I know the Wizard of Oz. His name is Yuriy. And he speaks with marbles in his mouth.
Actually, I don't know what Yuriy holds above the chin, that interferes with the more regular flow of English, but his is far from the average intonation in my neck of the woods. In fact, his sound is unique even among speakers in HIS (admittedly much more cosmopolitan) neck of the woods.
Yuriy networks computers for a living. When he's adding a function or tweaking the system that allows me to work from home, his name can roll off my lips like a curse: "YUR-EEEEEE!! WHY, Yuriy, WHY??"
After his efforts knock me off the network and I come to the end of my limited problem-solving ability, I email and he calls to problem-solve over the phone. When I see the familiar number after the 212 area code, his name can ring in my head like church bells. Sound the celebration! Deliverance is at hand! "Yuriy! Hello! Thanks for calling!"
I'm still a touch disturbed, but overwhelmingly relieved, when Yuriy takes over my screen and begins to move my cursor. Windows flash and muttering ensues ("Uu, mah Gut! Mah Gut! Jhest a mee-net. Jhest, jheest...") He adjusts things I cannot see behind the curtain of my computer.
Yuriy could be chanting incantations and making animal sacrifices for all I know about what he does to keep us in business. It's very much like he's a wizard in a little room, pushing buttons none of us see and altering his voice to make following his directions not for the faint of heart.
Given the differences in our minds and make-ups, I have come to SO like and respect my wizard! Yuriy knows his stuff. He's patient (as he has to be when I can't find the "help" pull-down), and he's diligent. I suspect Yuriy is razor-sharp smart, as well. Today, he solved a problem for me and I asked, spontaneously, something I have never asked him: "What did you DO?" There was an obvious silence; he made some aborted noise in his throat, and then there was no answer. I like to think Yuriy considered -- just for a millisecond -- telling me. Then he knew it was hopeless to try. But it's better this way. Sometimes, our curtains shouldn't be pulled open.
Just a girl, asking for grace, to survive her happily-ever-after.
11.30.2005
Out of the Blue
PART I: EVENING, 11/29/05
Son: "Did you know that C3PO is RPD2's (sic) dad?"
Father: "Well, not exactly..."
Son, interrupting: "Yeah-huh! It's true! They're a robot family."
Then, muttering to himself, "And C3PO is the tall one! Uh, huh! Uh-huh! Of COURSE he's the daddy!"
PART II: MORNING, 11/30/05
Son: "Isn't red your favorite color, Mom? Christian's fvorite color is brown, but I don't know why, because that is the color of POOP!"
Mother: "Oh, son, what are some nicer things you can think of to say about that color?"
Son: "Well, weeell... it's the part of the tree that holds the leaves on. But green is my favorite color. Because leaves are green, and leaves are so much nicer than poop."
Mother: Muttering to herself: "Whatever, Y-chromosome....."
Son: "Did you know that C3PO is RPD2's (sic) dad?"
Father: "Well, not exactly..."
Son, interrupting: "Yeah-huh! It's true! They're a robot family."
Then, muttering to himself, "And C3PO is the tall one! Uh, huh! Uh-huh! Of COURSE he's the daddy!"
PART II: MORNING, 11/30/05
Son: "Isn't red your favorite color, Mom? Christian's fvorite color is brown, but I don't know why, because that is the color of POOP!"
Mother: "Oh, son, what are some nicer things you can think of to say about that color?"
Son: "Well, weeell... it's the part of the tree that holds the leaves on. But green is my favorite color. Because leaves are green, and leaves are so much nicer than poop."
Mother: Muttering to herself: "Whatever, Y-chromosome....."
11.22.2005
My Boy, My Boy...
Time to do some documentation. Primary resources, as we all know, are the lifeblood of history. :) In the interest of documenting the references and interests of a turn-of-the-twenty-first-century child, here are several Miles anecdotes of late....
MANNA FROM HEAVEN?
Sometime yesterday afternoon, I overheard this monologue from small son. (Yes, he narrates most of what he does... It's kinda like the Truman Show: All Miles, All of the Time.)
"I want a Pop Tart!" (rumble, rustle, sound of scraping chair and opening cabinet.) But we have no Pop Tarts. (DEEP sigh.) I guess they were out of 'em at the store. I guess the whole store had NONE of Pop Tarts, so no other boys and girls could buy them. ...OH NO! But don't worry, God will make more Pop Tarts."
COMMERCIAL CONNOISSEUR
Over the weekend, I receive this small sign that I have been TOO LAX with my monitoring of Miles' TV time. (And strong evidence that he is the one changing the channel from PBS to the much more commercial Playhouse Disney.)
M: Mommie: Can I have a giant knight castle with a real dragon for my birthday?
Me: Well, honey, you can have one BIG toy for your birthday, whichever one you want when your birthday is closer. Let's wait and see what you want later, OK?
M: OK. But Can I also get toys for Christmas?
Me: Yes, hon. I think you will get plenty of toys. What else do you want?
M: Oh! One of those big machine toys for big boys that fights like THIS (pause for demonstration). And two more light savers for when my friends come over to play. And some of those turtle things -- those really cool nin- nin-ley turtles, with the green and red light-up things. Oh! And one of those flowers that spins around and around and shoots the little person out... but, Mom, (in a clear and instructive voice) BATTERIES ARE NOT INCLUDED with these products.
Geez!
I DON'T KNOW, BUT I THINK HIS SPIDEY SENSES ARE TINGLING!
My grandmother, whom Miles calls GiGi, is fixated with just-add-water products. She has given us two washclothes and several of those tiny capsule sponges that grow in water. This week, she hit the moterlode! She found a tiny, keychain Spiderman that will balloon to 6 times his original size in water, can then be dried out, shrunk down and will grow again. We find this fascinating. We now have a fish bowl in the bathroom, so we can submerge Spidey and track his growth. This was the conversation when the superhero first went in the drink:
M: Oh! Oh! I think he is growing already!
Me: Well, maybe.
M: I see his little leg moving. Yes! It is moving!
Me: Well, he does have bubbles coming off of him. Look, Miles! Really close to where his arm meets his leg. Do you see the bubbles?
M: Yeah. (distracted.) But what is JEST a little worrying me.... I hope he can swim!
MANNA FROM HEAVEN?
Sometime yesterday afternoon, I overheard this monologue from small son. (Yes, he narrates most of what he does... It's kinda like the Truman Show: All Miles, All of the Time.)
"I want a Pop Tart!" (rumble, rustle, sound of scraping chair and opening cabinet.) But we have no Pop Tarts. (DEEP sigh.) I guess they were out of 'em at the store. I guess the whole store had NONE of Pop Tarts, so no other boys and girls could buy them. ...OH NO! But don't worry, God will make more Pop Tarts."
COMMERCIAL CONNOISSEUR
Over the weekend, I receive this small sign that I have been TOO LAX with my monitoring of Miles' TV time. (And strong evidence that he is the one changing the channel from PBS to the much more commercial Playhouse Disney.)
M: Mommie: Can I have a giant knight castle with a real dragon for my birthday?
Me: Well, honey, you can have one BIG toy for your birthday, whichever one you want when your birthday is closer. Let's wait and see what you want later, OK?
M: OK. But Can I also get toys for Christmas?
Me: Yes, hon. I think you will get plenty of toys. What else do you want?
M: Oh! One of those big machine toys for big boys that fights like THIS (pause for demonstration). And two more light savers for when my friends come over to play. And some of those turtle things -- those really cool nin- nin-ley turtles, with the green and red light-up things. Oh! And one of those flowers that spins around and around and shoots the little person out... but, Mom, (in a clear and instructive voice) BATTERIES ARE NOT INCLUDED with these products.
Geez!
I DON'T KNOW, BUT I THINK HIS SPIDEY SENSES ARE TINGLING!
My grandmother, whom Miles calls GiGi, is fixated with just-add-water products. She has given us two washclothes and several of those tiny capsule sponges that grow in water. This week, she hit the moterlode! She found a tiny, keychain Spiderman that will balloon to 6 times his original size in water, can then be dried out, shrunk down and will grow again. We find this fascinating. We now have a fish bowl in the bathroom, so we can submerge Spidey and track his growth. This was the conversation when the superhero first went in the drink:
M: Oh! Oh! I think he is growing already!
Me: Well, maybe.
M: I see his little leg moving. Yes! It is moving!
Me: Well, he does have bubbles coming off of him. Look, Miles! Really close to where his arm meets his leg. Do you see the bubbles?
M: Yeah. (distracted.) But what is JEST a little worrying me.... I hope he can swim!
11.18.2005
Memoirs, Week 2
(Disclaimer: Though it wasn't, this SHOULD have been posted on Nov. 18, as I MEANT to do it just after my second memoir class. I won't even tell you how much later than that I am, but I will admit to playing omnipotent and changing the date so it appears on 11-18-05. My three regular readers will, then, miss seeing it, but it'll be saved for posterity. :))
Class Writing: Object Lesson.
(After some guided note taking, we got 5 minutes to explain/ decribe/ illuminate a significant object from our pasts.)
Junk. Jettisoned junk. It looks like nothing more than flea-market fodder, the short wooden chair that perches at an angle in the corner of my carport. But it makes me smile -- if not laugh out loud -- with the memory of a near-perfect family outing every time I stop to wipe dust off it.
The chair came to me from the Baker Hotel in Mineral Wells, Texas. Decades ago, the Baker was a destination for the infirmed but well-to-do, a place to soak up the famous healing spring water of the city.
I never saw the Baker -- or the chair -- in their heyday. In fact, both were in serious disrepair by the time my grandparents, parents and I pulled up in Dot's Honda Accord one bright August morning in the early '90s. A low chain sagged across one of the wide, broken concrete drives and overgrowth shaded the hulking hole of the main pool. It seemed a good spot for birds or at least squirrels, but no fauna of any sort seemed to interrupt the entropy-in-progress. All was quiet, still and solemn and mausoleum-like, until the pilfering began.
Class Writing: Object Lesson.
(After some guided note taking, we got 5 minutes to explain/ decribe/ illuminate a significant object from our pasts.)
Junk. Jettisoned junk. It looks like nothing more than flea-market fodder, the short wooden chair that perches at an angle in the corner of my carport. But it makes me smile -- if not laugh out loud -- with the memory of a near-perfect family outing every time I stop to wipe dust off it.
The chair came to me from the Baker Hotel in Mineral Wells, Texas. Decades ago, the Baker was a destination for the infirmed but well-to-do, a place to soak up the famous healing spring water of the city.
I never saw the Baker -- or the chair -- in their heyday. In fact, both were in serious disrepair by the time my grandparents, parents and I pulled up in Dot's Honda Accord one bright August morning in the early '90s. A low chain sagged across one of the wide, broken concrete drives and overgrowth shaded the hulking hole of the main pool. It seemed a good spot for birds or at least squirrels, but no fauna of any sort seemed to interrupt the entropy-in-progress. All was quiet, still and solemn and mausoleum-like, until the pilfering began.
11.14.2005
Dreams & Memoirs
I was hanging at RealLivePreacher this morning (a regular tactic for work-avoidance), where I read the Preach's post and a fairly deep discussion following, about dreams.
I wasn't sure my own recent, vivid dream was serious enough to be thrown into the hat there, but I decided I should record it somewhere. (Oh, my lucky blog! Home to the flotsam and jetsom of my mind....)
So I dreamed that I owned an ice rink. A REAL ice rink. With frozen water and hockey nets and the free use of scarves with skate rental. Kids and adults came and went, all chilled fingers and happy faces, while I puttered happily away at my rink, working while on skates. I took money and did paperwork behind a counter, then slipped onto the ice to illustrate some move to a class of kids. I heard a song I liked and made someone turn it up. And we frolicked and played in my winter wonderland.
I'm pretty sure this mythical ice rink was in East Texas, because of the huge well of pride and contentment I felt in the dream. It was like I knew my venture was already a success, and that I'd planted something out of place here and had made it at home.
My ice rink also had a coffee shop. With bakery snacks! This seemed a perfect innovation, because who can resist hot liquids and hearty muffins? And what worldly perks do I like more than winter accessories and lattes? Oh, not much!
(Now WHY did the ice rinks I used in Colorado not have coffee shops attached? Silly people -- completely missing the boat!)
I woke up certain that we should build an ice rink. "Build it and they will come," you know... But I am not Kevin Costner. Nor am I Sahsa Cohen. And I don't even like being cold. My nose runs.
So, what does it mean? I do not know. It was, after all, just a dream...
In other news, I have started a memoir class. Yep, me and 8 old people! (No disrespect. I LIKE old people.) We'll meet once a week at my church, with the most marvelous teacher, for six weeks. Each week we'll learn a little more about what defines a memoir, how to craft one, how to hold it together. So far, we read from books and made lists. And then we get a writing assignment (all in one hour, too!). This week's assignment was "tell me something about your name." And this is what I wrote.
Two Kathleens bequeathed my middle name, each a monument to strength, both bold and steely sorts. I might never have escaped the long shadows cast, except that my normally meek mother pulled off a 4th-quarter conversion. She's the one who, just before delivery, introduced something new to the name mix.
Before she spoke, back when I was the unknown, unshaped first-born on-the-way, the name chosen for a girl was Savannah. Pleasant. Southern. Savannah Kathleen. Then my sweet Mom, Kay -- as clear of heart as short of name -- decided I would be called Ginger.
She couldn't know then how many poodles and miniature Dachshunds would later share the name. That Ginger is shorthand for "red-haired" in Britain. She had no foreglimpse of the fifth-grade me standing in class, crossing my arms, and loudly pouting, "The only people who share my name are dogs and hookers!"
But I like to think Kay knew her girl might not fit the Savannah profile. That she suspected, early on, the wee little me needed something that could become all my own. Certainly, she started something with that name. A certain breaking free....
I wasn't sure my own recent, vivid dream was serious enough to be thrown into the hat there, but I decided I should record it somewhere. (Oh, my lucky blog! Home to the flotsam and jetsom of my mind....)
So I dreamed that I owned an ice rink. A REAL ice rink. With frozen water and hockey nets and the free use of scarves with skate rental. Kids and adults came and went, all chilled fingers and happy faces, while I puttered happily away at my rink, working while on skates. I took money and did paperwork behind a counter, then slipped onto the ice to illustrate some move to a class of kids. I heard a song I liked and made someone turn it up. And we frolicked and played in my winter wonderland.
I'm pretty sure this mythical ice rink was in East Texas, because of the huge well of pride and contentment I felt in the dream. It was like I knew my venture was already a success, and that I'd planted something out of place here and had made it at home.
My ice rink also had a coffee shop. With bakery snacks! This seemed a perfect innovation, because who can resist hot liquids and hearty muffins? And what worldly perks do I like more than winter accessories and lattes? Oh, not much!
(Now WHY did the ice rinks I used in Colorado not have coffee shops attached? Silly people -- completely missing the boat!)
I woke up certain that we should build an ice rink. "Build it and they will come," you know... But I am not Kevin Costner. Nor am I Sahsa Cohen. And I don't even like being cold. My nose runs.
So, what does it mean? I do not know. It was, after all, just a dream...
In other news, I have started a memoir class. Yep, me and 8 old people! (No disrespect. I LIKE old people.) We'll meet once a week at my church, with the most marvelous teacher, for six weeks. Each week we'll learn a little more about what defines a memoir, how to craft one, how to hold it together. So far, we read from books and made lists. And then we get a writing assignment (all in one hour, too!). This week's assignment was "tell me something about your name." And this is what I wrote.
Two Kathleens bequeathed my middle name, each a monument to strength, both bold and steely sorts. I might never have escaped the long shadows cast, except that my normally meek mother pulled off a 4th-quarter conversion. She's the one who, just before delivery, introduced something new to the name mix.
Before she spoke, back when I was the unknown, unshaped first-born on-the-way, the name chosen for a girl was Savannah. Pleasant. Southern. Savannah Kathleen. Then my sweet Mom, Kay -- as clear of heart as short of name -- decided I would be called Ginger.
She couldn't know then how many poodles and miniature Dachshunds would later share the name. That Ginger is shorthand for "red-haired" in Britain. She had no foreglimpse of the fifth-grade me standing in class, crossing my arms, and loudly pouting, "The only people who share my name are dogs and hookers!"
But I like to think Kay knew her girl might not fit the Savannah profile. That she suspected, early on, the wee little me needed something that could become all my own. Certainly, she started something with that name. A certain breaking free....
11.08.2005
Car Talk
I swear I need a recorder in the car! Some pretty weirdly funny things are said, and it's SO hard for me to retain them from errand A to Z and back again. Today's partial recap, between school and Hobby Lobby and home:
Son: Do you know why Darth Vader's light saver (sic) is red?
Mom: Um, no...
Son: Because he loves the color red, jeest a little bit. That's why!
Do you know why Darth Vader's skin is all black?
Mom: Umm, why?
Son: Because he loves the color black MOST!
Mom: Actually, hon, I don't know if his skin IS black. I think his COSTUME is what's black. Have you noticed he wears gloves and long clothes and a mask, and you haven't ever seen his skin?
Son: That's right!
...I KNOW WHO IT IS! Who's in there! It is... SPIDERMAN!!
Mom: Are you saying Spiderman is inside the Darth Vader costume?
Son: Yeah! Yeah! Do you know why? It's because he is JEST a little concerned that arm-pincher guy is going to dis-, dis-, dis-TURB him, or bother him some.
So he is inside the Darth Vader costume, because Darth Vader is scary!
Son: Do you know why Darth Vader's light saver (sic) is red?
Mom: Um, no...
Son: Because he loves the color red, jeest a little bit. That's why!
Do you know why Darth Vader's skin is all black?
Mom: Umm, why?
Son: Because he loves the color black MOST!
Mom: Actually, hon, I don't know if his skin IS black. I think his COSTUME is what's black. Have you noticed he wears gloves and long clothes and a mask, and you haven't ever seen his skin?
Son: That's right!
...I KNOW WHO IT IS! Who's in there! It is... SPIDERMAN!!
Mom: Are you saying Spiderman is inside the Darth Vader costume?
Son: Yeah! Yeah! Do you know why? It's because he is JEST a little concerned that arm-pincher guy is going to dis-, dis-, dis-TURB him, or bother him some.
So he is inside the Darth Vader costume, because Darth Vader is scary!
Lists, Schmists
I need to make a list, so, hey, why not make it here?
TO DO TODAY
1. mail 2 baby presents & 2 belated birthday presents
2. mail swatch card & brochure to two accounts
3. record receipts in checkbook (need new register)
4. meeting 6 p.m.
5. SEND GROUP EMAIL REMINDER for Bible study
THIS WEEK
1. FINISH painting entryway shelves
2. make felt/ burlap Jesse tree by Friday lunch
3. find car repair shop
4. make candies/ baked goods for church bazaar -- must shop for packaging
5. lunch meet on Friday
6. 4 p.m. Friday bazaar set-up
7. Sunday food delivery
STILL TO DO
1. mail in boarding passes for frequent flyer credit -- find acct #!
2. book dentist appt for crown work (ugh!)
Oh, let's stop here. To dos suck!
Serendipitously, however, quite another list comes to my mind. I'm listening to 80s and 90s hits via iTunes, and checking a thread about favorite quotes on my industry bulletin board, while I compile today's blog entry. The combination of activities (who says hypertasking is bad?) leads me to a newer, happier list called "Things I used to love, had temporarily forgotten, but am selectively reliving:"
* "Make it so, Number 1."
* country music
* OMD, erasure, Sugar and James
* A "run for the border" -- or Whataburger taquitos with sausage and cheese, oh my!
* accessorizing, especially in winter
* novels at night
* a cat in the house
* short hair (so far, not brave enough to go back)
* vodka martinis (OK, no good martinis on the horizon at the kind of restuarants I frequent, but I can recall, can't I?)
Gotta get to work. It's a bittersweet symphony, that's life. You try to make ends meet; you're a slave to the money then you die...
(I'm still listening to iTunes. Might better stop before I answer the phone with an inappropriate song playing. "I can give you what you want but you got to come home with me. I got some good old lovin' and I got some honest dough..." Yeah. No.)
TO DO TODAY
1. mail 2 baby presents & 2 belated birthday presents
2. mail swatch card & brochure to two accounts
3. record receipts in checkbook (need new register)
4. meeting 6 p.m.
5. SEND GROUP EMAIL REMINDER for Bible study
THIS WEEK
1. FINISH painting entryway shelves
2. make felt/ burlap Jesse tree by Friday lunch
3. find car repair shop
4. make candies/ baked goods for church bazaar -- must shop for packaging
5. lunch meet on Friday
6. 4 p.m. Friday bazaar set-up
7. Sunday food delivery
STILL TO DO
1. mail in boarding passes for frequent flyer credit -- find acct #!
2. book dentist appt for crown work (ugh!)
Oh, let's stop here. To dos suck!
Serendipitously, however, quite another list comes to my mind. I'm listening to 80s and 90s hits via iTunes, and checking a thread about favorite quotes on my industry bulletin board, while I compile today's blog entry. The combination of activities (who says hypertasking is bad?) leads me to a newer, happier list called "Things I used to love, had temporarily forgotten, but am selectively reliving:"
* "Make it so, Number 1."
* country music
* OMD, erasure, Sugar and James
* A "run for the border" -- or Whataburger taquitos with sausage and cheese, oh my!
* accessorizing, especially in winter
* novels at night
* a cat in the house
* short hair (so far, not brave enough to go back)
* vodka martinis (OK, no good martinis on the horizon at the kind of restuarants I frequent, but I can recall, can't I?)
Gotta get to work. It's a bittersweet symphony, that's life. You try to make ends meet; you're a slave to the money then you die...
(I'm still listening to iTunes. Might better stop before I answer the phone with an inappropriate song playing. "I can give you what you want but you got to come home with me. I got some good old lovin' and I got some honest dough..." Yeah. No.)
11.07.2005
Halloween Rocks!
Oh, the sweetness of kids and candy! (Seven days & counting, and I'm still hoarding tiny containers of Junior Mints and Milk Duds.)
This Halloween, Miles went trick-or-treating for the first time, using his Darth Vader "light saver" as a flashlight. He learned the rules and now fervently believes that you only go to houses with the lights on, "also with decorations or nice people in the windows." He participated almost un-shyly and sometimes even said thanks to strangers! Meanwhile, it was cold enough for a scarf. But not so cold I was cursing under my breath before the treating ended. (In Colorado once, on a half-hour loop with a co-workers' children, there was cursing.) It drizzled. But not so much my outer fleece got soggy, and just enough to curl my hair. We got to hang out in a wonderful friend's garage, in a wonderfully friendly neighborhood, and meet a few new people. I ate a chili dog. ...It was all good!
With lots of similar garages open, and many grills or fire pits attended by neighborhood moms and dads, the night had a Norman Rockwell feel. It made me think about Halloween when I was a kid, and I started a little (yet unfinished) essay on that topic.
Now, it's a whole week after Halloween and I'm not sure where the time went. We still have lots of pumpkins, uncarved, so we are contemplating making Indian- and Pilgrim-o-Lanterns for the next holiday. (Exactly how would one do this? I cannot say, except that construction paper is probably involved.) Miles was talking to me about carving the pumpkins earlier today, and he said "it is sometimes better to use paper, because cutting is very messy! And you haffa use SHARP knives, also. And that is dangerous." (This he learned from his class unit on pumpkins, in which they cut one open and made art with the seeds. Smelly, smelly seed art.)
In other news, Miles is looking forward to his next birthday, and being 5. I reminded him that he will only be 4 and he said, "yeah, I know. But I will be five AFTER four. And six after that!" And, as he just told me while I type, "when I am 20, I will be bigger than EVERYBODY! We'll prob-bla-ly get a new house, a bigger one, when I am 20, because my head will prob-bla-ly be pokin' out this roof!"
Prob-bla-ly.
This Halloween, Miles went trick-or-treating for the first time, using his Darth Vader "light saver" as a flashlight. He learned the rules and now fervently believes that you only go to houses with the lights on, "also with decorations or nice people in the windows." He participated almost un-shyly and sometimes even said thanks to strangers! Meanwhile, it was cold enough for a scarf. But not so cold I was cursing under my breath before the treating ended. (In Colorado once, on a half-hour loop with a co-workers' children, there was cursing.) It drizzled. But not so much my outer fleece got soggy, and just enough to curl my hair. We got to hang out in a wonderful friend's garage, in a wonderfully friendly neighborhood, and meet a few new people. I ate a chili dog. ...It was all good!
With lots of similar garages open, and many grills or fire pits attended by neighborhood moms and dads, the night had a Norman Rockwell feel. It made me think about Halloween when I was a kid, and I started a little (yet unfinished) essay on that topic.
Now, it's a whole week after Halloween and I'm not sure where the time went. We still have lots of pumpkins, uncarved, so we are contemplating making Indian- and Pilgrim-o-Lanterns for the next holiday. (Exactly how would one do this? I cannot say, except that construction paper is probably involved.) Miles was talking to me about carving the pumpkins earlier today, and he said "it is sometimes better to use paper, because cutting is very messy! And you haffa use SHARP knives, also. And that is dangerous." (This he learned from his class unit on pumpkins, in which they cut one open and made art with the seeds. Smelly, smelly seed art.)
In other news, Miles is looking forward to his next birthday, and being 5. I reminded him that he will only be 4 and he said, "yeah, I know. But I will be five AFTER four. And six after that!" And, as he just told me while I type, "when I am 20, I will be bigger than EVERYBODY! We'll prob-bla-ly get a new house, a bigger one, when I am 20, because my head will prob-bla-ly be pokin' out this roof!"
Prob-bla-ly.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)