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.

Support Your Local Crafter.

Ali gets a $5 allowance every week.

She has a nifty little bank in which she divides it carefully between “Bank”, “Store”, and “Church”.

Kid Savings Bank

She supposedly gets this allowance every Monday, but I’ve been known to forget for months in a row (and she’s been known to let me), so that when I do pay up, I have to pay up big. Fortunately, her kindergarten math curriculum didn’t touch on penalties, late charges, and interest.

Besides the fact that I get behind in giving the allowance, I get even further behind in helping her count the allowance and then spend it.

So it had piled up. Substantially. To the point that one more quarter wasn’t going to fit through any roofs in that village.

It took us two mornings to count the money in “Store” and “Church”, and she ended up with $61 to spend and $104 to give.

(I guess she’d raided the spending at some point without getting out her Church money.)

She was thrilled to take her money to Church, and absolutely couldn’t wait to spend her $61.

We talked about going to the Toy Store, but I had a better idea.

“You know how you’re always looking for new craft supplies? What if we went to Michael’s…and you could buy your own?! You could get a lot for $61!”

“That would be awesome!!! I need some new things to do during quiet time!”

“Okay. We’ll go really soon.”

That was on Friday. The weekend was busy, so we didn’t make it. She reminded me a few times, but nothing too annoying. But before one of her quiet times, she asked,

“What can I do for quiet time today? I don’t have any new craft supplies yet, so I’m going to be bored.”

“Why don’t you write letters? You love doing that.”

“Okay! Can you make me a list of people I can write?”

So I made her a list of grandparents and a few friends.

After quiet time, she presented me with envelopes, labeled and sealed.

“Um…you already sealed these?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you write in them?”

“Oh you know…stuff.”

I’ve pre-read many of her letters, and they’re pretty much all the same, so I obediently addressed her envelopes and mailed them Monday morning.

We finally made it to Michael’s on Tuesday. It was pretty much fantastic. She picked out a ton of stuff she wanted, made over-analytical decisions with regards to the quantity and quality of use she could get out of each option, and left with a bag full of craft supplies and five dollars to spare.

As we walked out to the parking lot, she skipped and exclaimed with glee,

“That was SO fun!! I can’t believe how much craft supplies I have now!”

“I know! You’re going to have so much to do!!”

“And I’ll have even MORE craft supplies when everyone gets my letters!!”

“What do you mean?”

“When they get my letters, they’re going to send me craft supplies.”

I stopped walking.

“Wait a minute. You mean that you asked for craft supplies in your letters?”

She stopped skipping, looked up at me, and blinked innocently.

“Yes…why?”

We had a small talk about what begging was and why we don’t do it.

“But you TOLD me to write letters when I didn’t have any craft supplies…”

Oh. Oops.

I made a mental note to apologize to all of her friend’s parents.

…But then I convinced myself that her note was probably too illegible for my friends to perceive her begging anyway, and forgot about it.

Until the next day, when I got this text from Ali’s best friend’s Mom:

Crafting Support Letter

And here’s the note:

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So basically, “I am on a crafting mission, and I need your help. Just send supplies – you don’t even have to pray about it.”

Ali

I groaned as I looked at her letter, then desperately tried to remember all of the friends to which she had sent notes and sent an apology text to everyone.

And, one by one, they all confirmed back that yes, their child had indeed received overt crafting solicitation from my child.

We now have a strict No-Sealing Policy in our house, but at least I left this incident with a confidence in my heart that when it comes time for Ali to take that first high school summer missions trip, she is going to be the master of support letter writing.

In fact, if you want to hire her now, I’m sure she’d love to help you out – in exchange for quality craft supplies.