Merry Christmas!

From my dysfunctional family to yours, Merry Christmas!

Sparky

I finally did it.  I made a second robot dog . . . that is, one similar to my mascot.

Mascot

Sparky

Do you want Sparky to be your very own?  He's available at my Etsy shop.

This Week's Sign of the Apocalypse

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I Wish I had an Elf

I have several visions of robots dancing in my head, but "Santa's Workshop" isn't cooperating.

 

Here's the view as I sit down in my chair to work.

Ick

I hate spiders.

Big, black ones that even my husband backs up from. 

Stupid creepy, crawly things.  Just die.

Strange Kid

I wonder why I get nothing done.

So . . .

A-Robot-A-Day is taking all my time/motivation/effort in the blogging sphere.  I barely keep it updated.

But just so you don't feel like I've disappeared, here's a view of yesterday's living room/school room/dumping ground.

It was a post-apocalyptic/show/need-to-mail-stuff-to-Wichita-store disaster area.  I cleaned most of it up, and I found my desk!  But, boy, I'm exhausted. 

Hey, why don't I homeschool (for the first time ever) three different grades this year, start a Make Something 365 art project, and deal with a loudly opinionated, fast-moving tornado of destruction who is masquerading as a baby?

Sounds like a plan.

Shoulda, Woulda, Coulda

I'm experiencing guilt about not creating actual robots right now.  Between the Robot-A-Day project and homeschooling, I don't seem to find much time for hangin' in the workshop.

I just found out yesterday I got into the Maple Leaf Festival, so I need to get working now--you know, in order to avoid that panic-stricken, sleep-deprived couple of days before the event.

But I need to do a lot of things.  See?

There's piles and piles of stuff that need attention, and none of 'em look very fun.  Stupid life.

Week 2

First Day of School

Tomorrow starts Week 2 of The Great Homeschool Adventure.  We did, in fact, survive Week 1.  There were a few bumps along the way, but it seemed to go alright overall.

 

Cam really enjoyed it.

We tried to learn about descriptive words by putting a bag on one kid's head and having the other two describe the object using their 5 senses.  This is Jedi-5 smelling the object for reference. 

Ah, how studious!  Notice how Jedi-8's leg is a blur.  He is in constant motion.

This week, we're going to include a field trip for Science.  I'm also trying to figure out how to add in forced-slave-labor in my workshop.  Does that fall under the subject of Science or Math somehow? 

I miss my drill press.

Doomsday Looms

Tomorrow, I start homeschooling.  While I have a myriad of perfectly good reasons to back up my homeschooling decision, the 90% of me that's non-rational is slightly frightened.

I'm not so good with the unknown.  Or failure.  Or, let's face it, a positive outlook.

I hope I can get Jedi-8 to pay attention and Jedi-10 to be challenged.  As for Jedi-5, I just hope I don't forget to teach him something . . . especially with reliable, 'ole cranky-pants Jedi-0 in the mix.

I hope we make it through that all-important first day, no worse for the wear.

Mostly, I hope I remember to enjoy my boys.  They grow up way too fast.

OverRated

Sometimes I think vacations are overrated.  When you're getting close to the end and you can't remember what day of the week it is or why they call these things vacation, you know it's about time to get back to regular life.

Besides, I miss my drill press.

Woo-Hoo?

I was so excited to see that this blog and our other two projects (a-robot-a-day.blogspot.com and a-baseball-a-day.blogspot.com) each had a new "follower."  I mean, I'm now broadcasting to 10 whole people from this blog alone!!

Then I clicked on the followers and saw it was my mom.

Thanks, Mom.  Though it's a little like having you tell me I'm a winner in your book. 

An Offer You Can't Refuse

I would like our Suburban cleaned . . . particularly the inside. 

But I'm not talking minimum-wage-who-really-cares-"full-service"-carwash-clean.  I want it seriously clean.

Like if-a-mob-boss-had-whacked-a-guy-in-the-car-and-told-his-flunkies-they-had-to-clean-it-so-well-that-CSI-techs-wouldn't-find-even-the-slightest-trace-of-DNA-or-they-would-be-the-next-ones-whacked.

That kind of clean.

This Week's Sign of the Apocolypse

This is a REAL product being sold so your baby/toddler can watch an ipad or tablet while in the stroller.

A Change is Gonna Come

There's lots of rearranging going on in my house right now.  It's revealed a whole lot of dirt (and piles of dog hair).

-I live in filth.-

The first project was trying to set up a "School Room" to accommodate my admittedly-crazy idea of homeschooling three of my boys this year.  That, of course, involved buying a new kitchen table.  (Because . . . we're a freakin' family of 6 now.  So unless I automatically send 1-2 kids to bed without supper when we have guests over, we're plumb-outta room.)

Problem is, I'm not much of a decision-maker.  I like to think endlessly about a single decision, waffle back and forth for a while, then make a snap judgment out of complete frustration.

Frustration got the best of me last week.  I gave up waiting for the perfect secondhand table and just averted my eyes when I handed over my credit card at World Market.

Now my computer desk is moved (creating a small igloo of coolness under the desk where the vent is trapped), a bookcase has been relocated from my bedroom, and the old kitchen table is a school table.

My dad/hero assembled the new table this afternoon, while the benches and chairs await my husband tonight.

Upon reflection, I don't think I'm going to allow the boys to eat at the new table . . . ever.  It's much too nice.

And I think I may hang a little curtain from the desk so I can hide from the boys in the igloo.  Shhhhh.

It's Never Too Early for a Drill Press

I was perusing toys for my nine-month-old Jedi and found this:

In what world, do parents want to buy their kid a toy that sucks up balls and then shoots them out at unsuspecting siblings? 

I did, however, come across this:

Why, yes--yes, that is a drill press!

If it didn't look quite so obnoxious and didn't obviously produce endless annoying sounds, I would almost consider getting it.  It is a drill press after all.

That Silly Norman

Two weeks completed in my Make 365 Challenge! 

I've found myself thinking about robots even more (if that's possible).  You know, like when I'm laying down trying to sneak in a nap, but can't fall asleep because that would just be too easy now, wouldn't it?

It's a good excuse for me to try new things.  Look what I made with Picassa (said in the sing-songy voice of a toddler's "Look what I can do!").

Pretty exciting, huh?

Now if only I could complete some of the things on my actual To-Do List instead of screwing around with photoshop . . .

Sorry?

So it's been a while.  I've been distracted.  Baseball, babies, books, brocrastination (at least it's a new variation on my very old theme!).

Good news is I've started a new project!  I've been apprehensive about sharing the news with anyone--you know, with my track record of general failure.  But today, I'm biting the bullet (yes, more B's!).

My boys and I have begun two exciting, stupendous, mind-boggling projects.  Check them out here:
www.a-robot-a-day.blogspot.com
www.a-baseball-a-day.blogspot.com

[Qualifier:  I'm just letting you know ahead of time that I'm not good at posting every day, but I do promise we're doing the actual creating every day.  ]

Follow our progress . . . and prepare your mind to be boggled.

Someone Organize My Life - Please!

So my life is a disaster.  I know, I know--I complain a lot, particularly about the mess that is my home.  But this time, I really mean it.

The level of disorganization has sunk to a new low.  Every room in this house has a sliding pile of papers, a jumble of random toys, or a pile of dirty, smelly, boy socks.  It's disheartening, to say the least.

Recently, I bought a book on organization.  Because that's all I really need.  A book.

When I uncovered it a few days ago from a pile of other unread books (which are, incidentally, each their own solution to every problem I've ever had), I had an inkling of motivation.

The book's introduction was great--stirring, motivating, energizing.

I can clean.  I can purge.  I can organize.

Or, at least, I can get on the internet and browse closet organization systems.




Let me tell you, the euphoria's already fading.  Maybe I'll just torch the place and start over.  

Going Small . . .

My Annoying Little Sister

Before I became the wise, tolerant, exceptionally mature person I am now, I spent a fair portion of time complaining about, tormenting, and ostracizing my little sister.

She is nine years younger. 

I mean, let's face it, it was kind of her fault.  She didn't exactly set a good tone from the very beginning--she wasn't the brother I'd planned on.  I asked Mom and Dad if we could call her Jezebel, but no one seemed to hear me.  They were too busy squealing over the new baby.

Fast forward about 10 years.

Adulthood has a way of changing your perspective.  Turns out, my little sister is actually quite likeable.  She's quirky and funny, intelligent and kind, and, overall, a pretty great person.

 So here's the problem:  she's decided to grow up and leave me. 

She just got her Master's Degree and thinks it's time to venture off into the world, become a real person, blah, blah, blah.  So she goes and accepts a job in Florida.

Florida!  I live in Kansas.  (Admittedly, I didn't do well in geography, but I think that's about 3 gazillion miles away.)

I've been working through the 5 stages of grief.  I think I'm through the Denial part, I've definitely been Angry, and, believe me, I've tried Bargaining with her.  So, here I am, wallowing in the bottomless pit of Depression, experiencing an occasional thunderstorm of Anger.

Acceptance can bite it.  Whatever "it" is.

Little sister, in the craft show world alone, you've been my seeing eye dog, heavily-laden pack mule, and fellow dying animal noise.  (She'll understand that, even if you don't.)  I can't even begin to go into all the other things you've been to me.

I know she's not exactly dying and leaving the world forever, but when you live out in the country with four rowdy boys and limited, enjoyable adult interaction, it sure seems like this move is EPIC-ly bad.

I love you, little sister.  If Florida mysteriously gets detached from the North American continent and drifts off to sea, I think there's a 4th bedroom here with your name on it.  I'm just saying.

Ode To My Mother

Mother's Day was yesterday, and I'm pretty sure I failed at making her day in any way special.  Although I did see her, I didn't do much more than be my sarcastic self.  I even forgot to bring her the present I had.  

This isn't my first failure.  My mom and I had a tumultuous relationship growing up--mostly because I knew everything and she didn't.  That, and we had different ideas about the basic elements of daily life.  You know, like what was edible food and what wasn't, whether or not black grime under fingernails was acceptable, and why I had to school every day.

It took going to college to figure out that perhaps--just perhaps--she wasn't actually the Wicked Witch of the West (although she does have a "look" that we still call the "Wicked Witch look").  Of course, this paradigm-shift didn't happen overnight, but, eventually, I did figure out an important truth:

Mom is Mom, and she loves me.

I might even love her. 

Don't get me wrong.  She still drives me crazy, and there's a LOT of things we disagree about.  I certainly haven't been able to give up my enjoyment of pushing her buttons or, in any way, curbed my smart-alecky tongue.  But I think we might have an understanding, an understanding that, despite all evidence to the contrary, we do love each other.  And that's progress.  Believe me, that's serious progress.

So today, on Not Mother's Day, I'd like to publicly tell my mom thank you.

Thank you for your frequent attempts to sweep up the dog hair wafting across my wood floors.  Thank you for listening to my irrational ranting and raving when I haven't had enough adult contact.  Thank you for showing me that the boys' dirty laundry basket actually does have a bottom and isn't the black hole I've always suspected.  Thank you for accepting that I hate your pink purse and not being mad when I don't notice your new make-up.

(Oh, and thank you for not requesting a child transfer when I was growing up.)

Thank you for everything you do.  I love you, Mom.

My Son, the Robot Maker

So posting has not been my strong-suit of late.  However, I've been meaning to post these pictures of my little assistant's very own robot. 

His preschool had a "Recycled Robot Show."  (Graciously, I decided to keep my robot-building-profession under wraps, so as not to intimidate the other mothers and their children.)  But I had lots of ideas, including a robot with awesome slinky arms that was bigger than Jedi-5 and could roll in on roller skates.  I was very excited.

Upon hearing of my plans, my astute younger sister advised me NOT to take over the process in the same way my father had often taken over our school science fair exhibits.  So I did my best to step back, let him pick the parts, assemble his creation, and--much to my chagrin--glue on googly eyes.  Lots of googly eyes. 

I, of course, still pulled rank when it came to the drill press.  Safety goggles or no safety goggles.

The finished product.  A veritable masterpiece.

Makes a Mama Proud

While I couldn't get the whole thing to scan, the important part is there.  Boy, I'm glad he didn't think to put "My mama wants to sleep all the time."

Hats--Not Just for the Kentucky Derby

This Easter, I was sorely disappointed by the lack of Easter hats at the church service I attended.  Didn't there used to be an Easter hat tradition?

Unfortuantely, this wanton disregard for head coverings made of shiny, wicker-like material appears to transcend religious factions.  I asked a friend of mine if she saw any Easter hats at her church; and she, sadly, had not.  Not a single one.

Now, some of you may say this rant is woefully hypocritical because my head was bare as well--but, in my defense, I didn't have any feathers or fake flowers on hand with which to decorate my baseball cap.  I'm also under the age of 60. 

I had thought I could depend on those mature, fashionable women who have the confidence to flaunt an oversized, gaudy hat in style.  Where have they gone?  Where, I ask you?!

So I'm making a New Year's resolution.  (Yes, in April.)  I'm on a mission to bring back the institiution of the Easter hat.  Something tasteful will do.  Something along the lines of this perhaps.

(Pink has always been my color.)

With a little luck (and a few hot glue guns), I predict a future of Easter happiness: 

May we all be as happy in our hats!

Thank Goodness for Instructions!

McDonald's Green Lantern Glasses

Inappropriate Play:

 Particularly Inappropriate Play (Not Intended for Children Under the Age of 3):

Appropriate Play:

 

Thank goodness for that instruction sheet!