Shrinking Talent

Remember Shrinky Dinks?  Those homemade, fun creations that magically shrink when baked in the oven?  Did you make them when you were little?  Do you make them with your kids now?

I've always thought of Shrinky Dinks to be tailored more towards little girls, thus the reason I had never done them with the boys.

Until last week.

I was browsing through Michael's, looking for rainy snowy-day activities to do with the boys.  I came across Shrinky Dinks, which, to my surprise, showed all kinds of boyish creations and ideas on the front.  Excited for my upcoming Shrinky Dink adventure, I headed towards the checkout, armed with my weekly coupon.

It didn't take long for the perfect Shrinky Dink moment to come.  The one where two boys are arguing, one is complaining of world record boredom, while another quietly does his best to convince his little brother to allow him to duct tape him to a chair...."just for a minute."

Enter Shrinky Dinks.

"Shrinky huh?" they replied. 

Truth is, I had them at "you put them in the oven and watch them morph."  They were sold.  An added bonus was the fact that sharpies were required.  My boys and permanent markers = true love, happiness and joy.

Four out of five boys participated.  Mr. 5th grader was not about to be caught making something called a Shrinky Dink.  As for the rest of 'em, just look at how enthused they are! (Can you spot the boy who preferred to color the counter instead?)

The boys surprised me by spending a long time coloring.  I don't think they moved for 25 minutes.  Talk about a world record.  They finished coloring and we carefully placed their dinky creations into the oven.

That's when the flow of tears began.  They sadly watched their masterpieces turn into this-

I was bound and determined to reverse the direction in which this project was heading.  I sprinted to the garage and came running back, needle nose pliers (and other tools) in hand.  I remember a post my friend, Angie, did on Shrinky Dinks.  She described what to do if your creations began to curl.

 (A note about Angie-We went to high school together, and though I haven't seen her since the early 90's, we stay cyberly connected.  Angie is an amazing woman who makes everything look perfect and easy.  Her kids are always dressed in coordinating outfits, some of which, were sewn by Angie.  My kids?  Frequently seen running naked through the cul-de-sac.  My sewing machine?  I've been searching for the 'on' button for over a year now.) 

Per Angie's directions, I quickly attempted to pry the little buggers open.  This was all I got -

Enter more tears. You'd cry, too, if your coffin was curled. 

I slaved for the next 45 minutes (or more) trying to salvage their art.  In the end, only a ladybug, a heart, and a coffin survived.  They're not flat, they're certainly not pretty, and they look nothing like the examples on the front of the package.

The only thing that visibly shrunk that day (in perfect form) was my ego.  My boys also lost faith in me.  I can see it in their eyes every time I call them to the table for another craft.  They look at me as if to say, "this won't turn out like the Shrinky Dink project, will it?" 

Today for craft time, I'm thinking about making myself a t-shirt -  

I plan on embroidering the letters.  Just as soon as I can find that damn on button.

Have You Ever?

Have you ever been in one of those (seldom) cleaning moods where you get down and dirty with the dirt?  You know the mood I'm talking about.  The OCD type of cleaning mood where the tiniest crumb hiding in the corner of the pantry doesn't stand a chance.

Yeah....doesn't happen to me very often, either.

Two weeks ago, I found myself in the midst of a random cleaning marathon.  As I scrubbed crusted yogurt (and another substance strikingly similar to grits) from one of the legs of our kitchen table, I quickly found myself lying flat on my back. 

When I clean, I take no prisoners. 

Sponge in hand, I followed the trail of splattered yogurt, which led me further and further under the table, until I rested completely underneath.  Just as you would lie in a tall, grassy meadow and stare at the clouds passing by, I stared at the underside of our table.

The scrubbing came to an abrupt stop.  I found a treasure.

A mural.  (No doubt, created with Sharpies.)  As I studied the drawings, I located the artists signature and invited him to join me.  There we lay, under the table, while he pointed out the mountains, a rainbow, and several more mysteries hidden within his masterpiece.
Pointing to the center of the table, he said, "That's where I wrote my name for the first time."

Given the fact that our home is plentiful with paper, and many other resources for developing artists, I asked why he chose this location.  Why the underside of the kitchen table?

"Because the top is plain, and brown." he said.  "I wanted part of our table to be beautiful, and I wanted it to never erase, so that everyone who comes to our home can see it."

To my husband, who often questions my need to save every drawing, creation, craft, special article of clothing, first pair of shoes, and anything else nostalgically related to our boys, I say this-

Add the kitchen table to the list of things I shall never part with.

And to my brother, I say this-

See? I knew the day would come where one of my children would use a Sharpie for an acceptable purpose. 

Hello...?

Is anyone there?  I totally forgive you if you've moved on to bigger and better blogs.

I've spent the last week geeking out....chicken style.  You name it, I've read it (including Raising Chickens For Dummies).  You see, I only have 40 days to prepare before my 4 little girls (in the form of baby chicks) arrive.  There's SO much to do!  Prepare the yard, buy a coop, load up on supplies, etc., etc.  I'm so excited, that I'm seriously having a hard time containing myself.  While waiting for the checker at the grocery to bag my things last weekend, I had this overwhelming (tourette-like) urge to grab him by the shoulders and tell him, "I'm going to raise chickens in my backyard!  Do you hear me? 
 CHICKENS IN MY BACKYARD!"  In my mind, I pictured myself gently letting him go and telling him I'd be back with fresh eggs to share.

We ordered 4 different breeds.  All cold-hardy, and supposedly leaning more towards the friendlier side....we shall see.  This morning we visited the farm to check out their chickens.  Just to take a closer look and follow through with our ongoing research.  I had to pry the boys away from the coop.  Not joking.  They did not want to leave.  Logan and Jack have named two of the chickens at the farm (Snowy & Princy) and the 4 of them have developed quite the bond.  I'm still not joking.  These hens, and their flockish friends, come running whenever my boys talk 'chicken' with them.  It's a good feeling to know I'm not the only one displaying obsessive chicken behavior in this family.

Aside from chickens, I've been doing my best to keep the kids as busy as possible.  On Monday, we made kites and hung them from our kitchen ceiling.  It was a project that took 3 hours to complete, but was VERY worth every second.  It makes the house look fun and springy, and I hear the song 'Lets's Go Fly A Kite' every time I come around the corner.  Dorky?  I don't think so.  It's the little things that excite me.

Aside from kite-making, we've been busy coloring, doing play-doh, and spending every sunny second we can outside.  On Tuesday, I gave the boys washable markers and let them decorate their canvas tent.  They each had their own panel and drew (what they tell me were) Indian (oops...Native American) designs.  Wes's side was the only one with no color on it.

Aside from himself, Wes managed to find a sharpie in my Sunday school bag and color on my great-grandmother's ottoman later that day.  I really did think I had done a good job of hiding the sharpies.  Apparently not.

There you have it.  My brain is swirling with thoughts of springtime and chickens.  I long for the day when I look outside and see my coop and my chickens catching rays of sunshine in the backyard.  I long for the day a neighbor knocks on the door and asks to borrow an egg.  And I long to send one of my boys to the backyard to collect it.

Suburbia-your suffocating grasp on me is weakening by the minute.

Did I tell you I'm getting chickens?