ALERT: Jackspeak (or, more lessons in profanity)

[Jack's frustration mounts while trying to remove Spiderman stickers from the fridge]

Jack: "Dammit!"

Me: "What did you say?"

"Dammit."

"You know that word isn't for little boys. I'm calling it a bad word. What do you say instead?"

"Daddy says it."

"Daddy is a grown up. When you get older, you can choose to say it. But you are younger, so for you it's a bad word. What do you say instead?"

"Dang it."

"Yes, dang it. That's okay for you to say, but not the other word."

"Yes. Not dammit."

[Ten minutes later, while I'm washing the dishes.]

Jack:  "Mommy, tell me a story about Spiderman."

Me: "I need to finish the dishes, okay? So not now, maybe later."

"NO! That is a BAD WORD for you. You can't use it until you are younger!"

"What bad word did I say?"

"Not now, maybe later."

ALERT: Jackspeak

Jack: "Mommy, that lady isn't a very good singer."

Me: "Well, no, I didn't think so either."

"Maybe when she gets older, she will sing better and better."

"Yeah, maybe. She just needs to practice."

"Yeah. Maybe if she took her head off, and found a different head and put it on, she could be better."

"Yes. That just might work."

Too cool for preschool

Tomorrow, Jack embarks on a new adventure. Preschool. Actually, we're just attending a one-hour open house for students and parents; school starts in September. Three days a week, two hours a day. Jack is a little bit . . . terrified, I think.

We first visited a Montessori preschool because we liked their teaching philosophy on paper. They wanted Jack five days a week, three hours a day. The teacher there told me that Jack would know algebra by the time he entered kindergarten. For us, that sounded like too much time away from home for a three-year old who has only been watched sans parents by grandma and Aunt Nini. And yes--too much math for a five- or six-year old. Too much math for any-year old, I say. (The only Barbie I ever felt akin to was the Barbie who whined "Math is hard!" when you pushed a button on her back. Poor Math-Sucks Barbie, I feel ya.)

We found a preschool called Carefree Kids, run by a former kindergarten teacher. Her students call her Miss Cindy. I think Jack thinks her name is Misindi. Here's a list of what we'll do tomorrow, according to the open-house invitation:

* Learn a song
* Read a story
* Complete a simple art project
* Learn classroom rules
* Have a snack
* Play with the toys

Um . . . can I come three days a week, too? Because that to-do list sounds like it's right up my alley.

Still, Jack is not looking forward to the experience. Whenever I ask him about preschool he says, " I'm NOT HAPPY about it!" and pulls a genuinely troubled face. Oh dear. It makes me want to wait another year. But he needs to be challenged when it comes to social skills, which is Miss Cindy's main focus. If you hang out with Jack for 45 minutes, you can take his heart and put it in your pocket--he is yours, and you are his. But it takes at least that long. And mind you, the minutes may not be consecutive. I'm hoping Miss Cindy and Jack's soon-to-be classmates can help condense that warm-up time.

By December, I'm betting Jack will love preschool so much he'll be begging to go to Miss Cindy's on Christmas morning. The question is, what will I do without him three days a week, two hours a day? Who will be my shadow? Who will yell, "Look mom, I'm Superman! Look!" over and over again while I'm trying to talk on the phone? Who will spill juice on the carpet, smear butter on the couch, create a tornado of clutter in the living room? Who will beg me to watch clips of Wonder Woman on YouTube? Who will dance with me?

Aw, silly mama. It's only three days a week, two hours a day.

But I see what's coming: play dates, field trips, best friends, sleepovers, summer camps, crushes, homecoming parades, prom nights, college dorms. When you have flashes like that, it makes it hard to let go.

I guess that's a parent's job. Get them out of the nest, get 'em flying. I just didn't realize I'd have to start nudging so soon.

Fuzzy wuzzy was a . . . scarf

A few weeks ago I hit the fuzzy-fabric jackpot, amassing half-yards of Shannon Fabrics' "Rose Cuddle" plush fabrics in 24 different colors. I've been on a fluffy, feathery, furry fabric cloud of creative contentment ever since.

I'd been thinking about making the scarf design below out of a secondhand sweater--and I still will!--but I was so keyed up about my new stash that I had to try the design with the fluffy stuff first.

Now that the scarf is done, the big trick comes--how to show it in a photo? I'm no photo stylist. I'm barely a photo taker. (This part of blogging always stumps me.) So, I tried several ideas and set-up shots, such as:

Fuzzy-wuzzy scarf, meet fuzzy-wuzzy teddy bear.

Fuzzy-wuzzy scarf, meet one square patch of hardwood floor that is actually clean.

Fuzzy-wuzzy scarf, meet 85-degree weather at 9 p.m.

Cropped out of the above photo are telltale signs of summer's sizzle--namely my shorts and bare feet. I'm also sweating like . . . well, you know. Like a nut who wants to show off what she thinks is a nifty scarf, no matter how much she's drenching it. I wish I'd worn pants to match. Phooey. Photo-stylist powers, come to me, please!

I've donned the scarf twice today just because it's so soft and nice. I feel happy when I wear it. But I enjoyed its cozy warmth directly under the swamp cooler. One more month. One more month until autumn begins toasting the leaves on our backyard trees. I hope by then I'll be a little more apt with a camera. Nature, I'm sure, will bring lots of opportunities for practice.

ALERT: Jackspeak

[In response to the several-times-daily question, "What was the best part of your day?" It started out as a nightly question before bedtime. Now Jack asks "What was the best part of your day?" all day long. This exchange occurred before naptime, around 1:00 p.m., after refusing to eat the lunch I had just made for him.]

Jack: "So, what was the best part of your day?"

Me: "The day isn't over yet so I'm not sure. Ask me when it gets dark outside, okay?"

"Okay."

"But, you got me curious . . . What has been the best part of your day?"

[after a long, deep-in-thought pause] "Oh, I know! My best part of my day was not eating my sandwich."

At least he wasn't running with scissors.

A few weeks ago, while I was busy cooking and Brett was busy on his computer, our little boy snuck into my sewing room. The consequence of our busywork? This:

________________________________________

(I pinned the cuts open to show the injuries in all their gruesome detail.)

When you have a little one in your house, you develop a sixth sense for possible trouble, danger, disasters, and catastrophes. You know this special sense has kicked in when you suddenly stop and think

it's just a little too quiet for something good to be going on.

As soon as I heard the too-too-quiet quiet, I went to check on Jack.  As I walked into my sewing room, Jack's eyes met mine. Maintaining a serious stare, he quickly walked to the side of the sewing room opposite the quilt, which was neatly folded over a chair. My sharpest pair of scissors lay on the floor. Four short thoughts smacked together inside my head. They looked like this:

Quilt + Scissors + Jack = NO NO NO!

"Oh man, oh man, Jacky, what did you DO?" I asked, almost whispering. I sat on the floor, took the wounded quilt in my lap, and ran my fingers over each slash.

Jack still wore his serious stare. "I cut your quilt. Sorry, mom." He knew he had done wrong.

I said nothing for a few moments. Then I realized I was holding my breath. I breathed out a big sigh, one of sadness and defeat. There was nothing else to be done. "Never again. Never again, Jack," I said.

"I won't mom. I won't."

That was the end of our conversation. (Reminder to self--pat self on back for keeping cool.)

The cuts Jack made are quite tidy. He's been using children's paper scissors since he was around two years old, and he's very deft. I'll give him that. It's WHAT to cut where I obviously need to provide a little more instruction.

Since then, I've been instigating a quick conversation between Jack and me about that day, during relaxed moments. I'm repeating it about every three days. Goes like this:

Me: "Jack, I still can't believe you cut my quilt."

Jack: "Yeah. I cut your quilt. Sorry, mom."

I'm not sure when I'll stop starting that conversation. But Jack's part of the chat is always the same. Polite and apologetic. Thanks, Jacky. That helps.

A secondhand sweater

I'm not really sure what "BOO-YAH!" means, but I feel like saying it when I look at this purse I made . . .

out of this.

The purse is not blocked, I haven't attached the handle, and I can't decide on a closure--a snap, a button, a staple, a nail? The binding covering the raw edges is a little bulky on one side, and pretty decent on the other. Know how when you're trying something new your technique gets better as you go along? Yeah, that.

I bought this 100% wool sweater at Deseret Industries, Utah's premiere thrift-shop chain run by the LDS church. The "DI" is so. much. fun. for a thrift-shop junkie like me. I love spotting a cool piece of clothing or furniture and quietly thinking to it:

"Oh my heck, WHAT are you doing here? Your previous owners simply didn't understand you. You're coming home with me."

Thrift-store shopping is an art, I tell you. It's taken me years to get it right. And sometimes I still get it wrong. When I was in college I moved to an apartment in a third-story building. I hit the DI and bought a huge secondhand couch covered in funky flowers. My good friend Matt and I carried that couch up three flights of outdoor stairs, only to find that it wouldn't fit through the front door of the apartment. Back down the stairs. Back to the DI. (Hmm. Writing this, I realize that my error in judgment wasn't due to being an inexperienced secondhand shopper. It was basically me sucking at math.)

I bought five more secondhand sweaters this week. I'm looking forward to making more, I dunno, stuff. Whatever I can dream up. Repurpose, reduce, reuse, recycle. Sure, all that is dandy. But really, I'm just having fun.