In my life this week: The Princess, my sweet baby girl, turned five. Although it’s official, she is refusing to accept it. “Turning five freaks me out,” she said.

So she’s staying four. I can relate. Come March, I’m going to stay 39. Turning 40 definitely freaks me out too.

The Princess and the Hedgehog on her fifth birthday.

Highlights from this week:

We prepared for the Classical Kids Art Show.

Preparing recent art projects (paintings, fashion design, sketches) for the art show.

We made recycled paper.

Shredding and soaking the paper.

Grinding up the wet paper to recycle.

The Butterfly created a floor size Periodic Table of Elements with her tutor and classmate. They explained it in great detail when I arrived for pick up. It’s amazing to see two 8 year-olds excited about Chemistry!

Floor size Periodic Table

I learned how to use Instagram on my iPhone. Love it! I caught the cat getting into bed and tested it out…

Kitten in the American Girl bed.

The Adventurer continued to practice for The Mouse Trap. She’ll be playing  two different main characters in three performances, so she has many, many lines to learn. She is also working on perfecting her British accent.

The week ended with the Princesses birthday celebration with family. Barbie was there. Candles were not allowed. The Princess insisted that if there were no candles, she couldn’t turn five.

The Barbie Cake

So she’s four. Again. And that’s  OK with me.

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If only a panic attack was this glamorous...

There is so much to fear in this world, if you choose to pay attention. I try not to pay attention. I focus on all the happy, happy things in the world. Like cupcakes and babies and long baths with lavender salts.

There are days though, when it doesn’t work. I’m cruising through a day, bright and shiny, happy and jolly when something happens and anxiety stops me in my happy little tracks.

Suddenly, something terrifying happens. Freak accidents. Terrorist attacks.  A glaucoma test at the eye doctor.

Okay, the first two don’t cause me to tremble often, but yesterday when my eye doctor put the funky eye numbing drops in my eyes to do a glaucoma test (which really, why do I need it?) I passed out. Cold.

I’ve successfully managed three pregnancies, natural childbirth, a c-section, Chronic Lyme Disease, CAT Scans, MRI’s and root canal. I’ve been a rock climber, cantered horses through open fields without fear. I didn’t flinch when I said I do. But those eye drops, they threw me for a loop. I was out in seconds.

Last year, while having blood drawn I had a similar panic attack that drew a crowd. And by crowd, I mean a team of EMT’s who finally revived me with oxygen. On first check, they couldn’t find my pulse. When I told them that it was just a panic attack and that I would be fine in a few minutes, they insisted I look at my hands.

Ever been to a wake with an open casket?

My hands had lost all color. Apparently my face wasn’t much better. I looked like a corpse. I refused to go to the ER. They thought I was crazy. They were right, in a way, but I know this kind of crazy very, very well.

I was born this way. I have a very early memory of standing at the top of the stairs in my parent’s house, getting dizzy, and waking up at the bottom of the stairs.

My first public display of panic happened in an 8^th grade science class. Then a year later I fainted in church. Then it happened in college, at a bar on Fordham Road in the Bronx. It seems that when I hit the ground in the crowded bar, the bouncers simply carried me out to the curb, dropped me there and walked away in the middle of a winter night in a not so desirable area of the city.

It never happened when I was climbing the side of a cliff. It never happened when I was on stage in front of hundreds of people, or walking the runway, or competing for a sparkly tiara on national TV. It never happened when I felt the weight of responsibility that came with holding a new born baby in my arms.

I feel compelled to share this now, after all these years, because at the eye doctor’s office something strange happened. My doctor understood. She explained what goes on in my body when I have a panic attack so intense that I pass out. She was sympathetic, as only someone who has been there can be. While a therapist can be helpful, (though mine never was), talking to someone like me in many ways yet still totally normal sets my mind at ease.

She is a successful doctor, mom of three girls (just like me) and she suffers from anxiety as well. She’s hit the floor unexpectedly herself.

Hitting the floor like that teaches us something. It teaches us to depend on – and be grateful for – the kindness of strangers who pick you up again and send you on your way. It makes it clear that you cannot do this on your own. And I try to do everything on my own.

I felt accepted. And I can now accept this  about myself, finally. I have a problem. I know. I’ve tried treating it and I will continue to work at overcoming this  inconvenient problem. But in the meantime, I’m  going back to focusing on all the good things in life and the people that wake me up when I check out, dust me off and tell me everything is going to be just fine.

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Roman Fresco Painting - coaster at shop.getty.edu

I struggle a little with art projects. It isn’t that I don’t love seeing what my children create, it’s that I have trouble getting started.I have trouble letting them get started.

I fear the mess. And it takes me time to work up the courage to let them open the paint, especially since I haven’t trained them to clean up properly. I hate the word trained. I guess that’s part of the problem.

The supplies for this project (a messy box of plaster of paris) sat for three months. I regret that. We created little Roman fresco paintings without doing any permanent damage, and we all enjoyed the process.

Creating plaster plaques to paint.

Of course, I mixed the plaster in secret, making the process much less messy. I know I just removed some of the fun and learning opportunities here, but hey, I let them do everything else!

Creating the plaques for them to paint was easier than it sounded. I used several small boxes (jewelry box tops were the recommended size, but I had to experiment a little) and lined them with aluminum foil. We cut a slit in one side large enough to slide the paper clip in to the plaster.

A paper clip inserted into the plaster while wet serves as a hook for hanging.

The Butterfly painting.

We used acrylic paint mixed with a little water and it worked beautifully. I was not, however, able to get the paint out of the Butterfly’s favorite dress.

The Adventurer's painting.

The Adventurer made the largest piece and it cracked when she used a little too much pressure. The plaster is delicate, so I suggest making at least one extra plaque as backup.

The idea for the project came from an old copy of Learning through History- Ancient Rome. It’s a terrific resource  and includes a few projects, recipes for creating a Roman meal together and a section on what it was like to be a kid in Ancient Rome.

You can read up on the history of Roman Fresco Painting if you would like to share some fun facts with the kids while they paint. Or you can just relax, let them play, create and enjoy the process.

I don’t normally do this. At least not often. Because I’m busy.

She scrunched up her face and asked the question that ultimately led to a hurling preschooler.

“Who’s Bono?”

Gasp.

Is it possible my daughter has never heard U2? I did a quick memory search of all of my favorite music that I’ve shared with her over the years.   I continued to scan (it’s like dial-up speed these days) and remember all the singers I love, that she has quickly rejected.

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I forgot to share U2.

The next day, as we were heading out to a friend’s house, I grabbed two CD’s for the road.  Achtung Baby. The Unforgettable Fire.

It was a 20 minute ride. After five minutes, my girls, all three were screaming. This time (for once) they weren’t fighting. They were begging and pleading with me to turn off the music.

The Princess (age 4) was screaming that her stomach hurt.

“Come on, one more song,” I pleaded. “Just listen to this one. ”

“This guy sounds like a dying cat,” said the Adventurer.

I’m not going to share my response to that one. I was outraged. Completely stunned. Horrified.

“I hate it! Turn it off!” yelled the Butterfly, who prefers Radio Disney above all else.

“My stomach really hurts,” cried the Princess. She has a low tolerance for bumpy roads, snug seat belts and apparently, Irish bands.

I made them tough it out ’till the end of the song as I tried to find a spot to pull over to check on the Princess.

And then the song ended. And the Princess puked, quite carefully into a giant plastic cup that was in her cup holder. I pulled over.

They begged me not to ever play it again.

I told them if they behaved, I wouldn’t have to play it again. I laughed to myself as I removed the icky plastic cup, got out of the car and disposed of it in a near by garbage can. I realized I will never have to use the line don’t make me turn this car around again. The threat of mom’s music is now enough to stop their backseat bickering, seat kicking and hair pulling in a heartbeat.

Thank you, Bono. You’re the sweetest thing.

My girls are not embracing my music. It’s not like this rejection has left my heart, empty as a vacant lot, for any spirit to haunt.  I didn’t embrace my mother’s music either.  She tried to help me appreciate Janis Joplin. She did a wonderful impression. I’m not sure dying cat quite captures the pain I felt.(I love you, Mom. And I get it now.)  Lord, wontcha buy her a Mercedes Benz already?

And my grandmother could not understand why my mother and I didn’t share her love of “old blue eyes.” Sinatra was the man, as far as she was concerned. “You know I met him once at the Mamaroneck Diner,” she once told me. She was a woman of many words. And not exclusively accurate words.

This is how it works. They aren’t going to appreciate the music I love. I’m already complaining about the noise they listen to. Really. It’s just noise to me.

The Princess was fine after the music stopped. We went on to our friend’s house, where the Adventurer shared about the dying cat song and how much she hates my choices in music. They were nervous about getting back in the car when it was time to head home.    I promised we could enjoy the silence, which of course reminded me of Depeche Mode, which gave me an idea for tomorrow’s listening…

That’s alright, it’s alright, it’s alright. Here’s Mysterious Ways.  It may make a little girl hurl, but I still love it.

Sunset / Lower Manhattan by David Landisman

I didn’t pick up my camera once this week. I was too busy being sick (thank you, stomach bug). By Friday I was mostly better and managed to deliver the Adventurer and her friend to dance class on time (no small accomplishment).

When the Butterfly, Princess and I returned to pick them up, we watched an incredible sunset.

Not the one in the picture.

Our sunset was not over any such glamorous spot as downtown Manhattan. We watched the with amazement from a parking lot, as the sun set over a strip mall in Monroe, Connecticut.

The girls were mesmerized.

The photo above was taken by my husband (Wilderness Dad) from a treetop (skyscraper) in the jungle (Manhattan) where he works.

We were all watching at the same time.

It reminded me of the movie An American Tail, when the sweet little mousey characters were missing each other, looking up at the same big sky, singing the Somewhere Out There song.

Sappy.

And sweetly connected by something beautiful.

Often, it seems like we exist on different planets, with me homeschooling in last stop before no where suburbia while he spends  his days in Manhattan. I’m not complaining about my life here. I chose it. I like the quiet and solitude and space. I wouldn’t mind crossing the line into rural Connecticut. Still, we’re in two different worlds.

And I appreciate the little connections every now and then.

The Butterfly's tattoo on her thigh.

She called to me from the family room.  ”I hope you don’t get mad,” she said, “but…I gave myself a tattoo again.” She revealed her leg faster than I could reply.

I was having one of those days when nothing seems to be going right. I was worried that we weren’t doing enough, that my little women weren’t getting enough.

And the tattoo put me at ease, lightened my spirit, made me laugh. My relationship with my daughter trumps everything else. It’s more important than how many books she has read this week, how many math facts she has committed to memory or if she cleaned her room (she hasn’t).

She loves me. She tattooed it on her thigh so I could see. The ink will wash away, but the memory will stay.

At the New York Botanical Garden

I forgot that I was a writer. I did. When I started homeschooling I swore that I would continue writing in some capacity. I swore I would keep that- just that – for myself.

I didn’t. It’s been months now and I feel like I have a gaping hole in my  life.

It took a dinner out with my husband and a ridiculous conversation to send me searching through my purse for a pen and a scrap of paper. That’s when I remembered, “I’m a writer.”

I took a break. In September, Patch.com cut their freelance budget and I got the boot. My long-term freelance gig, including my Adorable Chaos column,  came to a not so adorable end.

I was sad. I’m not used to getting the boot.

At the time, I assured myself that another door would open, but I wasn’t ready.

I decided to focus all of my energy on my girls. Writing can become a distraction from my homeschooling efforts and as of September, I officially had all three girls at home. It’s a big job.

Focusing exclusively on them was a good thing. They will always be my top priority. At the moment, they seem to be getting just about everything they need. We’re figuring things out. They’re learning. They’re even getting along with each other (which is a monumental accomplishment).

I’m learning that by not writing, I’m not finding as much humor in my life. I’m not laughing at all the things that are so incredibly funny. I’m not feeling the love – the self love that I feel by writing this self -centered narcissistic blog about my life with children.

I’ve decided that Adorable Chaos will go on. Right here

So, if you were a fan of the original Adorable Chaos, thanks for hanging in there. Sometimes this will be full of homeschooling talk, because educating three girls at home is all consuming. Sometimes I may not be that funny. [Notice me lowering expectations] I’m not sure why, but lately I seem to have lost my wit, or wits, or mind.

I blame it all on Lyme disease.

I hope that you will find things of interest here, even if you are not a homeschooling mom, even you if you think I am crazy for taking my kids out of a perfectly fine public school system, even if you hate my run on sentences and are worried about how my children will learn proper grammar.

It’s okay. I worry about that too. I don’t think they taught grammar at my middle school. Still, it didn’t stop me from becoming a professional journalist. These things have a way of working out.

You know what? I think this is going to be a fun ride. Maybe something like this Freefall ride on the Gold Coast of Australia:

Actually, I think I’m past the feeling of falling out of the sky without a parachute.

I’m settling into the ups and downs of  rollercoaster living. I’m still loving the ride.

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Things don’t go as planned every day. Okay, they don’t go as planned most days.   We keep going. We start over fresh each morning with high hopes.

Honestly, we’ve been sleeping late. All three girls have been sleeping and allowing me to hit snooze far too many times. I am no longer roused by the sound of the school bus passing down our otherwise quiet street.  At first I felt guilty about sleeping late. What kind of mother sleeps till 9?

A flexible mother! A happy mother too.

We have structure in our day, really, we do. I just don’t like it. Any opportunity I have to get through the day without following a rigid routine, I jump on it. And then I feel just a little guilty for not sticking to the plan.

What’s the most important thing to accomplish in a single homeschooling day?

If I could answer that, I could let go of the worry that I am not doing things right, that I’m  not doing enough, that our days are not complete without a math lesson.

Some days are just fine without math. Some days we need a break, all of us. And sometimes  i just need to be flexible.

I know I won’t keep sleeping until 9 every day. It’s a gift that I need to embrace for a time. Home educating three kids is a huge effort and a good night sleep is a beautiful, simple cure for exhaustion.

That’s what I’m telling myself. I’m sticking to it. I’m learning to be flexible.

Learning the history of theater.

I gave my girls a speech about exploring our passions the other day. I was tired of the daily whining over school work.

“Learning doesn’t have to be painful,” I told them. You girls have a great life, I thought.

Okay, it was more of a lecture. It was one of the few lectures that was met with enthusiasm and not groans. They have freedom. They have the time to learn and pursue their interests. Why the cranky faces all the time?

They loved the idea. They said they would love it even more if they could let the subjects they despise slide away, forgotten forever.

I didn’t agree to that. Honestly, I considered the possibility. I have the hardest time answering the “Why do I need to know this?” question while I’m showing the Adventurer how to divide fractions or find the circumference of a circle. How can I honestly justify it? I use a calculator when I need to know the circumference of a circle, which is never. I always come up with some reason why she needs to know it, but I’m not sharing. I don’t want to pass that on too.

Math is still a part of their life, along with visits to the dentist. We all have our burdens. If I have to submit myself to paps and mams, they can do math.

And the repressed unschooler hidden deep within me cringes at my own unfair, just passing it on statement.

Let’s get back to their passions, before I wander any further from my point.

The Adventurer, following a successful vocal performance.

The Adventurer (age 12) wants to sing, act and dance more. She is already a part of a dance company and will perform with them three times in the next six months. She wants more opportunities to perform and learn about acting. She needs a stage to sing on and an audience to adore her and it seems the coffee table and me clapping isn’t going to cut it.

I had to bite my tongue.

I know that dream. I let that dream go long ago and I’m cool with my decision. Part of me, (around 95%) doesn’t want her to go down this path.  It isn’t because I don’t think she’s talented. Clearly, she is. I don’t want her to deal with the inevitable rejection.

When my tongue stopped bleeding, I set out to find her opportunities. Good opportunities. I think. I hope.

• First, I found a program for her at The New Britian Youth Theatre that will include all facets of theater from acting and voice to set design and production. It’s designed for homeschooled students, so it meets on a week day morning. Yay. It’s only a 45 minute drive once a week during the New England winter. I can handle that.
• Second, I found an audition opportunity for her that she’s completely excited about. It’s motivating her to learn how to perform a monologue and practice her singing. I have my eyes wide open ( and Google alerts set) for more community theater auditions in the area, hopefully a little closer to home.
• Next, I bought an acting / theater study designed for homeschooled students ages 11 and up. I bought the wrong one. Sort of. It’s not the one I wanted. I wanted to cover the history of theater as well as the life of an actor, but this one will help her explore performing a monologue, understanding stage directions, character and scene studies and other useful topics.
• For the history of theater, I found this site which I just had to share. Kidswork helps your child explore different professions.  It’s free and fairly comprehensive.  I wanted her to understand the Greek influence on theater as we know it (they covered it) and she needed to know that when someone calls her a thespian, it isn’t an insult. Now she knows.

So guess what? Now her little sister (The Butterfly) wants to audition too. And maybe take the class.

Here we go.

I love when they get obsessed with an interest. I’ll just sit back now and do the driving. Lots of driving. As if that’s all I’ll do…

Here’s a quick video on the history of the theater, in case you are interested.

There are tons of resources online for math and reading, but if you are interested in a comprehensive program that lets you track your child’s progress, can be used for multiple grade levels and covers every subject, Time4Learning may be a good fit.

I’ve been invited to try Time4Learning for one month in exchange for a candid review. Time4Learning can be used for homeschool, afterschooland summer skill sharpening. Be sure to come back and read about my experience.

I will be testing it out with my three girls – each with different learning styles. We’ll be trying out the program for grade 6, grade 3 and PreK.