Mosquito Crafts

FDPG had a terrible reaction to a mosquito bite on the weekend. She got bit above her eyebrow and it swelled so bad I actually called the nurse hotline. I spent about 15 minutes answering questions that I know were meant as a way of ascertaining what the problem was, but they made me feel like such a crap parent ("No, her immunizations are not up to date. No, she's never had a tetanus shot. No, she's never had an eye exam."). After mentioning TETANUS once too many times, the nurse finally admitted that no, it probably wasn't tetanus and yes, it probably was a severe reaction to the mosquito bite (runs in the family). But those eyes of hers were only getting more swollen, to the point that some rude member of the family compared her to a Klingon. After kicking someone in the shins, I broke down and bought some CM (conventional medicine) to help her with the itching and swelling, because the homeopathic bottle I had was empty and the store I usually go to buy such things was closed because it was too early in the morning but the conventional drug store was open and oh boy but that FDPG didn't look very good (gosh, I must live for complicated drama, mustn't I?). The nice pharmacist at the drug store said that the Benadryl would either make her hyper or make her drowsy. These sorts of things usually make me drowsy but somehow I had the very distinct sense that this stuff would turn FDPG into a whirling dervish, just because I live for complicated drama.

And I was right.

Thirty minutes after taking the medication she began bouncing and leaping on couches, which wasn't such a great idea considering her eyes were almost swelled shut, so I put the kibosh on such antics and told her to settle down a bit. Which also wasn't such a great idea because there was all that irritating lovely manic energy and no place to turn it loose.

So out came the craft kits.

People give FDPG a lot of these kits. She has candle making kits, jewelry making kits, origami kits, paper making kits, super science kits, desk set kits, clock making kits...you get the idea. Things well-meaning adults get for their busy little bee relatives. Busy little bees like FDPG. But even she can only do so much before some of them start piling up.

This time we got out the Flower Press Kit. We opened it up. We surveyed the things it came with:

a pair of tweezers
a nifty mini hole punch that FDPG spent a lot of time exclaiming over
some little plastic pots of acrylic paint
some positively horrible paint brushes
some ribbons and beads and a squashed purple fabric flower
two wooden covers
some bolts and wing nuts
some octagonal paper
some octagonal cardboard

While the wooden covers and the cardboard were very cool, the rest of the stuff was not very inspiring. It was, dare I admit, rather on the dull side. Not for the first time did I curse the Clever Clogs who developed that thing known as the Cheap Plastic Kiddie Brush. They drive me nuts. I don't expect professional sable artist brushes, but jeez, these things shed like mad, the bristles stick out and make a mess of the paint, and they never absorb the paint properly. I always throw these brushes out when we get them. I hate 'em.

(gosh, sheila, don't hold back, tell us how you really feel)

We stared for a while, FDPG and I, wondering what to make of these things, while inwardly I was worrying about FDPG's ability to paint with half-closed eyes. Then I was hit with a sudden burst of inspiration, because not only do people give FDPG a lot of kits, they also give her a lot of Ethnic Bead kits and Glittery Item kits and Interesting Paper kits. And we don't always use everything in those kits. We have a lot of what I have labelled Accumulated Leftover Craft Items in boxes and ziplock baggies in a cupboard as a result. Periodically I think "Interesting Garden Art!" when I look at them, but for the most part they sit in their boxes and bags in the cupboard. So I hauled out a couple of those boxes and bags. We perused. We sifted. We poked. And eventually we had all the things for FDPG's Flower Press. Then, since FDPG's eyes weren't working so well, I arranged and glued and kept her apprised of events as they progressed: "Now we glue on the African beads. Do you want the purple flowered ribbon or the red striped ribbon? Where should the beads go?" And so on. Until we were finished.

Here is how it looked when we were done. I think it is a nice example of FDPG's penchant for odd colour combinations, fake-vintage garden labels, and big weird looking beads. It's a very tactile object, too: no one can pass by it without stroking it.

And inside it are a whole bunch of squashed flowers from the garden, things to remember a sad, sore day on the couch by.

Chapter 5: In Which I Reveal My Inherent Idiocy

I spent the entire day on Friday jumping up and down beside a track, doing my best Stage Mother impersonation, screaming "GO! GO! GO! RUN! RUN! RUN!" at the top of my voice while watching the kids run and jump and sprint and throw with many many other children. It was our annual Track and Field Extravaganza, where we quirky homeschoolers compete with all the other independent schools in town for ribbons. Blue ribbons! Red ribbons! White ribbons!

And just to show me how much everyone has changed since last year, my kids went from wanting a ribbon of each colour ("I need a purple one!" "Now I have one of each colour!") to wanting only blue and red ribbons (1st and 2nd respectively), especially Dominic and FDPG. Max was in his Effortlessly Casually Cool Phase this year, and didn't care about winning so long as his pals were there to discuss important stuff, like all the Star Wars Lego YouTube videos they'd seen lately. And lounge on the grass in between events. And wander around cackling and acting Oh So Cool. Amazingly, even with the pall cast by he and his ECC cronies, he still managed to run faster than many boys his age and run with a certain panache, a fact that endeared him to a couple of girls in his age group. He appeared to be unaware of the female action admiring his little coterie until I teased him later that night, whereupon he said "Those girls followed us all over the place. Jeez they sure talk a lot." (note to girls: get acquainted with Lego YouTube, don't talk so much, and you will win the hearts of silly immature boys everywhere ... but do you really want to?) When we came home Max received some Really Important emails from his band of Merry Fellows, all in the same sort of vein: "How R U?" "R U OK?" "Howz it goin?" "Cool Dude!" The eloquence was almost overwhelming, as were Max's responses: "Hi" "Cool" "Hey there."

Gosh. All this rigorous classical homeschooling is really paying off.

The twins were in their Cutthroat Gotta Win Phase (FDPG adds a "Or I might cry" coda to all her events) and raced to win. Dominic managed to get one of the coveted Relay spots this year, a spot awarded to the two fastest boys in each age group. In a move that was guaranteed to shock and amaze us all, Dominic turned out to be the fastest boy in his age group, in spite of his short little legs. And let me tell you, the entire week beforehand was paced accordingly.

"Mum, are my track shorts clean?"

"Mum, have you washed my track shirt?"

"We need to practice!"

"Only 3 more sleeps until Friday!"

"Only 2 more sleeps until Friday!"

"Only 1 more sleep until Friday!"

Interspersed with that was FDPG and her Sturm Und Drang at not having been chosen for the relay team (she was 3rd fastest girl, sigh). It's hard when one's sibling gets chosen for something and one has to Bear Up and be a Good Sport while quietly gnashing one's teeth. It might have been easier if Max hadn't reminded her of it every few hours...

So while Max was being followed around by Admiring Females Dominic and FDPG were busy being Extremely Athletic. Which extended to me exhorting them to drink lots of water, stay out of the sun, keep their hats on when not competing, eat orange slices, and chew on the Horribly Expensive and Seldom Purchased Fruit Bars I had packed in their cooler bags ("This is the LAST TIME I'm buying these RIP OFF bars so enjoy them while you can!"). Because, Gentle Reader, I might have neglected to mention this salient fact right off the bat but let me tell you now: It was hot. It was really hot. Really really hot. So hot that I wore an hat all day. And it wasn't my HipCool Summer Hat, either; no, this was my wide brimmed Serious-Heat-In-The-Garden-Hat (SHITGH).

Hmm. Nice acronym, Sheila. You sure know how to pick 'em. My shitgah hat.

But even with that SHTGH hat on all day, I managed to get a ExtremelyWellDone rating on my arms. And my feet have a distinct cross and bar mark from my crisscross sandal straps. And the twins started to flag in earnest. Heck, everyone there started to flag in earnest. But we still managed to watch Dominic run like the wind for his relay team, run like the wind in his 100m race, watch several of our older runners run like wildfire in their relay teams, and have an awful lot of fun. We finished that long long day, wherein we won most points for an independent school AND won a trophy (Go homeschoolers!), declined a number of Immediately Afterwards Playdates ("No, Max, I am NOT driving you over to Oliver's house for 1 hour so you can show him your Lego movie, then pick you up when you've exhausted the possibilities of getting Oliver's mum to ply you with chips and pop. Instead I am going to go home, give you some hastily prepared food and maybe fob you off with a rental movie, after which I plan to drink lots of wine and fall apart on the couch because I feel horribly sunstruck") and wended our way slowly home, stopping off at McDonalds along the way, where they divested me of $7.11 for some cruddy ice cream, finally arriving home, whereupon I went out and turned on all my sprinklers because the poor poor garden was also feeling the effects of the day.

But I started all this as a Reveal Of My Inherent Idiocy, didn't I?

I suppose this is where it started...

I was standing in the vegetable patch about 20 minutes after we got home, staring dully at the tomatoes, wondering if I had a bottle of wine in the fridge, when something brushed my shoulder. My burned shoulder. My sun-burned shoulder. My crispy sun-burned shoulder. I looked down and saw an expanse of glowing skin. It wasn't horribly red, because I've spent a lot of time out in the sun, but it was glowing. More than it should've been.

"I know what will fix this," I thought, "I'll get some aloe vera!"

So I did. I cut a long slender rib, split it open, and rolled that lovely cooling gel all over my shoulder. It felt lovely. It looked soothing. Hydrating. I could see the red subsiding.

Fast forward to next day.

As usually happens with this sort of Exhausting Event, the kids had 4,351 activities they had to be at the very next day. Activities which required my Monte Carlo driving skills. Activities which required me to get up early and make lunches and be organized in breakfast preparation. Not my forte, lemme tell you. Nevertheless, we were out the door at 8:30am and off to Round #1. I dropped off one kid, whipped off to Round #2, dropped off another kid, then raced home for some Garden Watering. I changed my outfit because it seemed as though the day was getting hotter, and raced off to pick up kid from Round #1. It was when I was standing at the corral, watching kid at Round #1 get his things together, when a parent approached me. "Look at your shoulder!" she exclaimed. "That's some burn! It looks painful."

We both looked down. My arm was purple. It had dark purple streaks on it. It was red underneath. Red with purple streaks. It DID look painful. I glanced up at the mother, and we both exchanged the same look. That look said "You don't wear sunscreen. You are one of those idiots who doesn't wear sunscreen." In my case that look was tempered by a "But I think sunscreens are carcinogenic!" glint, whereas the speaker's look was pure and simple: "You are SUCH a dope, and now you have a weird and creepy striped purple arm!"

I went through the rest of yesterday with purple streaks on my arms. Purple streaks that everyone stared at, including the Really Cute Guy at the Green Barn Market. We both pushed our carts towards the yams at the same time, and his gaze fell on my Purple Streaked Arms. His gaze changed from Casual Fun Flirt to You Are A Creepy Looking Female (who probably doesn't know anything about Lego YouTube videos) in a matter of seconds. It was very sad.

Then I got home.

Yes, yes, I'm getting to the Idiocy Bit.

Richard stared at my arms.

"What happened to your arms?" he asked. He ran his finger down my arm thoughtfully. "Looks like you have paint on your arm. Weird."

"No, I got burned. Stop staring! It's not THAT weird."

"Didn't you rub aloe vera all over your arms yesterday?" he said. "Might it be that?"

"Ha!" I snorted. "Yeah, right, aloe vera gives me purple streaks. Good one."

But when he left the room I got a wash cloth and gingerly rubbed at my arms.

The purple came off.

So did the streaks.

My arm was left slightly reddened, but sans streaks.

No streaks.

At all.

I had normal arms.

Note to self: when using aloe vera, remember to wash it off afterwards.

Life With The Penderwicks

We just finished reading Jeanne Birdsall's The Penderwicks: A Summer Tale of Four Sisters, Two Rabbits, and a Very Interesting Boy as our Morning Read Aloud (a writer after my own obsession with capital letters). It took us approximately 9 days to read, weekends excepted. And that wasn't because it's not very long, although compared to a Harry Potter or a Sea of Trolls book I suppose it isn't; no, we read it so fast because we all liked it so much.

This book sat on our shelves all year long. Some well-meaning relative gave it to us last summer, and after a quick glance at the subtitle I thought "Hmm, this might be one for FDPG's shelves, what with all those sisters and stuff." I couldn't see Max sitting in on this one very cheerfully. He'd loved the Little House books, but they had homesteading stories in them, and stories about bears and honey and guns and axes. He flagged a little when Laura went on about her trousseau at the end there, but he'd been sad to finish the series. The Penderwicks looked distinctly girlish. So it sat there and sat there, all through the Harry Potter marathon, all through some new Diana Wynne Jones, all through Half Magic, all through The Mysterious Benedict Society, and more. I'd pull it out now and then, study the cover, then reshelve it. Another time, I always thought.

Anyhow, a week or so ago I finally hauled it out and thought "It's now or never!" And the next morning, at breakfast, I brought it out and said "This is our next read!" I might have been imagining it, but I think caught a quick cringe. A scowl for certain. There might even have been some eye-rolling. But this is where my patented Jane Austen Homeschooling Heroine skills helped me out, because instead of quailing before the sullen glare that only a boy-on-the-verge-of-being-forced-to-listen-to-a-story-about-many-girls can muster, I opened the book and began reading, not in a hurried, nervous, oh-please-don't-start-twitching-and-sighing tone (which is sometimes my Backup Voice if the story, err, flags), but in a calm, measured, this-is-going-to-be-amazing voice.

You're all with me on the hyphens, I hope?

Well, let's just say that Max was willing to go along with it all in an effort to cultivate his inner Good Sport, so I read quite unchallenged for a page or two, with the twins listening most raptly, but when we hit the line "'We'll discover that when I'm in the backseat for too long with my younger sisters, I go insane and murder them,' said Skye" he perked right up. This wasn't just a story about four sisters, it was about four sisters who sometimes squabble. And argue. And call each other the odd rude name. And do silly things. And play funny games that involve rubber-tipped arrows and targets with the faces of Interfering Adults painted on them. And one of them was often quite disagreeable. These weren't Perfect Little Girls by any stretch of the imagination.

This was a story Max could really relate to.

It was even funny. I counted at least 15 occasions when the kids all burst out laughing. And each morning, when I'd haul the book from the bookshelf next to the dining room table, FDPG would sigh happily, readying herself for more delightful vignettes about all those girls. She loved that book. She loved hearing stories about groups of smart, clever, witty girls getting into mischief and helping the boys get out of trouble. Gosh, put that way, who wouldn't?

Dominic liked hearing about Jeffrey, the son of the Rich But Sadly Slightly Nasty Landlady, and what an amazing house he lived in, filled as it was with walk-about attics and trees next to windows to climb out of and cooks named Churchie who made gingerbread for lunch and ponds filled with goldfish and tunnels through hedges and and and...

And best of all, Max sat through it all, without the slightest scowl or frown or sigh. Not even a harrumph. And when we finished the story, he leaned back and said "That was way better than I thought it would be!"

So there you go, you just never know what you're going to get into with some of these stories. And sometimes it's way better than you think. Lucky for me...


Other reading aloud posts can be found here:

What We Learned From Laura Ingalls Wilder, J.K.Rowling, and Diana Wynne Jones

Reflections on reading a Little House Book

FDPG's Latest Read

Reading Harry Potter

The Water Horse

Camera Obscura

I was taking pictures of the garden tonight (because I happen like having 4,327 pictures of the same garden slowing iPhoto to a crawl) and trying to block out the houses across the street while at the same time get a picture of my cool new driftwood arbor. I like this arbor and I really like the fact that I built it with my very own hands, even if it did cause my 80 year old neighbour to come tottering across the lawn to ask if he could do the drilling (apparently I looked "unsteady"). Even if it did cause Richard to cackle on the front doorstep, while eating his lunch, and ask me if I needed help. Then hover behind the screen door where he thought I couldn't see him, worrying about the shocking treatment his drill and its bits were getting (turned out I had a concrete drill bit and didn't know it - the HORROR of it all). Even if my other neighbour did come over the next day while I was planting some cucumbers and scarlet runners at its base, to tell me that he had some "funky bits" to hang from it if I wanted (?). And punctuate his remark with a cavalier laugh.

The nerve of some people.

We can't all be handy. Some of us have to be lower on the Handy Person Bell Curve than others. And I, I bear my inability to build sturdy things like arbors and trellises (or is that trelli?) like a true Jane Austen heroine. My creations may not endure, but I am stoic. Philosophical, even.

Well, until things blow down. Or break. Then I resort to less noble behaviours.

Not that I'm going to get into that here.

Anyhow, all this posturing and crouching and leaning to exclude the less than aesthetic visions opposite reminded me of the time an acquaintance came to visit. She must have seen this blog at some point, because the first thing she said to me was "Uh, this is your garden? The same one I saw pictures of?" I wish I had Sound-O-Vision for this remark, because it was garlanded, nay, festooned with surprise. There was disbelief. A touch of shock. And a smidgen of confusion. She obviously thought she had the wrong place.

But really, does anyone thing I'm going to show pictures like this?
My messy hoses? The newly shorn nectarine, sitting nakedly against the wall? My grubby potting bench, built from scrap wood in California and dragged all the way up here to BC because I had a sentimental attachment to it? Oh boy, reading that makes me realize what a dingbat I am (note to self: don't mention how you brought your compost over on the ferry when you moved here).





I'd like to say I'm an amazingly gifted photographer, but then that would bring us back to my yard not really looking like this, wouldn't it? So let's just say that I am a selective photographer. Why show views of ugly stucco boxes houses like the one I live in when I could show pictures like this (minus the houses lurking just inches away from here).











Here's another shot. Richard says that I live in a little world of make-believe and sometimes I have to agree with him. This is way better than what you aren't seeing: cars parked on the road and more stucco boxes.

(sheila waves her smelling salts under everyone's nose)

There, there, this is so much better, now, isn't it?

Fleet of Feet

Dominic has spent a lot of years living in the shadow of FDPG. First it was because she was the only one who could understand his grumps, grunts, and snorts, then it was because she was the only one patient enough to actually endure some of his more, err, stubborn moments. And when she started reading and writing and learning foreign languages and getting into really complicated stuff at a very early age all he could do was watch her. Well, that and slug her every now and then for making him frustrated. Maybe yell at her a bit. Sneak candy out of her Halloween basket. Ask her for teeny tiny tastes of her ice cream then take a whacking great bite.

Fast forward 3 years.

We've joined a homeschool Track and Field group, and lo and behold but Dominic has discovered that he can do something FDPG can't: he can run really fast. He's almost always at the front of the pack, way way in front of the pack. It's kind of funny to see, really, because he's shorter than most of the other kids (we hail from the race of Short People) yet he runs like the Road Runner (but I don't tell him that because I don't think he'd know what I was talking about).

Meep meep.

No Surprises

I think this was the only time I've ever known for sure who would win. And the only time the winner was so universally liked.

FDPG and I are equally admiring: he's a honey, this one. FDPG and Dominic both have plans to be on this show one day. Better hone up on your cutthroat, tear-free, all-rounder sports abilities, FDPG. You're gonna need them.

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