That Mean Old Fairy Came Back....

See those two teeth? I remember the day they came, Easter Monday, 2004. I bemoaned the loss of my baby's gummy grins, but I loved them. I must've taken 50 photos, trying to get a picture of these first beautiful pearly-whites. They're both with the tooth fairy now, in baby-tooth heaven; and my baby's smile is very different than it was here, but it still captures my heart.

How to catch a thief...

The Tooth Fairy is coming tonight....time to set out some traps.

I don't really mind her taking the tooth, but couldn't she leave me my baby?

Pull those heartstrings, boy-child

Bad dumped all the baskets of toys into one big pile this morning. I heard the noise and came stomping into the living-room with the LOOK on my face. But before I could even open my mouth to begin a rant or lecture, he looked up at me with a cheeky grin (MY grin) and said:

"Sell me gypsies?"

What could I do but scoop him up and cover his whole body with tickles and kisses?





You're yummy, bad boy.

I love and covet

these. But we are trying to avoid frivolous purchases, at least until the spring, so I can't have them. I'm showing you the link just in case some of you aren't quite as constrained by greedy governments demanding INCOME TAXES shortly. If I can't have them, someone I love should. (and Jen - don't you think these have Ellie's name written all over them?!)

Cupid made me do it....

All week I've been seeing darling Valentine's crafts all over the internet, and I've mocked them to myself, because it was that or feel guilty about not doing anything with the Princess beyond the requisite class cards. Then, this morning, Cupid hit me with an arrow right in the middle of my jaded black heart. There's no other explanation.

It started when the Princess was playing with a set of paper dolls that some eejit (that would be me) bought her for Christmas. It came with all sorts of supplies for designing your own paper doll clothes, including a set of textured pieces of cardboard. It was these that the Princess came running over with, forcing me to abandon my coffee to peel a crayon, and show her how to do a rubbing over the textures. As she struggled to roll the crayon without crumpling or moving the paper, I decided that a better tool was needed. And that's when my heart gagged and bound my brain.

I got out our enormous box of crayons and while the Princess fished out all the broken specimens, I peeled them. Breaking all my fingernails in the process, I might add. We sorted them by colour into a heart-shaped silicone muffin tin, preheated the oven to 375 F, and picked 3 268 crayon fragments up off the floor. Twice. Thanks Bad.



I boiled the kettle, and made those crayons their very own little bain-marie.



We turned on the oven light to make it easier to peep, and after catching Bad opening the oven for the second time, I took up a guard post in the kitchen. About 20 minutes later we had this:


Pretty!

By the time lunch was finished they were hard again.



I'm such a sucker. But at least they'll be easier to clean up this way.

Oh! And yeah, they work great for the rubbings!

The Prodigal Chair returns!

Remember this? The world's ugliest chair?





It didn't make it home for Christmas, but better late than never. Now if we can just get rid of that carpet.....

The Longest Month

February may technically be the shortest month, but it's so spectacularly crap-tastic that the misery it inflicts on me makes it drag on forever. The days are cold and grey and ugly, and while they linger, so am I.

I've been trying to pull myself out of this funk, to make myself write to you about good things, but really I only want to complain. I want to complain to you that my husband refuses to fold towels the way I've shown him. Complain that no amount of expensive cream or Vaseline will stop my hands and heels from cracking. Complain that I've been putting on weight since Bad was weaned and I don't know how to make it stop.

I'd pushed all these half-written raving blog posts out of my head and started to list my blessings; but then, this morning, the unthinkable happened. We ran out of jam.

Now, I've never been big on jam before; but this summer, on the most beautiful June day, we took the kids to pick strawberries. We bounced along on the wagon ride out to the field, and the berries were tiny and firm, jewel-bright and bursting with forgotten strawberry flavour. Within minutes we'd picked 10 pounds. And if they'd bothered to weigh Bad along with our containers on our way in and out, they may have charged us for a pound or two more.

Strawberries are disgusting frozen, so 10 pounds of berries meant jam. I googled recipes, and then I googled for help understanding the recipes. And then the kids and I sliced berries and boiled them up with nothing but sugar and fresh lemon juice. We bottled it up, and printed some labels.



Just taking the jar out of the fridge made me smile, and the jam itself was amazing. Every time I spread a little on a fresh muffin or scone it took me back to that day. Like a little bit of sunshine for breakfast. Bad wanted to eat it with a spoon. And now it's all gone and I'm kicking myself for giving any away. I blame February.

Ow! That hurts.

Bad woke me up at 5:30 this morning with his usual refrain of "UP! UP! (pl) AY!" and the requisite accompaniment arm-yanking. I pulled him down for a cuddle and whispered, " 'morning baby. You're such a big boy now."

"Me two! EEgie (the Princess) 'ree (she's five, but whatever) Momma OLD!"

I don't think he's getting any breakfast.