Butter and Tennis Elbow

I'm not a big fan of this growing old stuff. It didn't used to bother me. In fact, I used to scoff at the 30, 40, and 50 somethings who would bemoan another year's passing. I scoffed because I was immune. I could eat whatever I wanted. And when I say whatever I wanted, I mean it. I could eat Snickers for breakfast, pizza and brownies for lunch, and cake chased by a milk shake for dinner. Wouldn't gain a pound. Now I no longer roll my eyes when a friend says she gains weight just by looking at a Crunch Bar; now I understand.

Then of course there's the hair. Because I'm half-Asian, I always assumed my heritage would make me at least half-immune to the grays. I mean, how many young to middle-aged Asian women do you see sporting a head full of white hair? Not many. But I've got them. Got my first one after my first was born. Then one for each baby after that. After the baby of the babies was born, well, the gray began to conspire against me. I try to keep after them with the tweezers. I really don't want to start the cycle of coloring my hair. I know. I'm vain.

Vanity is one thing. Then there are the small painful annoyances like backaches. Or tennis elbow. I first began to experience tennis elbow a few months ago. It was an easy, self-prescribed fix: become temporarily left-handed, however clumsy that made me. It worked. The pain went away. Until the other day.

The project from the Prairie Primer was some good ol' fashioned butter churnin' minus the churn and the fresh-from-the-cow cream, of course. We've done this project before only each of the children had their own personal baby jar filled with cream. Much easier and quicker to shake into butter consistency. But no more baby food jars in this household, so I had the bright idea of making one large tupperware of butter and having the kids take turns.

They were all highly enthusiastic about a first turn at the shaking. Their enthusiasm faded somewhat after each turn when they realized how difficult this task was. I therefore assumed most of the shaking. I saw Jacob eye the extraordinarily large value sized block of butter from Sam's Club that was sitting on the counter. Finally, he couldn't take it any longer. "Mommy, there's butter right there," he offered.

"I...know..." I said, breathlessly as I continued to shake the stubborn cream, "...but...I want...us to do...this...just like...Laura and Mary." Yeah, kids. You're not going to fool me into using modern conveniences. You're going to make butter this way so you can learn how difficult life was for them. So you can understand how easy we have it.

I'm not sure any lessons were learned except that I'm getting old. Because all of that butter making brought all of the pain back to my elbow. Like I said, I'm not a big fan of this getting old stuff. Not a huge fan of our homemade butter either.

Corncobs and Little Life Lessons

Since teaching 4 children, starting a business, and trying to keep the house saleable clean does not keep me busy enough, I decided to throw in some more curriculum. Just to shake things up a bit, and just in case the kids aren't learning enough with the adequate teaching materials I already possess. Truth be told, my aforementioned curriculum addiction is the likely culprit. At any rate, we began working through the Prairie Primer this week, and I absolutely love it! I've always been a fan of Laura and her Little House, and this is a wonderful way to pass a beloved series on to another generation. And so far, so good.

Today we made corncob dolls. Even the boys. And, yes, of course their daddy couldn't be prouder. After the dolls were assembled, I informed my little pioneers that for one hour they would only be permitted to play with their doll. Obviously, this was met with a chorus of "why"s. Life's little lessons dictate that we must learn, like Laura, to be satisfied with what he have and to entertain ourselves with what is available to us.

After my edict, I overheard whispered boy plans: "Let's rip the corncob apart!" In order to save my carpet from corncob guts, I gave another lecture about respect and taking care of what we have. Reluctantly, they began to play with and care for their dolls, although the boys continued to be boys. Michael held his over a cold burner on the stove. "Look," he exclaimed, "I'm burning its head. Can I color its head black where it got burned?" Great idea, Michael.

Although the hour was a long one, they busied themselves with the doll. However, I did allow some non-Olden Days items: markers and construction paper with which they made food for their dolls. The fact that they made bear meat, carrots, and an assortment of berries at least assures me that they've been listening to the story.