Do you know Angelina Ballerina? She lives in my house, only her obsessions are not dance. Previously, she was obsessed with medicine and science. Now, she is 33% obsessed with orthopedics and 66% obsessed with musical theatre -- but not ALL musical theatre -- mostly just the show "Wicked" -- which she has never seen (nor, at these prices, will she ever). How's that for a sentence?
Do you know why I am struggling to write a coherent sentence? Because I spend all day long either cleaning up strewn Ace Bandages and/or other miscellaneous casting materials and/or listening to my 7 year old singing songs from "Wicked" at the top of her lungs while flailing about on and off the furniture. My only respite comes when she watches either bone casting videos or videos of scenes from and backstage scenes of anything and everything having to do with "Wicked."
I am exhausted.
I know. I know. It's why we homeschool. So that my sweet little bundles of intensity might follow their true passions. Have I mentioned lately that the passion my eldest currently holds deepest in her wonderfully beautiful little heart is SCHOOLWORK? Oh, Lordy Lordy Lordy, does she make me happy with her passion for worksheets. In the pedagogical department, she is obviously my current favorite child (What? You know you do it too. Plus, she is trailing behind in the category of "emotionally exhausting", so it all balances out in the end).
Little Elpheba, though, has me fantasizing about a school setting with an Albert Einstein-Marie Curie type hanging out in one room dripping with bunsen burners and prosthetic parts and a Brian Mitchell Stokes-Kristin Chenowith-Neil Patrick Harris type hanging out in another room with a full orchestra and the embodiment of Tommy Tune available at a moment's notice.
And me? I'd be at home, smiling smugly as my eldest sits quietly reading or learning about the rainforest. And the other child?
Aw, damn. The other child. He's got his own drama right now -- his "if there is walking path anywhere in my room or an electronic I have yet to dismantle or a pretty thing I have yet to cannibalize for one of my creations anywhere in the house, I cannot be blamed" phase. This phase has now lasted since the day he came home 8.5 years ago. He embodies the Frost poem, "Two roads diverged in the woods and I/I took the one less travelled by..." It's delightful, really, except when it drives me crazy.
Lately, because there are constantly two rather large homemade vehicles in various stages of construction parked in the indoor hallway, making it very difficult to get to the bathroom, I am leaning towards crazy.
What I need, really, is just like 2, maybe 23, hours a week all to myself. I am angling for those now, trying hard to put together a schedule for winter that matches both their interests and my need to complete a coherent thought during the daylight hours (because by nightfall, that possibility has been long dead).
If it happens, I will continue to write about it. If it does not, you will find me parked in front of the TV, watching Jerry Springer, and eating the crusts of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
|Scooter vehicles in the hall|