A New Puppy

I’ve had quite a number of puppies in my life. When I was born, my brother had a new puppy, Tanya. She was a Golden Retriever that came from a good stock of genes. Tanya gave birth to a litter of puppies that could have been Golden Doodles before they were a breed, but a hearty male Golden got to her first. Then we got Kerry, an Irish Setter that was healthy and huge. She was, however, terrified of thunder and spent many a day in the basement on sedatives with music and a fan on. Then came Shane, MY first puppy—that is, the first puppy I could call my own. He was Kerry’s son, and a beautiful, healthy, and even larger Irish Setter than his mother. He was my buddy and I spent the years from age 10 until I left for college with this sweet boy. He died when he was 12 after a life of less-than-ideal commercial dog food. His healthy hips deteriorated into former shells of themselves, and the poor guy could hardly get around in his latter years.

My partner and I got our first dog together when I was in my second year in college. We’d met him at a D&D party, where he crawled into Scottie’s lap and promptly fell asleep and snored like a lumberjack. He was about the size of a rat, maybe 8 weeks old, and a male pitbull. Black and white patches over his eyes made him just about the most adorable thing we’d ever seen.  But we were looking for a Lab. Besides, we’d lived next door to some dangerous and abused pitbulls when we lived between Coal and Lead on Edith in Albuquerque.  They were neglected and unhappy dogs, from what we could see—towing a chain the width of my thigh and a quarter length of a football field.  Those poor pups barely saw a bowl of fresh water, and were nothing more than a false sense of protection for the owners. Yet, because of these dogs we were wary of pitbulls.

Somehow, the Labs never panned out, and Chillum’s owner kept asking if we wanted him. Finally, we said sure, and traded the dog for a burly Himalayan sweater. Chillum bonded with us as if he’d never lived with anyone else. He was the best dog we ever had. A Frisbee dog extraordinaire—pictures published in dog books. He would ride along-side us on our bikes for miles, and had his own shortcuts for when we embarked on long trail rides. Chillum could hang with most any other dog, and was an awesome friend and companion. Even Scott’s father, who really is not a dog person, loved and respected Chillum, especially after the night Chillum prevented Scott’s dad from walking out the second floor sliding glass door when he was sleepwalking, and the deck had not yet been installed.

When Chillum died as a result of developing peritonitis after surgery for the bloat, he waited hours for Scott to get home, and then died within seconds of his arrival. His death hit me like a punch in the gut for years. Every time I thought about it, I literally felt like I’d been kicked in the stomach. I remember not wanting to vacuum my house for months, because the thought of removing my last physical remnants were more than I could bear. He was our first baby. Our first canine beloved.

We had Truchas, and Puck, and we dog-sat Tasha for 2 years, and then we got Boghee. We found Truchas a mountain home, when we discovered we were not especially suited for Shepherd breeds. But Puck and Boghee endured. Tasha was a complete ding-a-ling Rottie, but she had a good heart and loved us all the same, and eventually she went home to her owner—who promptly lost her in Tacoma (we have kicked ourselves many a day for ever saying goodbye).
Puck developed cancer, and Boghee ate too many socks and underpants. But both were awesome and beloved friends. After Boghee’s death, we were caught up in kids and life and stuff all over the floor. I felt like taking a break from picking up dog poop was warranted, and I was already consumed with life.

However, in the past one and a half years, I’ve been solo on many a hike and run. I’ve pined for a canine buddy to accompany me on those trails when my children choose not to. I’ve missed my bike buddies, who eagerly accompanied me on mile after mile.

We weren’t actually looking for another dog, but one came into our life. The timing was auspicious, and she had been on the shelter market for less than 8 hours before we adopted her. We actually thought she was a boy due to a shelter snafu and mislabeling. After we’d already forked over our cash we discovered the he was a she. The name I’d considered, Django, just didn’t seem right anymore.  On the ride home, I said “Nuptse” out loud and she looked at me long and diligently. Nuptse seemed to fit. I’d been reading Steve House’s Beyond the Mountain, and the Himalayan names were forefront in my mind. 

And here she has been. Two weeks already, but it already feels pretty comfy. A new pup is so easy compared to raising children. Children are complex and I spend countless hours of brain work so that I can be a more  gentle, more mindful, more peaceful person when interacting with my children. I strive to be the best Mama I can be, but I’m well aware that I’m human and will sometimes make mistakes. Puppies are easy. Consistency, gentleness, lots of their own things to chew, quiet time, good food, lots of walks, and lots of love.

Having spent all these countless hours working towards bettering myself as a human Mama, I’ve discovered that I have a different perspective towards raising this pup.  Maybe it’s the Mama-of-human-children perspective that has influenced this change, but I’ve discovered that having a puppy just feels easier, somehow, at this point in my life.  A pup just fits into our life, and we are enjoying all aspects of puppyhood—the chasing to find the stolen shoes, watching her learn how to go down stairs, get used to the car, take hikes, play ball, find sticks, meet other dogs - - it’s all good!

Expectations -- & how I'm losing them

As a parent, I’ve learned one important thing:  if I have an expectation, that expectation will likely never occur. I don’t mean this in the “I expect my kids to clean up their messes,” or “I expect my kids to be respectful to me because I am their Mother,” sort of way.  I mean in it a much larger way, more of a philosophical or whole life sort of way.  For example, when my first born was nearly two, I had heard many other mothers talking about Potty Training. Some were in the process of going through a formal method of "teaching" their child how to potty in a toilet, and others said to wait—they’ll use a toilet when they are ready. I was clueless and dumbfounded. I had recently started working again on a part-time basis, and I was convinced that because of that fact alone, my daughter would be impossible to “potty train.”  She, however confounded me by ditching her diapers and using the potty on her own, accident-free, promptly upon her 2nd birthday.

So, then I go on to think that because my first child was so easy, the second child would be even easier, right? She’d be watching big sister, and would learn before she ever reached two.  Ummm...no. This second child, now 4.5, easily transitioned out of wearing diapers to using the potty, however, she refuses to poop in the potty, and provides all sorts of rationale about why this is so. Expectation was once again shattered.

There are many more examples, but one of the most profound has had to do with school. My eldest daughter has always been a very attached child. Full of observation, she preferred to stick close to me at parks and playgrounds, and would deny requests to play with other kids until she was about 5. Being a summer birthday, meant she could start school shortly after her 5th birthday. I did all the requisite things—scheduled an appointment with the school to visit a class; introduced her to all the Kinder teachers;  we played on the school playground for weeks before school started; we played school at home; we talked about all the ins and outs of what might happen at school each day; and talked about having to go to bed earlier to make it easier to wake up in the morning.  She picked out backpacks and lunchboxes. We bought new clothes and shoes. I thought we were good to go.

Until the morning she decided she wanted nothing more to do with all that school business. Which was about day 2 of school. Oh, I did all the wrong things right off the top. I begged, pleaded, bribed, cajoled, threatened, yelled, cried, and then I finally came to my senses.  We pulled her out.  The schools, however, being in possession of some very kind and gentle people, convinced me we could try it again the next year—give her another year to mature. For another year she played. And then she asked me if she could try Kindergarten again. So, we once again went through all the requisite things—visited a Kinder class, made arrangements to choose her teacher, bought new backpacks, clothes, and shoes, and off she went.

It worked out beautifully for about 3 days, and she then decided she wanted nothing more to do with that school business. This time, however, I felt like I had more experience.  I wasn’t going to let those schools have control over me.  I wasn’t going to fall victim to attendance policies and tardies that turned into absences.  Until we missed the “allowed” 5 days of school. Until the certified letter arrived in the mail and informed me of the district’s absentee policies and consequences for failing to meet them.  Then I once again didn’t know what the heck I was doing. All those thoughts of guilt and self-deprecation flooded my brain. Why was my kid the one who didn’t like school? Why wasn’t my kid easygoing and able to mesh into the way of school life? Finally, I decided to consult with a parenting coach. He said something simple, “Honor her 'no'.” Profound, but simple.  I could at least try...what did I have to lose? She woke up, said she didn’t want to go to school, and I said, “okay.” Her look said it all.  What?  No yelling, threatening, cajoling, begging, bribing?  No.  What?  No big deal?  No, but I still have to go to work, so I’ll see you when I get back. I kissed her goodbye, and that look of bewildered amazement was still on her face. She didn’t miss a day of school for the rest of the year. 

Then came 1st grade. I had been warned about 1st grade. First Grade. It was spoken about with an aura of sanctity—a profound deference that was usually reserved for the hallowed halls of Ivy League education. 

F I R S T   G R A D E   

It made me shudder. Not only was I told there would be mandatory homework every night, but the level of academic expectation grew by at least one order of magnitude. I thought back to my own first grade experience and recalled lots of crafts, lots of play time,  lots of jump-rope, kickball, simon says, playground time--and those horrible moments when a mean girl named Terry destroyed all my crafts on the bus-ride home.

But before the actual first day of first grade started, the anxiety came flooding in and threatening to topple the boat that was my daughter. Panic attacks, worry, real  actual shaking in fear, unable to go to sleep, falling into throes of despair-- I began to seriously wonder if something more serious was going on. Before school started, we discovered who the teacher was, which was okay for her, but caused mixed feelings in me, and then we discovered that the only person she had hoped would not be in her class was indeed. To top all that off, the esteemed doll house was gone, the free-play stations dismantled, blocks and puzzles were replaced with books, and the kids were told that upon finishing their worksheets, they could pick a book and sit on the floor. I gather that maybe 3% of them knew how to read. My eldest tried, in a stoic yet disconcerted way, to try it out. By day 3 she refused to go. By day 8 I had dis-enrolled her from the schools and had registered as a homeschooler.

My expectation that my kids would attend school was tossed in the trash.

But we all felt free. Free from the constraints of absentee policies, stacks of paperwork sent home, mandatory homework, daily schedules that didn't fit into our real day life, breakfasts scarfed down at snack time, and half-eaten lunches spoiled by time. Free from phone calls by concerned mothers that wanted to discuss the playground interactions, free from testing, free from being subjected to people who wanted to ask questions and who would tell us our child's propensity for this or that academic calling.  Free.  Free to sleep in.  Free to stay up late. Free to play all day. Free to go the museums/parks/swimming pools when it's much less crowded. Free to visit our homeschooling friends at any time of the day. Free to travel at times other than winter break/spring break/or certain federal holidays, and the freedom to explore and follow interests over hours and days rather than being interrupted by a bell.

School is one of those things that is so ubiquitous in modern day life that we take that ubiquitousness for granted. Before having a second child, I remember musing about whether it would be better for them to be close together, or possibly 5 years apart, because that way they would each have their own high school experiences, and we could pay for college one at a time rather than all at once. Even yesterday, while playing at the park, an elderly woman asked which school my daughter went to. In an effort to be polite, all the while deciding to not get into the philosophical discussion on homeschooling, I said simply, “we go to Los Alamos,” which didn’t answer her question, but because we were in the little town of White Rock, which is full of their own Elementary Schools, the answer satisfied her curiosity. But that is a question we hear day in and day out.

When we are out and about or shopping during school hours, someone invariably asks, 1) Did the kids get out early today? 2) Oh, are the kids sick today? 3) Is it a conference week at the schools? I’m thankful, though, that in our area homeschooling is common enough that if we say that’s what we do, most people smile, and nod, and go about their day.

Before committing to homeschooling, I often said it would be too difficult for our family, since I, the Mama, bring home the bacon. I had visions of my children sitting at the counter doing math and writing essays and reading books for their homeschool time. I thought it would never work, because I would not be there to be the teacher, and my dear husband didn’t want that responsibility.  “I’m the worst example for my kids,” “I can’t be their teacher, I’m too irresponsible.” “I don’t want that kind of pressure,” were often the phrases from his mouth when we had previously discussed the idea of homeschooling.

Thankfully, through my years of homeschool researching, we discovered the beautiful concept of Unschooling. While we have only officially been committed to this homeschooling/Unschooling journey since August 2009, it feels like it is seamlessly fitting into our lives. I had the good fortune to attend Sandra Dodd’s Unschooling Conference in January, 2010 and to see real-live Unschooled kids—now young adults—speak and discuss their lives. I saw a number of families from all across the country and listened to their Unschooling experiences.

Having gone to the Evergreen State College in Olympia, WA, I think that we shed most of our conventional educational skins nearly two decades ago. A life without grades and curricula is easier than one with. 

I have no expectations with regards to my kids and Unschooling. I have some principals for myself, however, that I hope I don't lose.  This little Blog is our vehicle for sharing our own Unschooling experiences as a climbing, hiking, biking, martial arts practicing, mountain-dwelling family. Welcome and feel free to comment!