Tears and Valentines

 Um, so yeah.  I can do it aaaaalllll.  I can cook (weenie-beanie XEIO soup, last night), I can clean (I think if you swept my floor right now, you could roll the contents of the dust pan in a little Elmer's glue and get a puppy), I can homeschool (Did you know there was a solar storm this week?), and I can, uh, um... I can... what was I saying?

So, it looks like keeping up with posting about my life, returning phone calls and, apparently, shaving my legs, have all taken a serious back seat in my life, as in last-bench-in-the-mini-van back seat. These are a few high-lights and low-lights of the week:

***

Tessa begs to say the prayer every night, every meal.  This week she sweetly asked God to bless "all da people in all da hostibles (hospitals) and all da people who are homeless, for that the people in hostibles will get houses an the homeless people will get better."

***

Ethan: "Do I have to take Spanish?"

Me: "It's a graduation requirement."

Ethan: "Why?  I'm pretty happy with English.
It's gotten me where I've wanted to go."

***

Sweet Adam wept in my arms this week when he realized that his female lizard, Dr. Jekyl, was sicker than we thought.  She died when I was away shopping, and he didn't tell a soul.  He just took her outside in a box he made at camp and through his tears he dug a little grave for her.  Two nights ago, he came out of his room at midnight.  When I asked what was wrong, he simply said, "I can't stop thinking about her."  I held my big boy on my lap while he grieved his first loss.  I talked about cycle-of-life-stuff.
It wasn't helping.
So then I just held him.

***

Ethan thought it would be a terrific idea to feed a pinkie to his bearded dragon.
A pinkie is a baby mouse.
A live baby mouse.
He did it in front of Ellie.
And Tessa.
And a four year old neighbor girl.
I spent the next hour explaining more life-cycle-stuff to two sobbing little girls.  It turns out that it does not, in fact, help to include in your explanation that we eat chicken.  Now, I am also actually a murderer.
Yup.  I kill chickens.  And if Tessa is ever put in charge, lions and tigers will eat salad.

***

I took the girls to the movies tonight.  I had a ball explaining The Muppets to them.  I sang along.  They thought I was weird and a little bit cool (I already knew the songs, so how cool was I?)  And Ellie excitedly said "This is prob'ly the first time I 'ever been to a movie on time!" (Sadly, she is not only right, she didn't realize we were actually late and we missed the little cartoon feature at the beginning).

***

My sweetheart gave away about four of his nine lives this week
helping Ethan with school work.

*** 

I gave away many, many tears that my son will never appreciate.

***

I made valentines.  

And it's not even February.

Softer Focus

Ellen told me a story the other day.

A woman she knew was sleeping one night when her house caught fire.  She ran from room to room in her house, gathering her five children and getting them out of the house safely, all the while oblivious to the fact she had gone to bed nude.  As she stood on the neighbor's lawn, her five babies gathered safely around her, she watched in horror as her house was engulfed in flames, looking on as everything she owned was eaten by the fire.  In that moment, a firefighter approached her and offered her his long coat.  And in that moment she discovered that she, indeed, 

was not covered.

She hurriedly accepted the coat as a rush of embarrassment overcame her.  So great was her shame that she retreated to the emergency vehicle with her children, keeping her eyes downcast.  Consumed by her shame, she no longer thought of all that she was losing, but focused on avoiding eye contact with the firefighters.

I can't stop thinking about that story.  How could someone's focus be shifted so instantly from something that was literally all consuming, to something that truly, in the grander scheme, did not really matter?  

I have been examining my life trying to see where my focus is. 

Is it where it should be?  

Is my house on fire while I fret over my naked insecurities?

As I played with Tessa's picture in the photo editor tonight, I cropped out everything that wasn't her sweet face.  I brought out the light that was already there, and then, last of all, I softened my focus, so that what really matters 

is what I can see most clearly.

Car School

The days are short, 

but long. 

Laundry piles rise and crest and fall, 

but just like the tide, 

always return.  

The baby poops.

The floors are dusty.

It's cold. 

We read and paint.  We experiment.

We homeschool.

I find myself driving a lot these days.  

To electronics class.  

To Medieval History class.  

To Ancient Times class.

To Lego Engineering class.

To Fairytale class.

To Gymnastics.

To piano lessons.

I guess we really car school.

 

Sometimes we sit and wait.

I read to Tessa if she is not in class, while Jonah naps.  

It is not quite what I had expected it to be.

My life is set by a different kind of clock.

One that runs on stories that lead to more stories,

and on questions that lead to more questions, then still more.

A clock that stops suddenly when cooking becomes science

and science becomes art

and art becomes history

which, of course, is story time,

after all.

And, in case you are still wondering, 

No.  I am not worried about their socialization.

They are doing just fine.

 

Three Stories of Christmas: Part Three

Sorry I made you wait.

I know, I am done with Christmas, too.  But I told you there was one more story.

Here she blows.

The night before The Great Hamster Escape we headed out to deliver goodies and a few other items to friends.  I had an art order that needed delivering, so we decided we would kill two turtledoves with one fruitcake and drop it off as well.

Upon arrival to the beautiful home of our friends, we found no one home, but oddly, their keys were hanging  in the door.  We felt like we couldn't just leave them hanging there like a big ol' invite to steal Christmas, but while pulling them from the lock to hide them, I heard a click sound.

"You better check to see if it is locked or not."  Guy said.

(This makes the following events his fault, by the way)

I checked the door handle, and the door popped right open.  I pulled the door shut, locked it with the key and then began to look for a good-enough-to-hide-from-criminals but not so-good-they're-lost-forever place to stash the keys when,

(did you see it coming?  Yep, you did...)

The burglar alarm went off.  We bumbled around on the porch for a moment and then decided the go to the van and try calling our friends.  Four calls later, all we had for our efforts were two hysterical girls in the back seat who were begging us to "please drive away before the p'leece come to put us in jay-yol".  I couldn't hide my giggles.

Oh, on a side note: it turns out that not one neighbor even so much as peeped through a curtain in our direction.  Nice, eh?  Ho, ho ho... Merry Christmas.

We figured we had some 's'plainin' to do, Lucy, so we hung around for over 10 minutes for the police to come.  Apparently they were otherwise engaged, because they never did show up.  

It felt weird, but we finally just drove away.

I don't know if it is so much a story as it is a lesson learned.

Leave the breaking and entering to Santa.  He's better at it, 

and committing felonies at Christmas seems to upset the children.

(This was one of those moments that you didn't have to look back on to find funny, and thankfully our friends were as entertained as we were!)

Three Stories of Christmas: Part Two

Adam plays Rudolph with a lazer pointer up the nose

while we go to deliver Christmas goodies.  

Eh-yup.  That's my boy.

Three days before Christmas I was excited to attend my very first "Cookie Exchange" hosted by my hubby's co-worker.  If you have never heard of one, the point is that you make a booty load of one type of cookie, and trade all around with other folks so that by the end you have half a dozen different kinds cookies for your holiday-googie-tray giving.  I got a late start at making my goodies (my fabulous Toffee Bars that are more like candy than cookies), but even so, I decided it was more important that I go, than to have everything perfect.  I spread the melted chocolate topping on the bar cookies that were still warm in the pan, Googled the directions and headed out.  I was hungry for the brunch that would be served, and as I drove I tried to imagine how a Cookie Exchange goes down.  I suddenly got stage fright.  I imagined myself entering a room full of gorgeous strangers who were all tall, slim and tan, wearing flowing, trendy clothes and holding adorably packaged bundles of cookies with hand crafted tags and elegantly stamped recipe cards that matched.  I glanced at my old jelly roll pan and photo copied recipes and got a lump in my throat.

Fast forward one hour:

I am still driving.  A certain road had split and become two.  Thanks for the warning, Google.  You're a peach.  Phoneless (has anyone seen my phone?  It' been missing for 2 months.  If I have been to your house, will you check in your sofa?), I asked directions twice (I swear the first guy  I asked was just makin' crap up) and was now driving on several streets that showed up in the directions as intersecting.  However, apparently while no one was looking, some madman rearranged these streets to all run parallel to each other.  And in the scariest place I've been in since I took my last late night jaunt to the local Walmart.  Seriously, Freaky People, do you all have to shop at Walmart?  There s a creepy little Kmart not two miles away.  Go there.

You know how some stories have a last straw?  Well here it comes: upon finally reaching a street with the name of the street I was supposed to be on, and two blocks later hitting a dead end on said street just two blocks from the house number I needed, I flipped a U-turn - at which point my un-lovely recipe photo copies, along with my dang Google map and ultra-helpful directions, gracefully slid across the dash and landed in my semi-melted semi-sweet chocolate topping.

Just for kicks, let's fast forward a little more, saaaaay... one half hour?

Here you see a sad, sad girl driving aimlessly through the city, seeing the freeway just above her and not being able to find the blankety-blank on-ramp.  There are tears streaming down her cheeks.  There is chocolate smeared on her hands from the recipe rescue.  She is yelling.  Oh, yes, my friends, yelling at the top of her sad little lungs.  Oops, look away; she is wiping her nose on her sleeve.  Well, lookie there!  A two-year-old temper tantrum, complete with steering wheel pounding!  I hope, as she drove along, she landed on someones surveillance tapes along the way.  Just for kicks.

  Good times.  Good times.

Shall we time travel one more time?

Two hours from the time I left the house, I kicked the door open, chocolate coated papers in one hand, cookie bars in the other.  Oh, yeah, and hungry.  So, so, hungry.

My hubby hugged me.  He listened to me rant.  He watched as I dramatically threw the recipes into the trash and grabbed a knife to cut into the cookie bars.

I stuffed one into my mouth.

They were finally cooled off.

I, however, would not be for another hour.

*****

Chocolate Toffee Bars

Make your favorite shortbread crust recipe and press it into an ungreased pan.  Bake at 350 til just golden.

While that is baking, in a saucepan simmer: 1 can sweetened condensed milk, 2 tbsp. butter, 1/4 tsp. salt and 1 tsp. vanilla until it gets thick and starts to turn lightly golden.  Spread out on crust and then bake again until the top is a bubbly dark golden brown.  Remove from oven, spread a bag of chocolate chips on top and leave them to melt.  Spread melted chocolate evenly with a spatula or your Google directions.

Then get lost for two hours.  

Yes, that is part of the recipe.

They will be cool when you get back.

Cut and serve.  But not to the kids.  Give them the junky dollar store cookies.  

Save these in your secret hiding place.

Dang, I said too much.

Three Stories of Christmas: Part One

 

Five days before Christmas...

Santa brought a pair of hamsters for the girls so as to save them the long, cold flight from the North Pole.  Rodents don't fly well.  Guy and I went to a Petsmart to pick the puff balls up.  While at the store the cute-spunky-and-all-knowing rodent expert helped us select two tufts of fur and an extra habitat.  We had one on the way from the North Pole via US Air, but in case they didn't get along, we bought a portable and easy-to-assemble back up plan, then headed to Amanda's where she graciously agreed to watch over them for the week.

OK, this story is taking way to long.  Let's move it.

Day 2:

I get a call from Amanda.  The hamsters have been in a fight.  They have been separated, but one is bleeding.  Lucky for me the second habitat has just arrived in the mail.  I rush over.

The injured hamster didn't look great.  There was a cut above and below his little beady eye.  I follow the maddeningly simple, yet somehow impossible instructions to put together the cage-thingy.  There is a crash in the other room, followed by the barking of little Frodo, the family mascot.  The meany hamster had managed to walk it's temporary jail-box right off the counter.  

No harm done, but I think Frodo was plenty freaked out, walking boxes and all.  

Crisis averted.

Christmas Eve:

Amanda calls again.  She sounds downright dreary. 

"Uh-oh, did it die?"

"Worse.  One is missing."

"Missing?"

Somehow the hamster escaped.  Perhaps it was her sleepwalking son, no one was quite sure, but the cage was still closed, but empty as a cookie jar at my house.  An hour of looking had produced no furry fugitive.  

Two hours later, another call, the voice on the other end, dejected.

"Well, we found it."

"Uh-oh..."

The fur ball was hiding behind some plaques that were leaning against a wall when Frodo found him.  Frodo nudged into the corner, knocking the boards over, which scooped up the clandestine critter and flung him out into the room (did I mention that they don't fly well?  Well, in this case they do), where Frodo snatched him up.

Everyone screamed, and Frodo dropped his piliferous prize, but not unscathed.  

He was bleeding.

We waited a few hours.  

The bleeding was just a small scratch on his nose.  

He was fine.  

Well, as fine as a hamster that has been in a fight, 

fallen off of the equivalent of a four story building, 

and then was nearly puppy chow.

***

On Christmas morning, the kids came out into the living room to see what Santa left for them.  Amidst the squeals of delight, Tessa's voice reached my ears.

"Santa brought me a candy cane in my stocking!"

"Look some more, Sweetie.  What else?"

"My own bag of beef jerky!"

"Look Sweetie, a hamster..."

"AND GUM!!!!"

Oh, well.  Best laid plans of mice and moms.

I blame Santa and his darned planning ahead to avoid a last minute trip 

to the pet store only to find they were plum out of hamsters.  

He had to know that beef jerky would upstage a rat.

And gum.  I mean, really? 

Should'a just let Frodo have him.

He never stood a chance against gum.

Happy New List!

 New Years goals:

More writingg,, less editing (duh, I did that on purpose)

More authentic, less lying to myself, and therefore to others (um, not that I lie to you)

More listening, less blah-blah blah-blah BLAAAAAH

More cooking, less crap on their plates

More space, less stuff (um, yeah, that would also be crap)

More moments, less days-blurring-into-an-endless-stream-of-obligations

More seeing their faces, less seeing their messes

More flavor, less fat and sugar (insert whimpering sound here)

Less whimpering

More order, less searching

More smootchin', dang it!

More patience, ooohhhhmmmmmmm

More planning, less rushing

More sleep

More counting to ten, twenty, ... four million, whatever.

More present

More smiles

More prayer

More faith

More hope 

More charity

More love

More the woman I want to be.

*

Lucky for me there is a whole year to do it.

****

Photo:  Jonah playing with his Christmas gift, "The Toothbrush Chain".  No, no it has not made him stop stealing our toothbrushes and brushing the dog with them.  Thank you for asking.

Caught in the act - A Photo Album

We've been busy.

It's that time of year, after all.

And we weren't the only ones.

I caught Santa.

On film.

Proof.

So since there is not much time left in the year, I am going to go hang with my peeps.

You will have to just catch up with our festivities

the old fashioned way...

 

Taken just five seconds before Jonah throws the glass ornament. 

It does not survive.

 

Trying to focus on Christmas Present.

Dancing girls

 and angels

Said the little lamb to the shepherd boy...

 Silent night, holy night

 "Well, um, one million thousand dollars
is a tall order, Ellie.  I'll see what I can do."

 A whispered wish...

 And the bravest little elf at the whole North Pole.

 Christmas Eve snuggles

 Stories...

 and friends.

 New Christmas Eve jammies with matching pjs for dollies.

 Christmas morning and happy girls

 Oooooooo!  I don't know what it is, but I love it!

 

The rare sighting of teen-icus lego-tium.

 And His name shall be called Wonderful.

 A beautiful Christmas dinner, by Guy of course.

 And a lovely anniversary dinner a few days later.

 Our celebration dinner was watched over

by the Italian Patron Saint of Watermelon.

 Such a busy few weeks, we are all tuckered out.

Sleep in heavenly peace,

sleep in heavenly peace.

Hot Snowman

What do you do 

when you find yourself with a houseful of kids, a promise of a treat, and nothing to offer?

You massacre a snowman.  At least, you pretend to.  My kids call our new concoction "Hot Snowman" or "Melted Snowman".  Here's how to kill him:

For each person you will need:

1 1/2 c milk
1/4- 1/3 c white chocolate chips
several drops of peppermint extract (a candy cane will work, too, and makes a fun stirring stick) 
1/8 tsp cinnamon
a dash of salt

Here are the very complex and intricate directions.  Be sure to follow them to the letter, like, precisely, or you will completely ruin it.  Focus, people...

1. Dump everything together.
2. Make it hot somehow.
3. Serve it. 

Yum-o.  Seriously.  

This stuff rocks around the Christmas tree.

Do Over

Last night we went to advent again at Kathy and Bishop's.  It made me long, yet again, for traditions.  For family.  For tender moments with my children.  For peace.  

There hasn't been much of that around here lately.  The squabbling has hit fever pitch.  The girls are shrill.  The boy, you know, that one, has been an obnox-i-teen on roids.  Even the baby has been "on one"; he has ricocheted into the hitting phase, bonking and head-butting phase and the "steal eggs from the fridge and run away" phase -all at once (well, that last one is kinda' adorable). And I am not doing much better.  My resolution to go a whole week without barking at Ethan lasted... count 'em... 18 hours.  Oh, and I hurt my hubby's feelings today.  I was in rare form.

Buy I really wanted to catch the Christmas spirit.  You know, sneak up on it, jump it from behind, stuff it into a body bag and force it to hang out with us.  So we made goodies.  We made wreaths.  We went elf-ing and looking at lights.  I wanted our night to be sweet and happy and cheerful, and sometimes there were ooo's and aaah's at the pretty lights, but mostly there were tears and complaints, teasing and whining.

My eyes filled with tears. Twice.

When we got home I went to run late night shopping errands.  I wandered the store with my list, apathetically looking at the decorations, not wanting to buy anything but coal.

***

Late last night after advent, I sat up online looking at the lovely wooden advent candle holders and nativities from Germany like the ones Kathy has.  It was like I might be able to capture the magic of that night by setting the scene just right.  I found a place to order the things I needed to make one, and placed my order.

By the time I woke up the next morning, I was having buyers regret.  What was the point of buying all of that the week of Christmas, when it wouldn't even arrive until after?  And I guess I knew that just having the pretty candles and wooden figures wouldn't change what was happening in my house.

I called the company.  I asked if there were any way I could postpone my order until later.  The sweet little lady on the phone said it was no problem.  She kindly put my order on hold.  I hung up the phone with relief. 

You know, this morning when that nice lady let me cancel my order, I felt like I had been given a do-over. 

***

While I was gone to the store tonight, an elf had come here.  

Someone was thinking of our family. 

It was a kindness that was both unexpected and so very generous.

***

Maybe tomorrow can be a do-over.

Tradition II

For many years now, I have been creating our family Christmas card.  It always includes an original drawing or painting, the blah-blah-boring family update (you know, little Johnny got a tooth, Stevie committed arson...), and of course, several over-the-top, braggy pix of my gorgeous brats.  I got it done early this year, as in "not the day before Christmas".  I have not printed them yet (what's the hurry, right?), so you get a preview, and if you're on my mailing list, this may even save me a stamp! 

It's a tradition.

I have been thinking a lot about traditions.  Kathy (you remember, buff Kathy, workout partner extraordinaire?) has invited our family to a couple of her family's advent celebrations.  She and Hubby Wayne gather their little chickens around them on the four Sundays before Christmas to sing, read stories and eat goodies by fire and candlelight.  Each time we leave, I am recommitted to trying harder to focus on that whole reason-for-the-season thing.  But by Monday, those old demons creep back in, the ones that whisper to me to be stressed out, to stop trying, and to give up on getting my family to get along, treat each other with kindness and start thinking about the needs of others. 

I guess I have made a tradition out of being overwhelmed at Christmas.

I did do things this year to leave that history behind me.  I worked on Christmas projects all year.  I began listening to carols after Thanksgiving.  I even got excited to decorate this time around.  But old habits die hard.  I may have over-reached a little, thinking I could fix my whole broken tannenbaum all in one year. 

But it is a little better, at least.  Baby steps. 

And hey, you already got my Christmas card, so we're good.

Traditions

For our December wedding, 

one of our friends gave us a small box of Christmas ornaments to start us on our wedded way.  In that box there were a dozen or so different lovely ornaments... and one rather odd one.  It was a porcelain doll, about 6 inches tall, and pretty heavy for a tree decoration.  It was also a little, um, froofy, if you know what I mean.

  I don't know how it all started, but that first Christmas she began showing up in peculiar places; a pocket, the fridge, the shower.  Whoever found her was next to hide her.  As the years have tumbled by she has appeared in cereal boxes, rolled in underwear, visiting baby Jesus in the nativity, terrorizing the citizens in my little Christmas village, and even hung on a noose (yeah, that would be my dear husband.  It must be a guy thing).  It has become a quest to be first to find her in the Christmas wrappings when they emerge from the garage, and a bit of a competition to come up with new and better places to hide her.  

I found her first this year. 

I actually gave a sinister mua-ha-ha! when I saw her there amongst the baubles.  I slipped her behind my back and headed for Guy's coat pocket.  It wasn't even a full day before she showed up on me, though.  She was kickin' it with the mamas in the studio, but her empty arms gave her away.  As always, I stopped in my tracks and began giggling.  But I left her there, for now.  I have a plan.

I'll wait till Sunday to get my payback. 

I think she is feeling religious.

Wish her luck.

Wicked Fun

Addy's belated cake.

It is 1:29 AM.

There are seven 12 year old boys in my living room. 

 Some are asleep.  The rest are in a heated discussion about MMA and football.

I hope to do some sleeping tonight, too,

but I am thinking that might not happen.

Tessa is curled around my foot because she is scared. 

It's her new nightly routine. 

She also happens to be awake. 

Must be in the DNA.

Adam wanted to have a Nightmare Before Christmas theme for his birthday party, a party that had to be scheduled 2 weeks after the fact.  That's what happens when you pop out of a uterus the same week as Thanksgiving (no, Thanksgiving did not pop out of my uterus, too.  Work with me here.  I'm tired!).  We got as far as the invitations (his own design and artwork) and the cake.  

I say "Good enough!". 

Sometimes frozen taquitos and way too much soda have to be 

reasonable substitutes for party favors and carefully planned party games. 

I wish I could be the kind of mom that had goodie bags all made up

with the kid's names on them.  The mom that made the goodie bags

to coordinate with the rest of the party decor. 

Goodie bags make everything better, you know,

even if the party kinda sucks.

It turns out that, instead,

I am the kind of mom that lets 8 boys destroy my living room and watch movies all night. 

 I am also the kind of mom that will give 'em cold cereal instead of homemade pancakes in the mornin'.  I am the chika that hopes I can get the kitchen cleaned up before the parents come to pick up their yawning, crabby-tired boys tomorrow, but I know I am the girl who would rather just shut the kitchen door and sleep in.

Wish me luck. 

No, wish me a nap for tomorrow.

(While you're wishing, can you order up someone

to come clean up my kitchen, please?  Thanks.  I'll leave the door unlocked)

Now you get to play "Where's Waldo" with Jonah.

Art by Adam

On three, exhale....

Photo of my kiddie sweat shop,  Make 'em earn their keep, that's what I say!

Whhhhheeeeeeewwww!!!!

And with that, the sale ended. 
On day two, the people came, and I broke even. 
On day three, more people came, and I saw a profit. 
It was exciting to see people fall in love with a painting or a little piece of pottery.  I felt all warm-fuzzy inside when someone would find a little pot that just had to go home with them, and they carried it around like a long-lost treasure,
and smiled when they brought it to me like it had found them. 
They went to good homes, my little paint and clay children,
 and that is always a comfort to a mother's heart.

 I learned a lot of things this first time around. 

Like:

Thanksgiving weekend:  good for Walmart, bad for boutique.

They who eat the most samples do not necessarily buy the fudge.

8 hours on the hard stairs = sore cheekies.

It's never too late to meet your neighbors.

I really stink at math.

Netflix is a fabulous babysitter,
but 8 hours of it gives 5 year-olds nightmares.

What takes 2 days to set up comes down in about 20 minutes.

I may have learned more, but I'm too tired now to remember what it was.
Thank you to all of you who came and supported my little effort at bringing art into peoples lives.  What we earned will help with Christmas (since our Christmas stash went to a big car repair last week!).  I am also glad I could provide a place for my friends to sell their lovelies.  I walk among giants.

My favorite moments of the day:

Jonah sneaking fudge samples
 (in case you were wondering, 15 month-olds can and do sneak. 
It's the cutest dang thing you ever saw).

A 90 year old woman who fell in love with Jonah.

Him running to hug her when she left.

The woman who came back to buy a painting
because she dreamed about it all night.

The woman who was so sad that a necklace she had fallen in love with (but talked herself out of) yesterday had sold, and being able to say, "That's ok, I will just make you another one just like it."

Ruth doing all of her Christmas shopping while I held gorgeous baby Autumn
 (it was rough, but I toughed it out!).

Telling Ethan he sold both his paintings.

Having several solid hours to visit with friends while we tested the fudge samples
 to make sure they were still good.

Hearing people tell me how lucky I am to be married to a man who can cook (yes, I know I am.  And cooking is just the start of all the good things he does).

***

We'll have to do this again sometime.  How about next year?

Thanks, again friends! 
And thank you Guy for all your hard work and support. 
My mother always said I was a kite,
and I needed someone who could hold my string,
but I think you are more like my hot air balloon.

No Strings Attached

It was meant to be

breakfast in bed.

It ended up as breakfast after the shower.

No strings attached, just my girls bein' sweet to me.

On Sunday I lost my voice.

On Monday I could whisper.

On Tuesday I could croak.

And though I was feeling much better by Wednesday,

the girls decided to take pity on me, all out of the kindness of their sweet,

and in no way cunning or manipulative little hearts.

You feel it coming, don't you?

Smell that little wiff of  rat?

Come with me now to 15 minutes after I swallow my last chunk of apple.

Ellie tenderly asks, "Mama, do I get a kindness bead for making you breakfast?"

*

Huh.

Just when you thought you were doing something right as a parent.

Yes, this week we re-instituted the bead jars.  Beads = kid currency.  Earn one by doing your jobs.  2 kindness beads = 1 bead.  Earn kindness beads by being caught doing a good deed.

*

I hear Tessa is planning to make me a get well lunch tomorrow.

'Can't wait.

****

Don't forget to come by tomorrow (or Saturday.  It's OK, I know you're busy.  I'll wait up for ya').

The Studio is so fancy you could eat fudge off of it. 

I made you some really cute snowman earrings.

I'll save 'em for ya'.

Clay Pots and Cathedrals

We interrupt your regularly scheduled weekend to bring you this update:

The sale has begun.

But someone didn't get the memo.

Five great ladies (and one slightly frantic one) have slaved away for weeks, nay, months, to prepare this amazing conglomeration of artistic endeavors the likes of which this humble hamlet has ne'er before seen. 

 It took two days to set up. 

You sooooo should have been here...

with the 12 other people who came.

Yep.  Sad huh?  It's okay, I wear waterproof mascara.  But please tell me this isn't a commentary on the aesthetic sensitivities of Nor Cal at large.  I am hoping this was merely a situation where everyone has a synchronous thought, that thought being "I'll wait 'til next weekend".  Well, lucky for them there is still fudge left over.  Of course, next weekend is six days away, so I can't promise I won't eat it every day for lunch between now and then (Dark Chocolate Orange fudge.  Oh, yeah, baby).

Did I mention Guy's new Raspberry White Chocolate Ice Cream Topping?  I didn't?

I joke, but this is really more important to me than just breaking-even on the cost of my materials.  Like so many other things in our culture that are becoming "a thing of the past" (like music in the schools or basic respect in a Walmart checkout line), artisans are being replaced or out-moded.

By technology.

By cheap labor.

By TV culture.

By sheer laziness.

By crap.

Cheap, plastic and press-board CRAP.

I long for the days when someone thought it wasn't good enough to just make a chair, they wanted to make it strong and enduring and beautiful.  It is through art that early man first began to record his history and hopes on cave walls.  Yeah, sure, he always painted his dead mammoth a little bigger than the one his cave-mate killed, but he painted it.  And later, someone along the River Nile said "let's bury this old guy in something beautiful", and someone else said "let's paint on our walls and ceilings,

and build cathedrals that reach the stars."

And just as humankind's genius seemed as though it was truly touched by God himself,

some knucklehead said "I think we could make this way cheaper in China". 

And on the day the first man said "Let's build a mini-mall",

a deep sob welled up from the depths of history

 and Di Vinci turned over in his grave.  Twice.

Did you know some ancient Native American tribes forbade women from creating images of animals and people, so afraid were they that her life-giving power might cause her images to come alive?  Isn't that beautiful?  I mean sure, she was still being repressed, but if you ask me, they had good cause to fear.

Women are powerful creators!

Look what we can do...!

We can raise human beings - more than one at a time - and still find time in the day to tend to the mundane, nourish little bodies and big spirits and hungry minds, type left handed while nursing, pick up stray diaper-nuggets (I did that tonight, so fun) and still create something beautiful;

A home.

A dinner.

A dress.

A garden.

A little clay pot.

May you find time this week

to build your cathedral to the stars.

And if you finish by Friday, stop by my studio to sample the fudge.

My studio was heard to be singing the song "I'm too sexy". 

Pearls and paintings and pots, oh my!

Lovelies by Erin, Pat and Amanda.

Color!

Robin still wearing a smile, even after helping till 11pm last night and hanging with me for the day today.  Thank you, Robin!!!  You can tag and hang jewelry with me any time!

It's a darn good thing

It's a darn good thing

tha I left my camera in LA last weekend when we went down for a family wedding.  Because if I hadn't, I would have taken it with me Saturday to the Evil Pizza Place that shall remain Nameless.  The one that makes you pay $10 to get in the door for their very unimpressive buffet, even though you will only have 2 slices of doughy-in-the-middle pizza and a small salad.  I would have ended up taking pictures of my devil-spawn children NOT having any fun and complaining constantly. 

It would have been a waste of pixels. 

Trust me.

But because I know that you want the gory details, I shall tell you.  But you will have to imagine it all, for alas, there are no pictures.  And it's a darn good thing.

There had been no way around it.  Adam had his last soccer game, and with all last-soccer-games comes the poorly planned end-of-season party and the "You showed up so you get an overpriced plastic trophy that your parents paid for".  So while Guy went to a funeral, I wrestled 5 reluctant kids back into the van to first go buy an over-priced Gluten Free Pizza to smuggle into the Evil Pizza Place a half hour away (in case you were wondering, gluten-free in this context means "disgusting if not eaten immediately").  Upon our arrival to the second pizza joint, the perky staff at the EPP graciously accepted my $40, which included full price for the child who could not eat their glutinous glop.  As drinks cost extra, I announced that water wound be fine.  No, that was not a question, it was a demand.  No child dare argue. 

The party room that had been reserved was just the right size for a small group of pigmies, and so we managed to locate the only empty table in the nearby dining room.  Whilst playing the food relay game with each child from the buffet area and back to our table, a courtesy-challenged old lady plopped herself down in one of our chairs and refused to move.  "No English" she mumbled. 

Oh, yeah, I believe you, Grannie.

I move all our crap to a dinning room somwhere in Outter Mongolia. 

 It takes 4 trips.  I stomp the whole way.

Tessa's $5 "all you can eat" consisted of 4 cucumber slices, a pile of hard boiled egg crumbs, and two helpings of ice cream.  Oh, but don't forget her cold, hard, $10 toppings-congealed on a gluten-free frizbee.  She ate 1 and 1/2 slices.

I told Ethan he had to eat enough to last him for the entire day because I had to pay adult price for him.  He had 4 slices of pizza and 5 ice cream cones. 

Frankly, I think he could have done better.

Later, we packed into Party Room #3 to witness the awards ceremony.  Some words were said, which no one could hear on account of the 2 kinds of music that were playing and the carnival on the other side of the partition. 

Back out to the zoo-room.

No, make that the bathroom. 

Jonah stuck his hands in the toilet during the 1.7 seconds it took me to pull up my pants.  The girls enjoyed the automated everything in the bathroom. 

Yeah, because that's why we came here, to play with the hand-dryer. 

In a black out, may you never find yourself in the potty of the EPP.

Now back to the zoo-room.  Not just arcade games, but rides and a playland. 

Somebody kill me now.

Time for some math: Two girls + 10 tokens does not equal 5 games each when each game costs two tokens.  I lug 27 pound Jonah around the arcade for 30 minutes while they play the "change your stinkin' mind every 4 seconds game". 

Finally, no more tokens. 

Halle-stinkin'-luja.

But now for my favorite part: the TICKETS.  The meaningless, pretend the kid did something of value and reward him with tickets to trade for CHEAP PLASTIC CRAP THAT WILL BE BROKEN OR LOST IN THE CAR BEFORE WE GET HOME. 

Now it is time for more math:  16 tickets divided by 2 girls = 1 cheap toy dinosaur.

But wait, by some freakish miracle, the pimply-faced boy behind the counter gives EACH of the girls a cheap toy dinosaur!  One pink, one purple!  He even guessed their favorite colors right!

Wait for it...

Tessa begins to cry.  She didn't want THAT toy, she wanted a DIFFERENT toy. 

I stand in the middle of the chaos and yell

"I HATE THIS PLACE!  WE ARE NEVER COMING BACK HERE AGAIN!"

but my voice is swallowed by the dinging bells and wailing sirens

 of the games and rides.

I grab the pink dinosaur out of her hand and march to the nearest trash can.

A sudden awareness and simultaneous appreciation for pink dinosaurs

sweeps over Tessa.

"No, Mama!  I changed my mind!  I like my dinosaur!!!"

Lucky dinosaur, that's all I've got to say.

Tokenless, we fill the last half hour in the baby play area waiting for Adam to finish up.  I spend 67% of my time rescuing Jonah from the bottom of the slide and the impending bloody lip that I wish to avoid from some kid named Josh with freakishly large feet.

.

Jonah cries.  He wants to nurse.  No, wait, back to the bottom of the slide.  No, nurse, no, slide...no...

Ellie whines that she is sooooo bored and she hates this place.

Amen, sister.

Finally, the boys cash in Adams tickets, everyone grabs a last cookie and the remains of the cold pizza-cracker, and 2 hours and 37 minutes after we first arrived, we straggle to the van.  Tessa cries the whole way because she couldn't have the cookie.  It has gluten.  A tiny vein bursts in my right eye.

But wait.  Do you hear that? 

Is that air whistling out of the giant inflatable hammer that Adam chose for his prize? 

Oh, why yes.  Yes it is. 

"It's OK, Mom," Adam says quickly, as I rather animatedly throw the van into a sharp U-turn. 

"OH, NO it is NOT ok!  That is a $40 hammer, young man, and by darn, you are going to get one that works!"

I march into the EPP and announce to the room at large that my son WILL be going back in, hand stamp or not, to trade in his toy for one that works.

No one argues.

Back at home, we tumble out of the van into the driveway, a mass of shoes and diaper bags and pizza boxes. 

And then it happened. 

You were hoping it would, I can tell.

It began with a whiny cry.

"Mom!!!!!"

"WHAT NOW?!?!?!"

"I lost my dinosaur!"

Oh.  My.  BLEEEEEEEP.

It was just under the seat.

But I have to tell you,

it's a darn good thing.