I am supposed to be doing something industrious right now, like washing the shower curtain or putting away clean laundry or cleaning up the junk pile in the basement. Actually, I am supposed to be writing, something I usually love to do, but instead I am trying to convince myself that if I would rather sleep than write I am compelled to give into the impulse. Instead, I'm sitting here writing this.
It's Day 3 of Camp Mommy, and so far I have made granola, wrapped up a sleepover where the guests--and hostess--preferred Cheez-Its and buttered toast to homemade granola for breakfast, signed my children up for the library summer reading program and got each a library card, and then chewed them out for trying my patience at the library. It's going to be a long summer.
My mission: to teach my severly hyperactive, severely dyslexic child how to read. This is a child who vomited her way through first grade when confronted with serious academic endeavor, whose brain not only flips the letters on the page but her perception of her dinner plate. (Stand back when she wields the butter knife.) It would probably be less painful to pull out my eyelashes one by one, but such is the depth of my mother love and my faith in our abilities. So off we go, armed with a set of journals, a pack of three by five index cards, and set of 24 colored pencils. It is an adventure indeed.