spinnerettes to lodge themselves up there good. Then they hang down in this sort of J shape that they only really make at this stage of development, and they sort of fiddle with their six “true” feet, which are all up at the front end by their heads. I’m not sure why, but they almost give the impression of praying. (Our creator, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. And please, please help me come through this last great change alive and well.)

They hang there, twitching occasionally as if in pain–or ecstasy–for a day or so, and then they shed their skin. They’ve already molted several times, but each time the skin underneath has always been a larger version of what it was before–just a little extra room to grow. This time, though, when the old skin sloughs away, what’s inside is completely different. No head, no legs, no fuzzy little hairs (setae, it turns out). The chrysalis is only about half as long as the caterpillar it once was, and only maybe a millimeter or two wider at the widest point (What happened to the rest of it?). It’s a sleek envelope, inconspicuously khaki colored, but with bronze metallic bits glinting in the light. And there it hangs, between one life and the next, waiting, changing.

In some ways, being a witness to this process feels almost sacred. Here, in a little specimen cup on the “bug table” in the schoolroom corner of my kitchen, one of the wonders of the universe is taking place. That it happens somewhere on earth every day in no way makes it less of a miracle. For this one caterpillar, this one day, it is the only miracle–the one that matters, the one on which it’s life hangs; the one in which the potential to create thousands and millions and billions of almost-copies of itself down through endless generations is either created, or snuffed out forever. Everything it ever did as a caterpillar, all the times it came through the molting safely (one of its cup-mates did not), all the food it gorged itself with to store up enough energy for this moment–all of it will mean nothing if something goes wrong now. If the primal ooze inside the sleek envelope doesn’t configure in just the right way, all will be for nothing. There will be no wings. There will be no meals of nectar. There will be no more future generations of little green eggs, no larvae to pupate, metamorphose, and flutter triumphant out into the wild beyond. This is the miracle for one of God’s miraculous creations–and it’s right here in my kitchen.

Ok, maybe I am overdoing it a little. But bear with me, I’m just in that sort of frame of mind today. I really do feel this sense of wonder, this heart-deep awe at what God has made, and what He has so graciously allowed me to be a part of. I feel it even more deeply when I look at my children, and watch their long metamorphosis from helpless, howling, pink infant to toddler, to preschooler. I was noticing Sunshine’s shape the other day, and how she is losing those chubby, compact preschool proportions. Her legs are getting long and thin and gangly. Her arms are getting longer and more deft. Her face is lengthening and her little nose is no longer a pug button baby nose. She’s growing into the next phase of her life and it doesn’t seem to be very long before she will grow her wings and fly away to the world where lines must be stood in, and colored inside, and not crossed if you want to be invited to my birthday party. But I know that’s where she needs to be, soon. She is running through the house screaming like a banshee, alive with the delight of living, and she is pouting on the couch because she cannot have a friend over before breakfast, and she is standing at the screen door wanting to go to the park by herself, but not allowed to cross the street alone. And I can almost see inside her, her spirit bent in an inverted J, twiddling its little fingers and twitching itchily.

I look at my Cricket. My own. His shoulders are broadening, and his pants are shorter every time he wears them, heading into awkward pre-adolescence. He is, perhaps, inside his chrysalis, rearranging the primeval ooze, trying to find the pattern that will allow him to emerge into a life that is best suited to other kinds of wings than his. His way will not be the way of his eager butterfly-hearted sister. But he is finding a way. And I really believe today, deep down I know, that he is going to be okay. He will find his own miracles in life. He will grow and change and transform until he will be able to flutter, if not along the same path as others, at least as high and as joyously. He will bring his own kind of beauty, his own style of freedom with him as he emerges, and the world will be better for having him here.

So today I feel bathed in miracles. My Father in Heaven is so gracious to me. And more miracles are waiting, just around the corner…

I just have to say how astounded I am at the rate at which Painted Lady caterpillars grow. When we got them ten days ago they were one centimeter long, and one millimeter wide. Says so on our lab sheet. Today, they are four centimeters long and seven millimeters wide. I mean…if Sunshine grew that fast, in ten days she’d be twelve feet tall…

These butterflies are FUN. You should definitely do this at some point in your childrens’ lives. We had some a few years ago during the summer (for Mom–yes, I’m that much of a geek), and they were exciting. Now the kids are both at a better age to appreciate them, and they’re loving this insect unit. Every day the caterpillars are visibly bigger. Very cool. And any day now we should have chrysalissesss….chrisalisi…chrysalisae…

Ah. Dictionary.com says either chrysalises or chrisalides. Now I know.

Anyway, they only pupate for a few days, as I recall, so you get to go through the whole metamorphosis process before the kids’ attention span is completely exhausted and they lose interest.

In the science section of my website there’s an enrichment materials page for the insect unit (one of the few that’s up and running.) It lists several options for getting larvae.

Way fun. Do it.

This morning my daughter brought me the telephone. Okay, well, it was her telephone. The little blue plastic one.

“Mom,” she announced, “it’s for you.”

“Who is it?” says I.

“It’s Ern,” she explains, as if I should know who Ern is. Evidently Ern and I go waaay back.

“Oh…who’s Ern?” I ask stupidly.

“Mom.” She’s disgusted. She sighs. She rolls her eyes. She speaks very slowly and carefully so as not to unduly confuse the village idiot. “Mom. Ern is your invisible friend.”

“Oh, okay,” I say, trying not to stutter or drool or do something else that might make me look as dumb as I feel. “Um…is Ern a girl or a boy?”

More sighs. More eye rolling. “Mom. Ern is a girl AND a boy. She wants to talk to you Mom. He’s waiting.”

So Ern and I had a lovely little chat on the blue plastic phone–(s)he is…like…the invisible friend I never even new I had. And I decided that maybe more of the Life Science lessons on snails and worms had sunk in over there on the Preschool side of the table than I thought…

Well, it was Wednesday again today, which means speech and school psychiatrist sessions. I got to chat a little with the speech pathologist about her report from last week (see this post if you need a reminder of I’m talking about). She was excited (aka “interested”) because the interaction between Cricket and the other fourth graders who came in last week was so positive, appropriate and sustained. She, and we at home, have be working on helping Cricket learn appropriate greetings and leave-taking, as well as the give and take of conversational turn-taking (Aspies tend to “lecture” rather than converse). We’ve been practicing things like responding to a statement with a question about the statement and talking about things the other person wants to talk about. At first this was extremely hard. You’d introduce a topic of conversation, and he’d reply with something like, “Oh. Did you know crickets have ears on their elbows? They also….) When the four kids came in last week to bring something to Mrs. H., they started asking questions about Cricket as if he wasn’t sitting right there. She directed them to ask him. He evidently greeted them appropriately, and answered their questions, explaining about his homeschooling in a way they found interesting (one of the things they wanted to know was why he wasn’t in school anymore). They discussed the fact that he’d dyed the shirt he was wearing last week using onion skins, and he explained the process. There was good conversational turn-taking, finding things in common (something else we’ve worked on), good eye contact, appropriate tone of voice, facial expression, and body language–all at the same time (woo hoo!). When it was time to go, Cricket also engaged in appropriate leave-taking, and it was a good experience all around. In fact, it was evidently so good that the same kids came back yesterday looking for Cricket and were disappointed to learn that he only comes in on Wednesdays.

While Cricket was down in the psychiatrist’s office (whose name, confusingly enough, is also Mrs. H) Mrs. H the speech pathologist and I were sitting in the school office chatting about today’s session, and a girl came in to get something from the office ladies. Mrs. H. surreptitiously identified the girl as one of the kids involved. She had popped back in again when Cricket came back, and she greeted him enthusiastically on her way out. He returned her greeting somewhat hesitantly, but when she left he said he didn’t recognize her. I told him Mrs. H. had said she was one of the kids he talked with last week, and he perked up. He sometimes has a hard time recognizing faces when he meets up with them in a different context from where he first met them.

In this week’s speech session, Mrs. H. had arranged for a peer to come in to practice on. (Cricket does much better with adults or much younger children than he does with peers. I think it may be because in those situations a heirarchy is obvious, but a peer relationship is more egalitarian.) This was the same peer, M. from a couple of weeks ago. They didn’t hit it off back then; in trying to find something they had in common they discovered that M. dislikes video games (about which Cricket could converse for a month without drawing a breath) and Cricket dislikes sports (M.’s favorite thing). They worked together on a tricky puzzle for a while without being able to solve it, but when Mrs. H. came back from taking M. back to his class, Cricket had solved it alone. She said she was gone less than two minutes. (She had to have the answer sheet to solve it herself, evidently.) Anyway, last week they created, roll played, and practiced a script for starting out this week so that they could get off to a better start. Mrs. H. had contacted M.’s mother to see what he enjoyed. When he came in, Cricket was to greet him appropriately, state that he had Legos and Marble Works, and ask which one M. would prefer to play with. All this went smoothly today (though after it was over Cricket asked Mrs. H. why she didn’t greet M….lol. She apologized and said she’d remember next time. Busted!) Evidently M. chose Marble Works and Cricket graciously played with that even though he really wanted to play with the Legos. (This is a big thing for an Aspie also.) They played reciprocally and cooperatively and discussed what they were going to build as they went along. Mrs. H. said that there was one point at which it became apparent that Cricket needed an extra hand to hold things in place while he added a piece to keep them together. She said he looked at her and she played dumb. He shot her a you aren’t fooling anyone look, and then asked M. to help him. “Appropriately requesting help from a peer”is something they’ve been working at for a long time. (With difficult stuff like that they generally start with performing the behavior consistently with a familiar adult. Then with an unfamiliar adult. Then with a familiar peer. Then an unfamiliar peer. Then they start doing it in unfamiliar settings. It’s quite a process, but it seems to actually work, over time.) At any rate, the session was a success. She did say, laughingly, that she was a little frustrated because when M. left he said goodbye as he was walking away and without making eye contact. Oh, if only we all followed all these tidy little conversational rules all the time….lol.

Mrs. H. also said that she’d seen some amazing progress since we started homeschooling and that she agrees with me that he learns better, retains better, and is more willing to try hard things when he’s not stressed out of his mind just from being in the classroom. And who can blame him. Hooray for homeschool, eh?

The psychiatrist evidently had caught on to the fact that things were not stellar between Cricket and her. They spent today playing checkers and chatting, and she was quite impressed with his strategy skills.

So it was a good day with the professional staff today.