Lots of stuff

  First, Cookie turned 7. We had cake at home, and later, a fun party at the beach. The kids got their first real sunburn, putting me to shame for letting it happen yet filling me with pride that it hadn't before.

  Didn't write about it, though.

  Then Turtle turned 1. He threw cake on the floor, we gave him a big cardboard box as a gift, and he wore a crown.

  Didn't write about it, though.

  So, stuff keeps happening. I keep busy.

  It's when I look back at posts from years ago that I realize I'd like to keep this up. Otherwise, I'm not going to remember half the things I want to.

Large and in charge

  Which of these kids would be mine? The one in the yellow shirt! We have taken Gameboy's interest in knowing the rules to everything and turned it into a summer job. Well, he has anyway, being the one doing the work. But I'm the one who pushed him into it. I hope he likes it. That first paycheck should help.
  He was nervous for this first game, but he did great. He stopped everything to check on a kid who seemed hurt. He let another have three tries to get it right when it was his turn to kick off. These are the kinds of rules you see in U8 soccer, the only level Gameboy, at 12, is old enough to referee. When the game was over, he filled out his paperwork.
  It's so cliche, but seriously, it seems like yesterday that he was one of those little kids.

My hips were hurting

  Princess and some friends had a sleepover party where they sang karaoke, watched movies and played games in a church, where the dad of two other girls is the pastor. They sent out a call to parents to be chaperones for this overnight adventure.
  Should I have been surprised that I was the only adult willing to sleep there all night? I brought Turtle with me; he was about 7 months old, and we slept together on the hard floor in a sleeping bag. The experience taught me that I'm too old to do that. The girls were great and had a fun time, but it still ranks as one of my worst nights ever.
  The next night, in my own bed, I was extraordinarily gleeful to be comfortable. I suppose I'd expect that on the first night, but the feeling lasted a week, me being overwhelmed with gratitude that I wasn't on a hard floor with an inadequate pillow and too few blankets.
  Although I'm still under the delusion I won't do something like that again, I have a backup plan. I'll have to be one of those people who arrives at a camping trip, sleepover, etc., backs my car up and hauls an entire bed's worth of bedding and pillows out so that I can sleep peacefully. This probably rules out any future career as a cowboy, astronaut or submarine captain. I'm set in my ways when it comes to my king-size bed.

Not so sweet

  To bank tellers, store clerks and post-office-counter workers:
  Don't ask my children if they want candy. And while you're at it, and even though it's far more appropriate, don't ask me, in front of the children, whether they may have candy.
  If it were 1931 and candy were a rare treat I couldn't afford, it might be cool to get free candy. But candy is cheap, and my children don't need more.
  My children are not deprived of sweets. We have baskets full of Easter candy, stockings full at Christmas, Valentine's candy, birthday treats, and fat pillowcases at Halloween. I realize that another lollipop isn't going to tip the scales. But the 13 grams of sugar and Red No. 40 aren't the only issues; it's also about the message it sends.
  When my 6-year-old daughter slammed the minivan door on her fingers, and I took her to urgent care, I thanked the receptionist who asked me whether she could have a lollipop, and I gladly accepted. But when the children's only accomplishment is standing in line to watch their mother buy stamps, they don't need a treat for that. I don't want them thinking that candy is something you eat all the time. I don't want them eating treats that, seconds ago, they were fine without, but now that it has fallen in their laps, they suddenly want.
  Candy-givers, I know you mean well. But you risk taking well-behaved, happy children and turning them into crabby children on a sugar rush, or discontented children who feel like they're missing out because mom said no to the free sugar.
  The ubiquitous candy bowls and offers of treats are wearing on me. Please, make it stop.

Making maple syrup

We went on a field trip with other homeschoolers to a local university that teaches people about making maple syrup. We went on a similar trip two years ago to a local syrup producer, but this trip was more hands-on.

The kids got to choose a tree to tap and help drill the hole.

The most important information they offered was where to buy supplies to do it ourselves. For some reason, I've never looked into it. Turns out, a hardware store right by our home sells everything we need. Spiles (the little spout) are three dollars. That's all you really need, since we already own a drill, but we bought two jars and buckets, too. Within an hour of the field trip, we had three trees in our yard tapped.

I tried two different buckets and one milk jug. I like the milk jug option; it's easier to keep little pieces of bark out. After this first experiment, we might buy some filters, too. Or maybe the spiles that use a plastic bag to collect sap.

I'm very happy with the results. We had about two-and-a-half gallons of sap and made two small bottles of syrup in three hours. It's really good and very sweet. It's lighter than I expected, but I've had some experience making candy and could tell when the syrup was ready. If I were judging just by color, the syrup would have burned.
Ironically, the syrup is so sweet, it reminds me a little of corn syrup. It tastes better, though. It's amazing that it came out of our trees!

Seat belts

  This is me being a bad mom. It makes me think of the movie "Zombieland," where a scared, wimpy guy survives a zombie apocalypse because he's so cautious. One of his rules is "seat belts."
  I put Turtle in his baby swing beside my chair at the computer. I did not fasten the seat belt. He has always ever been a tiny baby, you know. He isn't one who can move himself places. Obviously, things are changing.
  I didn't hear anything happen, and he's sitting right beside me. But when I looked to my side, instead of being in the swing, he's lying underneath it! He didn't cry, didn't fuss, didn't even bump onto the floor. He was just looking at the swing, amazed by the change in perspective.
  Remember, Mom: Seat belts.

Send in the clowns, send in the dinosaurs

Preparations are underway for the annual homeschoolers' student project expo. Princess is doing her report on mime and plans to be in character for the night. Cookie is doing T-Rex. Gameboy, being in school now, gets a pass. But I'm going to make him man the registration table.

Once again, I am seeing the benefit of teaching the kids how to make display boards look nice. I didn't help much with Princess' this year. She remembers what to do.

Cookie's report will feature several hands-on displays. We made a papier mache replica of a life-sized T-Rex tooth. We painted it brown to look like a fossil.

Did you know there is little fossil record for T-Rexes? The book we read said there are 11 T-Rex skeletons. I don't know if that's the most recent information, but compare that with hundreds of duckbilled dinosaurs, for example, and the fossil record for T-Rex is slim. No T-Rex egg has been found, but we can hypothesize they laid eggs because similar dinosaurs did. Also, some dinosaur fossils show evidence of having feathers. There is no evidence of this with T-Rex, but wouldn't that be cool? How scary would a feather-covered T-Rex be? We decided to find out.

Turns out, a feathery T-Rex is freaky! We have the plastic dinosaur, glue gun and craft-store bag of feathers to prove it.

We might have people vote on which one is scarier.

Tap dancing on my brain

In late August, the new school year approaching and me hugely pregnant, I lamented the closing of the local dance-supply store and went online to get Princess new tap shoes.
She's at the transition between children's sizes and women's sizes. The website seemed clear, the sizes laid out in order along the drop-down menu. I ordered a 6, which was next in line after the 5 she was wearing last year.
The shoes arrived Sept. 1, just in time for classes to start. When I opened them, though, I was shocked to see they were a size 6 toddler shoe. Baby tap shoes! Who knew babies needed tap shoes?

I was so angry. The fact that someone out there thought their 18-month-old girl needed $30 tap shoes (plus $9 shipping 'cause those suckers are heavy) made steam come out my ears. I bit the bullet, talked to someone from the company, shipped the shoes back and waited.
The next pair was too small, too! It was a child's size 6, and she had been wearing a women's 5. I had described the product, serial number and all, to the phone rep, so I couldn't believe we got another pair that was too small. When I called again, I had to take deep breaths to prepare. I'll remind you, it costs $9 each way for shipping, dance class was about to start, and I had a baby due any day.
I asked for free shipping for the new shoes coming my way, so that shaved a little bit off, but regardless, I haven't even added up how much those shoes ended up costing me. Next time, I'll drive wherever I need to so she can try on the shoes. I don't care if it's 200 miles away; she's trying on the shoes first.
I should have written it down at the time, but the second phone rep. explained that you have to add something to convert from children's sizes to women's, subtract something because we're buying tap shoes, but then size up because they run small. Or whatever. I was so mad, I couldn't listen. Why can't they just measure how long your foot is and have that be the size? That's how it is in Europe, right? Measure your foot in centimeters, and that's your shoe size! Gah! Why can't that be the way? Why can't that be the way?!