Category Archives: Humor

DIY Pixie Dust

Disney Surprises

Yesterday, I told you the beginning of our Disney surprise for the three oldest children.  They had already received their first clue at home and were on their way to the second, but they had no idea where they were headed.

The prevailing assumption was that we were going to a movie theater to watch a Disney film, perhaps even Peter Pan.

But then we pulled up to Nana’s house.

“Get out of the car!” I sang.  I had been singing Disney songs the entire way but the kids weren’t particularly interested in my vocal acrobatics or my touching rendition of “Part of Your World.“  If I didn’t know better, I’d say they were blocking me out.  “Get out of the car!” I sang again.

The kids stared at me.  “Get out of the car?” Faith repeated.  She sounded a little worried that we might have arrived at our destination, and while Nana’s house is great, it certainly didn’t blow her mind like Daddy promised.

“Aren’t we going to be late for the movie?” Jonathan asked.

“I don’t know, but if you don’t hop out, you won’t get your next clue,” I teased.

The van emptied immediately.  Children ran into Nana’s house and children squealed when they saw Nana and children read Nana the first clue and told her all about the fun they’d already had.  Nana told all the children to calm down because she had to go to the bathroom.

But really, she was bringing me her suitcase to load up into the back of the van with the others.  Oh, the trickery!

After the suitcase was stashed, we lined the kids up on her couch.  I gave them each a wrapped package with a little note that read:

Bibbidi bobbidi boo!

There’s an adventure waiting for you!

You’ll need a bit of faith,

A lot of trust,

And don’t forget your pixie dust!

(Have you ever Googled “bibbidi bobbidi boo?”  I have.)

Moving right along.

The kids opened their boxes.

DIY Pixie Dust

Each child had a little pixie dust necklace.

DIY Pixie Dust

“Pixie dust!  Can we eat it?” asked the child who did not care about being able to fly.  He’s going to regret that when Captain Hook gets ahold of him.

DIY Pixie Dust

But, in point of fact, he could eat the pixie dust.

After looking high and low and trying all sorts of things to create little vials for pixie dust (including taking apart little light bulbs so I could use the glass containers, which totally didn’t work) I found these little plastic containers in the bead section of my local craft store.  They cost $0.49 each.  Score!

Plus, they came with a plastic lid that already had a hole in the top for stringing ribbon.  Yeah me!

I created the pixie dust by mixing a bit of sugar with just a drop of liquid food coloring.  I created several colors, then baked them in the over at 350 for 10-15 minutes, just until the sugar was no longer damp.  I layered the sugar into the vials, added pretty ribbons and beads, a few stickers, and of course, Tinkerbells.

Pixie Dust

I thought this might be a dead-giveaway for the surprise, but I was wrong.

With the video camera rolling, I prodded.  “So, you have pixie dust.  What do you need pixie dust for?”

“Flying!”

“Yes, flying!  So, where do you think you’re going?”

“Neverland!”

Face palm. 

“Get in the car.”

Five in Tow

These children would make terrible detectives

Nana hopped in the car too and we all headed off to the airport, although the kids didn’t know that.  The airport is all the way through Seattle for us, and I wondered how long it would take the kids to figure it out.  So far, their powers of deduction left a lot to be desired.

But, they were about to find another clue.

Kya happened to peek in the back of the van.  “There are suitcases back there!” she yelled.

Rats.

“Suitcases?  We are going to Beachwood!” Jonathan shouted.  “I knew it!  I thought of that!  I thought of Beachwood!”

“Jonathan, Beachwood is in the other direction,” Nana noted.

“Then we’re going to Whistler!  I knew it!”

“Whistler is in the other direction.”

“What’s south?” I hinted.

Silence.

“Nothing,” Faith said.

I’m sure she meant no offense to Oregon and California.

We zipped right past Providence Classical Christian School, where Jeff used to work, so that meant we weren’t picking up Kiri and Moira for a movie date.  We zipped right past the Space Needle,

Seattle Space Needle

and said many laudatory things about the glories of Mt. Rainier on that particular day.

Mt. Rainer

Too bad the children were not particularly interested in the view.  They were languishing in the backseat.  Ahahahaha….this adventure is taking forever.  Weeping and gnashing of teeth and are we there yet?

I decided to send them to Argentina.  So I took the exit to the airport.

“Are we getting off the freeway?” Faith asked.  “Are we going to the airport?”

Perhaps…

The exit to the airport curved around and put us on another freeway for a second.

“Aw man, another freeway!”

But wait…

“It is the airport!  We’re going to the airport!  Are we getting Grandma?”

Never mind the fact that my house was in a crafting state of despair and there was no way I’d let Grandma come over with it looking like that no matter how much I’d like to see her, I let the kids ponder that possibility.

I zipped my little blue van-that-does-not-indicate-I’m-a-soccer-mom right under a glaring DEPARTURES sign, but no one read it.

I zipped my little blue van-that-does-not-indicate-I’m-a-soccer-mom right past the loading zones just to tease the children and not because I misread the signs that led to parking.

“Why are we at the airport?  Why are we at the airport?  Why are we at the airport with pixie dust and a bunch of clues about Disney?”

I don’t know, kids.  Why are you?

We parked.

“Okay,” I said.  “Time for another clue!”  We tumbled out of the car and I opened the back of the van, which was stuffed with suit cases and three bags loaded with Disney-themed treats.  I handed each of them another wrapped package and started rolling the video again because surely, surely they were going to get it now.

Wrapping paper flew into the air and each child got one of these:

DIY Disney shirts

Personalized reverse tie-dye Disney shirts for Kya, Faith, and Jonathan

“Huh.  Mickey Mouse shirts.  Thanks, Mom.”

Face palm.

“Put them on,” I commanded while pondering the fact that this generation of uneducated children has no idea that Mickey Mouse is Disney.  This generation of children knows nothing of The MOUSE!

It’s a shame.

“They just don’t get it,” Nana said, shaking her head.  She was taking it hard.

“So.  Let’s review,” I said, holding on to the last fragment of hope that my children could put the pieces together.  “What do we know about Mickey?”

“He’s a mouse?”

“He has a clubhouse?”

“He’s from Disney!” Kya came in for the save.

“Yes!  Disney!  So.  We are at the airport with pixie dust necklaces and Mickey Mouse shirtswhere do you think we’re going?”

The video was rolling, waiting to capture this precious moment for all posterity.

But.

They didn’t get it.

Paris Tuileries Garden Facepalm statue

Face palm

It’s Disney, people!  Disney! 

I wanted to shout it but I didn’t.  “Okay, pause,” I said, putting the video camera away. This was going to take a little more work than I thought.

Stay tuned tomorrow for another edition of, “How long will it take these kids to figure out they’re going to DISNEY?”

(Also, I’ll have a t-shirt tutorial up later this week so you can make your own reverse tie-dye mouse shirts in case you want to test your child’s deductive powers by surprising him or her with a trip to Disney).

 

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Reclaiming the Loo

Today, my friend Abbie invited me over to her place.  She’s a mom of five just like me, including twins, just like me.  Since Abbie is so much like me, I figured she would sympathize with one of my mom-problems: how to get the children to leave me alone when the bathroom door closes.

Am I the only one whose children think going to the bathroom is a group activity?  I think not.

Mothers of the World, it’s time we reclaim the loo.  Join me over at Five Days 5 Ways and find out my devious plan to help us do just that.

Reclaim the Loo

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The Trouble with Rest

Day of Rest

*100 Beautiful Days of Motherhood: 33

Two.  That’s the number of times this week I set the tea kettle on to boil and walked away, only to return some time later to find it bone dry and smoking.  The second time, the handle, which was made to be impervious to absentmindedness, melted off in slow agony and dropped onto the burner.

The children smelled the burning plastic and asked if I was making dinner.

I was not.

I stared at my tea kettle.  The heat had caused the metal to swell abnormally.  It was as fat as a little piggy and much more likely to explode.  Black smoke drifted lazily up from the tar-like goo on the burner.

This was concerning to me, not just because of the fact that I very nearly gave my children an unplanned lesson on shrapnel, but because it said something about me that wasn’t good.  A woman who burns her kettle dry two times in five days has issues.

My issue is this: I have trouble resting.  I have so much trouble resting, I can’t even slow down long enough to brew a cup of “Quite Moments” tea.  I run around like the house is on fire (which, ironically, was very nearly a reality) because I feel like I have to work my way to a place of rest. 

But the work is never done and rest is always elusive because I live at work.

My “office” is strewn with socks and dirty dishes and way more Thomas the Tank Engine tracks than is professional.  And while my coworker is cute and my boss is great, the subordinates tend to run around half naked and spill milk.  Everywhere I turn, I see reminders of the things I have yet to do, have not done well, or have not done at all.

Sometimes, I just want to put on a pair of heels and commute.  Preferably to Hawaii.  Perhaps then I could find a way to be done at the end of the day.

But of course, being done is not the point and work is not the problem.  The problem is not the dishes in the sink or the floor that needs mopped.  The problem is I lack the faith to rest the way God commands.  I lack the faith to be still, to be quiet, and to pursue the things that are more important than dusting the furniture.

I lack the faith to trust that my identity in Him is secure, even if my work is not done.

There will always be work.  But here in the middle of the mess, I am commanded to rest.  Rest, true rest, is what I need.  Not like when I go to bed and dream about cleaning my kitchen.  Not like when I finally get all the rooms straightened up on the same day and I collapse into the couch, exhausted.  Not like when I finally check everything off the to-do list and feel like I’ve earned it.

True rest is a grace.  It sees the work left to do and nourishes me anyway.  It sees that I am not yet done and rewards me with strength for the course.  It resets the priorities that have gotten scrambled and brings my focus up from the temporal to the eternal.

I forget that sometimes, and I fight against it.  I act like God is punishing me, somehow, by calling me to a place of rest.  I kind of think that if He wants me to rest, He should find a way to clean my kitchen first.  But He doesn’t do that.  He leaves the mess, and asks me to leave it too.

So I put the kettle on, but I struggle with the fear that if I take some time off, my entire world is going to descend deeper into chaos and disorder.  Who is going to do the dishes while I sip my tea, God?  I sneak off and try to put away some laundry while I wait for the water to boil and pretty soon, I find myself face-to-face with a charbroiled kettle.

The truth is, I can never work my way to rest because rest is an act of faith.  It requires me to act on the  promise of God that one day, the meaningless repetition of earthly work will end.  All that is lacking in me will be filled up, and all that is undone will be completed.  I will no longer live at work.

I will live at rest.

So tonight, I am putting the kettle on.  It’s a little rusty now and I can’t quite pry the lid off because the knob burned off.  I am not done with my work.  I guess that’s why it’s the perfect time to act on the belief that even in my imperfection, God’s promises are true.  Not being done is the best reason to practice being at rest.

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Dear Martha: 100 Beautiful Days of Motherhood {29}

Martha Stewart Living

Dear Martha,

Thank you for your generous magazine subscription offer.  “Free” is one of my favorite words these days, and I’m a huge fan.  Really.  I have a stack of your past work and I look at it sometimes when I need to know how to choose a ripe kumquat or draw a mural on my staircase.

Unfortunately, I will have to decline your offer.  While it’s wonderful to know that macramé is not a lost art and someone besides my uncle has a swizzle stick collection, I find your magazine does not have what I need.

I do not need to know how to raise prize-winning ducks or how to care for mohair.  I do not need to know how to identify marks on silver (we’re pretty much a Rubbermaid and Pyrex kind of family) and I certainly do not need to know how to indulge myself with a perfect manicure, even though you would be appalled at the state of my cuticles.

What I need is to know how to be satisfied with what I have.

I need to know how to give my attention fully to my children.

I need to know how to get juice out of carpet.  Maybe you covered that one.

Don’t get me wrong.  I love what you do.  In fact, that’s the problemI love the excellence with which you pursue your craft and the beauty you dangle before my eyes, so much so that I could easily lose myself in it.  I could bow down to your hospital corners and perfectly organized sock drawers.  I could pursue that kind of excellence without a backward glance.

You see, Martha, all that beauty demands a response, and I have a hard time responding rightly.  I see what you have and I want it.  It’s a little escape, a little dream, a little distance from my reality, which is a lot messier than yours.  You probably don’t have sippy cups fall on you when you open your cupboard doors, but I do.  You probably don’t have mismatched quilts on the kids’ beds, but I do.  You probably don’t even know what a mess Silly Putty can make on couch cushions, but I do.

And it’s taken me longer than I care to admit to be okay with that.  It’s taken  me longer than I care to admit to realize that my kids do not need they kind of mom who buys in to what you offer.  They do not need a mantel full of hand-flocked Easter bunnies or made-from-scratch Twinkies.  They need me.  They need me present, undistracted, and humble enough to not chase after every “good thing” that graces your glossy pages.

There will be a time, I’m sure, when the grandkids come to visit and I will awe them with gingerbread cathedrals and homemade snow globes.  But these kids, my kids, don’t need more picture-perfect magical moments that come at the cost of a too-stressed mom who loves perfection more than reality.

They need this mom, their mom, to spend more time pleasing them than you.  They need this mom, their mom, to be in this thing 100%.  And that’s not something you can help me with.

So, with all due respect, I think your free magazine is still a little too rich for my blood.  It’s just not worth the cost.

Yours affectionately,
Kristen

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Surrounded by Savages: 100 Beautiful Days of Motherhood {25}

A young and innocent Kristen Glover, banished to the Outside while her mother makes quiche

First published in August, 2012

In the beginning, the first man and the first woman had two children.  But the children were both boys so their mother felt like she had a dozen.

The earth was young and the boys were wild since they didn’t have any girls but their mother to tame them.  They made weapons out of sticks and stale bread and pomegranate seeds.  They chased the sheep and ambushed the chickens and managed to find mud in the desert.

They punched and wrestled and ran so much, some days their mother thought she might go deaf.  Other days, she wished she already was deaf.

“That’s it!” the first mother shouted.  “I’ve had enough!”

The boys stopped dead in their tracks and wondered if this might be the end of the human population increase.

But God looked down on the earth and had compassion on the first mother because she was the only woman in the entire world, which pretty much meant she was surrounded by savages.

So God looked out over the great expanse of all that He had made, but He couldn’t find any place in all  that wild world that was soft and beautiful where a mother could rest.  So He said, “Let there be an oasis in the middle of this great expanse, and let it be called ‘Inside,’ and let Us separate the ‘Inside’ from the ‘Outside.’”

So God put up four walls and a lovely flat roof and separated the Inside from the Outside.  And God saw that it was good.

Then He told the mother, “You shall have dominion over all the Inside.  You will put flowers on the table and crochet afghans for the bed and tame a cat to sit in the window.

“And you will lure the man Inside by baking things that smell good and occasionally undressing.  Once the Man comes Inside, you will make him take off his dirty shoes and talk about his feelings.

“But if the Man leaves his greasy tools on your counter or uses your best knife to trim his toenails, you will send the Man Outside.

“And you will lure your children inside with bedtime stories and cozy blankets and sugar.  You will teach them to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ and not to put their fingers in their noses.

“But if the Children shave the cat and turn your best tablecloth into a slingshot and release something scaly onto your bed, you will send the Children Outside.

“Then, you will sip a cup of tea, make quiche for dinner, and paint something.”

The woman smiled.

So it came about, after a surprisingly short period, that the Children spent a lot of time Outside.

And the Man built himself a garage.

Savages

Kya Outside, making weapons