Can't see the forest for the trees

100 points of light poking through the woodlands, which have been clearcut to give us this year's raft of important back-to-school information, are threatening to make me go blind. 

Honestly. No fewer than 100 pages of "Important" information have been sent to us from Kindy thus far.

The most important of which I probably didn't read. ... because of eye strain.

Which all makes me doubt my new central organization plan.

I'm not sure the magnets will stand up under the weight of dead trees.

Fluff and fold

She wants to earn money.

She wants to have a job.

So we gave her the laundry.

She's old enough. She interested. 

She's not a baby anymore. 

*Sniff-sniff.*

It's a good thing, I know. 

It might require us to accept shrunken clothes, pink whites and an occasional soap-suds flood but it will 

give her a sense of competence as well as accomplishment. It will introduce her to independence while showing her how a small contribution can benefit the whole.

It has also had an unexpected, trickle-down bonus.

"I helped Ittybit fold laundry and she gave me this," he tells me proudly, holding out his hand.

"This is my favorite lint ball, mom. Can you make sure the dog doesn't eat it?"

No bother ...

Made a couple of these this morning as a breakfast surprise.

Kids now want to eat oranges morning, noon and night.

It's not even much of a bother.

All you need is an orange, a knife and a 10 strategic cuts:





UPDATE:

With a toothpick, Ittybit improves the design:

Sew what?

Most of the time I have no idea what I'm doing.

I get some hair-brained scheme that has me staying up late at night trying to make the idea ooze out of my ears and into reality.

Wherein it will undoubtedly clutter my desk until I find myself in need of a dust rag.

The ethospace it hogs around this place has been labled "craftacular." 

This time sad little idea rattling around in my head (all alone) is called SKIRT.

But soon it wanted friends, who demanded I play with them, too ...

Running horizontally. Vertically. On the bias.

Ruffles, edges, hems.

He's going to be just like his dad. ... Only not.

"When I grow up I'm going to be just like my dad ... only not like my dad because I'm not going to break my arm, and I'm going to have an ordinary job like my mom. I'm going to write articles and stuff. 

"Yeah. That's what I'm going to do. I'm going to be just like my dad if he were my mom."

Parkour?

You're kidding, right?

Young Man and the Pee

The water seemed warmer this August than any August since my youth.

I'm sure it had NOTHING to do with my son.

Word of caution ...

Puppies are voraciously destructive chewing machines covered in soft fur, slobber and things that probably can only be identified through DNA sequencing and laboratory cultures.

But even she can't stay mad at that face.