kooka's tour

In case you are not privy to all of the details of our ever-so-chaotic lives right now, you haven't seen our new digs. (And if you aren't privy, you shouldn't be, so don't ask.) Kooka was more than happy to lead the grand tour.

thanksgiving

Today I spent Thanksgiving with total strangers: Allison, Laura, Martin, Ruth, Nique, Jack, Ben, and one girl that I just call the whiner.

For years I have wanted to spend this day feeding the homeless and today I had that chance. The kitchen was over 100 degrees, the gravy was hot, the boss was bossy, and the orders kept coming. It was the best Thanksgiving ever.

Even though I missed being with my family, I knew that Kooka was wearing her favorite Hanna Andersson dress, and new sparkly earrings. She was busy whipping cream and mixing gravy with her grandma. My children are so lucky. The little girls I saw today were wearing jackets that had been handed down three times too many. They said their prayers, and their father reminded them to put their napkins in their lap. The Vietnam vets sat at their own table, grateful for the hot food and the company.

I hope I get to do this every year.

sorry

It is not like me to leave this space unattended to for so long, but things have been a bit chaotic here, so I have not been able to post.

I will say this much though . . . both kids are in the midst of deeply missing homeschooling. I know it would be a tough adjustment, but even Kooka is beginning to beg on a daily basis to go back to it - it was a beautiful life, and we all miss it terribly.

sore loosers

Boy was Punk mad this morning.
Kooka was not much better.

"Great," Punk said, "Now our country is going to suck."
Miss thang could not shake the grumpy look from her face either.

I didn't have much to complain about since I basically "threw my vote away."

But we did have this little chat:

"OK guys, Obama is a good guy. McCain is a good guy. We saw that when they gave their speeches last night. They said some nasty stuff about each other because they were both trying to win, but when it comes down to it - they both want this to be a great country."

"OK - then if they are both so great - why bother picking just one?"

"Because usually people agree with one guy's ideas over another's. And the great thing about America is that you get to choose. Everybody complains about George Bush - but the fact is, the American people elected him twice. They chose him. And now that America has chosen Obama, it is our job to help him - and to let him know if we don't agree with something he does. He is a good, reasonable man, and that is how democracy works."

Kooka was sobbing - seriously. Not sure if she was missing Sarah Palin already, or if she is just so competitive that she can't stand to lose. Probably both.

So, I finally get them settled down a bit, we walk to school together. We are walking down the hall when we meet the future unabomber.

Seriously.

The kid cannot be more than six. He is dressed in full cammo gear - overalls, boots, backpack - the works. His hair has not been combed in days, and he has a wild look in his eyes - either he ate 6 bowls of cocoa puffs this morning, or he has been up all night writing his manifesto. Probably has a copy of Catcher in the Rye in that backpack, and a crush on Jodie Foster.

Anyway - I am the only adult in the hall, and he comes running up to me, gritting his teeth, desperation in his face, and says "I gotta warn you about something!"

"What?"

He grabs my arm, eyes like dinner plates and says, "Do not be happy. Today is not a happy day. I gotta warm you about Obama." I don't say anything, but the look on my face is quizical. Mini- Kaczynski leans in close and whispers, "Obama does NOT believe in America!"

"Really?"

"It's true!"

And then he sprints off down the hall, shouting it over and over - "Do not be happy! Obama hates America!"

I hope his teacher searched his backpack.

vote

Today we went to vote. The whole house voted for the same guy - except for me. I voted green. Not like my vote counts anyway - nobody's vote counts in Minnesota - unless you are DFL - it is one thing I hate about living here.

I miss Wisconsin - campaigning and feeling like there was some point to it. I am not staunchly one way or the other, but for now - I am firmly green. It is important to Punk and Kooka, and they are the ones who will have to deal with whatever we choose. (I also voted to increase sales tax to benefit the environment and the arts - for which Punk rewarded me with a HUGE hug and tremendous grin.) I voted for all of the incumbent judges - except for one, who has a nasty temper. He did not have an opponent, so I thought of the most level headed person I know - and wrote in her name. (You're welcome Treats).

The electoral college sort of sickens me - because like I said - if you live in MN, it is completely pointless to vote in a presidential election. Kooka and I are snuggling on the bed - she is cheering whenever Brian Williams awards another state to her guy. I love that she is more hyped up about this than Hannah Montana or High School Musical. Hope she stays this way.

funny

This cartoon was up in the copy room at school - there was a republican one too - but I couldn't find it. They were both pretty funny.

halloween

The video does not do it justice. When darkness fell, and the fog machines started up, the red lights were glowing in the graveyard, and Kooka was passing out chicken bones and peeled eyeballs for treats, then the fun really began.

They are lucky to have a dad who is so talented, neighbors who are willing to look the other way, and each other to share their fiendish plans with.

The video is OK - but really, you HAD to be there.

WATCH THIS

Oh my GOSH - I almost bought a bunch of this stuff for Punk and Kooka - you HAVE to watch this!

pumpkins

In case you are like us - and haven't even begun to carve pumpkins - here is your chance:
pumpkin carver

punk's art

Punk created this picture using photoshop. He has even more on the weeping rhinos site. His art skills always amaze me. Let him know what you think:

medea

This is the girl we call Medea. Kooka and I are so proud of her that we had to post this here - hope her parents don't mind.

Bear in mind that the first time we really saw this girl she was on stage dressed as a Greek Godess with purple/green hair - so we knew she had some skills - but are glad she changed the hair.

Anyway, even though our household is terribly divided politically - Kooka loves Sarah Pallin and McCain (because girls can be pretty AND smart, and John McCain was really brave to protect our country) - Punk is all about Cynthia McKinney and the Green Party (girls don't HAVE to be pretty to be smart - and come ON - it's the green party - what else is he gonna choose?), A is likely a McCain guy, and I am moving to Australia,. . . but we all love Medea and her family . . . and the girl knows how to get her point across.

So despite the fact - that I will likely let Punk take my vote -I had to show you guys this. We are so proud of this girl.

Check it out:

but for the grace of god . . .

I volunteered to help in Kooka's class. I'd homeschooled her for two years - no way I could send her off into the wild blue yonder without my occasional interference. So every Tuesday I show up, and do whatever I am asked.

Today it was handwriting.

And the spitter was on my list.

Remember him? First week - spitting in Kooka's hair - never sits still, always sent to the principal's office, talking out of turn.

Lucky me.

So there we sit - the two of us. We are writing numbers - and as I expect, his handwriting is about as nice as his reported behavior. So he plops down at the table and starts to write. My job is to make sure he starts at the top of the line and make his letters the right way.

He starts at the bottom.

"OK, dude," I tell him, "What we have to do on this page is start at the top - right where that little green dot is."

"Why?"

"That's what the rules in this book tell us to do."

"Who made those rules? Why are there so many rules? Can't I just make this stupid six however I want?"

"Well, sometimes people who write school books try to give us rules to make our brains think about something in a certain way.

"Yeah, but whoever wrote this book does not get how my brain works - because this makes nooooooooo sense."

Whoa.
Whoa.

Where had I heard THAT before?

Not three years ago - at my own kitchen table. I cannot count the times that Punk had said them - still does sometimes. And suddenly, the spitter was somebody else - the spitter was a kid who could be helped with a little creative thinking, and maybe even a little hallway homeschooling. He was not a bad kid - just hated pointless rules - and really - who can blame him?

So I say to him, "That is a really good point Spitter. And I agree - sometimes rules do not make sense and we have to make up some new ones. So tell me how your brain works Spitter - what is in there?"

"Cars - a lot of cars are in there."

"OK. So we are gonna make this eight. We are going over the hill first."

"Why?"

"Because that is the way the road goes - otherwise we will smash into other cars."

"Alright."

"But at the top of the hill - there is a cliff we didn't see - and he falls all the way to the bottom - AAAGGGGGGGHHHH! Come on - you can scream . . . "

So he does - the two of us out there falling down cliffs, and then chugging slowly back up to the top. Three tries later - he is making eights the "right" way.

He tries a seven. "Oooooh - ooooh - this one starts at the green dot too, " he says. "And then the wind blows him sideways, and he falls down another cliff - but this one is so steep he can't even get back up - so he stays down there."

"Perfect, " I tell him - and we do the fist bump - but gently - because as he says, you never want to hurt somebody when you are trying to tell them "good job."

Soon he has a page full of numbers and a smile on his face.

I send him back into class and sit there for a minute. I think about what would have happened to Punk, if I had dropped him off at the door in kindergarten. I do not think he would be a hitter, or a screamer, or even a spitter. But I have no doubt he would have asked too many questions, talked out of turn, and wondered who made up all of these stupid rules.

So on behalf of all the struggling Punks out there, the ones who need a kitchen table more than they need a supervised study hall, I will keep going to Kooka's class - even if I never get to work with her at all.

Rock on Spitter.

Rock on.