We All, Like Sheep, Have Crafted Astray.

So.

You remember those crafting support letters that Ali sent out?

Well, before I found out about them and had time to text everyone an apology and assure them that they didn’t need to send craft supplies to my beggar daughter, my Mom, who never sees any bad in anyone, had already interpreted the letter for herself.

When I texted her, she immediately called me (because texting is not her preferred method of communication, which is good, since she can’t figure out how to use punctuation, so her texts always leave me paranoid that she’s suffering from depression or worse, hates me.)

(There’s nothing like texting your Mom the best news in the world (“I’m in labor!”) and getting a Yay in return.)

So anyway. She called me and said, “I thought she was asking for a crafting project, you know – like she’s helped me make crafts for Cubbies. I figured she was offering to help me, and I thought it was so sweet of her! So I was thinking about what I need for my bible lessons at VBS that she could make for me.”

Every year, my Mom comes up with elaborate scenes and props and such to help keep the kid’s attention at Vacation Bible School.

Elaborate should have stopped me.

But my Mother’s optimism always rubs off on me (for a moment) and I said, “She can certainly help you with your VBS needs. What were you thinking?”

“Well, I need some sheep masks, but I don’t know if Ali could do them. Do you think she could cut them out of felt and glue fur onto them?”

“I’m sure she could. And if not, I’ll help her.”

Darn rubbing optimism.

She brought me two bags of supplies and an example sheep.

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But I personally thought that her sheep looked like a cynical old man rabbit with some seriously loose jowls.

“I need twelve of these sheep.”

“Twelve??”

“Yes. Oh – and there’s only enough felt for ten white ones, so you’ll have to make two black sheep.”

“That’s so token, Mom.”

“Also, with the black felt – I need you to make a bear, too.”

“A bear?”

“Yes. Because the bear costume scares the children too much, and I was thinking a mask might be less traumatic.”

“Do you have a template?”

“No. Just make one up.”

Clearly, my Mother doesn’t remember raising me. Because if she did, she’d have no trouble recalling that I am the most un-artistic person to have ever lived. I cannot even draw a proper smiley face, let alone sculpt a bear face out of felt.

But whatever.

So I inventoried the supplies, and Ali and I decided to try and make a Sheep Mask during her craft time before bed.

We dumped all the stuff out on her craft table, stenciled a copy of Codger-Rabbit-Sheep, cut it out, then tried to style his ears with the felt and fur.

It took all night. And not a minor amount of frustration from me. And a major amount of frustration from Ali regarding the amount of fur flyaways littering her room.

We left all of our supplies on her craft desk in a heap, and I promised to add the eyeholes the next day when I was in a better frame of mind.

The only problem was, Ali decided to Sharpie an outline of eye holes sometime during the night – at all the wrong places.

And really, I couldn’t blame her – because when I walked into her room the next morning, I became immediately high from the scent of E6000 glue left over from the night before. And she had slept in that drug den. It’s amazing she hadn’t crafted our sheep into Puff the Magic Dragon.

So on that first fateful mask, I had to add three tufts of extra fur – to cover up her stoned eyeholes.

It was the least sheep-like costume I’ve ever seen.

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And we had to make eleven more.

And a Bear.

In less than a week.

My Mom must have sensed my frustration from afar and called me.

“If it’s too much for you and Ali, I can get Mammaw to make them.”

“YOU CAN’T TAKE A CRAFT PROJECT AWAY FROM ME AND GIVE IT TO MY EIGHTY-FIVE YEAR OLD GRANDMOTHER. I’M NOT AN EMBECILE.”

(Or, that’s what I said in my head.)

To Mom, I simply said,

“Oh no!! It’s not a problem at all. We’ve got it all under control! You said…twelve sheep?”

I decided that the assembly line was the way to go.

Trace eleven masks,

Cut out eleven masks,

Cut out twenty-two ear felts,

Cut out eleven noses,

Get Ali to attach ear felts and noses (since that was pretty much all that was on her level to do),

Add annoying and messy fur accents.

I made a few edits, including rounding the ears in hopes of detracting from their rabbit-like persona. And I gave up on the outlining of said ears with fur, because it might have made me cuss once.

(Just a slight suggestion of damnation.)

(But one should never allow themselves to become profane while creating VBS crafts.)

(Or so I hear.)

Also, the constant leaking of the E6000? Was nearly my tipping point.

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So I got our eleven masks to this level of success:

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But what to do about the prescribed pink eye-markings stumped me. Mom’s template had eye-bags, and I didn’t want a flock of sheep with eye-bags.

So I experimented with eyebrows. But since I didn’t know the bible story in question, I didn’t know what sort of expressions the sheep needed.

Were they skeptical sheep?

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Unamused sheep?

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Anxious Sheep?

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Belligerent sheep?

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Depressed Sheep?

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Unibrowed Sheep?

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Dubious Sheep?

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Nicholas Cage Sheep?

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Sean Connery Sheep?

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(The fumes from the dripping E6000 might have been to blame for the above exercise and uncontrollable giggles that accompanied it.)

Ultimately, I went with blank sheep. Because the whole analogy is that they’re stupid. Right?

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(Or perhaps I was just too lazy and/or flustered to cut out twelve pairs of eyebrows by then.)

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Ten White “Sheep” and Two Black “Sheep” completed.

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And mine did, in my opinion, look 10% more like sheep than my Mom’s, especially when shown on children.

Sheep Models

(But mine still looked 45% like a rodent, 18% like a rabbit, and 22% like Sasquatch.)

Then came the bear.

Despite my horrible ability with shapes, I just began cutting.

I was, after all, spent.

But God shone onto my crafting, and I actually cut out a bear-like creature. On my first try. And then figured out how to add bear-like accents. Without any help.

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I WAS SO PROUD THAT ALL-CAPS DO NOT BEGIN TO EXPRESS MY SELF-ADMIRATION.

I squealed to Chris and held up my mask.

“You did that. Without googling?”

“YES!!!”

I texted my Mom, excited to get some positive affirmation without the skeptical dubiousness that my husband offered.

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She gave me nothing.

(She did call later and remind me that she was attempting to not scare the children. She doesn’t realize that sarcasm can be conveyed via text.)

But I didn’t care. Because it was indeed THE BEST BEAR EVER.

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(At least until my E6000 buzz wore off.)


Epilogue:

My mother was extremely gracious about my questionable sheep. The children, however, were not. When the sheep came onto the scene, Mom asked, “What are those?” And one of the children said in a confused voice, “Um…Mice?”

Sheep Masks

As for the bear, one of Mom’s teenage actresses decided to turn him upside down and become a Walrus.

 

Walrus

…which made me even more proud of my original creation – because I had crafted such a fantastically versatile animal.

Swimming Onset Insanity.

A week ago from tonight, I found myself losing my mind in the shallow end of a pool. Questioning my ability to be a parent, and doubting my purpose in life.

What had led to this travesty? How could my life be so complicated when standing in a swimming pool?

Let’s go in reverse order.

Thirty minutes before, my daughter began having a complete panic attack at even the thought of getting her face in the water. Or even her chin.

One hour before, I had done the treacherous work of getting my two children ready for the pool, driving to said pool, and taking off my two-year-old’s diaper and putting him in a swim diaper. Only to then find out that the pool was closed for a swim meet. This was followed by calling a family friend and begging them to let us use their pool.

Four hours before, at the first of three pools for the day, Ali’s swimming teacher told me the grave news that my daughter was not willing to get past the whole “water” part of swimming, and so I needed to work with her before the next day, or she would be fired.

(Okay. He actually recommended that I pull her out because he didn’t want me to waste my money. But still – only my kid could get fired from private swimming lessons.)

But four and a half hours before, halfway through that swimming lesson. That’s where the true root of my meltdown originated.

It was the second day of lessons with Mister Ray. Perfect for my intensely fearful daughter, he was calm, laid-back, and gentle. (Let me know if you need his number.) He didn’t try to trick her, and he never let her get scared.

(Unlike myself. Who is apparently horribly scary in the pool setting.)

Despite her six and a half years of built-up water/face contact fears, Ali adored Mister Ray. The day before, she had giddily giggled at everything he’d said, and was oddly not at all nervous about the pending confrontation between h2o and her facial orifices.

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Noah and I had tried to stay far away from the lessons so as to not impede the happiness that was occurring. I thought he would be happy scooping and dumping, since it’s all he ever wants to do.

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But he was not.

Thanks to teething, heat, and general crossness (I’ve taught him to explain to people, “I’m a little storm cloud”), he made it known how unhappy the arrangements found him.

So on Day Two (the fateful Tuesday in question,) Mister Ray, being the kind and merciful guy that he was, suggested that I let Noah hang out on the stairs of the pool. After all, our lessons were in the middle of the day, it’s June, and have I mentioned that we live in Alabama?

I happened to have Noah’s swimsuit and a swim diaper on my person, so I quickly took him up on it and plopped the kid in the pool.

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Noah was happy, Ali was happy. Mister Ray was happy to explain how water doesn’t hurt our face for the four-hundred-and-sixty-seventh time.

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I sat on the side of the pool, soaking up the rays of sunshine and of happiness exuding from my children.

Until a few minutes before the lesson was over. When I looked next to me and saw a dinner-plate sized pile of puke directly adjacent to my hand and creeping closer at an alarming rate.

My mind started racing.

“How did PUKE get next to the pool? We’re the first lesson of the day…and Ali didn’t throw up. I’ve been watching Noah. And Mister Ray seems healthy…so that’s strange.”

I looked at it and I looked at it, and then I looked at Noah, who was standing in the pool. Which is how I noticed the unhealthy yellow-brown tinge on the top of his swim diaper.

Nonononono NO NO NOOOOOO!!!!

In denial, I stretched the backside of his diaper open and peered inside…then yanked my finger back out with a new, thick coating.

That pile of puke was not puke. And if he had left that on the side of the pool…how far and wide had he spread his love?

I grabbed him out of the water and ran over to the sidewalk, where I had zero wet wipes. Or shop towels. Or a HAZMAT suit.

I told him to NOT MOVE AN INCH and ran to the car. When I came back, he was lying on the sidewalk with his feet sticking straight up in the air.

“Change me, Mommy!!”

As carefully as one can (which isn’t very), I shimmied Noah’s sopping wet and unpleasantly squishy swimsuit down his wet legs, while things that must not be named dripped out.

Then came the door to the underworld.

The ripping of the sides of the Swim Diaper of Hell.

Nothing can make poo nastier than being marinated in water. Especially when that water has had a really good chance to mingle, thereby creating a Lake of Darkness.

Let’s just say that I, who prides myself in never gagging at my kid’s various productions, totally gagged.

I managed to get the Bog of Eternal Stench into a bag without spilling it everywhere, wiped him up, scrubbed the sidewalk with a wet wipe, then went to attend to that gigantic pile next to the pool.

At which point I realized: Mister Ray and Ali were still practicing blowing bubbles in the pool. That pool.

“Hey Mister Ray…um…you might need to shock the pool and then some with a treatment. Noah just…had an issue.”

About twelve wet wipes later, I got the pool deck clean…ish.

Then I looked into the pool and saw a sinker.

(As opposed to a floater.)

I leaned over and dipped it out with my bare hand – it was a poo cashew.

Like, literally. Left over from the previous day’s granola consumption.

All the while, Noah was screaming because I wouldn’t let him back in the pool.

It was time for the lesson to be over anyway, so Mr. Ray had tactfully hopped out of the poo(l). While Noah continued to scream, Mister Ray broke the news about Ali’s inability to get over the whole water thing.

I apologized profusely for my son and my daughter, promised to work on her swimming in the next 24 hours, then collected my children, their shoes, their towels, and their poo and loaded it all in the car.

It was one of those car rides where Mommy needed a time out.

“No one talk. I need silence.”

I processed my mortification with regards to my child’s murder of the pool.

I processed my kid’s inability to conquer her fears.

Then, when my voice returned, I began teaching Noah a new No-No-Poop Catechism.

“We No-No Poop in the pool.”

“No-No Poop in the pool.”

“What do we no-no do in the pool?”

“We no-no poop in the pool.”


Epilogue:

Noah repeats his catechism at the mention of the pool, and has not pooped in any more of them. In fact, he actually didn’t poop for several days, since he met of that need so thoroughly in that nuclear waste site of a pool.

I recovered from the day with the help of a lot of artisan chocolate consumption.

Ali did indeed take an early retirement from swimming lessons. Although she could never make herself voluntarily put her face fully in the water, she did adore Mister Ray so much that on the last day, she allowed him to do this – twice – without any tears.

Ali Dunk

I was amazed, stunned, and otherwise speechless.

If only she loved me as much as she loved him, I might be able to help her conquer her fears before she’s twenty-one.

Mr Ray

But I don’t see that happening.

As I Enter The Asylum,

this will be the last story that I ever tell.

It all started a couple of weeks ago. I had promised to meet two friends at The Wish Collection to do some shopping. I was excited, because I hadn’t been back since my original score (and had been hearing about the beautiful finds that many of you had bought.)

I pondered getting a babysitter, but I decided against it. After all, we were only going one place, I only have two kids, and I’d take entertaining electronic devices – how bad could it be?

I arrived a few minutes early, but the warehouse seemed closed.

I walked around the corner and pounded on the door.

The office looked dark.

With a bit more research while sitting in the parking lot in the most abandoned part of downtown, I finally had to call it: the warehouse was no longer there.

{So ignore my advice and don’t go there.}

It had indeed been the sale of a lifetime – and I wouldn’t be getting any more of that goodness.

(Unless by some miracle they return. That’s what I’m hoping.)

My friends arrived just as I was discovering the sudden departure of our shopping destination, so I had to tell them the sad, sad news.

They sat and pondered for a minute, then suggested we drive out to The Shops of Grand River.

Perfect!

My kids love the outlet mall, I love the outlet mall.

However, after the hour detour downtown, Noah was in no mood to shop.

He was in the mood to fuss, complain, to hysterically run in circles around the stores, and to lick. Everything.

He licked the mirror. The wall. The floor. His sister. Me. My friends. The other mirror. The other wall. Thank goodness the sales clerk never walked by too closely.

As I pondered how I could create a makeshift tongue tourniquet, I apologized to my friends.

“I have NO idea what is wrong with him! He has been completely orally fixated lately. Everything goes in his mouth or gets licked. You should have seen The Black Spot he licked a few weeks ago – on the tile floor of the Downtown Library.”

My friend who doesn’t have kids yet said, “Maybe he’s teething?”

“Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.”

I checked, (getting thoroughly bitten in the process,) and sure enough, a new molar was poking through his germ-infested gums like a needle in a hazardous waste bucket.

And that’s why you need friends who haven’t had kids yet. They come up with the simple answers.

So as an apology to Noah for dragging him on a detoured girl’s trip while he was in pain (and Ali for having to put up with it,) I took them next door to the toy store and offered to buy them each something small.

They took my direction quite literally – they chose Squinkies.

Squinkies are tiny, pleasingly tactile rubber toys. And when I say tiny, I mean size-of-Craisin tiny.

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In fact, Sally and Ramone had to be saved from the back of Noah’s newly-toothed jaws when he unknowingly picked them up with a handful of said Craisins.

(I got bitten for that one too.)

So Ali got random girly Squinkies, and Noah got Cars Squinkies.

I didn’t really care about Ali’s, because they were tiny creepy unicorns.

But the Cars ones – I was obsessed. They were adorable, detailed, and full of personality.

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Within two minutes of depackaging all twenty-four Squinkies, one was missing.

And he knew which one.

“Where’s Sarge?? WHERE’S SARGE??”

I searched and searched to no avail. I promised him that it hurt me more than it hurt him. After all, not having a full set of something (including, and sometimes especially, my kid’s toys) is nearly more painful to my psyche than a lack of continuity.

I tried to enforce supervised-Squinkie-play-only to prevent any further loss of life, but that only lasted for 72 hours.

And on the third day, Noah found the bag of Squinkies for private play.

And at the end of the third day, there were only six Squinkies remaining.

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It was as if someone ripped 18 rubber-car-shaped holes out of my heart. I languished in their loss, missing their tiny presence in our home with great sorrow.

I tried to let it go.

I tried to remind myself that they were just toys that were destined to get lost.

But I needed 24 Squinkies.

For three days and three nights I tried to forget.

On the sixth evening, I was talking with Chris. I looked past his shoulder and spotted a mirage on the end table.

No. It couldn’t be.

I interrupted his deep and lengthy thought with a squeal.

“Is that…is that SARGE?!?!?”

“Yeah. I found him between the couch cushions.”

“He’s been missing for a week!!! He was the first casualty!!”

The next morning, with hope and passion overflowing from my heart, I declared it to be Squinkie Search Day.

We started under the coffee table.

1 rescued.

Under the couch.

3 more.

On the train table.

2 more.

With each tiny rubber discovery, my soul burst with joy and victory.

We made it up to sixteen with scouring searches, but I needed those last eight.

And those last eight needed me.

I spotted a tiny shape slipping down to the bottom of Noah’s car basket.

I yelled to Ali with the urgency of a war mission.

“The Squinkies!! They’re in here!! I just saw Finn McMissile! AND THERE’S SALLY!!!!”

I began throwing Hot Wheels into my lap like I was digging a hole to escape a Chinese Prison.

Ali stared at me for a moment, then disappeared – and returned with my phone to take a picture.

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Every time I found one, I squealed with excitement and threw it in a bucket, not daring to let Noah near it.

Ali changed her angle to show the burgeoning state of my lap. And a tiny glimpse of the deranged state of my face.

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I put her to work counting and recounting tirelessly, giving me the new quantity every two minutes.

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And after every surface was cleared, every basket was declared Squinkie-free, and every inch of floor was investigated, we took a final count.

Squinkies 23

Although it was beautiful to see so many happy Squinkies in one place, It felt like failure.

Where was the last Squinkie? And who was missing??

I thought of one place it could be – and considered giving Noah some Miralax to get it back.

But as I was distracted, Noah decided that it was time for his inspection.

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Within seconds, the count had mysteriously decreased.

Squinkies 21

Did I mention that they bounce? With a very wide arc? And a very unpredictable trajectory?

I began grieving to the bottom of my toes.

I couldn’t handle another battle.

I couldn’t stomach another mission.

So I did what any logical person would do:

I logged onto Amazon and ordered 24 more.

Cars Squinkies

These babies are mint in package. And no one knows about them but me.

And no one need know about them but me. Got it?

The fact that I know I have them, all twenty-four of them, safely in my care, means that I can now leave Noah and his set alone.

Live and let lose, that’s my motto.

Oh – someone’s knocking on the door. I think it’s the nice men with the straightjacket.