Cryn-spiration: The Time I Made a Panda Mug

My friend, Tiffany, was turning 29 and I thought it was the perfect opportunity to make her something that combined a few things she likes: coffee and pandas.  I'm always excited to be able to give a handmade gift, so the kids and I set out to collect our supplies...

Our first stop was at the Crate and Barrel Outlet where the kids forced me to buy them fabric scraps for 50 cents.  Next, we visited CB2 where everything was going fine until Caiden opened the emergency fire door and turned the alarm on.  We paid for our mug and left!

Our final stop was Blick for the porcelain paint pen.  I avoided being forced into any more purchases for the kids (they LOVE art stores!), but conceded to taking weird pictures with the white blob guy.

Most importantly, we went home and had cookies--itsy bitsy cookies that I had painstakingly formed (100 of them) the day before. Maybe I should have given her some of those for her birthday, too.  Oh, well.

In the evening when all was quiet in the house, I pulled up panda images I had saved as inspiration and set to work doodling and testing out my skill, which is not very great but can be passable at times.  The first sketch (upper left hand corner) was a disaster so I moved on to inspiration number two, tweaked it a bit, liked it, and set to work on the real deal.

I drew the outline on the mug in pencil to allow for error.  Tools I used for this project were:

partially unglazed porcelain mug (CB2 Tactile Mug 12 oz.)
Pebeo Porcelaine 150 paint pen 1.2 mm
toothpick
Q-tip
Blackwing 602 (not original) drafting pencil

Pack Your Sookcase for a Vuckashine!

First, the list of supplies from left to right:

"spy suit,  spy roller skates, suitcase,
binoculars, book, bookmark,
spy hat, spy camera."

Next, the explanation of purpose:

"Caiden Spy is going with?...
Juno Spy and Sarah Spy!
Happy Spy Vacation
after tomorrow
and after the next day, too!"

There are so many things I love about this.  The plan, the drawings, the spelling. I LOVE "spy soot" and "sookcase"; are you kidding me?  That's cute!  Suitcase sounds like sookcase to her.  I love that!  And how about the word "vuckashine."  That's amazing.  I just love, love, love, this and had to share.

Show and tell courtesy of my 5 year old daughter, Caiden.

P.S.  This top secret plan reminds me of the time Elliott got drafted by the kid army a few years ago...

Keep Going and Live.

My husband would never be caught dead in pajama pants in public.  That is... unless he really thought he was dying.

A few years ago, David finally went in to get his wisdom teeth taken out.  You should know that he is terrified of needles and has never been to the dentist since I've known him which has been about 13 years or so.  But he was in pain, so he submitted to his first surgery ever and man... talk about giving up on life.  I think he really thought there was a good chance he would die. When I drove him home from the dentist, he just sat there with blood dripping down his chin; powerless to help himself. I had to personally reach inside his mouth and insert gauze.  After a few delirious days under the influence of vicadin, he was firmly on the road to recovery.  Eventually, we had to go to the pharmacy or do some such errand so he reluctantly dragged himself dramatically to the car... wearing his pajama pants.  And that's when I knew.  "Why are you wearing those pants?"  I demanded.  "You think you might die!  Don't you??  You are fine.  You just had your wisdom teeth out, that's all!  Now go back inside and get some real clothes on and LIVE.  LIVE I tell you!"

Well, I don't know about you, but I have a suspicion that a lot of us are like that.  I know I am.  I had a particularly emotional week this past week as I waited expectantly for my normal womanly cycle to kick in, but it never did.  Day after day went by and I was just kind of dumbfounded.  I am never late.  Furthermore, I look at pregnant women all the time and consistently think, "Better her than me."  I have no hidden desire to get pregnant.  I am totally happy with my kid situation.  So after a week of no period I really started to freak out a little bit.  So many different thoughts, feelings, and emotions flying around inside my head.

It wasn't until I talked to Dave and he said, "I wouldn't be worried.  God is the giver of life.  Who am I to question that?" that I started to relax and accept it.   And the more I thought about that, the more excited I got.

"Wow!  God is the giver of life." I thought.  "As the Giver, has He decided to give us a little life that we didn't plan for or expect?  He must have His own special plan for us and that is exciting!"  I began to pray for this little life I was sure was growing inside of me.  I thought about how excited the kids would be and how good it would be for them to learn to care for someone else.  I had a secret I couldn't tell.  There was still time, but I was pretty sure the unthinkable had happened.  I was pregnant.

And then one day... It shockingly became clear that I was not pregnant.  Suddenly all of those new ideas that were so hard to embrace at first were ripped away.  The future suddenly seemed flat and gray--mundane.  "What in the world?" I thought.  "I don't understand this at all."  But from the beginning I had decided to trust God with my life and situation; so I decided to trust Him again.  Still, I was sad...very sad.  And confused.

And then as I suffered through these new emotions and sense of loss, I was keenly aware of every little body ache.  Each one seemed to me to be a sign that I was surely dying.  "Just pile it on." I thought.  "Just press the "TNT button" to add more drama."  That was me.

My achilles was hurting and not extending all the way. "What's wrong?!" I wondered.  I had an awful headache.  My back was hurting.  My hearing felt a little off.  I felt dizzy.  "I"m probably dying," I dramatically surmised. "I better lie down." And that was when I realized: I'm doing that thing! The dramatic thing.  The making so much out of my little situation thing. "You're not dying!"  I told myself.  "You're having your period and a few aches and pains.  Get dressed and LIVE, Corynne.  LIVE I tell ya!"

But you know what, God is so gracious to me and patient.  I had a few cuddly, quiet moments with Dave. I had some prayerful times with God.  I took it easy while I wasn't feeling well and dropped the ball on some of my household things, but God provided.  A sweet friend left breakfast on my front porch and after a few days, I'm feeling out of the woods.  I'm still alive!

{Here I am "living" while my 5 year old disguises me with silly putty...}

And really... I'm just fine.

"With upright heart he shepherded them and guided them with his skillful hand." --Psalms 78:72

"Count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness.  And let steadfastness have its full effect, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking in nothing." --James 1:2-4

The Un-Western Ballerina

Caiden makes crazy outfits.  We all know that, right?  If you aren't familiar with my previous discussions on this topic, look at the old posts here:

Sartorial Inclinations
Wacky Wednesday
Parenting Crossroads
I Let My Kids Dress Themselves
The Red Tutu and the Garden
Caiden's Crazy Outfits

As I rolled out of bed this morning, I found a little 5 year old girl, curled up in a ball with her hair splayed out all over my pillow, wearing nothing but bright green underwear.  I got up, brushed my teeth, and decided to make the kids' lunches in peace before waking them up.  As I came back to drag Caiden out of bed, she was so cozy and warm that I curled up next to her, cooing to her to wake up as I gave her little kisses and nudges.  She refused, so I scooped up my scantily clad Kindergartener and carried her into her room where I tried to deposit her onto the floor in a standing position, but she kept trying to climb back into her bed.

"Do you have clothes picked out?" I questioned, trying to wake her up more when suddenly she came to life and ran over to a fluffy pink pile of clothing.  I guess she was really excited about this outfit, because it snapped her out of her fake grogginess (she's a morning person, but she tries to hide it).

Off came the bright green undies.  On went some clean ones.  She ran to the potty.  She came back and I helped her wriggle into some white tights with silver dots.  Next, I assisted her in stepping into a very fluffy, soft, pink skirt with about 5 layers of "floof." (I just made up a word...)  To my horror, the next thing we put on was a bright green, no, fluorescent green t-shirt.  We then rounded out the outfit with a pair of pink, authentic ballet "shoes."

The inner turmoil regarding those ballet shoes waged inside me for a good few minutes as the scenarios of her prancing around the playground in ballet shoes, sitting on the floor in the classroom cross-legged with ballet shoes, and dangling her ballet shoe-clad toes at the cafeteria lunch table played out in my mind... As well as walking in the cafeteria over food, running around outside for P.E., doing various activities in the classroom, her teachers reaction to her feet???  I had to make a decision!

And then the other side of the battle was waged in my head as I considered the alternative shoes for this already wild outfit with the remaining options being fake patent leather purple flats, black and yellow Nike high tops, Roxy flip flops, or white Chuck Taylor Converse.

None of those options appealed to me, so I went ahead and condoned the use of the leather ballet slippers.  But not without quite a bit of hesitation.

Now the only remaining obstacle was to hope against hope that papa bear wouldn't object to this outrageous getup before we left the house.  We happened to be in luck, however, since oddly enough, the only thing Dave commented on was how bright her shirt was.  "Hhhmmm..." I thought.  "Really???  Could I actually be this lucky?!  He must be getting slowly desensitized if he didn't notice anything else strange about this outfit..."  But I sure wasn't going to bring it up at that point in the game.  No one was crying and we still had a few minutes left for breakfast.  That's a win, win, win right there.

Caiden must have felt lucky this morning, too, because after all of that passed inspection, she pulled out a velvet, forest green sash and a fire-engine red bandana to "complement" the outfit.  That's when I put my very generous foot down.  "No way, Caiden.  I'm already letting you wear all of that. [pointing and gesturing] You take off that green belt right now--And the red bandana off your neck.  I've been generous, but that is too much!"

"But, Mom, this belt says I'm a ballet master!"

"That's not how it works in ballet..." I countered (echoed by Elliott).

"What about this bandana.  It makes me look pretty." she tried.

"No way.  You're dressing like a ballerina, not a cowboy."

And that's the story of how Caiden went to school dressed like a very colorful ballerina with ballet shoes and everything on the day I had forgotten was supposed to be "Western Day."  Oops.

"See, Mom, you should have let me wear that bandana.  Maybe you could go back home and get it..."

(Re-enacted outfit, missing one shoe and her glasses due to breaking them...)

My Grandparents' House

My grandparents called last week to tell me they're selling their home.

Not just their house, but their home of 45+ years.  The structure in which they raised their kids and housed their grandkids.  A place housing many, many memories, like the flagpole my dad shot a bb gun pellet into unbeknownst to his dad and has felt guilty about ever since;  the stone patio out back that my parents built;

the closet my dad told me he walked into as a kid, promising himself that he would never forget that moment; the stairs I used to hurry down in the morning--when I spent the night at Grandma's and Grandpa's house--excited to be the first one up, watching Grandma make blueberry pancakes; my grandmother's room where I would stand with my sister, getting our hair done up in barrettes for the ballet my grandparents would take us to; the site for many family gatherings and meals;

the ever mysterious basement where grandma would do her laundry and we would call down to her through the laundry shoots located on each floor; the floor of the grandkids room where grandma would read us bedtime stories while we propped ourselves up on floor cushions and looked around at the little toy soldiers sitting on their wooden train and Raggedy Anne and Raggedy Andy sitting neatly on their little rocking chairs, watching us;

the wall that my father told me he had once colored on and blamed it on his little brother who then go in trouble for it;  the breakfast nook that Aunt Marcia has been fabled to have stormed out of every day as a teenager and stomped up the stairs before slamming her door, and where Uncle Jim would spill his milk every Sunday at supper and my grandfather would cry, "For crying out loud!!!"; the same breakfast nook that I would sit in as a child and bring my children to visit when I was grown and look out at the bird feeder as Grandma and Grandpa would exclaim over each different visiting fowl;

the yard out back where I made many a penny by helping Grandpa with yard work; the flower beds Grandma always meticulously maintained and where flowers were always to be found; the garage where Grandpa parked his car that was always being used for some traveling job or another and smelled of cigars that he would smoke when Grandmother wasn't around; my grandfather's den with the built in bookshelves that my grandfather built; the den where he could always be found watching some sport or another and in which he housed everything he was proud of like the deer head of a deer my mother took down and the little toy Jeep my brother Ross gave him;  the den where Grandma kept the coloring books and crayons in the metal Crayola box on the bottom shelf of the bookshelf;  the den where my sisters and I watched Romeo and Juliet, the ballet, over and over again;

the pond and park at the end of the block where Grandma would take her walks while we played on the playground; the same pond my father fished in as a kid and threw a live practice grenade into as an unruly teenager.

All of these memories and many, many more have been cherished in and around the old white house that my grandparents purchased all those years ago.  So when they told me that the end was near, I burst into tears.  And then I bought a plane ticket to Kansas to see them.

Goodbye, little white house with the black shutters, with the way you smell and feel--the memories you housed.  You have always been my ideal home--a safe haven of love and peace, a constant unchanging in my life of transient journey. Its not so much the house I'm saying farewell to, but more so a farewell to the end of an excruciatingly precious era.  And time keeps marching on.

Dave's playing instrumental music while I write this... I think I might go cry.  The end of an era.  Farewell to the house, farewell to the holder of memories.