Christmas Sparkle

We made Christmas cards yesterday.

Gifts for the teachers, that they wouldn't feel obligated to keep forever and if they did at least it is easy storage. Plus, it's the added bonus of something to put cash in and so I don't feel like we didn't try to be creative.

The girls absolutely loved it though, and they turned out so cute.  It was actually an exercise in giving up control for me too, but in the end it was awesome.  I'm so glad I just took a step back and let them do their thing.

They turned out perfect.

The Fish

She paints me.

This vivid little girl.

Clare is blossoming, exploding!, right before our eyes. Sentences are coming together. Thoughts and phrases we don't expect to be coming from her. Sometimes, when I am on the receiving end of phone calls, I can't tell the girls apart.

Clare hugs and giggles with such passion. She narrows her eyes and deliberates. She is busting out toddler jigsaw puzzles like a champ. And she is enthralled with art.

She paints me with her imagination, literally, from head to toe. She names body parts on her journey: hair, eyes, neck, elbow, button, knee, toes.

Her artists pallet? Why a wooden fish and soy sauce of course.

Making A Difference, One Cube at a Time

I don't have many hits to this blog. I am OK with that. I am amazed by the fact that ANYONE reads this dribble about our lives and Gracie's shoes, and am blown away that readers from NES's blog have wandered over to read mine.

Sometimes readers come from unlikely sources though... like Matt's 20-something coworkers. Yeah Jasson, I'm talking about you. He was apparently enthralled by this post. Maybe it is because I didn't write anything else for over a week, so he had plenty of time to stare at the sad clown. Maybe he gets some sort of perverse pleasure from the forlorn.

Either way, he made a request for the clown and it now has a new home in a non-descript beige government cubicle.

And I'm glad to be of service to the select few who spend their time reading these pages, and I like to think that we are making a difference. Let me know if anyone else needs some 2 year old art to adorn their walls.

One of These Things

You know the song:

One of these things is not like the others;

One of these things just doesn't belong...

That is totally what my first thought was after I got over the willies of seeing a new wall display of clowns crafted by Gracie's daycare class.

Look at the picture. They are all basically the same except for one. All but one have smiles on their faces. One clown is a sad clown.

Guess who's daughter made the sad clown? Yep. Right here.

Her teacher said Gracie was very upset that she didn't get the mouth right, that hers was different. I tend to think it is her way of telling me that she doesn't like clowns either, without having to put me through the trauma of seeing one in person.

Tomorrow, Tomorrow

After all the snow and gloom, the sun has finally come out.

It was shocking to see the brilliant gleam bouncing against the white of the snow and through our windows. I'd almost forgotten what it looked like, and why this is my favorite possession in the house.

The chandelier was a birthday gift from Matt years ago. I had coveted it for months and bought it for me on the sly. It was a point of contention when we sold our townhouse and moved to our current single family. The buyers thought it was a fixture that would stay with the house. I thought I would rather stay in the house then leave my beloved piece of wrought iron behind.

I won. (Obviously) Over the years, Matt's dad has taken up the tradition of gifting me the new annual Swarovski crystal Christmas ornament.

Last year I decided they were too beautiful to only put on a tree for a little over a month. Now they permanently reside on my chandelier, filling our dining room with a million rainbows on sunny afternoons.

Ahh... the calm after all the storms. And we are greeted with rainbows.

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In the Eye of the Beholder

When I picked Grace up from daycare yesterday, this is what she looked like.


I think they are using our children as slave labor to recreate a toddler version of the Sistine Chapel ceiling.

And despite the teacher's reassurance that the paint is all washable, we have now run that outfit through the washer 3 times.