It’s Not All Mary Poppins

Halloween … hangy thingy

Hallowe’en is coming! I’ll be hosting a party for the tots and their families at the end of the month, and that calls for some decorating! (This is also called “any excuse for crafting”.) 😀

I’ve seen these banner things for any and all events, made of any and all materials, scattered liberally throughout all the craft blogs I frequent. (Which are MANY. I love you, One Pretty Thing!)

They’re not called banners, mind you. Nor are they called pennants, though that’s certainly what they look like to me. A series of pennants strung on a ribbon to make a banner is called…

damn my recalcitrant memory anyway…

is called…

BUNTING!

Yup. That’s it. Halloween bunting. The triangles are card stock: equal numbers of orange and black, glued one on top of the other to make a contrasting edge. The ghosts are craft foam, with faces drawn with a permanent black marker.

Right now the triangles are taped to the ribbon. Eventually, the plan is to put a hole in the top of each triangle and attach them to the black ribbon with alternating orange and black ribbons. Of course, that will mean putting letters on the other side, since the triangles will be able to turn. And then, because I like it so well and want it to last without fading, I intend to laminate the whole thing, either with a laminator, if I can be bothered to take my lazy self down to the far reaches of the back of beyond where the laminator is, or with my much-beloved Con-tact, which is in the kitchen.

(Three guesses which is more likely, even though proper laminating will be much more durable?)

October 18, 2010 Posted by | crafts | , , , , , , , | 1 Comment

Easy Friday

Three of the five children currently on the roll here are part-time. While this plays some unfortunate havoc with my bank balance, it has at least one fortunate consequence. On Fridays and Mondays I have only three children! (Yes, “only”, though my husband comments that I am one of a rarified number who would consider three under-twos to be an easy day.) Three, the three youngest — Grace, Lily, and Rory.

I call them Baby Mondays and Baby Fridays.

For now I do, at any rate. It won’t be too much longer before they’ll all turn two, and won’t be babies in that sense any more. Right now, though, they’re babies. The two-year-old drive for autonomy, and with it the two-year-old negativity, hasn’t yet appeared. They bumble about in the same room, each doing their baby thing. They interact a bit, though as yet it’s mostly in terms of watching what the other guy is doing — and occasionally deciding it’s interesting enough to commandeer the toy in question.

And when this happens, when Grace decides Rory’s toy is so interesting that she’s going to take it now, thanks… well, Rory just watches it leave his grasp, and then watches Grace play with it. It’s all good.

Such is the way of the 18ish-month-old. It’s quite lovely.

There are two-year-old clouds on my baby horizon, though, in the form of Lily. Only Lily has a significant vocabulary. In contrast to Rory and Grace’s mostly-silence (punctuated by babble and the very odd word), Lily is a chatterbox.

“Sunny! Cloudy!” She’s really enjoying our weather calendar.

She loves her compatriots. “Wo-wee! Gace! Mawee! Emma!”

She loves identifying things, generally: “Umbagumba cookie!” “Poon!” “Eye-cheh!” “Boot!” “Soo!” “Sippuh!” “Gox!” (She’s into footwear.)

She loves giving directions: “Up, pee!” (This would be a polite request, not a urinary order.) “Sit yap, sit yap!” “Door sut!” “Doggie down!”

Life with Lily is one constant cheerful stream of words, words, words, words. All with exclamation marks! Because why speak at all, if you’re not going to be decisive! And excited! And Full of Purpose!!!

And increasingly, in contract to Grace and Rory’s equanimity in the matter of toy possession, when someone takes a toy from Lily?

Most of the time she responds as do the others: placidly unruffled. “That’s an interesting toy, and now it’s being interesting over there. How interesting.”

The rest of the time, however, you’ll see the gears shift. The toy will leave her grasp, there’s a pause as she becomes aware that it’s gone, and then a “what the hell” expression will flit across her face. And then… does oh-so-verbal Lily launch into vigorous and shrieked verbal protest?

Sort of.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!

She has “vigorous” and “shrieked” down pat. Sadly, she does NOT use her words, though we all know they are many. Nope. Just shrieks of outrage which quickly settle into grizzles of tears. (She’s more of a grizzler than a passionate cry-er, our Lily.)

It doesn’t happen every time, but it’s happening more often. We all know what’s coming. Soon it will be the default response — for Lily, and most likely for Grace and Rory, too. Though if I were to indulge in a little prognostication, I would say that Lily will be the worst for this, her negativity the strongest and longest-lasting of the three. Rory will go into and out of that phase less deeply and more quickly, with only moderate training needed, and little Grace will, as much as any toddler does, skip the “MINE!!!!” phase altogether, continuing to be as calm, level, and curious as ever. (Feel free to ask me about this in three months. It could be I’ve just publicly and totally blown any credibility I’ve ever had.)

But for now, the babies are still (mostly) babies, I have two calm and quiet Baby Days per week, and I’m loving it.

October 15, 2010 Posted by | aggression, Developmental stuff, Grace, Lily, Rory | , , , | 3 Comments

I’m not THAT Mary, after all…

“Who IS the one who drives the green Volvo?” My neighbour, my gay neighbour, is showing more interest than his curmudgeonly anti-socialness usually allows him.

(For the record: I really like him, and from time to time we get out for a laughter-filled evening of food and drink. But he’s not readily social, more inclined to sit out on his private back deck than the public front porch, and so it’s unusual for him to notice the comings and goings on the street, let alone my particular front door.)

“Is that one of YOURS?” he wants to know. “One of mine” as in a client, and yes, it would be. Why? He gazes at me, astonished I even have to ask.

“Be-caaaaaaause… he’s totally HOTT. You mean you haven’t noticed? How could you not notice that hotness coming into your house every day?”

I haven’t noticed. It’s a quirk of my character, one which has come with age. I’m quite, quite sure I couldn’t have managed it in my twenties, and probably not in my thirties. But I am in my forties. Hell, I am fast leaving my forties behind, and, no, I have not noticed the HOTTNESS of this gentleman because he’s a daycare dad. With very few exceptions, I don’t tend to notice the attractive qualities of the daycare dads. Daycare dads are… dads. They’re clients. They’re not, you know, men.

Yeah, yeah, I know. Stop snorting. It’s probably saved me no end of pointless lusting.

Only now it’s been pointed out to me, and next time I see him, I actually look, and… Oh, my lord. This man is GORGEOUS. I have two responses to this new-found awareness:

1. How could I not have noticed?
2. Thanks for NOTHING, gay neighbour.

It entertains me, though, to tell my hott-who-knew? client’s wife that my gay neighbour thinks her hubby is hot stuff. She just laughs.

“Oh, he used to be a model” (He used to be a MODEL? And I didn’t NOTICE? Okay, professional filters are one thing, but, good grief, I am now officially bordering on dead.) “He used to be a model, and gay guys often notice him.”

So I told you all that, which happened months and months ago, so I could tell you this:

So today Emily, while showing me the temporary tatoo on her tummy, tells me,

“Daddy has a tattoo, only his doesn’t go away. His will stay on forever and ever.”

Tattoo? Daddy has a tattoo. Must be from his early, wilder days. Hardly fits in with his mild-mannered professional cubicle-dweller manifestation. Tattoo… Not one I’ve ever seen…

You will forgive me, I am sure, if I confess that I spent a libidinous minute or two imagining just where on all that luscious manliness the tattoo might be hidden.

But just for a minute.

😉

October 14, 2010 Posted by | Mischief, parents | , , | 4 Comments

Today’s lesson: Compassion

“Baby Rory has a red car.”

Tyler is circling, a vulture with his prey firmly in his sites. Rory has brought a car from home, a small red car. It might be Lightning McQueen, but I can’t be sure. It hasn’t slipped from the grasp of those pudgy fingers once this morning, not even during his short morning snooze. Tyler peers at what he can see of the car. He wants some Sharing around here, he wants it now, and he wants it to start with that small red car. In typical Tyler fashion, his first approach is oblique.

“Baby Rory has a red car.”

“Yes, he does.” I am playing dumb. If he wants something, he knows how to ask politely and directly. I’m not taking the bait, because I want him to do the social lifting here.

“He is not playing with his car.”

“No, he is just holding it.”

“He is not playing with his car.” This isn’t said in a tone of accusation; Tyler is not whining at all, he is merely informing me.

“You’re right. He is just holding it. I think it makes him feel safe.”

“He is not playing with it.”

You know, we could go on playing cat-and-mouse for quite a while. I’m not sure how long it would take for Tyler to realize he needs to be direct, but this morning it would only be cruel, because this morning…

“You know what, Tyler?”

“What?”

“Baby Rory is very tired today.”

In fact, Baby Rory is just back from ten days in Italy. My clientele tends to be what they term “comfortable”. A significant percentage of my junior clientele are better-travelled than me before they are three. I try not to be bitter about this, and generally succeed. I don’t succeed so well at stifling the occasional wistful sigh… What Baby Rory is, the lucky little monkey, is jet-lagged. But for Tyler, I keep it simple:

“Baby Rory just woke up, he’s very tired. It’s too soon for him to share yet.”

“He can share later?” Tylers round blue eyes widen with hope.

“Well, sweetie, in a little while Baby Rory’s daddy is coming to take him to the doctor, and Rory will want to take his car with him, I’m sure. When he is at the doctor, he will be getting a needle.”

“A needle?”

“Yes. And so when he comes back again, he might be sore and grumpy. So you know what that means?”

“He will have a bo-bo on his arm.” Tyler squeezes a forearm with the opposing hand. He’s been there, he knows from needles and bo-bos.

“Yes. He might also be tired again, and maybe even feel a little sick. I think that we won’t ask him to share his car today.” I lean in toward Tyler’s face, which is sliding into disappointed protest. He’s teetering on the brink of an outraged protest, so I have to be quick, and I have to be smoooooth. But I am not just after avoiding a petulant outburst. I want Tyler to understand, I want to encourage him to think beyond his own wants, and to think of Rory’s needs and feelings. Impossible? Not at all. Tyler turned three this week. He’s capable of empathy. It’s just not his… er… default response…

I nod confidentially, and lower my voice, speak a little slower as I share a Big People insight, inviting Tyler to be a Big People with me. “We won’t ask him to share, because he is only little, and he isn’t feeling well, and you know what? I think that, just for today, sharing will be too hard for Baby Rory.”

“He will not share his red car?”

“Not today, lovie. I think it will just be too hard for him.”

“Because he is little? And he is getting a needle?”

“Yes. That is what I think.”

Tyler meets my eyes and nods along with me, two Big People compassionately considering the foibles of the Small. His face relaxes from incipient protest to knowing smile.

“I think so, too. He is too little to share today.” Ladies and gentlemen, we have empathy.

I give Tyler my warmest smile. “You are a very kind Big Boy, Tyler. You are being kind to Baby Rory.”

“And tomorrow he will be all better, and I can play with the red car!”

Empathy, compassion… and deferred gratification. The boy will go far.

October 13, 2010 Posted by | individuality, Rory, Tyler | , , , , | 7 Comments

Refreshed and Invigorated :)

Thanksgiving was terrific, thanks. We had the turkey and all the trimmings, we had the family around the table, we had glorious fall weather for the requisite post-turkey walk.

Lovely.

And, of course, that lovely Monday off. I love a day off! Not just for the pleasures of not working, which are many and obvious, but because that respite, properly savoured, can make you eager to return to work.

It does me, at any rate. If I’ve managed to recharge adequately. Now, sometimes that thrill doesn’t last past, oh, Wednesday, but sometimes — on sweetly rare, but oh-so-precious occasions — it can last clear to the next day off!

So, here we are, Tuesday after a long weekend, and I’m brimming with ideas. There are two craft project ideas taped to the dining room wall, I have a theme for the next couple of weeks (Hallowe’en, what else?), and I’m TOTALLY PSYCHED to take the little rug-rats to the park today!

Happy Tuesday, everyone!

October 12, 2010 Posted by | holidays | , | 1 Comment

Happiness is…

Forty-eleven rounds of Go Fish with a sunny four-year-old on a rainy day.

Really.

You just have to kind of go Zen, ya know? Ohmmmmmmmm…….

🙂

October 6, 2010 Posted by | Emily, random and odd | 3 Comments

If you don’t want to know, don’t ask

Tricky thing, gifts. Trickier still to give gifts to people to whom you want to show your genuine appreciation, but who you don’t really know all that personally. Parents run into those a lot: a particularly helpful teacher, a coach, a Brownie leader.

Your daycare provider.

Every person is different, of course, which only makes it more difficult. One person will complain about toiletries — “Can they not think of anything besides shower gel and soaps?” — while another truly loves a decadent, scented soak, and would wilt with gratitude at a nicely presented basket of Body Shop products, or even just one luscious tub of Body Butter. Really. Who couldn’t love that stuff? (In this scent, if anyone’s curious.)

You? You’d rather have a nice pair of bamboo knitting needles? Or a gift certificate to a restaurant? Or an oh-so-versatile cheque?

There is no right answer, of course. Everyone has their preferences — and you know what? It would be really nice if the gift recipients understood that. I can’t think of the number of times I’ve listened to caregivers complain about gifts they’ve received. That whole toiletries thing, for example. She wasn’t just complaining about the sheer volume of soap she was accumulating. When you tend to groups of people, many of whom give you a gift, things can quickly get out of hand. The year I taught kindergarten, by the end of the school year I had seventeen cans of scented Avon talcs. Now I have nothing against Avon, and nothing against talc, but SEVENTEEN??? What do you DO with 17 cans of talc?

Let’s just say that it was years before I purchased a can of talc. Years. And my then-very-little children smelled very pretty after their baths for a few years, too. (At least until my son got old enough not to want to smell like a flower…) So, yes, there can be too much of a good thing, and a little good-natured chortling over the excess is not inappropriate.

But this wasn’t good-natured. The caregiver was actively annoyed, acting as if her clients had crossed some obvious line. As if everyone should know that toiletries are unwelcome. As if everyone dislikes toiletries.

I’ve heard other women make the same sorts of complaint about gift certificates to restaurants. “Why would I want to go out? As if, after an exhausting day of looking after their children, I have the energy to get cleaned up and go out!!”

Yeah, really. A night off from cooking. How unreasonable and thoughtless of those parents…

Why do we do this? It’s obnoxious. And ungrateful. People are not mind-readers. How are they to know what your particular quirks are?

Unless they ask, of course. When asked, I suggest a few items from varying price ranges. A few years ago, one parent asked me whether I preferred something for myself, or for the daycare.

“For myself,” I answered. “Presents for the daycare are work items. I like having them, but I have to have them anyway, and if I buy them myself at least I get the tax deduction. So, me, I prefer something a little frivolous.” And then I rhymed off a few possibilities for her, to give her an idea of my preferences. (Now don’t go taking this as a hard-and-fast rule. ALL caregivers don’t feel this way. Some are thrilled when their parents provide craft supplies or toys. I’m just not one of them.)

Not that the parents would ever know that, unless they asked. A gift is a gift, and it’s the thought that counts. It doesn’t mean, as other caregivers have complained, that “they don’t consider me an individual. All I am to them is ‘the daycare lady’.” It does not! It means that they appreciate you, and they want to express that… and possibly that they don’t really know you all that well personally. You’re client and caregiver, you’re not BFF.

So quit with the bitching. Honest to pete.

“Something for me,” I said, and gave her some suggestions.

“So, something for you,” she echoed, and I nodded. When the gift-giving event rolled around a couple of weeks later I opened my parcel and found… three wooden tray puzzles.

Okay. It’s one thing to give something that misses the mark because you don’t know a person’s preferences. But why ask if you’re going to ignore the answer?

“Aren’t they cute? And Ivan’s just loving puzzles these days. I know the kids will get a lot of fun out of these.”

Yes. The kids will. But you asked me what I wanted.

In the split second between stimulus and response, I had about six different reactions. Disappointment, first and foremost. Puzzles? Boo! On the other hand, if she hadn’t asked, I would have thanked her without a trace of negative feeling. On the other other hand, she had asked, so now I’m feeling over-ruled in the matter of my own gift. Disregarded, even. But then again, it would feel totally wrong so say “But I told you I wanted something frivolous and personal!” What an ungrateful whiner! But she asked and then ignored me. How rude!

You see my dilemma? My mother raised me well, though, so I pasted on a smile and thanked her warmly. When in doubt, be nice.

She presented me with another package a couple of months later. Clearly, she was a generous woman. Most of my clients give a gift at Christmas, and that’s that. Very few give gifts at other times, so this was a nice gesture, and the generosity was appreciated.

And it was… something else for the daycare. Okay. That’s twice now you have completely ignored my expressed preferences… after asking me what they were. Is this rude? I felt like it was kind of rude. Now I’m just wishing she hadn’t asked in the first place, and spared me all this angst. Because, really, what was the point?

I smiled. “Thank you! I’m sure the kids will love this. Do you think…” I paused momentarily, then continued. “Do you think I could have the receipt for this? Then I could claim it as a business expense.” (Yes, yes, I know. I didn’t spend the money, I shouldn’t make the claim. I wasn’t going to. I was making a point. A devious, indirect point, but a point nonetheless. Because, people, she had asked.)

She looked a little disappointed. “Well, I guess so, but then it doesn’t feel so much like a gift.”

In the meantime, as soon as the words fell from my lips, I felt acutely uncomfortable. She had given me a gift, after all, and even though she had completely disregarded the input she had asked of me, I’m starting to feel more than a little mean-spirited. I’ve given myself the opportunity to address my issue. I could look at her evenly and say, “No, it doesn’t feel much like a gift. Remember how I told you when you asked, that to me, gifts are for the person, not for their job?” I could say that… but, no… I can’t. I just.can’t.do it. She’s been thoughtless, perhaps, even a bit rude, maybe, but for me to say that would feel horrifically ungrateful and, worse, unkind. Can’t do it. So I decide to let us both off the hook.

“No, no, you’re quite right. Forget I asked.” We both sigh in relief.

And the next time I received a gift from her?

Doll-house furniture.

You know, there comes a point when you just have to Let It Go. And so I did. Hello, pretty, good-quality doll-house furniture, goodbye possibility of a nice pair of earrings or a concert ticket to the NAC.

After all, a gift is a gift is a gift.

🙂

October 5, 2010 Posted by | daycare, parents | , , , , , | 10 Comments

Boop it, anyway

Baby Lily goes butt-up. You know the pose: two hands on the floor, over-sized baby head peering out upside down and backward in the smallish gap between two pudgy baby knees, the oversized cloth diaper, and the floor.

“Peek!” Baby Lily hollers out between her legs. She can’t see anyone, but she knows we’re there. “Peek!!” She invites us to share the joke. “Peek! Funny!!”

Baby Grace watches with curious solemnity. (This is the way Baby Grace approaches most things. Not at all gloomy, not that. Wide-eyed, curious, but generally a little serious… which makes her smiles of delight or discovery or affection or humour that much more precious.) Baby Grace watches, solemnly, and then… plop! go her hands onto the floor.

I’m sure it is entirely coincidence that she’s dropped herself such that the girls can gaze directly at each other from between their short little legs. Coincidental, yes, and also perfect, and perfectly, hysterically funny.

“Peek! Funny! Peek! FUNNY!!!” Lily looooooves this. Her husky chortles meld with Grace’s high, spun-silver giggles.

Two clothy butts in the air, two sets of hands on the floor, two burbling rivers of baby giggles. And my camera is right beside me! Any parent knows, ruefully, how many wonderful Kodak moments are lost, irretrievably lost, because you had to stand up and get the camera. (Or worse, can’t find it at all.) But right now, at this perfect, perfect moment? My camera is snug in the chair with me! I won’t have to get up, which would almost certainly distract them and ruin my perfect, perfect moment. I slip the camera into my hands, pop off the lens cap.

Neither of them has noticed me. Any parent also ruefully knows how many perfect moments have been lost when a kid spots the camera, drops the delightful, spontaneous, beautiful thing they were doing, stands up and pastes on that dreaded, damnable, cheesy, who-taught-them-that-stupid-thing-anyway Camera Grimace. But I, with my camera right beside me, with my camera now in my hands with the lens cap off, have not been spotted.

“Peek!” Giggle, giggle, giggle, giggle, giggle. “Peek! Funny! Funny!!!”

I turn the camera on.

“Boop-boop-boop-boop!”

It’s not a loud noise, but the damage is done. Damn those electronic boops. Two little heads come up, one fake-oh uber-cheesy camera smile appears (Baby Lily), one somber little pair of enormous blue eyes stare at me (Baby Grace). Damn, damn, damn. No more giggles, no more butt-up, no more “Peek!”

I carefully don’t make eye contact with either of them. I leave the camera on, slip it beside me, and ostentatiously Pick Up My Book. Very, very ostentatiously. See me reading? I’m not watching you two, oh no, not me! I’m reading my book. My utterly rivetting book. You two can just go back to whatever it was you were doing, because I’m not paying attention AT ALL. Nu-uh, not me.

Well. Sometimes it works.

For the next three or four minutes they play dippy-birds. One goes down, the other comes up. One comes up, the other goes down. Never again do I have that perfect moment where they’re giggling at each other between their short little legs. Never once are they both angled in a way such that I could capture them both in one frame. Not one more clear photo op…

I took a short video, which will amuse their parents, but I am sorry, wonderful readers, I have nothing for you today.

And all because of my booping camera.

October 4, 2010 Posted by | Grace, Lily | , , , , , | 3 Comments

Autumn Colour Leaf Books

Lookit all the fall leaves!! Aren’t they pretty???

This is a craft I’ve meant to do every fall for the last five years at least. I’ve even gotten so far as to press the leaves once or twice, but never seemed to manage to follow through… This year was going to be different!!!

We gathered the leaves:

We spent a lot of time talking about the colours we would find, and tracking the colours we did find. We brought them home and counted and sorted. Fun, fun, fun! (This counts not only as science and art, but math, too!)

Then we prepared to press them.

First you lay them out on a few layers of newspaper…

and cover them with a few more.

(I lay my newspapers on a sturdy piece of board, because I knew I would need to move the stack of leaves before they were finished drying.) Because I was drying so very many leaves — enough for six of these books — I ended up with a layered tower: a board, a pad of newspapers/leaves, another board, more newspaper…

And when my tower was done, on went the pile of Weighty Tomes. (I am a dog-loving English major. Does it show?)

And that was that, for a couple of days. The stack of leaves/newspaper/boards was ferried about a bit as we needed the table for eating, or the kitchen counter for cooking, or the floor for playing. A bit cumbersome, but this is, as I have said many times in the past, a small house.

While the leaves are drying, you gather your other supplies, notably the cardboard for the pages. All my wonderful, helpful parents came through with a goodly stock of boxes of one sort or another.

Here are the supplies: cardboard, scissors, hole punch, loose leaf rings, cup of tea … wait, that’s not all of them.

Cardboard (now trimmed to tidy rectangles), scissors, hole punch, loose leaf rings, glue stick, duct tape, white scrap paper, cup of tea. And, damnit, I forgot the Con-tact paper. Yeesh. We also used clear Con-tact paper.


I used a quick and easy swiped ‘X’ on the white paper to stick it to the cardboard, both sides. No, the paper doesn’t match the cardboard exactly. It doesn’t matter. As long as the gap isn’t enormous, the edges will be covered with duct tape before you’re done, anyway.

Take a few leaves of each colour, and place them on the pages. The leaves do fade a bit as they dry, but the colours are more vibrant in the books than they’re appearing on my monitor right now. If you’re about ready to decide that Mary is clearly colour-blind, it’s probably just your monitor. (It could be that my poor middle-aged eyes are losing their grip… but I think it’s your monitor. Yup.)

Lightly secure the leaves in place with a dab of gluestick, then cover each page with Con-tact paper. Again, it doesn’t matter if the Con-tact paper matches your page exactly. The duct tape binding will hold it all together.

(Why the binding? I have made these sorts of books before, and Con-tact paper by itself does not grip well enough. (That’s not what it’s designed to do: as shelf paper, you want to be able to peel it up later. For a page laminate, however, peel-ability is not so much of a virtue.))

This page is pre-rub. After you’ve put on the shelf paper, you’ll need to rub it thoroughly to squoosh out the air bubbles.

Now for the cover. I sketched a very basic tree shape, then dotted a teeny bit of red and yellow finger paint across the top of it. The kids smeared it around to get the nebulous autumnal form, but I confess that they were hovered over guided a great deal more than normal, because I wanted the finished product to, you know, actually look like a tree. This level of concern with the product (rather than our normal focus on the process) meant that I also WHIPPED those suckers away when they were “done”.

Artus interruptus. I know, I know. I don’t often do that, but sometimes… sometimes a caregiver does what a caregiver’s got to do.

While the covers were drying, we finished the rest of the pages. I was going to give each book two binder rings, but I soon discovered that my new hole punch really, really, REALLY didn’t like going through cardboard.

Not even lightweight cereal-box cardboard. Yeesh.

I managed to manhandle the wimpy thing through the requisite pages once, at the end of which process the dents in my hands were almost as marked as the dents in the cardboard. I decided one hole would be quite sufficient.

See how wobbly and undisciplined the “yellow”s are? That’s the result of my my poor hands suffering from PHPTS. (Post hole punch trauma syndrome.) Mary of the shaky hands, that’s me.

And then, if you are an impatient person like me, you put the Con-tact on the front cover before the paint has completely dried, because you have spent quite enough time on this already, and you JUST WANT THIS THING DONE NOW, DAMMIT!

And then you stand back and feel very, very proud, because after five years, you finally got those things MADE! 🙂

October 1, 2010 Posted by | Canada, commemoration, crafts | , , , , , , | 9 Comments