Saturday, December 15, 2007 at 10:05PM Mrs. G. 
If you or your kids are looking for outstanding blogging about birds, bugs, plants, reptiles, hiking, oceans, ecosystems, or any other natural topic, check out this link.
Homeschool Thursday, December 13, 2007 at 4:12PM Mrs. G. 
Homeschool Monday, December 10, 2007 at 5:44PM Mrs. G. 
Mrs. G. has a friend who is homeschooling her three amazing girls. A few years ago, she went through a bitter, painful divorce. One of this mom's biggest concerns about the divorce was that she was going to be forced to send her kids to school when, clearly, they were all thriving at home (as if their lives weren't going to change enough). Mrs. G's friend is a nurse, so she arranged her schedule so that she worked three weekdays and one weekend day. Mrs. G. took her girls on Monday and another homeschooling mama took her girls on Friday for the first year. And while things got crazy on Mondays at Derfwad Manor, Mrs. G's kids loved having the company and Mrs. G. took advantage of the crowd-like atmosphere and enthusiasm to take on projects like puppet shows and paper mache fairy houses.
Mrs. G. is happy to report that her friend recovered from her divorce and her girls are still thriving at home...the oldest will begin community college in the fall. Over the years, many homeschooling moms have stepped up to help her cover her work days.
Mrs. G. only brings up this story to remind everyone that homeschooling is possible under all kinds of circumstances. Single moms and dads can do it (with help and creativity), grandmas and grandpas can do it...it's not just for nuclear families. And if life deals you some unpredictable cards (good or bad), don't forget that there is more than one formula for making homeschooling work.
Photo by Miss G.
Homeschool Tuesday, December 4, 2007 at 9:00PM Mrs. G. 
Mrs. G's son was a wiggly young boy. He was a mover and a groover. Up until about 5th grade, he needed to mess with something while he did math or worked on writing. And this was his favorite stuff to mess with. He would roll it and squish it and, somehow, it helped his little body and brain to focus. Thinking Putty puts back-in-the-day Silly Putty to shame. Better texture, colors and scents.Homeschool Sunday, December 2, 2007 at 4:48PM Mrs. G. 
Mrs. G. sincerely believes that every parent who cares about traditional or home education should read this book. Tony Wagner, a bigwig at Harvard and former high school English teacher for twelve years, just gets it.
Homeschool Saturday, December 1, 2007 at 8:27PM Mrs. G. 
Homeschool Friday, November 30, 2007 at 4:52PM Mrs. G. 
Mrs. G. takes the self directed part of homeschooling very seriously. At around 7th grade, Mrs. G. turns over the few mundane lessons (math, grammar, basic history) she insists be covered in a more boring traditional manner and sits down with her kids, hands them a calendar and discusses what she would like completed per week (one chapter, 25 problems, etc.) and then leaves it at that. They can decide when they want to sit down and do the work and after that, any extra time (and there is plenty) is theirs to spend as they see fit. Mrs. G's daughter liked to finish all her work in one day. Mrs. G's son, ahem, took (and takes) his time. Mrs. G. can't tell you how important she thinks it is for homeschooled kids (actually all kids) to take ownership of their own learning, take ownership of managing their own time. Hint: it prepares them for the real world where people don't generally breathe down your neck telling you what to do by when.
Homeschool Friday, November 30, 2007 at 12:00AM Mrs. G.
The Coffee Tree
One summer Mrs. G. and her kids were studying basic biology with a shot of botany, and she decided that she and the children needed to actually grow things to truly appreciate the riveting life of seeds and plants. Like many homeschooling mothers, Mrs. G. is the queen of working with what’s cheap or free available. Give a homeschooling mother a toilet paper roll, some dental floss and a wad of aluminum foil and she will figure out a way to turn them into teaching tools or hot-glue-gun them to a Campbell’s soup can and transform them into some sort of solar powered go-cart engine. They are a resourceful bunch. Mrs. G. started scanning the kitchen looking for things to grow. She looked in the vegetable crisper and voila: instant rain forest. She and the kids grew little avocado trees on the window sill. They put a sweet potato stabbed with toothpicks into a jelly jar full of water and watched in awe as the eyes burgeoned into fluffy green leaves. They planted lemon and orange seeds in Dixie cups. Everything germinated and it was magic, a suburban crop of magic. An enthusiastic beater of the dead horse, Mrs. G. decided this botany lesson would not be complete unless she and the kids tried to grow a coffee tree. So she planted a coffee bean in some Miracle-Gro potting soil and a clay pot and put it in her sunniest window. She tenderly misted the soil several times a day to recreate the lush humid coffee fields of Juan Valdez. And yet, nothing. Weeks passed and, again, nothing. One afternoon Mrs. G. was sitting in front of the coffee tree willing it to poke its little green nubbin out of the soil when her daughter came in and casually asked her where she got the coffee bean. "Out of the Starbucks bag in the freezer," Mrs. G. said. Mrs. G’s daughter rolled her eyes and said, "Mom those beans are roasted…roasted as in heated… to death," and then she proceeded to yell to her brother that Mom had tried to grow a dead roasted coffee been and the two of them heartlessly rolled on the ground laughing hysterically. Mrs. G. took the coffee tree pot, threw it in the trash and stomped off to her room where she proceeded to lick her wounds and soothe herself with a People magazine and a Snicker’s bar.
The Lemur
One day, while visiting the zoo, Mrs. G. and her kids spent quite a while in their zoo’s ultra cool nocturnal house. As their eyes adjusted to the darkness, they started to notice the fruit bats hanging from the ceiling and the possums, porcupines and raccoons scurrying in the leaves below. Something moved on one of the exhibit's many tree limbs and Mrs. G. loudly whispered, "Look it’s a lemur and it looks just like Zaboomafoo." "Who?" said her kids in unison. "Zaboomafoo, the lemur on Kratt’s Creatures," Mrs. G. explained, already sensing the scorn. "Mom," said her son, "Zaboomafu is a puppet. It is not a real lemur." Again with the hysterical laughter and the disrespectful finger pointing. "Didn’t you notice that Zaboomafoo talks…that his mouth moves? That he speaks human English?" No, in fact, Mrs. G. had not noticed, because when she watched Kratt's Creatures, she was frequently fantasizing about the Kratt brothers Martin and Chris so engrossed in the amazing world of her animal brethren.
The Vomit
One afternoon, Mrs. G’s beloved Dalmatian Bella threw up eight Greenie bones and a half a bag of Cheetos on the living room floor. Mrs. G. is not good with bodily fluids of any kind. At all. She was fine with her own babies, but one time when she was babysitting a friend's child, the little boy disappeared behind her couch to have a private moment and, seconds later, there was the unmistakable sound of exploding bowels. It was a bad scene. Mrs. G, and she is not proud of this, handed the toddler a disposable diaper and some wipes, pointed him towards the bathroom and told the little guy to do what he had to do. He was on his own. She stood outside the bathroom door in an effort to give him verbal instructions and provide moral support. She felt it was the least she could do.
Back to the dog’s large pile of vomit on the living room floor. Mrs. G. hid in a corner of her living room and screamed for her daughter to come quick. Her daughter came into the room and after several minutes of heated debate involving talking points like don’t make me beat your ass and drive this dog back to the pound right this very minute, Mrs. G's daughter heroically grabbed the little fireplace shovel and proceeded to scoop the vomit up and put it into a brown paper Trader Joes bag. Mrs. G. just cowered and dry heaved in her little corner while her daughter did what had to be done. Mrs. G’s daughter drew the line at cleaning off the brass fireplace shovel so rather than hosing it off like a normal person, Mrs. G. just threw the damn thing away.
The Blood
There was time Mrs. G. was reading when she heard a loud THUMP. Her son was napping on his top bunk bed, so she immediately suspected that something was not right. The ensuing screaming of oww my head! oww my head! confirmed her initial suspicion. Mrs. G. is so afraid of blood that she freezes and nearly faints when she comes into contact with it. Mrs. G, ran down the hall toward her son’s cries and stood outside his door. "Son, are you OK?" she asked as he continued to cry owww my head! oww my head! "Son, are you, ah, bleeding?" Mrs. G. asked, her feet frozen to the floor. Noooo…it was only then, after at least 96 seconds of child abuse and overt medical neglect, that Mrs G. busted into his room and rushed to hug and comfort him and check his pupils for signs of concussion. Mrs. G’s children experienced this delayed response to emergencies so often that in a attempt to survive the skinned knees and rusty nails of childhood, they learned to yell Mom I hurt myself but I’m not BLEEDING in order to receive boo-boo healing kisses or any medical attention that required a Band aid or a spritz of Bactine.
The Racehorse
In 2001, one of Mrs. G’s students came up to her after class and asked her if she had read the bestselling book called Seabiscuit: An American Legend by Laura Hillenbrand. He told her it was about this amazing true story about a thoroughbred that became a symbol of hope to many Americans during the Great Depression. Mrs. G. was so swept up that one of her students was using the phrase symbol of hope and referencing the Great Depression, that she didn’t bat an eye when he went on to earnestly tell her that the most inspirational part of this book was the fact that Seabiscuit had only three legs… that he was a three-legged race horse.
*She didn't really fail his ass...no hate mail please.
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