Finally, I'm going there...

I don't usually write about crafting. I'm just not into explaining my every move, step by step.

Plus, I just don't craft a lot.

But Second Son decided he wanted a Minecraft-themed birthday party, so my online search began...

As soon as I started, I faltered. I quickly discovered a void in the vast online world with which we all deal. That black hole of no real answers, even on Google, revolves around free printables for this loveable -- if not irritating -- game/app, Minecraft. 

 As a result, I am posting my homemade printable here:

 Use it all you like FOR FREE!

It includes 2-inch and 1-inch Minecraft images with black circles around images. 

I originally made this in a Publisher file and then converted to .pdf, and I graciously borrowed every image.  It just took me some time. Now, I'll just dig out my circle-cutters from my old scrapbooking days, and I'll have cupcake toppers, as well as images for the bottle cap necklaces we are making for party favors. 

Apparently, party favors are unavailable for this theme as well, so, at my local Hobby Lobby, I found some tiny gift bags in the official "Creeper" colors and am planning to paint the Creeper face on the bags. Some candy and our bottle cap necklaces, made with Ice Resin, and we'll be good to go.

Just in case you are wondering...

The ONLY free printables, already made and ready to go, that are currently online are HERE! The accompanying blog has some other good ideas as well. 

If you still need Minecraft party ideas and are open to NOT free, you might check out this link. There are some great Minecraft party ideas, though they all do cost a bit! 

The building-block cupcakes are another post entirely. I'll let you know how they turn out...

Watch It -- Or Maybe Don't

I’m avoiding hard media this week.

My television viewing consists of infomercials; Tim, the Tool Man, reruns; and a stinking lot of the Hallmark Channel. I’m only listening to Laugh USA, Channel 96 Sirius, and I’m only skimming Facebook status updates.

I just can’t handle the real news. It’s horrific, graphic, and just plain hurts my heart. I can’t do it. It’s not just the tragedy of it – which, in so many ways, should be enough to keep me away.

It’s way more than that. It’s what we do to these sad, tragic characters who commit these crimes.

I roll my eyes when Princess Kate’s royal bun in the oven gets so much coverage; I wonder when life with the Kardashians makes hard news; and I cringe when the First Lady’s fashion choices get airtime. The wisdom of our news industry just isn’t surprising.

Nonetheless, what’s worse than all of that nonsense is what they do to these shooters. The media we encourage and perpetuate inspects these killers; they try to explain the lives, the issues, the neuroses, the psychoses, the families, the friends, the educations, the employment records, the significant others, the living arrangements, the fashion choices, and the social ineptness of these murderers.

They explain the guns, the weapons, the clothes, the Kevlar vests, the GPS systems, the vehicles, the computers, the maps, the cell phones, and the schedules that these freaks used to commit their crimes.

They outline every second of the fatal events that these social mutants perpetuated. They interview victims, victims’ families, eye-witnesses, police officers, mayors, doctors, nurses, coroners, lawyers, judges, psychologists, and criminal profilers.

They make available to viewers diagrams of buildings and grounds of the areas where the shootings occurred; they show graphs of the victims’ ages and genders; they map the distances between the shooters’ homes and where they went on rampage; and they provide a virtual timetable of every second that lead up to the death of innocents.

Then, they furnish coverage of the funerals.

After a while, they make two-hour documentaries about these fatal, mass shootings, and they run them in the prime-time market on major networks. Then, those shows live in syndication. Forever.

Ultimately, who else gets that much attention? What other individual is made into a super hero of such a distorted sort?

When I was a kid, I wanted to be Wonder Woman – only because I watched her on television so much. Who is to say that, with a bit more of a twist in my psyche, I wouldn’t have chosen a less wholesome character to daydream about becoming?

Who is to say that some child right now isn’t scrutinizing this week’s news reports with the tiny sprout of an idea – an idea that might one day lead him to become that sad, psychotic character he sees on television?

Ultimately, evil has always been in the world. It always will be. Simply, we live in a fallen world. That news is not new. Last week did not suddenly bring different, fresh sin into our spheres. In truth, it is the same old wickedness humans have lived with since Adam plucked that first fig leaf to hide his shame.

While the sin is the same, the attention that our human iniquity gets doesn’t have to be. We don’t have to overdose on the details of this sin; we don’t have to anesthetize ourselves to the horror that these deaths brought. We don’t have to prove to our children that this behavior will get them more air time than anyone else. Anywhere. Ever.

For the unforeseen future, I’m sticking to the Hallmark Chanel and the Bob Hope shtick. I pray others will join me, and, as Max Lucado wrote in his December 15, “Up Words,” online devotional, “Dear Jesus,… This Christmas, we ask you, heal us, help us, [and] be born anew in us.”

6,000 Words

So, I haven’t posted in forever, and, if you had already noticed that, bless you! I’m sure my little-read blog has not been missed by many.

Regardless, my computer time has shifted enormously of late. Since my Nook and iPhone have entered my life, I don’t fire up the laptop with quite the same regularity, and I suppose my blog-sharing has changed as a result.

I digress… (I also have become keenly aware that “idigress” likely should have been my blog name!)

When I have been on the computer lately, I have been going through old pictures, putting them all on an external hard drive – the modern-day equivalent of an acid-packed, peel-away photo album from the '80s. I wanted to share a few of the pictorial treasures with you:

Here’s my sweet baby boy exactly 10 years and 1 month ago:

Today, he's looking the 5th grade square in the face and wants to be an author when he grows up. (He's also unloading the dishwasher as I type. Rest assured he's doing it with great drama and resentment. Sigh.)

Here is the same boy's self-portrait, made just a few weeks ago in art class at school:

It cracks me up that there is actually a similarity here -- between the sweet baby and this preteen watercolor. For more on his art, he will be representing Renoir at his elementary school's 4th-grade "Art Museum" this Thursday. His ensemble is complete with frilly shirt and beret.

Here are the boys and I eight years ago in Las Colinas, Texas:

It seems like a million years ago, and yet that's still exactly what I look like. I still wear that watch and, ashamedly, own those same capris. No fashionista comments please. How come those boys have changed so much?

See? These boys of mine don't look the same. Neither does my niece. She's a college graduate as of two weeks ago. When did that happen?

On a total aside, the picture in Las Colinas represents the same trip when Bear Bear was born at the Build-a-Bear Workshop. Note that Bear Bear is still around and going strong. In truth, I think he's gotten better at spelling this year than Son #2.

Here's another family shot with Bear Bear:

I'm a bit embarrassed to notice he's wearing the same pants that he's wearing in this picture from five years ago. I really should look into his wardrobe a bit. Then again, I haven't gotten new pants. Why should he?

Also, I love Metro's lip in this picture. He's sporting a mustache now. I haven't seen his upper lip in ever so long. It looks nice.

Here's Son #2 at three months old before he even knew Bear Bear:

There was a baby in church this morning with this much hair -- or without this much hair. Bald as a billiard ball. I couldn't stop watching him. So many memories wrapped up in that shiny, hairless head.

Thanks for coming with me on this trip down memory lane. We should visit like this more often.

The Parent Trap

We are entering a phase of parenting that makes me pine for a cranky baby, a teething toddler, or even an irascible preschooler who refuses to nap. Those tots I likely could handle; all I would need is a rocking chair, Tylenol, and a story book, in that order. Problems solved.

The two, not-so-tot-like boys who live at my house no longer have issues that can be addressed with that type of razor-like precision. I’m afraid it’s all horse-shoes-and-hand-grenade-type parenting from here on out.

Exhibit A:

Metro got an afternoon phone call from the elementary principal who said that Son #2 had written three curse words on his spelling paper. And these words were not the run-of-the-mill bad words like “crap” or “darn.” No, Son #2 went for the big guns. They rhyme with “duck,” “bass,” and “bell,” though their connotations are not even close to that warm and fuzzy.

Simultaneous to learning of this situation, Metro and I immediately thought, "Did he at least spell them right?"

I’ve written of our struggles in second-grade spelling; clearly, we are not over that hurdle yet.

Secondly, I realized that I was entirely confused by why my bright, downright ingenious boy had the lack of foresight to not only write these heinous words, but to also do it within the range of sight of the school’s principal. Over 500 other children attend his elementary school. Couldn’t he have stayed camouflaged just a bit? Maybe?

In his defense, however, he does think one of these words is really “funk” and believes it to be a type of music from the ‘80s. How he became such a connoisseur of Styx and Phil Collins is another post entirely.

He has also listened to his brother explain repeatedly that an ass is a donkey and hell is just the opposite of heaven.

Sigh.

Exhibit B:

I got an email from Son #1’s fourth-grade teacher who wants to talk to us about this elder boy’s “off-task behavior.”

When you’re ten, isn’t all behavior off task?

Anyway, we have an appointment Monday with ALL his fourth-grade teachers. Not. Looking. Forward. To. It.

Of course, this evidence leads me back to where I began – to Metro and I feeling our way blindly through this obstacle course called parenting. Some days, I would totally trade this phase for a little baby puke on my t-shirt.

Then, again, some days, cursing and being “off-task” seem unmistakably ideal.

Bazinga!

I’m totally besotted with The Big Bang Theory. Totally.

This show about the nerdiest group of physicist friends has been on CBS for nearly 5 years, but, when Metro Jethro and I got the TiVo last fall, we only just discovered them. Now, we’re hooked. They are cooky and funny – and somehow exactly true to life. From Raj’s mis-matched, Indian fashion sense to the spectrum – You know the one I mean… – upon which Sheldon clearly exists, this superhero-loving foursome has been paradoxically placed in Southern California.

In truth, a blog about this show really doesn’t do it justice. Its charm and wit has to be experienced firsthand. Has to. Like you have to see the Grand Canyon or the Pacific Ocean to really “get” them.

Maybe I was too big of a nerd in high school. Or maybe I’m fashion-challenged, totally enamored with ethnic take-out, and genuinely touched by a buxom blonde who gives a real shot to the weirdo who ALWAYS wears a hoodie.

Maybe. Or maybe this show is just stinking funny.

Anyway, they aired their 100^th epidsode last night, and I am stinking excited to watch it. It’s safely tucked away on my TiVo, awaiting a child-free, wine-sipping moment later tonight.

For those of you who need a trailer to get hooked, here’s some of their riveting dialogue:

Knock. Knock. Knock. “Penny.” Knock. Knock. Knock. “Penny.” Knock. Knock. Knock. “Penny.”

The A's have it... Arthur :) & Alvin :(

The boys and I have seen 2 movies in actual movie theaters since Thanksgiving. This streak is unprecedented for us. We generally see a movie in the theater about once every eight months or so, but, somehow, we snuck in 2 within a single month.  I shudder to consider what these events say about our individual, developmental phases, but, as you knew I would, I digress…

As a result of this recent cinema insanity, I feel compelled to comment on these 2 films – to somehow justify the ridiculous financial investment that these 2 movies reflect.

First, we saw Arthur Christmas in San Antonio while we waited on Metro Man who tended to important business about feeding hungry people. No, seriously. That’s what he was doing.

Anyway, I found Arthur and his Christmas to be entirely charming. Arthur on the big screen was sweet and touching – and entirely entertaining. The elves and their 007-like ways were captivating, especially to the 2 boys who accompanied me. In truth - and in spite of the odd face moles/blemishes on Arthur’s face – Arthur had a heart; he displayed what the very spirit of Christmas is about – sacrifice and sharing, putting others before self.

I did cringe at the depiction of Mr. and Mrs. Clause, who were, of course, Arthur’s parents. Mrs. Clause was perfectly savvy and saved the day more than once in the movie, but Mr. (a.k.a. Santa) Claus was a doofus – awkward, unthinking, and entirely unaware.

He reminded me of so many other cartoon dads who know nothing and are, at best, unimpressive parents. It entirely irritates me that dads get such a bad rap in the animated realm. Moms are super women who work, take care of everyone, and solve the cartoon problems, but dads are barely human – barely able to manage their own ineptitude, much less address and control the incompetence of their offspring. I won’t even consider the old art-imitating-life/life-imitating-art question. I won’t.

I will add that perhaps the Santa in Arthur’s movie was merely a bad link on the Clause’s genetic chain; his father and his younger son were heart-felt, caring souls who saved Christmas for children, adults, reindeer, and elves alike and presented a perfectly charming flick for all ages.

The second film that we saw was Alvin and the Chipmunks: Chipwrecked. The chipmunks are cute, especially the Chippettes and Theodore. They dance, they sing, and they harmonize unimaginably well. They are fun; I do find myself distracted by their eye color for some reason, but they are enchanting nonetheless. Jason Lee who plays Dave, their dad/owner, is also charming, though I have trouble with him as a middle-class dad after watching him for years as Earl on NBC. He’ll always be the karma-loving ex-con to me.

Regardless, Chipwrecked is cute and includes some delightful parody scenes related to other Hollywood classics, like Tom Hanks’ Shipwrecked and Indiana Jones.

However, I am troubled by the example that this movie sets. Alvin is a petulant, mean, unthinking, selfish character who is not parented at all effectively in the movie. The audience is led to believe that the events of the movie change his character by movie’s end, but, the final vignette proves he is back to his old ways – back to Dave yelling ineffectually at him. In truth, Alvin and his friends are just not cute enough to reinforce the idea that this sort of behavior is okay – that parents don’t really need to intervene to teach children (or chipmunks, as the case may be) that certain behaviors are not appropriate.

Maybe I am overthinking both of these movies. Maybe I have one too many lit crit credits on my transcripts. Maybe, but maybe I can’t afford to be über-passé about the influences that my boys are exposed to.

Maybe.

Definitely.

Merry Christmas!!

Pinterested

When Facebook began, I was enamored. Entirely. Now, it seems that a new networking website has captured and indeed captivated my attention. Pinterest. I have my niece to thank for this new infatuation, though, to her credit, I must admit that the number of teacher ideas I have seen on said website does expunge her from any real guilt. If she has the hutzpah to put these ideas into action, children everywhere – and me by extension – shall be blessed and grateful.

I digress…

The number of ideas I have entirely plagiarized from Pinterest is reaching logarithmic proportions, so, to assuage my guilt, here I am going to list my recent creations and thefts:

• Canned biscuits in the waffle maker. Who knew? Turned out great.
• Chocolate cake mix in the waffle maker. Boys ate it with ice cream. Froze the extra. Just like baked in the oven but faster!
• Next time, canned cinnamon rolls in the waffle maker. Supposed to be just as good. (Clearly, I have been underestimating my waffle maker all these years.)
• Thanksgiving centerpiece made from a truffle bowl, un-popped popcorn, tiny pumpkins and walnuts. No shopping required. Love it!
• Homemade, liquid hand soap. Amazingly inexpensive to make, fun for the boys, and entirely practical.
• Homemade, antibacterial, multi-purpose cleaning spray. Again, very friendly on the pocket book.
• Tips on better Modge Podge usage. No more wrinkles for this decoupager.
• A glitter jar. Fill a Mason jar with glitter glue, food coloring, and water. Use it as a time-out tool. Child is not released from time-out until all the glitter has settled. Plus, watching the glitter calms the child down.

Things I have been intrigued by on Pinterest but have not yet tried:

• Make-it-yourself play dough kits/party favors. Fascinating.
• Frozen fruit popsicles.
• Bleach pen t-shirt. Use colored t-shirt and draw designs with a bleach pen. An alternative is a white t-shirt and a Sharpie; then use alcohol to smear the ink for effect.
• Best method for personalizing/letter-painting wood crafts.
• Hot dog wieners with spaghetti spiked through them. Then, after boiled, the noodles and wieners make hot dog spaghetti. Resulting image gives me the creeps, but I imagine the boys would like it.
• Decoupaged, tile coasters.

In the end, I am not sure that Pinterest has changed my life; in truth, it has likely wasted a good bit of my ever-illusive free time, considering the number of wedding ideas and decorating insanity I had to wade through to get to the gems I was interested in.

In the end, though, I do find this website more interesting and infinitely more practical than OTHER networking sites, riddled with tedious status updates, odd location check-ins, and a host of odd applications that my younger friends seem so taken with.

One caveat… You do have to be officially invited to join Pinterest. If you want me to put in a good word for you, please just email!

PS No worries. I have no plans to make this blog one of those craftier-than-thou creations. Clearly, those who would follow the wanderings of my mind are not ready for that transition. :)

"i before e except after c." Weird.

This month, Son #2 has begun a real struggle with spelling. He began the school year with great 100+ scores, but he quickly lost interest. For a kid of his particular, um, let’s say “demeanor,” losing interest is a death knell. In fact, one particular spelling test prompted a Sunday afternoon phone call from his teacher to let us know that he had made a zero on the spelling test the week before because he made up letters and words for the entire test. She did let him retest, though we did wonder at the wisdom of that. Then again, we reasoned, grades don’t mean much to him anyway, so what difference did it make?

Anywho, since that fateful phone call, we have traveled the precarious and challenging road of making second-grade spelling fun. If you have a kid like son #2, you totally know that getting him or her to do anything he or she is not totally in love with is a painful, tear-jerking, exhausting, and downright awful experience.

I won’t even bring up the notion that, in my personal, yet-to-be-officially-in-print parenting and teaching handbook, spelling is a skill intimately akin to coloring and scissor usage. They are all very nice skills to have, but will they really make a difference in a person’s life to the extent that they deserve grand attention and hoopla? I think not. I didn’t think it in preschool when the boys got low marks in coloring, and I don’t think it now as we face this new spelling melee.

In an age of electronic devices and populating text boxes, spelling is an archaic skill. I would much prefer a child have critical thinking skills – an ability to analyze and figure that would benefit him as he approached a world full of problems to decipher, rather than a keen ability at rote memorization.

I can also see clearly now how our educational system takes such a one-size-fits-all approach when, in reality, one size does not fit all. We, girls, know this from shopping, and we also know that no one can really sell us something that doesn’t fit, unless we let them.

I digress…

Back to the spelling issue… I also struggle with the whole respecting-authority concern that arises here as well. I know spelling is stupid, and I know my son will figure it all out some day. However, I also know that he has to have an innate respect for teachers and other adults in authority. And so how do I teach my boys do to what is right if what seems right is really illogical and wrong?

Ugh.

As I continue to wrestle with these baffling questions of parenthood, I will leave you with a list of ideas to help your kids become better spellers – even though, as I list these, I cringe a bit at the extent to which I have gone for a topic I believe so little in:

First of all, there are some really good ideas at this teacher website: http://www.ilovethatteachingidea.com/ideas/subj_spelling.htm

www.spellingcity.com. Most schools use this website, and it does well to create games and other ways to teach the words to kids.

Son #2’s kindergarten teacher, whom I still see regularly and totally adore, suggested jigsaw puzzles. She said there was a connection between being able to do the mental tasks of puzzle connecting and being able to remember things like spelling words better.

Scrabble Cheez-Its. Use the crackers to spell the words. If a few get eaten, no harm, though Son #2 does like to eat the letters he doesn’t need on any given word. Just saying you may want to count this one as snack time. (We also use hard macaroni in math when we need something to count. The eating principle is the same though, so be sure to have extra on hand!)

Bath Tub Markers. I’m not convinced these markers are a great artistic medium, but they are a novelty. Again, you get a “two-fer” – a bath and a spelling practice in one. The “ink” does come right off, and they are easy to find in the bubble bath section of the store.

Magnetic letters and a cookie sheet. I found these letters at our local teacher store when Son #1 was having troubles with phonics in 1^st grade. These letters are flat and much smaller than the preschool fridge magnets everyone has, though I suppose those would work too. These fancy ones come with oodles of options so that you’ll never run out of e’s. Son #2 seems to really enjoy them, and this is a great activity for the car because they stay on the cookie sheet wherever you put them. Again, another “two-fer!”

Drawing pad app. You can get these on phones, e-readers, or anything with a touch screen. Son #2 loves to spell his words on the screen, using his finger as the pencil. Warning: This is a great tool, but it does come with a healthy distraction possibility. Son #2 often gets into drawing a picture and forgets entirely about the words.

Start on Friday. I’ve also started asking for the next week’s words on Friday afternoon so that we can study the words over the weekend.

The pièce de résistance… Drum roll please… The Dollar Store. Ta da… This week, I have promised Son #2 that, if his spelling test goes well, he can have anything he wants at the dollar store. (Note that this is a real dollar store, not one of those stores where they say they are a dollar store, but everything is $3 plus; everything in this store is a dollar.) He is totally stoked about this shopping trip, and, though I know the dollar store will also lose its luster for Son #2, I am happy to have a single week where he is excited about – or at least willing to endure – spelling.

Now, if I could just explain to him that extortion is perfectly okay sometimes, I'd have another parenting hurdle checked off...

Fashion Democracy

Since it appears that cooler weather may actually one day occur in West Texas, I spent part of Friday – my day off – shopping for jeans and longer capris. In truth, I began searching for super-casual t-shirts, but ended up in the jeans section. I know it was a bit masochistic of me, but there it is.  As Robert Frost wrote, “As way leads onto way….”

Anyway, I digress.

Eventually, as I searched the sand-blasted, acid-washed aisles of our local mall, it dawned on me that I am not emotionally or psychologically equipped to shop for jeans anymore – if ever I was.

I simply don’t like stretch, and that’s all jeans of the new millennia are; they are leggings with pockets. There I’ve said it. It is entirely antithetical to what the jean is all about to make it primarily of spandex. If your jean tags say anything besides “100% cotton,” you are deluding yourself with the label, “jeans.” You are really a fraction of a fashion skip away from Pajama-jeans, and, in truth, we really all know that it’s wrong to go there. Really. On so many levels.

But I will go here: I imagine that Levi Strauss would spend the rest of eternity whirling in his grave if he could see what modern man – and woman – has done to his opus, making his masterpiece stretchy, ripped, and abbreviated in such ways that only Barbie could really drive that zipper.

What happened to waist-high cotton denim? You all remember it – the legendary crop grown in the South that was eventually turned into Wranglers with a pre-starch stiffness that would allow them to stand on their own. I am not suggesting that I enjoy these brand-new, Wrangler-type jeans; in fact, I always hated new jeans as a kid because they did chafe a bit. At the same time, I LOVE what comes after that newness wears off – jeans that are worn, soft, and comfy after years of wear and laundering. Old jeans seem to totally fulfill that kinesiological theory of muscle memory; they have it, and they remember exactly where to give and where to hold in.

And this type of jean is authentic. Utterly genuine. The rips and tears and wear marks on them are earned, not engineered by some tiny woman in Romania. Like so many other things, man – and woman – is trying to emulate a process best left to nature.

I write all this only to ask, Do you know where I ended up on Friday as I shopped and philosophized? The men’s department.

Apparently, men are not as in love with spandex, legging jeans as a large portion of American women. They also don’t seem to love the tiny, elf-sized zippers, so, over there, I found 100% cotton, waist-high jeans.

I also found 38-inch waists and inseams that were a bit intimidating for a girl who’s had a clear 29-incher since junior high. Again, the essence of my being was not prepared for the beating it took that fateful Friday morning.

So, regardless of how you expected this story might end, know that I did not come home empty-handed. I am now the proud owner of two, brand-new pairs of shorts. Winter will just have to wait.

Celebrating 9/11!

Son #1 was born on 9/11. Here he is the next day:

Very soon after most people learn his birthday, they say, “The 9/11?” and I have to explain that, yes, he was born on the most infamous 9/11 in history.

September 11, 2001, began like a regular day for most of the world. My husband and I, on the other hand, spent this day – and the night before – in a labor and delivery room waiting for our son to arrive.  He was born around 10 p.m., so we spent the day watching the news; we even saw live footage of the second (north or south?) tower fall. It was an amazing, historical day for us and for the rest of the world. The nurses would come in and would stand amazed, watching our TV for a few minutes.

Here's Son #1 when he was a Scout in first grade. He's standing next to the 9/11 Memorial in our hometown. It was hard to explain why his birthday was written on the monument.

Many mothers have told me that they would have hated for their children to have had my son’s birthday, but I am so grateful for it. On a day when the rest of the world was mourning – a day the rest of the world still mourns – my husband and I found an amazing reason to be proud and happy – and hopeful. The rest of our country was horror-stricken, and we were facing the beginning of the most amazing ride of our lives.  As my doctor said months later, “[Son #1] was the only good thing that happened that day.”

This week, Son #1 completed his fourth week of the fourth grade. Since those thousands of people died, he has learned to walk, to talk, to read, to write, and to run and play like any adventurous boy. He has played little league, caught his first fish, mastered many a Wii game, and survived his first TAKS test. He has grown so much since that day – his first day – in September.

More than these things, though, Son #1 has been an astonishing reminder of God’s most valuable promise – a promise that does not guarantee only good times, but a promise that does ensure that there will always be reason to hope in the midst of any tragedy.

So, tomorrow, unlike the rest of the world, we will celebrate. We will eat cake, open presents, and sing, and we will rejoice in the first 10 years of Son #1’s life. More importantly, though, we will remember to never lose hope.