TMI, in Honor of World Suicide Prevention Day

While I was pregnant with my fifth, the whole world fell apart. Some nut jobs flew planes into the twin towers and the Pentagon. People started getting envelopes with anthrax. My girl scout co-leader staged a coup. ("Good news! We have enough girls from our school to start our very own troop!") The city came into my home under the guise of a rehab loan to insulate our ceiling and get a safe water heater, and decided that a third of my home had been built illegally and needed to come down. I already was experiencing my usual pregnancy depression, and things went south from there. I couldn't take it. I didn't want to take it. Thoughts of death filled my every spare thought. I wanted to die with every iota of myself.

It was obvious that I needed to get back on anti-depressants. I'd gone off mine because I didn't want the extra risks for the pregnancy, but the truth was that suicide was 100% deadly to a fetus. The benefits clearly outweighed the risks. I happened to have insurance at that point so I called Kaiser to get an appointment with a therapist and/or psychiatrist. They asked basic questions to ascertain whether I was planning on killing myself. I knew that a yes to any of those questions would result in a "5150," an involuntary stay at a psych hospital. My kids were 10, 8, 5, and 3 at the time. Where would they go?  The only possible answer: "No, I am not going to kill myself." The Kaiser employee, having determined that she didn't need to send the police to save me, scheduled me for the next available appointment, four months from then. Four months. Luckily, I got into my primary care physician after only a month for an SSRI. I just "talked back to the crazy" while I waited.

My crazy brain thought of caulking myself and the kids into the kitchen and having a "movie, ice cream and pizza party" while the gas was on, and I told the crazy brain to SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP, I'd ponder snow camping and freezing to death, and I told myself that it wouldn't work and to SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP. Envying people with cancer, wishing for a meteorite to take me and my house out, hoping for a deadly car accident, all were greeted with my standard SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP. Never underestimate the power of telling the horrid thoughts no. It got me through while I waited for help.

Eventually, I got my SSRI and I started meeting with the Kaiser therapist, a kind of crappy therapist actually. It was enough to keep my domino up. Kaiser eventually got me in to see a psychiatrist and she was a delight. I later found a private therapist who was willing to do phone therapy with me and I worked hard to find my joi de vivre again. The meds stopped the death thoughts. The therapy gave me tools to deal with the emotions that come with life's trials. I was out of my house for fifteen months with a young family. It sucked in the biggest possible way, but I stayed alive. And I got better.

My husband later told me that while crazy me and sane me were fighting it out in my brain, I was calmer than usual and easier to get along with. He couldn't tell that I was on the edge of the abyss. I was running girl scout meetings and interviewing contractors and meeting with midwives and homeschooling and wanting to die with every iota of my being. I talked to some of my closest friends about it. I talked to my husband about it. They all knew I was stressed, but they didn't know how tempted I was. How close I was. Even though I was saying it, they weren't seeing it.

One of my closest friends saw it. She was similarly tempted. She and I made a living pact, similar to a suicide pact, with a happier outcome. The image of the line of dominoes falling and standing strong to hold up the dominoes that depended on me came from this pact of ours.  If I were to kill myself, people would be affected. Period. A lot of people.

I don't say this because I am immensely popular. I say it because when Carla jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge, it affected me. We weren't close, but she was my friend. She bought cookies from my girl scouts. She was a Pampered Chef host for me. We'd talked about life, parenting. I say it because when the daughter of one of my best friends from college took her life a few weeks ago, when the sweet girl from my first married ward and sister of my good friend killed herself last week, those deaths affected me. When they died, my domino took a hit, a big hit. Every domino that falls hits so many others. Some we would never suspect. I do not want to knock other people's dominoes over.

I'm not blaming people who kill themselves. Depression is a real illness.When people kill themselves they are not being selfish. They are being sick. Their brain chemicals and their hormones are out of whack. When I started taking the SSRI, my death thoughts stopped. I didn't have to shut them up. They went away because my chemical imbalance was being corrected. It wasn't magic. I had to try several different kinds of SSRIs and fiddle with the dosages with my doctor, but it worked. I'm healthier.

I'm not sharing all this for a big pity party or a love-on-Jami-fest.  I'm sharing it because I know right now there's someone doing all the stuff they are supposed to be doing while envisioning their own death, while googling painless suicide methods, while trying to figure out how to do it with the least amount of harm to those left behind. I'm begging those people to stay, to please get help, even though it all seems insurmountable.

There are happy days ahead even if you can't imagine them now. Believe me. Believe all of the survivors before you. Please seek help. For every time I've thought that life was hopeless and there was no point in going on, I've had a dozen where I experienced peace and joy that I would not have happened if I'd given up. It's not all fields of daisies, but it's do-able with moments of delight.

Those of you who are supporting someone who is tempted by suicide, I need to tell you that if they decide they are going to kill themselves no amount of following them around and trying to fix it will stop them. This is their battle. BUT you can help. You can be there. You can not judge. You can not make it worse by making it about you. You can not give up on them. There are many resources (some conflicting) that you can explore, including seeking therapy on your own. Here's a nice starting point.

For those of you who are on the edge, have been on the edge or might be on the edge in the future,  I give you one of the best self care lists I've ever run into.  Seriously, click on it and try a few of the things. I also give you the number to the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, 1-800-273-8255. Also I remind you that no one can be you. Not to your kids or your friends. Not to your mom or dad. Not to your mail carrier. You are the only you that is ever going to be and you are precious. Please stay with us. Stay to experience those bright moments of joy that will surely come. Stay to someday hold the hand of someone else who wants to die. Don't buy the lie that it won't get better. It will. Don't buy the lie that we'd be better off without you. We won't be. Stay. Please.

In Which I Attempt to Convince Myself of a Truth

Yesterday, I was feeling yucky. I looked up at my daughter and said, "I don't know what's wrong with me. I just feel so bad."

"You're kidding, right?"

"No, what happened? Oh . . . right."

Then I remembered what I'd been distracting myself from all week. Something yucky had happened, something that blew me out of the water, something I didn't want to deal with. And I buried it. Under distractions: being busy, being mom, watching SciFi, reading everything I could get my hands on. It worked, I forgot the problem. I was sort of dazed this week, unable to concentrate, and whenever I got a minute and my mind began to focus on the issue, I shoved myself head-first into something that would make my thoughts SHUT UP.

Distraction worked and it didn't work. The pain was still there. My subconscious was picking at the scab. I had symbolic nasty nightmares all week. I still felt like crap; I just wasn't as sure why.

I know I need to write. Some people need to run. Or to paint. Or to dismantle a car engine and put it back together. I need to write. Writing is the way my brain processes yuck, takes my issues, those chaotic feelings, and forms them into sense. Then my psyche lets the problem go. When my thoughts threaten to drown me, if I write them out then I clarify those thoughts, work through them. I have a journal entry or a bad poem or blog post instead of free-floating anxiety. Seems like a fine idea.

But I've been avoiding writing. Because the clarity hurts. Writing hurts. But after I write, the things stop killing me. My subconscious lets them go. When I wrote about my mom's death I sobbed through the process. I sobbed as I read the post twenty times, then I moved on. The nightmares stopped. I could think about what happened in passing without being thrown back into the situation. There's hundreds of instances on my blog, in my journals, in my correspondence of times when this process has happened.

With distraction, I feel better in the short run. With writing, I feel better in the long run.  Like exercise and good nutrition, like getting enough rest, like the golden rule, like reading the scriptures daily, the easy way is the wrong way. And not easier. Truly. 

Rethinking the Whole Castration Thing

Melanie requested to hear about my world view exploding, and I think I'm stable enough to write about a portion of the explosion now. If not, I can just erase the post. Unless I accidentally press publish instead then my psychotic rantings will promptly go to a few dozen blog readers. (Not that it has happened before or anything.)

"Let me explain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up."

I've got a problem with child molesters. It's a common problem. I hate them and would like them to die during an unmedicated castration. Child molesters are pure unmitigated evil and deserve pain. It's a nasty world view, but there it is.

A few years ago when my best friend's husband got caught red-handed with their mentally-challenged adopted daughter, I had a conflict. This was a man who I had known for years, a man who had offered my family shelter during a difficult homeless time. (Another long story involving the city and some building code violations.) The evidence was undeniable however. I took the girl in while my friend got her husband out. Then I watched in disbelief as law enforcement and CPS let the whole thing drop between counties.

The thing is... as much as I loved the child, I did not want her molester to die slowly. I wanted him to get treatment, I wanted him to stay away from other children, but I didn't want him dead.

Fast forward to early summer 2009. I do a Google search on a good friend from college to see what he's up to. Surprise! It's a molestation conviction. I cannot believe it. I don't mean that metaphorically—I really cannot believe it.

I email him and get the scoop. I believe the now-adult "victim" is lying, insane perhaps.

This man is one of my oldest and most spiritual friends, one of the chastest people I've ever known. (He has faults, but they mainly lie in his unwillingness to get a real job and support his family.) Now he's falsely convicted. The justice system sucks: a guilty molester wandering free and an innocent man bound for jail. I rant and rave. Rave and rant. What's it take to get a little justice in this world?

After I calm down a bit, I contact his ex-wife, who I love and respect. Such a sane woman, taken in by lies. Her pain must be immense.

It is. Two hours later, my heart is broken, my world upside down. I claim tragedy in a friend's life to explain my tears which for some unaccountable reason roll down my face anytime anyone says, "How are you?" (Awkward.) It's not a lie: My dear friend has lost his mind. My other dear friend has had her world and her faith shattered. All of their children have lost their father. That, my friends, is tragedy.

Should he be castrated, the life slowly ebbing from him while his soul is thrust down to hell? People who harm children are pure unmitigated evil, right? But he is my dear friend, not pure unmitigated evil. How can I process the unprocessable? He's innocent. Guilty. Innocent. My mind won't leave it alone.

I reread everything he's ever written. It's a lot: emails, letters, a book, a screenplay, his appeal paperwork. I read my college journals. And I decide he is telling the truth. This man could not have committed this crime. I'd buy losing his mind and committing a bank robbery, polygamy, even murder, but not this, not molesting a child. Not him.

Every instinct in me says she's right, that he's guilty. Every instinct in me says he's innocent. Clearly I cannot trust my instincts. I cannot trust my conclusions.

These things I do know. 1. Jami plays no part in this tragedy except as a weeping audience member. 2. I cannot know. Not in this life. 3. It's OK to believe they are both right even though it defies logic. 4. We probably ought to skip castration as a form of the death penalty. 5. I will feel this pain until God heals it.

I want to be able to wrap up this whole monstrosity in a nice little package of wisdom with a bow on top and a tag that reads, "Yes, it's heinous, but there's a moral to be learned here." Alas I have no wisdom; I'm still floundering. I'm praying wisdom comes along at some point. Praying hard.

On Culling

The children scream down the hall, "MOM! THE CHICK IS DYING!" I rush to help.

A chick lays stretched out, a long twist of intestine protruding. He will die. Nothing I do can save him. Probably nothing anyone can do could save him. I cradle him in my palm and stroke him softly. He chirps an anxious dirge and arches against his agony. I stroke him back to a neutral position.

Poor baby. I should end his suffering, but I can't. Ways to kill him painlessly flit through my mind; I do nothing but stroke him softly. He arches again. My children's keening in the hall hurts my heart, so ask them to stop so their wailing is not the last sound the chick hears. The children weep their goodbyes.

Silence. Except for the heartless happy chirping of his brooder mates. A last arching. A final chirp. Death.

Oh crap.

What could I have done? Was it contagious? My online search reveals nothing. It's likely a birth injury or some kind of deformity. I should have culled him before his suffering became acute.

Monday morning, two more birds are drooping, their legs splayed in unhealthy directions. They will die. I should cull them.

Oh crap.

I'm not a farmer. I'm not a vet. I'm a mother, a doula: I cannot take life! They lay in my palm—again, sweet and helpless, dying. I must help them. I must. I prepare a small box, cuddle them together on the cloth and place them in the freezer.

Minutes later, I open the freezer door, whispering words, petting the doomed gently. I close it again. Then open it. I can feel their downy heads cooling, their breath slowing. I am doing the right thing. I am killing them. To reassure myself, I mentally replay the chick's death from the day before as I pet and soothe these two through their death. I am doing the right thing. Culling them. Saving them agony. I am doing the right thing.

That afternoon as my ten year old son lays gasping, awaiting an emergency appendectomy, I think of our dead chicks, of the one who suffered, of the two who chilled to death peacefully. I think of my son who would have been hours from death save for the surgeon. My mind wraps around the preciousness of his being, the beauty of him. I ponder the skill and technology being unleashed to save him. In a different era, he would have died. 

The irony digs at me. In the past two days, three lives have ended in the hands that now stroke my baby's head. This child will die too, but not today, not tomorrow. God willing, not within my lifetime.

When we return home again, we trade six of our Barred Rock chicks for six Buff Orpington chicks. It's a bad trade. One bird dies sometime in his first night within our home. Two more will die soon. I can see them fading, slowing, refusing to eat or drink. Steeling myself, I place the dying birds in a small box in the freezer and close the door. It is the merciful thing to do.

The miracle of my son's life in the face of death flashes in my memory as one of the birds peeps. I remove them from the freezer. They will not die by my hand. I'll not play God today. Today, I'll simply stand vigil, a witness to their suffering, powerless. Today, I will simply accept God's will.

Appendectomy Anyone?

Just a brief post to say that my ten year old son decided he has had enough of all those weird come-and-go stomachaches that kept making him tardy for school. He decided to just get over with and have appendicitis instead.

His symptoms were a little wonky so it took me a day before I decided to take him in to the ER. His pain was across the entire midsection of his abdomen, instead of being focused on the right side. He wasn't in immense pain and his pain was getting better, not worse. But no diarrhea, no constipation, no vomiting, no upper or lower abdomen pain. He also was experiencing decided relief laying on his right side. Hm...yes, it could be. Naw, you morbid mom. It's just the flu. Um, but...

Finally, I just decided to stop reading online appendicitis articles and polling friends and to trust my gut feeling. The kid's never been a whiner and a busted appendix could kill him. Best to check it out. Turns out the poor kid's appendix was tucked away behind his intestine and as a result his symptoms were atypical. I thank God that the useless thing didn't rupture.

His surgery went well. He's uncomfortable but they are treating his pain to the good meds. His temperature is fluctuating a bit too much for my taste. (If they don't give kid something for it soon I'm going to have to put on the Mama Bear suit.)

Anyhow here I am enduring countless hours of cartoon network in a Mr. L's hospital room. Amazingly enough, I'm feeling a bit tense. If I could play PathWords on facebook (my favorite brain-number) I would, but I can't seem to get the hang of doing it on the laptop. Since PathWords is out I should be reading blogs a lot today, wandering around saying stupid, distracted things. I'll keep you all posted.

This Time I'm Really Going to Do It

Wednesday night I had a dream. OK, this one doesn't require a degree in psychology, but here it is: I dreamed it was New Year's Day and I was at a party. I was gorging on cookies, apologizing to one and all, lamenting my enormous size, and declaring that soon, very, very soon I'd be going on a diet.

Upon awakening, I realized the day had come. Time to bite the bullet and stop chewing the fat. Time for the diet to end all diets.

Day 1.

7 AM--Large glass of water.

{I am never going to eat again. Nothing but water!}
[You can't do that. You'll die. Your body needs protein or it will consume muscle for its needs. The heart is a muscle.]

7:05 AM--Mix unsweetened protein goo, gag it back fast. 100 calories. 20 grams of protein.

[OK, NOW nothing but water until lunch!]
{Man, look at all this zucchini. J-Teen says there's nothing to eat? I'll make him some yummy zucchini. Italian seasoning. Zucchini. Butter. Mm! WHAT!?! It does not taste gross! It's delish! EAT IT!}

7:45 AM--1 cup of sautéed zucchini

[OK, vegetables are good. But no fruit or sugar. Or starches. You can still put yourself in ketosis with a small quantity of veggies.]

8:00 AM--Grocery shopping.
8:40 AM--20 oz. Diet Coke

[Do not eat the bagels. Do not eat the bagels. Do not...OK, you can eat the apple. An apple is OK. Only 80 calories. Lots of fiber.]

8:45 AM--1 small apple

[A bagel wouldn't be that bad. They're pretty low in fats.]
{And cream cheese: a source of calcium. Not a lot of calcium. Better put it on pretty thick.}

9:15--1 bagel, 3 T cream cheese, large glass of water
10:15 am--1 bagel, 3 T cream cheese

[Oh E-Teen is giving you half a buttered bagel. How sweet! Don't offend her. She's going through a sensitive stage.]

10:45--1/2 a buttered bagel
11:00 am--a big glass of water.
12:00 am--1 bagel, 3T cream cheese

[Who are you kidding? Cream cheese is a lousy source of calcium.]

12:15 am--2 cups 100% natural, full fat cream on top maple syrup sweetened yogurt.

[Probiotics are good. You've not had any for quite a while.]

12:20 am--1/2 cup maple yogurt
2:00 pm--1 full-sized bag of Trader Joe's kettle corn

[What?! The kettle corn. That was supposed to be for...]
{Shut up! It's fiber.}
[Well, drink some water. At least you're hydrated. And the caffeine hasn't been too bad.]

2:30 pm Huge glass of water

{Man, I am stinkin' tired. I'm never going to be able to make it.}
[Whu-? Don't you dare!]
{Mind your own business.}

3:30 pm Triple-sized Pomegranate RockStar

{Antioxidants. Do not mess with me. I'll take you down.}
[Fine. Wallow in it, babe. I'm done.]
{Fine.}
[Fine.]
{Whatever.}

4:00 pm 1 1/2 cups pretend cookie dough
{peanut butter = protein; flour = grain; oats = whole grain}
5:00 pm 1 bagel, 3 T cream cheese, 1 large glass skim milk

{How many bagels is this? Eh, whatever.}
{Hm...I'm kind of full.}
{Geesh. My stomach hurts.}

8:00 pm 1 box of black licorice

{Real licorice is so soothing for owie stomachs. I am so glad I know about herbal heath options.}

10:00 pm 1 large glass Hot Chocolate

The thing is...I had the same dream Thursday night, only this time I was taking the cookies out of people's hands and stuffing them in my mouth. Weird, huh? Do you think it could have been the hot chocolate so close to bedtime?

Three Items of Interest

I'll color-code it because I'm fun like that.

First: Seth and Teresa broke up. Time to move in for the kill Sister Cordy. (Didn't I ever mention that I love a good hopeless romance from time to time? Consider it mentioned.)

Second: [Cue the applause] I got my first blogging award. CTD from The Crash Test Dummy Diaries who said, "I think I would pick Jami at Superfluous Micsellany because I don't know what those words mean and I never understand what she's saying, Plus there's something bold and brave and sweet about Jami." I sound a bit like a barbecue sauce, but I am never one to pass up a compliment. Thank you, my dear.

Now for the hard part, choosing six people who won't roll their eyes too much at getting an award, who haven't already received it, and who are truly kreativ.

• OK, Blogger #1: Elastic Waistband Lady at The Smiling Infidel. She is one of my all-time favorites for looking at the world in brand-new and somewhat freakish ways. Here's one of my favorite posts from EWL.
• I love Tracy M and Mo Mommy, but they are both a tad busy right now, so I'll just say, they're mighty fine, talented, fun ladies. We can save the pyramid scheme-type flattery for another day.
• Blogger #2: Sue. I know she'll roll her eyes and not have time to do anything about it, but she breathes kreatively. By turns her blog is silly, heart-wrenching, fun, and profound. I never miss a post. Those of you who have been around for a while will remember this poem, posted in her honor.
• Blogger #3: Ray whose spiritual musings at his blog Things of My Soul and comments throughout the bloggernacle have earned him a favored spot on my must-read list. I know he's not a mommy blogger, but he is married to one. Ray, please feel free to pass this on to BCC and T&S, etc. That would be kinda funny.
• Blogger #4 Jo over at Tangled Me. Because I really like her. And because she used to be a midwife. And because she takes beautiful pictures. And because she calls her husband "Bald Man."
• Blogger #5 Heidi Ashworth at Dunhaven Place will single-handedly bring clean, fun Regency Romances back into fashion. And that, my friends, is a very, very good thing.
• Blogger #6: You. That's right. You. The person who is reading this list hoping that I will type your name. Consider it typed. There are so many blogs I read and love. I can't stand leaving anyone out.

Third: I HATE TO SHOUT BUT I NEED A FOURTEENTH FOLLOWER BECAUSE I AM RIDICULOUSLY NERVOUS ABOUT THE NUMBER THIRTE-you know which number I mean. Anybody? Anybody?

Resolution Redux

Due to some freakish self-defeating mental condition, I am much less likely to accomplish something if I make an official goal. The only New Year's resolution I have ever kept is 2006's: I will not kill anyone. (That was back when I was on the school board and TRUST me only the fear of God and my New Year's Resolution kept a couple of people alive.) By golly, I did not kill (or maim or even threaten) a single person all year long.

So here are the 2008 New Year's attempts (and results).

1. Get the playroom clean. (Define "clean.")
2. Oft speak kind words to the munchkins and the wizard. (Define "oft." Define "kind.")
3. Blog less. (January 1st I was reading By Common Consent, Mormon Mommy Wars, and Feminist Mormon Housewives daily, commenting and following the links found therein. September 22nd. I am following approximately twenty blogs and comment regularly on all of them. AND I started my own little mish-mash blog, my own little bloggy playground. [I am not addicted! I can stop any time I want. I just don't want.] I spend about two hours a day playing. More if I'm looking for a picture of a pirate kitty.)

So that's how the New Year's resolutions are going.

So how about my fake gastric bypass? DOA. Oink, oink. Got some seriously unattractive gluttony going on here.

To add the final flourish to my goal-making humiliation, I have the following to report:

******CAUTION, RELIGION ALERT. PROCEED AT YOUR OWN RISK******

How's about that not talking about it plan? Not going so well. I've been reading everything I can find on the subject, chatting with sympathetic friends, and pretending not to be listening to all of the exhortations being dished up at church. I've been wandering around, irritated at this blatant politicizing in my place of worship, looking forward to November 4th (oh SO looking forward to November 4th) when the whole stupid issue will be laid to rest!

AND THEN?!? Why, the Living God decided to have a little chat, of course. Not a face to face chat. More like a heart to heart. I will spare you the details, but the gist of it is that I have been asked by God to obey. To humble myself, to trust him and to volunteer to make phone calls. Oh and since my objections were made in such a public forum, He thought it would be a good idea to use that same forum to mention my acquiesce to His will.

What is interesting about all this is that I have not been asked to change my mind. I still don't think that the world will end if gay marriage is legal. I still don't think that homosexuality is any more of a sin than any other kind of unchasity. I still think church is a rotten place to talk about Proposition Anything or Candidate XY and his running mate XX. However, I am going to be making phone calls on behalf of the Yes on 8 campaign. Because God asked me to. Because He created me. Because He knows best. Even when I disagree.

(p.s. Yeah, I'm still having the Toblerone give-away.)
(p.p.s. I just achieved my unspoken, unofficial goal of writing a post with the word redux in the title.)

So Many Books, So Little Time

I admit it—I'm a dabbler. A fickle bibliophile. I know should settle down and get serious, but it's just so fun playing the field that I haven't been able to talk myself into it. Here's a partial list of my current flings in no particular order.

• Joseph Smith: Rough Stone Rolling (Bushman)
  
• Chicken Tractor: The Permaculture Guide to Happy Hens and Healthy Soil (Lee, Forman)
  
• The Real Thomas Jefferson (Allison, et al)
  
• In Sacred Loneliness (Compton)
  
• Paradise (Morrison)
  
• Leadership Education: The Phases of Learning (DeMille/DeMille)
  
• Archimedes and the Door of Science (Bendick)
  
• A Disciple's Life (Hafen)
  
• Fascinating Womanhood and The Fascinating Girl (Andelin) [Man, in a really twisted way, these are two of the funniest books I've ever read.]
  
• The Measure of the Universe (Asimov)
  
• Eternal Man (Madsen)
  
• The Book of Mormon [Perpetually]
  
• The New Testament [Perpetually]
  
• Algebra 2 [Perpetually]
  
• A slew of magazines

Really I need to be reading, not writing, so off I go. I'd love to know what you are reading. Not that I would add it to my pile. No, no. I am totally on my way to being a monobibliofin. (Of course, it's a real word. Do you think I'd make something like that up?)

[P.S. It occurs to me that my fluffy books aren't on this list. That's because brain candy— romance, teen fiction, fun books, craft books, etc.—is generally polished off within a day or two and never hits the pile.]

I should have been a Libra.

I am a Virgo. This fact alone should be enough to completely destroy anyone's faith in astrology. Virgos are hyper-neat, uber-organized and smell vaguely of Lysol. Pas moi. Virgos are also decisive. No, no, no. I think not. Except maybe sometimes. Anyway, this post isn't about bogus fortune-telling inspired by stars. It's about how I cannot make a stinking decision to save my life, which as my sister and my good friend La-la tell me is a defining characteristic of Libras, always weighing things in that charming little balance of theirs.

The current indecision? Should I put the kids in regular public school or continue to homeschool them?

Why would I even think of doing such a thing? I really love having my kids home and getting to be a part of their discovery of the joy of learning, but...capitals, please...BUT my man is working night shift and the children can not for the life of them be quiet. And I'm beginning to feel bad for my poor sweet chronically sleep deprived zombie of a husband. (Coming soon to a blog near you...the amazing cruddiness of night work.)

I have chosen Fall curriculum and have committed to teach in the homeschool co-op. I have bought the Wal-Mart sale school items as if they are going to day school. I purchased school clothes at the Goodwill half-off sale. I am firmly in one camp on Monday and just as firmly in the other camp by Friday. Soon I will look like this.
My mother always says, "Make a list." It rarely helps, but I am in such a quandary that I'll try anything at this point.

Positives of the La Kids in Public School

• Comparative silence.
• Sleep for my sweet zombie husband
• Cleaner house
• More free time for me
• Gives my kids someone else to fight
• Gives my kids accountability to other adults
• Encourages kids to get along with kids and grown ups
• Free lunch (I know-TINSTAAFL-different discussion)
• I might be able to talk E-Teen and J-Teen into sleeping at night. (What a novel concept!)

Negatives of the La Kids in Public School

• Three teachers for the little monkeys. Ten teachers for the older monkeys. (Shoot me now. Please.)
• Seminary 6:15 (4 miles), High School 7:15 (2 miles), Grade School 8:00 (2 miles), Middle School 8:45 (5 miles)
• A similar pick-up schedule
• Loss of my daytime babysitters
• Bullies
• Surenos and Nortenos, aka Toss every blue or red thing you own into the garbage.
• Vermin
• Peer pressure
• The baby will be lonely.
• I LIKE teaching them.
• Regular day school (our Montessori charter school experience) taught my younger children that there is a designated time for learning, and conversely that there is no learning during undesignated times.
• We will spend every bit as much time doing homework as we spend homeschooling.
• Much less free time for the kids
• Less extra curricular activities
• No more homeschool co-op kids
• No more homeschool co-op parents

So the nays seriously outweigh the yeas. OK, decision made. They're staying home. Except...there's my squinty-eyed husband coming down the hall having achieved four hours of cruddy sleep. OK, decision made. They're going to school. No wait. Bullies. They're staying home. But think how much how much easier it will be to keep the house clean! OK! Regular school. Lice. Arg! They are staying home. School! Homeschool! Arg!

I'm not feeling so good.