Amy Writes

Last week, I sat in the allergist's office as she injected some 39 tiny needles into my arms. As I waited in the quiet for the track marks to appear and my respiratory enemies to make themselves known, unable to troll facebook because...well, you know..., my mind had time to wander. Why do people subject themselves to this? What was I really going to do with this coming information? The answer, obviously, with all allergens, is that knowledge is power. Once I know what is making me sick, then I will be able to avoid those things, or take measures to prevent a reaction if I know I'm going to be exposed. I will know more about what makes me uniquely me, and understand how I can endure a three month sinus infection by simply breathing the same air as something that my friend can snuggle up to and kiss on the mouth. It occurred to me then that when I wrote that last post, I was essentially declaring an allergy. What may never negatively affect someone else was making me sick. ...

I saw something this morning that made me want to crawl back under the covers and stay there. Forever. Seriously. For a few seconds, I was ready to abandon everything and just wallow. A feeling of hopelessness so deep that lying in bed for eternity (atop a mattress in need of replacement, at that!) seemed a better option than proceeding with my day, or any day from here on out. For me, today and by the grace of God, it was just a few seconds, but for Robin Williams...for him, yesterday was the end of a few seconds here and a few seconds there and then minutes and days and years, and enough was enough. The pull of freedom overpowered a dark and hopeless perception of reality. Like the rest of the world, I took his death as a personal blow. One desperate hour stole so very many of our generation's greatest characters from us. How could we let this happen...again? How do so many who suffer so deeply slip through the cracks? And like the rest of the world, for a few minutes, I ...

I do not have a teaching degree. But to my knowledge, neither did the mothers of John Adams, John Quincy Adams, Thomas Jefferson, Abraham Lincoln, George Washington, George Washington Carver, Albert Einstein, Claude Monet...the list goes on. Note to self: I should read a list like this every Monday, Thursday and Friday when I'm ready to give up. Another note to self: Shockingly few women on that list...that must be another story. In addition to the "my kids just really need to be around other kids" comments, we homeschool moms also hear "I could never homeschool because I'm not smart enough." That's a valid fear. Except, not really. As a functioning adult, you are most likely equipped to guide a child through everything he or she needs to know, at a developmentally appropriate level, through at least fifth grade. For everything else - there's a curriculum for that . (This is also something I need to consistently remind myself when I am fee...

There's a conversation that homeschool parents have ALL the time. It frequently happens in a grocery store, at 11 a.m. on a Wednesday. It goes: Store person: "No school today?" Me (or kids): "We homeschool." Store person: "Oh, good for you. (It almost always starts with 'good for you.') I would have loved to have done that, but I just really wanted my kids to be/my kids needed to be socialized." Oh, if I had a dollar... By the time we decided to homeschool, the idea of my kids being lonely and weird because of our choice was already a non-issue. I knew so many homeschool kids, and they all knew each other, and they were together ALL the time. These were not kids who were starved for a social life. Our poor little unsocialized homeschooled kids are in dance with dozens of kids, P.E. with about 100, on soccer and basketball teams, in art classes, and history clubs. You should see the list of things we turn down. And let me tell y...

: Full disclosure: I was afraid. When we decided to homeschool our kids, I was about to enroll my youngest in kindergarten. She'd been in a mom's morning out program a couple mornings a week, so I was used to having about 8 hours a week to myself. I remember surrendering four of those to volunteer at the school where our oldest was enrolled. I don't remember what I did with the other four. So now I was staring down 30 hours a week of me-time, and I could not imagine such a thing. Homeschooling was always part of our plan. We assumed we'd pull our girls out around middle school, so that they'd have as little time around middle schoolers as possible. We'd take one for the team by pulling two middle school girls out of rotation and maybe rent an RV and travel the country for a couple of years, trying to convince the girls that Laura Ingalls Wilder really IS the standard of cool. But we hadn't even made it to second grade, and here we were, re...

Four years ago, I stared into the sweet blue eyes of my blonde pigtailed first grader and thought: I give up. I give up trying to get your piano practicing done before breakfast. I give up arguing with you over what is for breakfast. I give up arguing with you over what's in your backpack. I give up volunteering in your classroom, meeting you for lunch, going to PTA meetings. I give up car lines. I give up after school clubs and piano lessons. I give up squeezing in homework. I give up reporting in on sick days, or I'd-rather-stay-home days. I give up arranging my travel schedule around union days off. I give up school nights. I give up fundraisers. I give up the disbelieving stares the teachers give me when I tell them you're a tough kid. I give up hearing about how compliant and helpful you are in class and wondering where that kid is when you come home. I give up being the third party in your conversations. I give up giving you up. We had tried really hard not t...

Philip Seymour Hoffman was found dead today, and I am heartbroken. He was found, they say, in his underwear, with a needle in his arm, on the bathroom floor. It's that part that gets me the most. I believed him to be a creative genius, capable of depth and believable on-camera-grit than most, and his talent will be missed. He leaves behind a successful career, an admiring public and a family who loved him. But the hardest part to process isn't the how or the why. It's the where . The bathroom floor. The dirtiest place in the home. It is not made to comfort a resting body. The bathroom floor is cold, hard and lonely. And yet at one point today for Philip, there were no offers more appealing than stretching out on the bathroom floor and calling it a day. Philip's death made headlines. But there are so many that don't. I am privileged to know a family who has been standing between their loved one and the bathroom floor for years. They are waging an insp...