Wordless Wednesday - Whoa, Pinterest!

(my blog traffic after this post was shared on Pinterest, as of Wednesday at 7:41am):

Ironically, I do not even have a Pinterest account.

How to fall in love with winter. . .

I have a foolproof way to fall in love with winter.


Just grab three tween girls who aren't embarrassed to be seen with you.


Dress warmly! Winter is cold.


Find a hill, a tube, and someone who will give you a good push.


Zoom!

Repeat, over and over again, until you cannot feel your cheeks from cold, wind burn and smiling.


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Video taken at Amesbury Sports Park in Amesbury, MA. And, yes, this 44-year-old mama was the one with the camera. And the screech.

Musical Beds

--round and round she goes/where she stops/nobody knows--

This is a picture of my comfy, king-size bed:

I share this with my husband, John. Most nights. Often, nestled against me is my son, D, who sneaks in around 3am.


This is D's bed, in his newly painted bedroom. 

However, he doesn't sleep in this bed. My daughter Jilly has decided she likes this bed. She now sleeps here, often with our dog Star stretched out along the bottom.


Where does D sleep now? 

 

He's here, with his sister Belly, in her crowded bed. 


And here is Jilly's bed. 

It used to be a loft but she didn't like being up high  so John cut the legs down for her. Of course, no one sleeps there right now.


Though I ended up in it with Belly last night. Until D woke me up, and I ended up in Belly's bed with him.


Confused???? Yes. So am I. 

Destination Imagination: A journey to the unknown

Have you ever heard of D.I., or Destination Imagination? 


I had only heard the words in passing from an extended-family member whose kids were involved, and I didn't understand what the heck it was.


Now, here it is January, and I find myself in charge of a team. And I'm still not exactly sure what the heck it is. 


What I can gather from what I've read, the videos I've watched, and the day-long information seminar I attended in December, D.I. is a team competition where the adult managers are constantly warned of the dangers of "interference". 


Ahhhh, interference. This is how I found myself managing a D.I. team. This idea that the kids have to do all the work themselves, with only my guidance---to keep them from cutting off a finger or punching a fellow team member--- was appealing to me. In other words, I am discouraged from doing any of the work for them, and even giving them suggestions on how to approach their challenge is a big, fat no-no.


Little did I know that my team of four kids, ages 7-9, would pick one of the hardest, most complicated challenges to do for the big competition this spring. I'd explain it if I could do it justice, but let's just say it involves creating a skit that involves golf balls, while also building a weight-bearing structure out of wood, glue and hope. The addition of golf balls to this year's "structure challenge" is new and I think it was added just to shake things up and insure each manager goes a little grayer before the year is up.


My own daughter Jilly is on my team and is the biggest goofball, something I am slightly proud of at times. The other times, I want to wrap her up with duct tape, sit her in the corner and let her teammates work.


Our debut of this idea that exists only in their imagination is the 17th of March, a mere two months away. If the kids advance from regionals, we move on to states on the 31st. I refuse to even consider that they will go to the national championship.


Especially since there has not yet been any consensus on their overall idea and no development of a structure yet. I am half expecting them to enter the competition with a few handwritten notes, a structure of popsicle sticks and Elmer's glue, and costumes made out of the remnants of our dress-up box.


Wish me luck. Actually, wish them luck. I don't want to interfere.

On the 19th day of Christmas. . .

Oh, ok, I guess this needs to come down soon. (please tell me I'm not the only one who still has their Christmas tree up) 

Eleven

Eleven years ago today, at 4:18 am, I became a mom.

My "natural childbirth" baby quickly turned into an emergency c-section after the nurses discovered she was breech. . .when I was 10cm dilated and ready to push. Doh! 


The lesson I learned? Things may not be as easy as I expect, but the end result is pretty amazing.


To know Belly is to love her. I don't say that to brag or because I'm her mom, it's just the truth. She makes so many people happy and has such a kind soul---I know that isn't all there is to life, but it's a pretty great start.


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this is the beginning of one of my favorites---to read the entire short story, go here.


“Eleven” by Sandra Cisneros

What they don't understand about birthdays and what they never tell you is that when you're eleven, you're also ten, and nine, and eight, and seven, and six, and five, and four, and three, and two, and one. And when you wake up on your eleventh birthday you expect to feel eleven, but you don't. You open your eyes and everything's just like yesterday, only it's today. And you don't feel eleven at all. You feel like you're still ten. And you are—underneath the year that makes you eleven.

 Like some days you might say something stupid, and that's the part of you that's still ten. Or maybe some days you might need to sit on your mama's lap because you're scared, and that's the part of you that's five. And maybe one day when you're all grown up maybe you will need to cry like if you're three, and that's okay. That's what I tell Mama when she's sad and needs to cry. Maybe she's feeling three.

Because the way you grow old is kind of like an onion or like the rings inside a tree trunk or like my little wooden dolls that fit one inside the other, each year inside the next one. That's how being eleven years old is.

Wordless Wednesday: Happy

Star: Almost three months with us and right at home