Homeschooling in South Carolina

Homeschooling in South Carolina is okay.  It isn't great.  It isn't the free-for-all that is Alaska, but it's okay.  I have been able to grudgingly handle it for the last four and a half years.  Here are the rules that apply to everyone:

• The compulsory ages are from five to seventeen. (Okay, because I'm schooling them anyway.)
• The required subjects are math, reading, writing, social studies, science, with composition and literature being added in grades seven through twelve.  (Okay, I'm teaching that stuff anyway.)
• The school year must be 180 days long. (Okay, we homeschool year round anyway.)
• The homeschooling parent must have a high school diploma or GED. (Okay, I have that anyway.)

The law gives homeschoolers three options to choose from.  The cheapest and least restrictive option (which is of course, what we went with) is option three, which requires joining a homeschool association of at least fifty members and submitting proof of following all of the above requirements, plus semiannual progress reports (Not okay!  What business is it of theirs?).  I must also keep educational records, including a plan book (or other record) of subjects taught and activities and a portfolio of the child's work, though I am not required to show these to anyone.  Annual testing is not required, but is available through the homeschool association.

For those of you who don't know, military homeschooling families are required to follow the homeschool laws of the state in which they reside.  It doesn't matter that we are all legal residents of the free-for-all that is Alaska - we have to follow the silly legislation of whatever inferior state we are being forced to live in.  This means that I'll have to follow a whole new set of ridiculous laws when we move to Hawaii early next year, and I'm not happy about it.

So, can any of you tell that I really want The Man to tell The Man where to stick this stupid job?  He has this thing about making sure The Goobs eat every day, though.  It's beyond frustrating.

Anemone in PSE6 and a Book Giveaway

Yesterday I thought my new Nikon AF-S Nikkor 50mm f/1.4 lens made people's noses look weird.  Today I decided it probably isn't the lens.  It's probably me standing too close to people's noses.  Well, whatever the reason, Anemone's nose still looks weird to me in this picture:

In fact, the whole middle of her face looks a little bulbous to me.  I'm sure you're all thinking, "Whatever, it looks fine," but you know how it is.  I'm Anemone's mother, and I know that is not quite what her nose looks like.  So I went into Photoshop Elements 6 to see if I could maybe do something about it.  I went to "filter" and chose "Correct Camera Distortion."  Then I slid the "Remove Distortion" slider two degrees to the right.  Then I cropped the photo slightly and ended up with this:

There isn't much of a difference, but it took me from saying, "Wow, Anemone's nose looks weird," to saying, "Well, Anemone's nose isn't quite right, but it's still a nice picture."  But the whole picture seemed sort of dark to me, so I created a new background layer and selected "Screen."  Then I moved the opacity slider to left until it looked reasonably normal and ended up with this:

I liked it at the time, but now I think it might be a little too bright.  It's hard for me to say; I like PSE6, but I always want my pictures to look like what I actually saw, and if I saw an Anemone in dim light, then that's what the picture should reflect.  And even though the brightened picture might be better, it isn't what I saw, and it makes me uncomfortable.  

Anyway.  Here are the first and last picture side by side:

Leave a comment and tell me which of the above pictures you like best, and I'll enter you in a drawing for Mummy: a DK/Google E-Guide:

It pains me to say it, but I'm in the process of editing our bookshelves for our upcoming move to Hawaii (books weigh a TON and our weight limit is, well, limited), and I'd like to pass along some of our excess to fellow homeschoolers.  I'll be giving away a book every Saturday until moving day, or until I run out of books - whichever comes sooner.  Now, these books I'm giving away have all been used by real, live homeschoolers, so the book jackets are scratched and/or wrinkled and/or missing, and you might find cookie crumbs between pages 132 and 133, but they're all in basically good shape.  We're just letting them go because The Goobs have outgrown them and I can't justify making the Air Force schlep them to Hawaii.  (And the Air Force, in turn, can't justify making the American tax payers pay for said schlepping, so they will make us pay for any excess weight.  I have to consider the cost of schlepping every book, and Mummy just doesn't make the cut.  It's a fine book.  But it's been nearly two years since anybody in this house was head over heels for mummies, so it has to go.  Maybe to you.  Lucky you!)  

You may enter until 12:07 a. m. (Eastern Standard Time) on the 21st of November, 2009.  I'll announce the winner (and the next free book) at some point between breakfast and lunch.  Thanks for playing!

Moving Stinks

Military moves are tough on children.  They're given just enough time to stop grieving the loss of their old home, their old friends, their old routines and start getting used to their new home, their new friends, their new routines before they have to pack up and do it all over again.  It's rough.  

Most people don't think of this, but military moves are also tough on pets, especially overseas moves. Poor old Norman.  He's ten years old now, and I hate to put him though another PCS, especially a PCS to Hawaii.  He's got a bad heart, arthritis, and several deep-seated neuroses that I try hard not to take personally.  (Norman was a pound puppy.  I'm pretty sure someone beat him at some point.)  Just look at that sweet grizzled face:

Does that look like the face of a dog who can handle a sixteen hour flight in a cage and/or a longish quarantine period?  No, it doesn't.  So our Norman is going to go spend his last years at the farm with my parents.  We think it's the kindest thing to do; he loves my parents, and they love him and will take good care of him, even though he's a big, hairy, stinking thing who needs to go see the vet or the groomer every five minutes.  And what with my mom and the farm and the cows and his best buddy Sherman (Sherman is my mom's schnauzer) he probably won't even have time to miss us.  Much.

Of course being kind to Norman means I am being cruel to my Goobs, who will have to grieve for their old home, their old friends, their old routines AND their old Norman.  Oh, moving stinks.  Sometimes I think it might be hardest on the mom.  

And the Fun Begins

I've been trying not to think about our upcoming move to Honolulu.  Not because I'm sad about moving, but because I don't want to jinx anything!  Orders are fragile things - you never know when they'll be rescinded because the powers that be have decided that they need you more somewhere else.  And while Hawaii has never been very high up on my list of cool places to live, there are worse places to be stationed!  The Man is in one of those career fields that does Army support, so we are eligible for the crappy Air Force assignments AND the crappy Army assigments.  That's a lot of crap to worry about.  So Hawaii is perfectly okay with me, but I've been trying not to get too attached to the idea because I might really end up at Fort Irwin, California instead.  That would be . . . crappy.

It seems that I can start getting used to the idea of Hawaii now, though, because we are in the midst of our overseas medical clearance.  The Man just dragged us to the base dental clinic so they could evaluate our dental health.  What a lousy morning that was.  I caused an administrative nightmare by refusing to give out my Goobs' social security numbers.  I was a pencil pusher for the military medical system during my four years in the United States Air Force, so I knew that it would be a pain.  I also knew that it can be overcome.  Unfortunately, the gal in charge of the records hadn't learned that lesson yet.  Now she knows, but I don't think she'll look back with misty eyes on the day she learned how to improvise within the belly of the beast. 

Once we got over that little hump, I had to stand by and let the dentist evaluate my Goobs' dental health.  I went first to show them that they wouldn't actually die, no matter what it felt like at the time.  See, military dentists evaluate your dental health by roughly shoving large metal sticks into your mouth and banging around with excessive force.  If you manage not to scream and choke out the dental assistant, your dental health is just fine and you're fit for duty.  They're not quite as rough on civilians, and they make even more of an effort with children, but it was still such a traumatic experience for my Goobs that we had to go out for ice cream afterwards.

(Oh, the stories I could tell you about military dentists.  Perhaps another time.)

Now we get to look forward to our appointment over at the main clinic - we'll be poked and prodded and inspected and asked prying, insulting questions, all to find out if we are healthy enough to live in HONOLULU, HAWAII.  Ridiculous.  The medical facilities available there are ten times better than what's offered at our present location.  What a waste of time.

But it means that we might actually be moving in February!  Woo-hoo!

The 'Stache

The Man is coming home very soon, so I can finally write about him without hanging my head and blubbering helplessly.  Not that you'd have any idea I was doing that (I could be sitting here naked except for the alien mask and you'd never know - thank God for small favors, right?) but when I hang my head and blubber helplessly I end up dripping snot all over the keyboard.  It's one of the many inconveniences that come with a deployment.

Anyway.  Since he's almost home I can post about the 'stache.  It is atrocious.  See?

The Man is just not meant to have facial hair.  It creeps me out.  Maybe I'm crazy; maybe it all has to do with my dating The Man before he was old enough to have to shave more than once a week, but I don't think so.  I think he looks like... I don't know what.

I believe I have his Major to blame for this latest crime against humanity.  Thanks, Major!  Way to go!  Wait a minute.  No woman would go within ten feet of him looking like that.  Yeah!  You rock, Major!

Look at them.  Just look at 'em.  What a couple of dweebs.

I just called The Man's Major a dweeb.  Hahahahahahahaha!  I love being a civilian.  I feel so free.  Hey, I wonder what his wife thinks about it.  Maybe she's sitting at home, dripping snot all over the keyboard and being just as creeped out as I am, but I doubt it.  I think the Major looks all right with a 'stache.

Thankfully Project Mustache has come to an end, and The Man is once again fit for civilized society.

I don't know who the guys on the left are, but they look pretty happy to be there, don't they?  I hope they get to go home pretty soon, too.

Oh, I love him so much.

 

Please excuse me while I go mop up my keyboard.

Uncle Sam's Always Looking Out For Us

Before The Man deployed, he had to attend a lot of briefings.  Most were mission related, but one was a "how to keep your family from falling apart while you're away" sort of thing.  I was to accompany The Man to that briefing, but as I am no longer in the service they can no longer order me around.  It's a beautiful thing.

The Man says I didn't miss anything (no joke), but he did bring me home a fabulous package of stationery guaranteed to brighten our days through the long deployment.  It's called "Couples Write From the Heart," because the Air Force wants to "Achieve Mission Readiness through Personal and Family Readiness."  And, because they don't want me feeling alone and overwhelmed, I am to understand that "We're in This Together!"  Well, hell.  I feel better already!

Now, the Airman & Family Readiness Center understands that writing a letter is an arduous task for enlisted folk, so they gave us a little tutorial.  Here are a few of my favorite tips:

Anyone can ace letter writing.

You don't have to be a poet to express how you feel.  Think of writing letters as a having a written conversation with your loved one (keeping a picture of your partner next to you as you write may help). To your spouse or significant other, getting a letter from you, regardless of the topic, can be a gift like no other!

Letters are easy to send.

Once you complete a letter, carefully tear it out and fold it in half.  Seal it with a sticker from the top rows of the sticker sheet.  (Use the other stickers to decorate your letters.)  Then just add postage, mailing address and return address, and it's ready to mail.

Remember, romance is a state of mind!

And it starts by being open, silly and playful - so pick up a pen, turn the page and let yourself go!

Oh, it gets better.  Obviously people who don't know how to mail a letter can't be trusted to write one to begin with, so every sheet of paper is filled with helpful writing prompts:

Hi!  I've customized these "coupons" just for you - because I know what your like, and I can't wait to make you happy!

Hi!  Here's a look at the thoughts and events that shaped my day: morning, midday, evening:

Hi!  If we won a million dollars, know what we could do together?!

Hi!  Sit back and relax while I lavish you with all the details of our fantasy vacation to (blank), where together we:

Hi!  Here I am - a little note to keep under your pillow!  At night, I whisper sweet nothings in your ear, like:

Astrology is just one of my many skills, and WOW, I see great things in your future:

Wow, indeed!  I could never in a million years come up with a better line than that.  Thanks, Airman & Family Readiness Center!  But what should The Man and I do if the silly and playful fill-in-the-blank letters aren't keeping the romance alive in our relationship?  Please help us!

The Airman & Family Readiness Center anticipated my needs once again, God love 'em.  The postcards open up to a checklist of little activities that will keep us writhing in the throes of long distance passion.  I'll start with the words they put in The Man's mouth:

Send me a scented pillowcase so I can "sleep" with you.

Send me a recording (video or audio) of you having dinner with family or friends.

E-mail/send me the plans you've made for the month.

Keep a picture of me by your bedside so I can watch over you while you sleep.

You know, they're right.  I can't think of a thing The Man would want more than my drool spattered pillowcase and a video of The Goobers at the feed trough.  Now here are a few things I am supposed to ask The Man to do for me:

E-mail/send me three things that you miss about home.

Send me a small love note that I can keep in my pocket.

Send me a drawing of something - anything! - that I can put on the refrigerator.

Send me a snippet of your hair, taped inside a card.

And my personal favorite,

Wrap your arms around yourself at night, and imagine I am giving you a hug.

Hahahahahahaha!  Hee, hee!  Ho!  Ha!  That's great.  Imagine, if you will, a tent full of trained killers hugging themselves as they turn in for the night.  Can't quite pull it off, can you?  That's why they gave this crap to the Air Force instead of the Army.  Oh, wait a minute - I'm disregarding letter writing tip #201 by not allowing myself to be open and silly.  Forgive me, Airman & Family Readiness Center!  I'm trying, but lack of imagination is getting the better of me.

And now I'm off to write a letter to The Man:

Hi!  The most (_______________) thing happened to me today!  Let me tell you all about it.  First....

Sand Storm

 photo credit:  my kid brother

Coping

This little TDY the USAF threw at us is actually a blessing in disguise.  I am treating it as a dry run - a chance to practice for The Man's deployment, which is coming up all too quickly.  There are some issues I've come up against already, and I need to work through them so we can all have a smooth deployment.

Issue #1:  The Dog

I've forgotten what a big pain in the butt Norman is.  The Man takes care of everything relating to the dog; he buys his food, he takes him to the vet, he picks up the poo, he cleans out his ear gunk, he gives him his bath and washes his bowls and fluffs his bedding and clips his toenails.  All I usually do for Norman is supply his emotional support - he is at my heels 24 hours a day.  Why do animals attach themselves to the one person who doesn't give a damn whether they live or die?  I've never understood it.  Anyway, now that I am responsible for Norman's care and feeding, I find that I have even less desire to pat him on the head in my spare time.  That isn't fair to the dog; he can't help having been born.  So The Goobers will pick up the slack in this department - I'll purchase the food and take care of his funky health issues, but they'll do everything else.

Issue #2:  Light Bulbs and Weed Eaters

I can't reach several light fixtures in this house, even when standing on a chair.  These need changing before The Man deploys.  I've never used a weed eater in my life, and have no idea how to refill the thingy with the stuff.  (See?  I've got problems.)  JellyMan and I need a lesson before he goes.

Issue #3:  The Doldrums

The Man is my motivator; when he isn't around, I'm apt to lose focus and lie around like a slug.  I'll wake up, sit down on the couch, pick up a book, and lose all track of time.  I'll look around and discover that it's 3:30 in the afternoon; the kids haven't done their lessons, the house is a mess, and I haven't showered.  We've got piano lessons in 20 minutes, and I didn't get anything out for dinner.  I suppose there's really no harm in wasting a few weeks that way, but we can't live like that for six months!  I'll have to make a checklist for each day, and I'll have to do what the list says.  I'll have to put fun activities like trips to the zoo or picnics or whatever on the calendar - I don't think to do things like that when The Man is gone.

Issue #4:  Food

I forget how much The Man eats until he leaves.  I cooked a normal dinner (roasted pork loin, mashed potatoes, and roasted green beans) and I can't believe the amount of leftovers.  We'll be eating that pork loin for days.  I didn't want to cook at all; The Goobers would be thrilled to eat fried bologna sandwiches on white bread and a cup of applesauce every night, and to be honest, so would I.  I cook for The Man.  None of the rest of us care very much.

Issue #5:  Missing The Man (aka Daddy)

This is the worst, because there's absolutely nothing I can do about it.  We just have to deal with it the best we can, and try not to let our sadness get the best of us.

So you see, I really needed this practice TDY.  With any luck, I'll get all of my issues (except for #5, of course) resolved before the big deployment.  That way Norman and The Goobs won't have to suffer unduly, and The Man won't have to read long, whiny emails about how miserable I am and how much I hate the military - he'll have enough to deal with over there without knowing every little thing that makes me unhappy.

It All Evens Out in the End

The Man is gone.  Only for a few weeks this time, but those few weeks happen to be at the busiest time of the year and I am swamped.  I've had about enough of military life; I've been associated with the military in one capacity or another since the day I was born, and I think 30+ years of servitude is enough, thanks.  I told The Man that if he reenlists, I'll leave him.  He laughed.  I laughed.  But we both know I wasn't kidding.  Not really.

Having The Man out of town sucks because I have to:

• kill bugs
• change light bulbs
• put the leftovers away
• do the grocery shopping
• fold the laundry
• put gas in the car
• interact with the maintainance maintenance guys
• sleep alone

There are some good things about The Man being out of town, too.  I can:

• put colored lights on the Christmas tree
• ............
• ............
• ............
• ............
• ............
• ............
• sleep alone

So it all evens out in the end, I guess.

If I seem a little bitter, forgive me.  It's just that we were assured The Man was not going to have to go on this particular TDY, and we were foolish enough to believe it.  (We ignored the Golden Rule: Thou shalt not assume thy Captain knows of what he speaks.)  Yesterday we were supposed to decorate our Christmas tree and bake cookies, but instead we were given four hours notice to get The Man packed and to the airport, which is an hour away.  We didn't get much time to wrap our minds around the whole thing.  We're okay, though.  It comes with the job.

And now I'm off to the commissary.  Oh, no!  My eyes!  My eyes!  They're bleeding!

I'm Not (that) Bitter.

I've not yet complained bitterly about the military on this blog.  It's time to rectify that situation, because nothing satisfies quite like biting the hand that feeds you.

First The Man is deploying.  Then he isn't.  Then he is.  Then he isn't.  Then he is, but not this cycle.  Then he is, but during this cycle.  Then he isn't.  Then he is.  Next cycle.  But he has to leave for training whether he goes or stays.  Nobody knows when this training will be held.  So he might not go.

I like to think of myself as a pretty relaxed military spouse.  I grew up military, and was enlisted myself, so it isn't like this is all new to me.  I know how it is.  Still, I think all this uncertainty is excessive.  Is it so wrong to wish The Man would just keep this crap to himself until he knows something for sure?  Of course, you never really know for sure until your plane has taken off, and I suppose I'd like a little more notice than that. 

I wish I could be more like Norman, our wicked fierce attack dog.  The only thing he has to worry about is what sort of poop to roll in.