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Archive for May, 2011

As the sun set gently over the mountain to the west, I looked out over the tranquil vista. Gathered with my family, my husband relaxing in his chair, my children playing around our campsite, our Labor Day weekend was perfect. There we were, experiencing the togetherness that camping in the great outdoors brings.

 

If only our next-door neighbor’s house wasn’t blocking the view.

 

So we don’t camp. I mean, we never have. Flash is definately a “if it doesn’t have room service and cable it’s not a vacation” kind of  guy. I camped as a kid, but you know, I’ve been happy to go with the flow for 20 years or so. But as scripture says, “See, I’m making all things new.” This is new. We are about to spend a month driving cross-country.  We’ll only have what we can take in our van, and camping is on the agenda. So, trying to be practical, I insisted that we practice.

Our view of Ken's house

The good news is, everything worked. The tent, purchased over 10 years ago on a whim and never out of the box before, was great. The air mattress stayed inflated. Of course, we did run an extension cord from the house, but the new battery powered inflater/charger thingy was working. The camp chairs–complete with umbrellas–were a hit. iPods, iPads and various electronica were all pre-charged. Geek family goes camping. It only took us an hour and a couple of verbal ripostes to get the tent itself set up. Our housemate Vivian, an experienced SCA camper, supervised and managed to not help us too much, even when we couldn’t quite get the tent stakes into the cement-hard earth. Taking pity on our bruised fingers she said, “You don’t really have to stake down the rain fly unless it rains.”

Our new camping stove was great. We got it out of the box, checked out all the necessary kitchen items I had packed carefully in the bin, and then drove to pick up McDonald’s for dinner. Who has energy to cook after all that tent stuff? But on our trip we won’t have excess funds for that much eating out, so some cooking is going to have to occur. I’ll remember to buy fuel before then. It’s on my list.

Backyard camping at it's best.

 

Ahem. Three am and the drumming of the drops woke me up. As the only adult in our family capable of functioning when suddenly awoken, I staggered around in the dark with a flashlight in my teeth and staked the rain fly, only getting somewhat drenched in the process. The good news was that the rain made the ground a lot softer… the stakes slipped right in, when I could see them to hit them.

All in all, it was a good experience. The rooster next door only started crowing about 4am, and I was too exhausted from my rain-soaked excursion to care. The boys were up with the sun, and Flash and I dozed late on our air mattress. Practice makes perfect. With that in mind, we still haven’t taken the tent down. Kinesis and Entropy have slept our there on their own two nights running. Flash and I however, are happily ensconced in our king sized bed with laptops, my 37th level worgen on WoW, and blessed blessed silence.  Our move is in less than a month now.  Maybe they’ll sleep out there every night?

I knew I’d like camping.

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In the past decade, bullying has become a hot topic. Maybe our interest started with Columbine. Before that tragedy, kids being bullied were good for a humorous scene in a sit-com. Suddenly, meanness had consequences. Even as awareness has grown, it took a rash of suicides and high-profile cases to compel schools, parents and child advocates to take bullying seriously. A couple of days ago I was browsing news online and found this story:

http://tinyurl.com/3sbd89u

Now even after death, they can hire a lawyer and get to you. On the internet. Great.

I was bullied as a child, throughout my school career. It started early, but as I hit puberty early and my weight went up, I became a common target. I remember being called names. Always the last picked for teams. One particularly memorable day in the sixth grade someone took my street clothes from my locker during PE and stuffed them down a dirty toilet. I had to wear my gym shorts the rest of the day, and carry my filthy clothing home on the bus in a garbage bag. The only physical damage I recall suffering was landing on my head while doing a high jump when a classmate pulled the mat out from under me. I knocked myself unconscious and went into convulsions, then stopped breathing. After the PE teacher gave me mouth to mouth, I was told to “walk it off” and sent to check in with the nurse, who sent me back to class.

Fast-forward a couple of years, and I spent the summer after 9th grade working out and dieting myself down to a healthier weight. I was still never a waif-like teenager, I could squeeze into a size 10 on a good day, but for the most part I wasn’t a constant target. A couple of scrawled “fat cow” notes on my locker senior year, and I was in college and free.

That’s not to say that I was never culpable. I spent the tenth grade at a small school overseas–there were fewer than 20 of us in my class. That year a new boy came; he was strange, awkward. I’ll call him “Rock”–just gawky and at that strange growth stage where all his joints were twice the size of his skinny limbs. The boys in class were horrible to Rock. They called him names, excluded him, and I did nothing. I never stood up for him, never went out of my way to intervene. I just remember feeling relief that it wasn’t me. I was terrified that if I so much as said boo, they would turn and I’d be back on the bottom of the totem pole. I wasn’t that high anyhow. One day one of the popular guys brought rotten eggs to school, and somehow managed to get them all in Rock’s locker. I still remember seeing him, standing in the hall with tears streaming down his face, red with rage and shame. Only then did the most popular girl in our class turn to her boyfriend who had managed the egging and say “enough”. Rock was never accepted, but the viciousness stopped for the most part. No thanks to me.

Now as an adult, when I see someone being victimized, I step in. As a youth volunteer in church, and later a youth director, I tried to create a bullying free environment. I can’t say that my efforts always worked. Often other adults were oblivious. One little boy in particular was twelve, geeky and brilliant. The snarky comments, dirty looks… it was all so familiar to me. His parents were pastors, so he had to come to group. I brought it up in a planning meeting with the youth director and other volunteers. None of them had noticed a thing. One actually said something to the effect of, “I think they are pretty nice to him, he’s so weird, you know.”

There are people out there who have built so many walls around themselves that all they can do is lash out in an attempt to make themselves feel better, more, superior. Email harassment, snide comments made behind someone’s back, gossip and cruelty… this isn’t just about middle school, high school, college, not just about gay kids or weird kids or fat kids or smart kids… it’s about all of us. I would like to believe that no one I care about was ever a bully, but that’s unlikely. Many of us were bullied. Many of us saw it happen to others and did nothing. And every time I read another story about another beautiful child destroyed, I feel like I’ve been punched in the stomach.

I would like to make a plea for kindness. For choice of gentle words. As the mother of an overweight child with Aspergers, I fear every time I send him out the door that he’ll experience what I did. This weekend, deep in my fit of melancholy, I found myself for the first time looking up on Facebook the names of the kids who had picked on me as a child. They didn’t look any different from any other 40somethings. Not sure what that means. But I know for a fact that it was the verbal and online bullying I experienced at my last job that led to my breakdown. I’m still wounded. So Christians, please act like it. And the rest of you, please keep us true to what we preach.

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I haven’t really talked much yet about one important part of my life.  Homeschooling.  Parenting choices make for one of those conversational topics that are best avoided, like politics and religion.  Just bring up breastfeeding at a baby shower and you’ll see what I mean.  You may as well toss meat to hungry wolves.   Of course, that makes it great fodder for blogging, right?

Kinesis builds marble run

The life of a homeschool family may be slightly unusual.  Since we are in the midst of moving and packing, I must admit that we have gone into summer schedule a bit early.  Lots of Nova specials on Netflix, and other things we can thrust upon our children while we pack. We’ve been studying the Civil War, so today they started watching the first episode of the Ken Burns series. Kinesis was assigned to draw a picture based on the episode, Entropy to find one interesting topic and research it further. In reality, Kinesis drew a quick picture of Lincoln, then started a wrestling match with his brother which went downhill from there, so they will have to watch it again tomorrow. The road to wisdom is difficult and cruel.

When you admit that you homeschool, there are some frequent responses, range from the positive, (“Wow!  That’s awesome!  I wish I could teach my kids, but it must be so hard!”) to the questioning, (“How do you handle testing?  Will your kids go to college?  What about socialization?”) to the outright hostile, (“You don’t even have a teaching credential, and you are going to remove your children from public society?”)  Folks who don’t homeschool often don’t know much about it, or think they do, or don’t realize quite how diverse a community it is.  So while I know it’s been done before, I’m going to give you my top ten list of common misapprehensions about homeschooling.

1.  All homeschoolers are unsocialized geeks.  This is completely untrue.  I know plenty of well-adjusted young people who were homeschooled.  One common trait is that because they spend much of their time with adults, either with their parents or out in the world rather than isolated in a particular peer group, they tend to relate in more mature fashion than many of their peers.  There are many studies that support this thesis.  http://www.informaworld.com/smpp/content~db=all~content=a746434208     My kids, however, are unsocialized geeks.  This has nothing to do with homeschooling.  They would be geeks in school, just like Flash and me. 

2.  All homeschoolers are brilliant.  Homeschool kids come in all ability levels, just like all kids.  There are indications that most homeschooled children test better than their brick-and-mortar schooled friends.  I would argue that having a very small teacher-student ratio is a large part of this.  If every public school teacher could sit down individually with just a few children instead of 30, those kids would learn faster too.  Our children, of course, are indeed brilliant.  Usually.  Most of the time.  Often.

3.  Homeschoolers are all fundamentalist, science-hating neo-con crazies who want to keep their kids away from the liberal homosexual agenda.  Many conservative Christians do indeed homeschool.  But there are plenty, I would posit a majority, who like us just want to do the best for their kids educationally.  We are very science-friendly, my kids know about evolution (even watched the three-part Nova special this week), and religion has very little to do with why we chose to homeschool.  They may or may not choose a different path–Entropy decided for a while that he wanted to be a high school teacher from watching Glee. 

Entropy meets author Patrick Rothfuss

4.  Homeschooing is so hard, my family could never do it.  Well, yeah, if you have that attitude, sure.  But lots of things are hard–training for marathons, raising kids, mastering Expert level on Rock Band.  People do those things all the time.  Seriously, there are so many resources out there that homeschooling is no longer unusual.  You can buy curriculum, find things online, join local groups, or even go the public-school homeschool route. 

5.  Homeschooling is easy, your kids just lie around and play video games while you ignore them all day, right?  Um, no.  That’s called child abuse, not homeschooling.  My kids only lie around and play video games after we attempt to beat some knowledge into them.  Kidding!

6.  Homeschoolers don’t support public education.  While there are those who choose to homeschool because they are opposed to public schools on principle, we are not those people.  We always vote for school bonds, and think that public schools are not only necessary but that they should be given the best resources possible.  We simply don’t think that they are the best choice for OUR children at THIS time.  I mean, I may never sail into the Port of Los Angeles, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t important to build, or that my family doesn’t benefit from the increased commerce it supports.  A well-educated population is good for everyone.  We’re doing our part, and are glad for them to do theirs.  Go public school teachers! 

7.  Homeschooling takes place at home.  Sometimes.  But the big secret that homeschooling families try to keep quiet is: everything is less crowded during the week.  Malls.  Disneyland.  You can tote your books to the beach on a Wednesday, and not have to fight for towel space.  I’m particularly fond of Starbucks as a venue for school.  Free wi-fi, snacks available, and plenty of caffeine to keep me motivated.

8.  There is one homeschool curriculum that everyone follows.  Not true.  I would guess that homeschoolers in general are better educated about a variety of forms of pedagogy than any other population, including teachers who tend to be trained in one approach that meets standards.  That means that there are unschoolers who follow child-led learning, school-at-homers who follow the state standard and use textbooks, and classical homeschoolers who enter into the great conversation with historical sources and great books.  We are sort of reformed-neo-classical ourselves.  We teach Latin, read great literature, and make sure our kids have a healthy dose of geek culture as well.

It's science!

9.  Moms homeschool, dads work.  Uh, yeah.  Well, talk to Flash about that.  Stay at home schooling dads are certainly a minority, but they do exist.  I’m married to one.  I do the planning, he does implementation.  It works for us.

10.  Homeschooling is for everyone.  Nope.  Just like any other lifestyle choice, it works for some and not for others.  We love it, and I can wax rhapsodic about the benefits of homeschooling.  Sorry, friends IRL, it is just so much a part of our life I can’t help the occasional outburst.  We somehow seem to do well spending almost all our time together as a family, learning together, laughing together.  (OK, this is intended as sarcasm, as I can hear my Kinesis and Entropy arguing in the other room.  “Don’t throw your shirt at me!”  “You hurt my leg!  I’ll never walk again!” ) 

It’s the life we choose.  I like that my children are familiar with Beowulf, and Greek mythology, can sing the Large Hadron Collider rap and don’t know that Gilbert and Sullivan are not cool.  I have a kitchen cabinet full of chemistry equipment (all safely labeled, you know).  We can play games and watch TV and go on trips, and it’s all educational, and it’s all part of life.  Even our upcoming trip cross-country will be a great opportunity for learning, as well as fun.  It is work.  It is hard.  But if we didn’t love it so much, we wouldn’t do it.

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You may be familiar with this term.  If not, you are most likely familiar with the process.  Productive avoidance is completing a pleasant task that you want to do, instead of a task that is far more urgent, but not enjoyable.   I had a coworker once who, when pricing a paint job, spent days playing with his computer paint program and printing out examples of what the church building would look like in different colors. This was back in the days when that was a real time-sink… not simple clicking, you had to manually draw each pixel.  Of course, for true productive avoidance,  it’s important that you make it absolutely clear to everyone around you that what you are working on is not only necessary, but absolutely critical.  

So, for example, this morning I was washing dishes.  My kitchen window overlooks my front porch, and there, like a vision in the morning light, he stood–the FedEx guy.  Under his arm were two tiny boxes.  All the way from China.  And as I looked at him standing there I thought about all the books that need to be packed, kids clothes that need to be sorted for fit, bathrooms that really need to be cleaned, and I knew that none of that would happen.  At least not today.  Today was iPad 2 day. 

I immediately called Flash at work (it’s his day off from being a SAHD on Wednesdays), to let him know of the arrival.  Entropy was as excited as I was, and we sat and took turns carefully opening the carton, removing the white Apple box, tearing the plastic wrap, and then slowly sliding it open.  Remember when Charlie is looking for the Golden Ticket?  It was like that, with significantly more squeals of joy.  I then got busy synching, downloading, and finding new apps.  Would the same things from my iPhone still be usable, or should I even bother with them?  In preparation for this moment, I had already jailbroken my iPhone, and it was set up to be its own wi-fi hotspot. So when we are out and about, I can still surf the web charge-free on my wi-fi only iPad. It’s so exciting! 

 And what about a cover?  I hadn’t ordered one, so as soon as Flash came home early from work we hit the Best Buy.  I ended up with a green smart cover, and a really cool clear cover for the back from Belkin.  It’s awesome, works together with the smart cover and solves the problem of the exposed metal on the back.   I can be hard on electronics (*cough* killed 4 Kindles *cough*), so I wanted something tough but that would leave the engraving on the back visible.

Geekery, check.  Technology, check.  But whence the moving?

Well, you might remember that the entire plan behind obtaining these iPads is to allow us to cut deep swathes through our library, cruelly casting many volumes into the rummage pile.   So setting up my iPad, accessing my Kindle books, and all the rest is truly a move oriented task.  It’s on the master to do list.   Thus, this was an absolutely important activity for me to complete, and the fact that no actual boxes were filled today is not a measure of my diligence.  Really.  It’s not just fun.  Seriously.  And I’m not just writing this quickly so that I can get back to computer nerd heaven.  What I am working on is not only necessary, but absolutely critical.

Ain’t it the truth?

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How open are you?    With your spouse or significant other?  With your kids?  Your boss?  Your parents?  On a blog?

It’s an interesting question.  How authentic, how personal do you get?  Obviously these questions arise particularly on journal type blogs like mine, which by their very nature are intimate, and yet distant.  Even though I’m trying to be anonymous-y to the search engines (at least you’d have to know me or look for me), I remain committed to the idea that true communication happens only when we are willing to be vulnerable.  I’ve been around long enough to know that there is truly no privacy in cyberspace, and precious little IRL.  It’s all out there, so you better be OK with who you are.  Or at least I used to think so.

Then I went to “group” for three months.  “Group” is the euphemism we used at the psychiatric hospital for the severe mood disorders program.  “I’m going to group,” I’d say and head out the door in the morning.  Sounded a lot better than “I’m going to brain treatment” or “Behavioral Health Care”.  Group was really very interesting.  There was a wide range of ages, races, men and women, from body-pierced punk 19 year olds to an elderly Indian gentleman doctor, with plenty of housewives, students, a barista or two, a sheriff, and me, the pastor.  We were black and white, hispanic and asian.  It wasn’t a group of people who would ever meet socially in real life, and yet there was a closeness there that is hard to describe.  We all had been through it.  Depression, or bi-polar, anxiety disorders, all severe enough that normal life had become untenable, at least for a while.

I learned a lot about behavioural-cognitive theory, and talked some, and listened more.  We talked about our need to find places to express how we were feeling, and I was surprised at the number of people who said that they didn’t even have one person they could honestly talk to.  Not a single person in their life that they trusted that completely.  We had a long discussion about setting boundaries of who was safe, and who was not, to tell our stories.  I just recently started seeing a new therapist, and she’s one of the good ones.   I just got that vibe… she’s real.  She get’s it.  But isn’t always easy to tell, and being let down happens.  How do you know when someone is safe to share with?  Can be trusted?  Will be loving even if they disagree or disapprove or are disappointed by you?

I’ve been so blessed in having Flash with me through this all.  It has meant a lot to have my best friend and husband willing to walk this precarious path with me.  And on days like today, when I’m struggling to cope with normal routines through waves of panic attacks, it means a lot to have him by my side. 

I’ve always been somewhat of an over-sharer.  If you’ve ever heard me preach, you know that applying the scripture to my everyday life is the lens through which I see God.  The good, the bad, and the ugly.    I let it all out and trust that others will be honest and upfront with me in return.  Now that I’m middle-aged, I no longer expect that everyone will respond.   Some people simply find it frightening, to hear truth spoken by anyone.  To put aside unnecessary pleasantries for depth.  But I can say that for the most part the people I truly care about are willing to try authenticity. 

But now, like never before, I’m wounded.  And so, carefully, carefully, I’m trusting.  I had a wonderful lunch this morning with a dear colleague and gave her the whole story of the past two years of stress that brought me to the brink, far more than I will post publically.  I really want to focus here on the future, how I’m changing, what I’m becoming.   I’m carefully selecting how I post links to my blog on Facebook (not everyone sees them) and who I go into more detail with.  If you are one of those who is safe, who gets it, please come back.  Listen.  Respond.  If you aren’t, then… hey, look, squirrel!  Over there!  Now delete that link…

The technology is enticing.  There is possibility here.  Be authentic.  Speak your truth, but never have to see the face look back in disappointment or anger.  I finally get the whole blog thing.  I need it.  On days like today.

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It has not escaped my attention that my recent transition from seeming emotional stability to my new status as a wreck is happening at the age of 40.  It seems almost too classic to be coincidental, right?  Midlife crisis, meet RevMommy.  She’s ripe for the picking.

So I find myself faced with both the opportunity to do something new, go into uncharted water–a good thing.  And a bout of severe depression that often prevents me from doing anything at all beyond rolling over and going back to sleep–this is not so good.  Part of me wants to face the second half of life with enthusiasm and excitement.  I like to think this is the real me.  Another part of me is feeling at sea because for the first time in my life, I’m not defined by my job.  This is my scared part.  Really, really scared.

We live in a culture in which we are defined by what we do for a living.  When you meet someone for the first time, most people ask “What do you do?”  They don’t mean knitting, or collecting comics, they want to know where you work.  Flash has faced this disability for many years as a Stay-At-Home-Dad.  Only in the last few years has SAHD even become a thing, one that you can admit to. (An aside about Flash:   He’s an awesome dad, as shown by the way he spent his afternoon coaxing our terrified and resistant son into having his blood drawn.   Flash not only spent 45 minutes trying to calm a hysterical child with Asperger’s, but even had them draw his own blood just to show it was safe.  He so rocks.)   I love to shake up personal introductions by asking questions like “What is your favorite book?” or “Where did you grow up?”, if not “What is your first memory of being in a kitchen?”  That’s a great one.

In my case, I’ve been in a pastoral role my entire adult life.  I went to seminary right out of college at the age of 21, worked as a youth director, was a missionary, and was ordained and in a church at 25.  I remember one elderly lady in the first church I served asking my age, then replying, “Honey, I’ve got shoes older than you.”  So while I may not have grown up in the church, I have certainly become the woman I am in the church.   Being a pastor never stops.  People I don’t know often want to tell me how horrible religion is, or contrariwise they suddenly stop saying fuck and act as if I’m going to slap them with a ruler.  Or they just close down and move out of the conversation.  On the other hand, there are the folks that jump right in to theology, or the story of their personal crisis, or ask me to pray.  Once the words, “I’m a pastor” are out of my mouth, I become a stand-in for their entire personal relationship with God, however bad or good that has been.  And after a while, I started to see myself that way as well.  Who I was was what I did. 

Tonight I met with an old friend (old, in the sense that now she’s an adult woman in her late 20s and I remember her at age 13 in church youth group) to talk about my exploring the possibility of my becoming a doula.  A doula, if you are not a parent or became a parent before they became popular, is a childbirth attendant.  A woman who professionally supports the woman in labor, as opposed to a midwife whose focus is on the baby.  

We met in a totally cool coffeehouse, so cool that it is definitely not near where I live.  Funky couches, art, nothing matching or blah–we sat on a bright green Victorian style couch.  The customers were all young, hip, and busily working on their laptops.   I want to live there.

Anyhow, my friend is not only a doula, she’s currently expecting her first baby.  I’m a total childbirth geek, I loved being pregnant and being in labor, and using a doula was a big part of that.  I have oodles of experience in hospitals, and it would be nice to be there to celebrate the beginning of life rather than my usual role.  Don’t get all excited, I’m honestly just trying it on for size.   I don’t really know which way God is calling me right now, but it feels odd to even think about taking off my virtual “I’m A Pastor–Tell Me Your Problems” button.  In a way it could be so refreshing.

So the “Rev” part of “RevMommy” has suddenly become nebulous.  However, as Mothers’ Day reminded me, the “Mommy” part is still right on target.  If I define myself by anything, it is being a Mom.  One thing I know I want is to continue to have the family oriented and centered lifestyle that we do.  I want to spend as much time as possible, do as much as possible, with my children before they move up and out.  I’m not satisfied with a couple of hours a day of interaction with my biological offspring.  I want to be part of raising them.  Not a helicopter mom, hovering overhead; not a Tiger mom, demanding perfection: I want to be a cheetah mom, protecting them when they are helpless, teaching them to hunt by my side as they grow, then letting them go knowing I gave them myself 100%.   Hence homeschooling.  Scheduling my work life so that I can do as much as I can during their sleeping hours.  Spending my free time playing board games and going on family field trips and watching family movies.  Living a child-centered life in a culture that really rejects that sort of thinking.  Being a mom is my rock right now.  

Belated happy Mothers’ Day to all you moms out there.   It really is the best part of my life.  And while I’m still trying to decide what I want to do when I grow up, for now I’m happy just being a mom.

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If there’s one thing I’ve learned in life, it’s that sometimes you just need to hit things with swords.  Big sharp swords.  Since I’m a sedentary middle-aged woman, I do it virtually.  After my bout of movie-induced-melancholy last night, the chaos of boxes and packing and housekeeping were overwhelming me, and an email offering a free week of World of Warcraft just happened to appear in my inbox.  Darn you, Blizzard marketing department.  You’ve been spying on me.   

Smashing things feels incredibly soothing right now.  It’s like antidepressants, with sound effects and treasure.  Of course  WoW is a money pit.  After buying the program, you have to subscribe for $15 a month, which means $30 because if I subscribe, Flash will too.   I’m still on my free week, so we’ll see.  I don’t have the latest upgrades and they want to sell me those.  We have so many moving related expenses and I don’t have a regular income yet… but gaming is still way cheaper than therapy.  Not that I’m giving up therapy any time soon.

The last time I played Warcraft regularly was a couple of years ago.  At that time the boys were younger, and didn’t really notice if mom and dad locked their bedroom door at night so we could sneak in some roleplaying.   In the game.  Get your minds out of the gutter.  Now, however, launching the game attracts Kinesis and Entropy like magnets.  “What are you doing?  Why don’t you kill that?  Go climb that tower and jump off!”  The fact that they have their own games to play during quiet time, their own DSs, access to a computer with subscriptions of their own to ClubPenguin and Lego Universe, and in our living room sit an XBox, a Playstation 3 and a Wii does not distract them from hanging over my shoulder and kibbitzing about Cuteypie, my new troll character.  This has led to the development of new geek parenting phrases, such as “Go play your own MMOG! Now!”

There have been some changes in the game in the past two years.  The graphics are better, and I find the gameplay smoother.  Yet it still is a world populated by adolescent males and those who act like them.  Sometimes I just have to turn off the universal chat function.  I prefer to avoid guilds and PVP and just play solo quests, or group up just with Flash, doing lots of crafting along the way.  You know, the girly stuff.  And being in the same room on side-by-side laptops saves a lot of time on chat. 

Of course, computer gaming is a time sink.  I probably could have packed the kitchen cabinets I had my eye on today, but instead I got up and logged on for a while… and then the while grew… and grew.  I’m going to have to set some strict limits if this is going to continue.   The whole time we were watching Dr. Who (and more about that tomorrow) I was preoccupied with wondering where Flash and I would find some level 10+ quests in the Ogrimmar region.  When you can’t focus on the Tardis, you are officially hooked. 

Anyhow, that’s all for tonight.  Gotta go fight some bristleback quillboars.  You know.  Mom stuff.

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