Why We Didn't Mow the Lawn and What We Did Instead

      Spring arrived in Geneva this week. Before we left for Easter Break, the mountains were snow covered, the evenings were dark, and the yard was dormant. Now the sky stays light through the evening, the flowers and leaves have exploded into color, and we walk through the sunny wood looking at the melting snow on the mountaintops. That's what Eric and I did Sunday afternoon, anyway. He was the only one I could drag along on my Adventure of Exploration along a side of the Rhone we haven't visited before.
       The Adventure was not the reason we didn't mow this weekend. Nor, really, was the fact that the ground was sodden -- which it was from day after day of rain. This is why we didn't mow the lawn:

      All the wildflowers are just too pretty! I think we're going to have to pull out the blades and cut them down this weekend, though. Otherwise, the grass may be too long to plow through.
       In addition to providing some needed beauty and light, the advent of spring has also brought on a spate of spring cleaning. The problem is that with the bright, beautiful sunshine coming through the windows, I can see the smudgy, streaky windows themselves. So we did the windows. Vinegar, newspaper, the lot. Then, sitting on the couch in a satisfied exhaustion, I happened to look at the ceiling and see wispy clusters of spiderwebs hanging all along the wall. The living room is usually Luc's responsibility, and he does the kind of job one might expect from a 13-year-old boy, which is to say that the room looks better when it isn't quite so sunny. I trotted downstairs to get the feather duster and tackled the webs. In Switzerland, the houses are very solidly built, from concrete blocks that provide excellent insulation. Unfortunately, the preferred method of treating the indoor edge of the blocks is to paint over them with textured cement, which is then whitewashed. Pictures do not hang well on this material (as our broken drill attests). All marks show up on this material. If you brush your hand on this material while walking downstairs carrying a laundry basket, you will end up with bloody knuckles. Furthermore, this material is non-dustable. The spider webs just stick in the texture as unattractive grey balls. I was about to give up on having a clean house and go find something more fun to do when I had an unfortunate brainstorm. I hauled up the vacuum cleaner, put on the dusting attachment, and sucked all the webby dust from the walls. It worked so well I took care of the lint on the laundry room walls as well. I'm now a martyr to clean walls. I also showed the children how to use the dusting attachment to manage the corners and crevices in their rooms. They are as disappointed as I in its efficacy -- living in dust was far less work.

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       When not dragging reluctant family members on hikes or discovering new ways to torture them with cleanliness, I have been leaving them in peace and hiding out with a book. I have found the perfect combination of fun and edification by reading Martha Grimes mystery novels translated into French. I will know how to call for a medical examiner or explain that I found a corpse in the woods, should the need arise. For inspiration and interest, I am also reading Faithful Women and Their Extraordinary God by Noël Piper, which tells the stories of five different women. So far, my favorite is the story of Lilias Trotter, who was rejected by mission boards because of her heart condition, but took off for Algeria anyway, not knowing anyone there or a stitch of the language. I love that she fell in love with both the landscape and the people and her creativity in finding ways to get to know the Muslim women. I love it when people love what they do, especially if it's a calling I never thought about. Purportedly for educational purposes (but mostly for enjoyment), I am reading Ivanhoe aloud to Lucas and Johanna every day after lunch. To me, the chance to read aloud would be reason enough to homeschool. I do have to agree with Mark Twain that Sir Walter Scott could have cut way down on the verbiage in Ivanhoe, but I disagree with Twain's dislike of his books. There's nothing like a mystery knight, a disinherited son, an evil templar, and even Robin Hood to start the afternoon off right. This year, we've read Tale of Two Cities (which made us all cry), The Moonstone (which kept us all in suspense for weeks), and Tom Sawyer (which made us all wish we were young scalawags in 1800s Missouri). I think we will have time for one more before school finishes (not until the end of June!). Any suggestions?

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       I did promise cooking in this blog as well, but I need to go . . . cook dinner (or the vegetable portion at least; Lucas is working on a meal inspired by Epic Mealtime which, clearly, will include no vegetables). The cooking news will have to wait.

It's the Little Things

       The child of a friend of mine recently remarked that her family had been to Paris so often that it was becoming kind of boring. Oh the trials of the expat life. I like to think that we are not spoiled by the incredible opportunity we've had to see this part of the world -- that we still find the opportunity an incredible one. On the other hand, on our recent trip, the things that we enjoyed the most were perhaps not the ones I would have expected.

Luc's Favorite Thing*:

Our hotel in Brussels was kind of a dive (comme d'habitude), but it had a great game room. Luc discovered a new enthusiasm, played about 30 games against his dad (one against me, one against Johanna, and a few against Drew -- we all preferred to read and watch), and wore a blister on his left hand.

Jo's Favorite Thing:

Johanna loves almost all younger kids, but cousins are extra-special. 

Drew's Favorite Thing:

Mini-Europe in Brussels is definitely a tourist attraction, and a kitchy one at that. None of the highbrow tour guides I looked at even mentioned it. Nonetheless,  there was something enchanting about seeing scaled-down landmarks from all the EU countries. You could also press a button to hear the national anthem of each country. I think Drew is standing in front of Stockholm, Sweden.

 Eric's Favorite Thing:

Eric and I took a run along a canal in Amsterdam. He is always looking for scenic places to run, especially ones where he doesn't have to cross streets.  (He says crossing streets breaks his rhythm . . . I never have a problem with that; I'm always thankful for a break.) The pathways along the canals are ideal. Flat, too. 

 My Favorite Thing:

We have a lot of amazing cities around us over here, but we're a little short on family. It was a huge blessing to spend Easter out in the Brussels countryside with Eric's brother, his wife, and their kids. We also got to visit the Dutch cheese lady, who makes her own gouda. And we ate Cheese-Its, watched Dora the Explorer, and laughed a lot.

*Disclaimer: These are my impressions of my family's favorite things. I didn't actually ask, as that might have upset the theme of the blog. I'm the mom, though, so I'm probably right.

Sorry

       On more than one occasion this past weekend, I would have appreciated a "sorry." I didn't need any recompense. All I wanted was an acknowledgement that indeed, my family had been subjected to an inconvenience and someone cared, just a tad.
       The first incident happened in our hotel in Amsterdam, which was called the Best Western Blue Square. It was not called this because it was on Blue Square, I think, but rather because the building itself was, indeed, a blue square. This fact made it easy to find from afar, so I appreciated it. We stayed there two nights, and no one cleaned our room. The hotel was very busy, because apparently everyone in Europe had decided, along with us, that visiting Amsterdam in the freezing cold would be a smart spring break plan. I didn't actually mind that the room wasn't cleaned; it's not like anyone cleans my room at home every day. The only reason that I mentioned the fact at all was that we needed more soap. The lady at the front desk willingly supplied the soap, but she didn't say sorry about the room. I do realize that it wasn't her own personal fault or responsibility, but in her position, I think I would have apologized anyway. In fact, I think I apologized for bothering her about the soap -- just out of habit.
       I didn't think much about that encounter until the second one. We had a 10-hour, 3-train marathon from Amsterdam to Geneva, and on the second train, someone was in our seats. When we compared tickets, we found that we had the same seat numbers. Since they were already sitting there, we found other seats, which worked fine until the people whose seats they were showed up a few stops later. One of the women (the one who was supposed to be in Eric's seat) told us that double-booking happens all the time on German trains, which seems uncharacteristically sloppy for a country I always think of as very organized. At this point, we presented our problem to the conductor. She did find us other seats, and they were in first class, which was very nice. She did not, however, apologize, not even when explaining that yes, we would need to drag our seven suitcases through narrow aisles past irritated Germans all the way from the first car on the train to the last one. Again, clearly it was not this woman's fault that someone had planned for two people to share the same seat. But as a representative of the company, I think she might have tossed off a casual, "sorry about that."
       My husband tells me that I say "sorry" too often, and he is doubtless right. But to me, apologizing is not the same thing as admitting guilt. It's simply showing some concern for another person's inconvenience and sympathizing with their plight. What's so difficult about that?
       The story gets better -- or worse. After we moved to first class, a different conductor showed up and suggested that we relocate (with all our luggage in tow, of course) to a compartment. It was only two cars away, so we said okay. Eric by this time was becoming slightly annoyed at having to hoist the heavy suitcases onto the overhead rack, but he handled it with a smile. Another conductor gave us tiny packets of gummy bears. No one, however, said "sorry." Perhaps they thought that someone else had already handled that part of the job. At one point, a fourth conductor showed up, checked our tickets, and explained that we were in the wrong seats. We counter-explained that we had been told to move here because our correct seats were full. He huffed, said "That's not right" (us? the seat assignments? the situation?), and left, looking disgusted with us.
       Despite Conductor Four, we enjoyed our new seats until Basel, where the German train was transformed invisibly into a Swiss train, with Swiss train conductors. One came to check our tickets, and I explained that we were sitting there because someone was in our real seats, and the German conductor had told us to move here. The Swiss conductor told us that we would have to pay extra, because this was a first-class compartment. My initial thought was that he was joking. He was not. Eric, in a very rare moment of almost losing his temper, told this new conductor that we had dragged our suitcases all over the train because someone made a mistake with our booking, and he didn't think we should have to pay extra for the inconvenience. The conductor did not say "sorry." He said that on a Swiss train, if you have second class tickets, you have to pay extra to sit in first class, even if there are no second class seats. Eric was about ready to move into an even more rare moment of actually losing his temper. It turns out, though, that I have recently had extensive experience with the phenomenon of rigid Swiss-ness. The Swiss have good hearts, but they cannot think outside the box. If there is a rule, they must follow it. They cannot be flexible. They do not have that gene. I may have mentioned before that I have some sympathy with this black-and-white view of the world, being a bit rigid myself. I told the conductor that we understood the rule, but would it be possible for us to just stay in our seats until the next stop, when we would be getting off anyway? After all, they usually don't kick people off trains until the next stop. He couldn't break the rule, but he was just able to give us the 20 minutes we needed to finish our trip. It was all he could do to allow us those 20 minutes, though. His parting words were: "But just until Olten. After that . . . ." Good thing we didn't need anything after that. 

The Aliens Visit the Old Country, Part 2

      We spent part of this Easter holiday returning to our roots -- or the roots of some members of the family, anyway. That is to say, we spent a day in the Netherlands, in Amsterdam. Amsterdam is famous for bicycles, canals, legalized marijuana, and the Red Light district. Our rundown: It was too cold to ride bicycles, the canals were unique and beautiful, we skipped the drugs (both the ones in on display museums and the ones for sale in coffee shops), and the only thing we saw in the Red Light district was the Oude Kerk. If we really wanted to get a feel for Holland, Amsterdam was perhaps not the best spot. The city didn't feel very Dutch to me -- whatever that means. We stayed, for example, in a Middle Eastern neighborhood. This turned out to be a good thing, because we arrived in town on Easter evening and found restaurants and stores open anyway. We were also able to eat Turkish pastries with feta and spinach for breakfast -- yum (though Eric really wanted some sweet Dutch pastry).
       One day is not really enough to do justice to Amsterdam (much less to get a feel for the country as a whole), but we did our best. We began (after the spinach and feta) with a visit to the Verzetsmuseum (Dutch Resistance Museum). The museum tells the story of Holland during the Nazi Occupation from 1940 - 1945. As Eric's granddad was part of the resistance, it was one of the main sights we wanted to see in Amsterdam. The three extremely kind ladies behind the counter spent about 20 minutes trying to make it work for all five of us to gain admission with a family ticket, even though, at 16 1/2, Drew is no longer a child (mom's note: for payment purposes only). Some members of the family were disappointed that the museum focused on all kinds of resistance, rather than just the organized kind. I thought it was fascinating and well-done. We heard about one woman who expressed her displeasure with the Nazis by naming her baby daughter after all the female members of the exiled Dutch royal family, and another couple who rescued Jewish babies from a daycare by sneaking out when the tram was passing so they couldn't be seen by watchers across the street. During the "Hungry Winter," when ration cards provided for only about 350 calories per person each day, the Dutch also ate tulip bulbs -- the museum had recipes.

Outside the Dutch Resistance Museum

There was some information about the organized resistance movement; this chart shows some of its leadership.

        Activity number two was the obligatory walk around the city to see canals, neighborhoods, and famous buildings. (We also had lunch in an Italian restaurant.)

I loved the canals and the narrow brick buildings.

The Oude Kerk, Amsterdam's oldest church. 

      We continued our multicultural Amsterdam experience with dinner at an Indian restaurant, then we visited the Anne Frank house. Johanna read The Diary of Anne Frank for French class this year, so the annex where Anne and her family hid along with several others was an essential part of the visit. I had read mixed reviews of the tour, but I found it informative and moving. I was surprised to learn that at first, Anne's father had trouble finding a publisher for the diary. Now it's been translated into 67 languages and has sold more than 30 million copies; sometimes it's difficult to tell what's going to be a hit, apparently.

The line outside the Anne Frank House. Do I hear a "Thank you, Mom, for pre-purchasing our tickets online"?
 (No, but I'm sure they're thinking it, right?)

This picture and the one below are of the street outside the Anne Frank House. I do love that architecture.

       The little we experienced of Holland made me think of Sweden. Both countries seemed very modern, compared to Switzerland, and very multicultural (Amsterdam even more so than Sweden). In both countries, I felt comfortable and welcomed as an anglophone . . . and even as an American. Both countries embrace tolerance. In both museums we visited in Amsterdam, we felt like there was such an effort to understand and accept all points of view that the atrocities of the Nazis and those who collaborated with them were almost minimized. Eric never did get his Dutch pastry, but he was delighted to find that the city was still traditional enough to sell zoute drop. It's the one candy he doesn't have to share; we may all have some Dutch in us, but no one but Eric has enough to enjoy salty black licorice. Yuck.

The Dentist's Chair (Watch out -- I use the word "drool" several times in this one.)

      I can think of no place where one is so inaccessible as the dentist's chair. I had this thought recently while sitting in the dentist's chair, listening to my cell phone ring. Not only was I flat on my back, not only was I pinned down by a tray of sharp and shiny instruments, not only was my mouth full of gauze, the dentist's hands, and some awful plastic contraption designed to keep me from closing my lips. If all this had not not enough to keep me from answering the phone, I'm not sure that the person calling would have understood me, anyway, since the right side of my mouth was completely numb. The numbness, one could say, was my own doing. The dentist had asked right away if I wanted painkillers before she drilled my tooth. That seemed like a ridiculous question, and I suppose the alacrity with which I answered was what prompted her to ask -- several times during the hour I sat in her chair -- if I would like some more painkillers.
      In French, "dentist" is one of those easy words that's the same as the English version, only with a French accent: "dahn-TEEST." The title actually makes more sense in French, since your teeth are "dents." It would be like calling American dentists "toothists" or something. When you make an appointment, it is for "Un rendez-vous chez dentiste," which, even after more than a year here, still sounds a little shady to me. I remember explaining to my French teacher that in America, a rendez-vous generally involves either spies or an illicit tryst, so I wasn't sure that I felt comfortable setting up a rendez-vous between the orthodontist and my teenaged daughter. She, however, assured me it was all perfectly above-board.
      Trapped in the dentist's chair, trying to distract oneself from the sound of drilling going on in one's own mouth, one has time and motivation for all sorts of thoughts. My first was, "Why on earth would anyone want to be a dentist?" To me, mouths are repulsive and not very interesting. I suppose maybe there is an artistic element to dentistry, and I know the pay is good, but is that enough to cause someone to put up with people drooling on their hands all day? My second thought, however, was to be thankful that not everyone shares my aversion to mouths. In particular, I was thankful for the dentiste now taking care of my mouth and letting me drool on her.
      I haven't had a cavity since before I went to college, and I wouldn't have been sitting in the chair having this one drilled if I hadn't mentioned to the hygienist, the week previous, that my very back right tooth hurt when I clenched my teeth.  I had debated not saying anything. After all, it didn't hurt much . . . and only when I bit down really hard . . . and maybe it would just disappear on its own. . . . Truly, however, I knew there was something unpleasant back there that wasn't going away. Both the hygienist and the dentist commented that they never would have known from the outside of the tooth that anything was wrong. It was only my discomfort and the x-ray that showed them the nasty truth. I spent several moments, my mouth open unnaturally wide and the painkillers not completely killing all sensation, wishing that I hadn't said anything. I wondered what would have happened. Would the cavity have remained only a small, invisible discomfort, or would it have grown so it was eventually visible -- and truly painful? Would it have spread to other teeth? Would I have needed something more major than an hour of dental labor? And I know this isn't an original thought (give me a break, my jaw was dislocating), but the whole thing reminded me of sin. How we try to pretend it isn't there, how that doesn't actually make it go away, how sometimes getting rid of some particular pet sin feels like having your teeth drilled and makes you wish maybe you'd just let it rot for a while longer. But how, really, dealing with the problem head on -- with the drill of repentance, if you will -- is the only way to stop it from doing more damage. God as the master dentist . . . not the best analogy ever, I know.
        I left the dentist's office feeling no regret that that particular hour of my life would never come again. My happiness was tempered, however, by the fact that I still couldn't feel half of my mouth. Also, my cheek felt enormous and I was sure that I was drooling. I took a quick peek in a mirror on the bus and was shocked to find that I looked completely normal. I'm sure there's a life lesson here as well, but right now, I can't put my finger on it. Maybe I should just be thankful that, in this case anyway, neither the aftermath of my cavity nor my sins were on display to everyone I passed.

A Fairy-Tale Birthday

The birthday girl.

     If you were Cinderella, this might be what your birthday party would look like. That, I suppose, makes me the wicked stepmother.
     Even the wicked stepmother, however, deserves a chance to give the backstory. Johanna turned 15 last week, which first of all, should be illegal, though it isn't as bad as 16, or -- heaven forbid -- 20. Geneva is the land of over-the-top kids' parties (a photo shoot followed by a ride in a taxi to dinner downtown, for example, or a fête on a yacht). While we like a good party, that kind of over-the-top is neither in our style or our budget. Fortunately, we have some creative children. This year, Johanna asked if she could have a Cupcake Wars party. Since I am not an avid watcher of the Food Network, this sounded to me like it involved throwing cupcakes. I was delighted to find that it actually involves baking cupcakes, though, as it turned out, that version is only slightly less messy than the food fight one.

Some of the ingredients. Unfortunately, I forgot to take a "before" picture, so this is also some of the mess.
I promise that the glass of wine did not belong to any of the children. It was also not a cupcake ingredient.

       Johanna, being who she is, has a dizzying variety of friends from school last year, church youth group, Bible Study, running, and random street corners. We attempted to divide the participants so that everyone was in a group with as many strangers as possible. Fortunately Johanna's friends, though diverse, are universally friendly and pleasant -- I do think expat kids tend to mix pretty well; it's a survival skill. We told the teams that they could win prizes for best team name, most delicious cupcake, and most attractive cupcake. Then we gave them an ingredient list, a mixer and bowls, a laptop (hey, this is the 21st century), and two hours to create the perfect cupcake.

Members of Team 1 (Coolest Cupcake Cuties) and Team 2 (The Cupcakinators) share the kitchen.

Team Three (The Cupcake Masters) tries to create an Oreo substitute using melted chocolate.

Team One comes up with a novel entry in the Most Attractive category.

Team Two is checking out the competition and discussing strategies.

I'm not sure whether this passed the taste test.

     I hung around to answer questions and supervise the actual baking. Since we live in a European house, we have one teeny oven that can cook one panful of cupcakes at a time. Nonetheless, we managed to bake more than 30 cupcakes. They were vanilla, chocolate, red velvet, and Coke-flavored -- that last a worthwhile experiment that failed to yield the hoped-for results.

Some of the aftermath -- above and below.

Some of the cupcakes that didn't make the final cut. They were, however, all gone before the evening was out.

      The judges were Lucas, me, and a friend who showed up too late to help with the cooking. The competition was fierce, and only some back-room politicking resolved our disputes. We had told the girls that we were going to judge the entires for each category based on merit, rather than trying to make sure each team won a prize. As it turned out, however, each team did win something. The best name went to Coolest Cupcake Cuties (though I voted for Cupcakinators -- Johanna told me that she knew I would, because it's kind of a oxymoron, and I like that kind of thing). The prize for taste went to a chocolate cupcake with vanilla frosting and raspberries. Again, I liked the vanilla cupcakes better, but Lucas insisted that they were too floury. I did get my way for the most attractive cupcake, an owl whose eyes were supposed to be made of Oreos. The team improvised with chocolate and frosting, and I thought the results were outstanding. Lucas kept calling it a penguin, but he was still willing to let it win.

The Most Attractive Cupcake.

The prizes -- beautiful and useful!

Another really attractive cupcake that didn't win.

The proud creators of the sheep.

A couple of delicious contestants.

      The party was fun, delicious, and also hands-down the messiest event we've ever held at our house. It took a few hours after the guests left to return the kitchen and living room to a nearly normal state, and I was cleaning stickiness off the drawer and cupboard handles for the next several days. We don't have any more big entertaining challenges on the horizon -- at least, I don't. Eric and his running buddies have organized a challenge they are calling the "Men of Men Dinners" (no idea, don't ask), wherein each of the dads has to plan, shop for, and prepare a meal for the three families. Eric is up first, and if you think of it, you can say a prayer for him. I just hope that in addition to planning, shopping, and cooking, the "Men of Men" with also be taking care of the cleaning. Otherwise, I'll be making an appeal to our resident Cinderella.

Not My Pajamas

       A dear friend, who shall remain nameless and who did later eat her words, once criticized home-school moms for staying in their pajamas until after lunch. In order to avoid any confusion (should a reader of this blog stop by my house unannounced around 1 p.m. and find me looking too comfortably clad) I would like to make it clear that:
       Number 1 -- These are not pajamas. They are workout clothes. In many regions, such vestments are considered stylish and acceptable.

 

       Number 2 -- The reason I am wearing workout clothes is because at some point during this day, I will be working out. The moment may not yet have arrived, but trust that it is planned. I do not take this Under Armor lightly.

Above: Workout clothes; Below: PJs. The difference should be obvious.

 

        Some days, I actually exercise first thing in the morning -- or almost first thing. First first thing, I have to make myself get out of bed. This, as everyone knows, is the most difficult task of the day. I usually accomplish it by bribing myself with coffee. This works especially well if we have cream in the house, or at least half and half. Another first thing is making breakfast. Sometimes, I am the ambitious kind of mom who makes cinnamon rolls or banana muffins. Sometimes I am the kind who says, "the cereal is in the cupboard, and there might be some milk left in the fridge." Either way, breakfast involves me cutting up fruit and setting some at everyone's place. Many of the members of my family share an odd trait regarding food. While they will eat anything that is placed in front of them with nary a murmur, they will not under their own steam provide themselves with fruits or vegetables. I was raised to be a little rigid about eating greens, so I still dole out the morning fruit. By this time, the others are starting to trickle downstairs.

       Johanna is often first. She aims to wake up and start school every morning at 6, and she achieves the goal much of the time. Then Eric comes down and drinks coffee while he waits for Drew, who wakes up after 7 and is ready to leave the house just moments later. As for Luc, sleep is one of the central joys of his life, and he begged me to let him sleep until 8 this year, so he usually eats breakfast by himself. Since he's a budding chef, fixing his own breakfast is no problem (except the fruit part).

      So anyway, there's the fruit, and the coffee, and sometimes packing Drew's lunch (Monday is sometimes McDonald's Day, and Friday is Rotisserie Chicken Day now that he and his friends have achieved the grand privilege of leaving campus at lunchtime). After all that, sometimes I go for a run. Lately, though, I have had other workout commitments. On Tuesday afternoons, I run 400 repeats with Johanna. Actually, we jog to the track at Les Evaux, I run a lap or two while she changes into her spikes, and then I time her running 400s. It's good exercise, because she wants to know her time at every 100, so I race back and forth across the oval to tell her. On Thursdays, I usually run with a friend,  which -- as an opportunity for feminine adult conversation as well as fitness -- is a highlight of my week. And lately on Wednesdays, I've been running with Lucas, as his climbing class is on hiatus.

       Because sometimes I am the fun kind of mom, I have been trying to make these Wednesday runs "adventures,"  which means we run to a bus stop, then take the bus to a nearby sports store or -- last week -- the American Food Avenue, where one can buy Cheese-Its (for $8 a box). Lucas, who is far too old for this kind of fun, tells me that I need to brush up on the meaning of the word "adventure." In his lexicon, adventure necessarily includes some kind of danger, and apparently the dangers of crackers with artificial coloring and partially hydrogenated vegetable oil don't count. This week, however, Lucas himself suggested the adventure. He wanted to run to Melectronics (the electronics store owned -- like most of Geneva -- by the Migros grocery chain), buy a tripod with his laundry earnings, and take the bus back. It sounded motivational to me, and Drew wanted to come along, which made this a Fun Family Event. Drew has recently decided that all exercise is good exercise, and he runs everywhere -- even to swimming, which seems a bit like overkill to me. I'm just trying to keep the calories flowing into the system. Everything went according to plan, except that the run seemed longer than the 5.16k advertised on mapmyrun.com, and that I spent a good deal of time doing what our French children's books call "pouf-poufs" and saying, "You can just wait for me at the next light."

       While we at the Collège de Tirelonge like to think of ourselves as fit, we are not, strictly speaking, a "sport-études" program. That means we also have to do our full share of academic subjects. This is what that part of the day looks like: Johanna has a huge pile of books, a list of tasks for the week, and a blank planner to fill in with what she does. She pops in from time to time to ask about the side-splitter theorem, whether she has correctly identified an example of metonymy, or what the word "apologetics" means. I also do physics experiments with her, because what is more lonely than doing labs without a lab partner?

Johanna hard at work.

Lucas has a bit more imposed structure in the form of a schedule posted on the bookshelf and hourly check-ins with mom to start the next subject or finish the prior one. He has been making great strides towards independence, except that I have to really sit on him to keep him from putting too much "voice" into his academic essays. Those of you who know him will know what I mean.

Lucas woke up an hour early this morning so he would have time for his new favorite fun: video editing. The second computer is to listen to an audiobook of Huck Finn.

       In between discussing thesis statements, polyhedrons, and the Monroe Doctrine, I keep myself out if trouble by cleaning bathrooms and writing emails in French. Sometimes I cook. And usually, by 5 p.m. or so (17h around here), I have managed to exchange the "pajamas" for actual daytime grown-up clothes.