Hopeful...

February is a hard month for me.  And, for a lot of people, I think.  Especially here in the cold mountains.  It is that point in the year where I tire of the cold, the wind, the short days.  I long for sunshine, and heat.  Long days, balmy evenings, bare toes skimming through the hot grass.   I want to lay on my lawn, face in the shade, body in the sun, getting baked.  I want to wear flip-flops every day.  Or no shoes at all.  (I am a barefoot girl).  I want to wear sundresses made of light cotton that catch the breeze that occasionally blows through.  

I am like a cat.  I want to bask in that ray of sunshine that comes through the window and hits the floor.

Sadly, I do not have a south facing home, and in fact, there is only one south facing window in my house and it is small and shaded.  Lamentable, really.

My bedroom, fortunately, has a large window in it, unshaded mostly.  In that window is a chaise longue, a squishy, welcoming chaise, with a side table.  This is the spot that beckons me on a winter afternoon, in that too small space of time when the sun climbs past my roof and the trees and before it starts to descend below the roof of my neighbor.  It is the spot in which I like to lounge on a sultry summer afternoon, sun blazing through the window, fan blowing gently on my damp skin.

And, when I lounge thus, I don’t want to do anything, think anything.  I want to lay there, and absorb the glorious sunshine.

Don’t get me wrong, once I have been in the grips of 90+ degree weather for a time, I am as likely to whine about it as anyone.  But still, I can handle the heat better than the cold.  As long as it is dry heat.  Desert girl, for sure, here.

I have mentioned this before, but I shall again. Once, while in London, I had a horrible headache.  I lived in the city, amidst the tall buildings, the weather was  dreary, there had been no sun for awhile, and what sun there was only lasted moments.  I would sit in the window of my front room, catching what few rays I could.  But, on this day, I felt I had to get out of the city.  I took the Tube out to Kew Gardens and wandered about.  It wasn’t helping.  It was cloudy out at Kew as well, and cold, so I hied myself over to the greenhouses and wandered about there instead.  I came upon a small room, in the “regions of North America” section, and as I entered, it was as though I had walked into heaven.  Hot.  Dry.  Bright.  I looked down at the room label.  “Desert Climate-American Southwest”.  Ahhhh.  I could breathe properly.  I sat in there for a couple of hours and dried out.  Headache went away, breathing was clear.  It was paradise.  Or Zion, if you prefer. ;)

But alas, today is, as Pooh would say, a blustery day.  It is cold.  The sun is shining, but it is a thin sunlight, providing no warmth.  And so, to combat my current bout of Seasonal Affective Disorder, I planted another flat of seeds.  It makes me feel as though I can contend with the weather and perhaps conquer.  Despite the cold, despite the thin sunlight, I can start my warm, dry summer.  I love the smell of the loamy soil, the warmth that it generates in the little greenhouse.  (So does the cat, he keeps laying on top and squishing it.)  I love the sight of the little shoots pushing their way up toward the sun (or the artificial light hanging over them, you choose).  It makes me happy.  And gives me something to look forward to.

Beautiful

Yesterday, a Facebook friend posted a link to some Youtube videos.  In these videos, adolescent girls were asking the viewer whether or not they were attractive.  My friend was (appropriately) horrified by this, as was I.  But our point of view differed.  She was horrified because these young girls posted the videos, only to be told by perfect strangers that they were ugly, or fat, or stupid, or what have you.  I was horrified because why would you post something asking what a perfect stranger thought of you?  And why would you care? 
We both came to the same conclusion.  The self-esteem of these girls must be impossibly low to even WANT to ask that question.
Now, my question is why?  Why is their self-esteem that low?  How do I prevent my daughter from feeling this way?  Friend and I grew up in similar circumstances, though she is almost 10 years younger than me.
Same socio-economic status, same religion, similar expectations, similar mental health issues.  But she suffered from a very low self-esteem.  I did not.  Where lies the difference?
I grew up poor, in a less than stellar part of my town.  There were a lot of drugs and alcohol, most of the violence in the town happened in the area in which I lived.  Wrong side of the tracks, if you will.   I grew up Mormon.  High expectations when you are Mormon, by the by.  I struggled (and still do) with depression.  But I did not, nor have I ever, really, had issues with self-esteem.
Do I credit my parents?  My genes?  What?  Is it nature or nurture?  I don't know, I really don't. 
Not being privy to the details of the home life of my friend, I cannot really gauge what her parents did with regards to that. 
I am not sure that my parents were deliberately trying to build up my self-esteem, or if it was just a by product of their parenting style. 
Whatever it was, it worked.  And it worked for most, if not all, of my siblings.  We think we are pretty damn awesome.
I think this irritates people sometimes.
But why?  What is wrong with thinking we are awesome?  We are awesome.
In my home, it was assumed that if you wanted to do something, you could.  It might take a lot of effort, you might fail a few (or several) times, but if you wanted it, you could get it. 
I grew up thinking I could be anything I wanted to be.  I just had to do it.
I grew up thinking I was incredibly intelligent.  I still think that. 
I didn't grow up thinking I was particularly physically attractive, but that didn't really matter that much.  I wasn't interested in a guy that was more interested in how I looked than how I thought.  If my brains and personality weren't enough for him, he could stick it.
But why?  Why, when I was surrounded by girls who were so concerned about whether or not someone found them attractive, did I not particularly care?
Honestly, I cannot really remember whether or not my parents told me I was pretty.  I don't think it would have meant much to me if they had.  (They probably did, but the fact that I can't remember it says something.)  I do remember that they told me I was intelligent, and clever and witty and determined (which is a polite word for pigheaded).  And that mattered to me.  I wanted to be all of those things.  I LIKED that I was all of those things.  But aren't most of us those things?  Why do we want to be something that we aren't? 
My dad told me a few years ago that he used to worry about me because I wasn't popular and he was afraid that had bothered me as a kid/teen.  I was shocked.  I couldn't for the life of me understand how he could have thought I wanted to be popular.  Why on earth would I want to be one of those people?  I thought they were pathetic.  All sorts of obsessed with their money and their clothes and how pretty they were and if they were dating the right person, blah, blah, blah.  Really?  I had no desire to be part of that, one of them.  I had no respect for them at all.  I am sure they were probably lovely people, but they certainly weren't MY kind of people.
My kind of people were geeks.  Nerds.  Whatever.  I still love geeks.  I still am a geek.  But, you know what?  It's the geeks that rule the world.  Not the popular people.
Maybe my parents tried to steer me into the popular crowd and it didn't work.  I don't know.  I certainly wasn't popular crowd material.  I was poor, I wore weird clothes (I had eclectic tastes back then, too), I had this crazy mane of frizzy red hair and lots of freckles.  I didn't wear makeup much.  I was smart.  I was in Drama.  I had nerdy friends.  All these things added up to NOT COOL.
But I liked my weird clothes, especially since I made most of them.  And I liked my crazy hair, it made me different from everyone else.  And I didn't really care about makeup most of the time, because no one was looking at me anyway.  And I liked being smart.  And I liked drama.  And I liked nerds. I would have had to give up all of those things if I wanted to be popular and why would I do that?
Maybe it has something to do with having your eyes on the prize.  I knew, had always known, what I wanted.   And I knew how to get what I wanted.  And once I decide what I really want, dammit, I WILL get it.  Nothing is going to get in my way. 
In junior high and high school, where I think attacks on self esteem are the worst, I had already begun my quest.  I was making a beeline for my goal, which at the time was college.
So, is that the difference?  Is that why what other people thought didn't much matter?  I don't know.  I do know that other's opinions of me were peripheral to the goal.
Did I get made fun of in school?  Sure.  Of course I did.  I was a weirdo, a geek.  But, when you think the person making fun of you is a pathetic, dim-witted ass, what they think doesn't have much affect.
And in my way of thinking, if you don't think I am smart, or funny, or awesome-well, you are probably dumb, or an ass, and I don't really care what dumb asses think of me.  Why would I?  Why would anyone?
See, this is where I get confused.  Why would anyone care what some dumb ass thinks of them.  Seriously, why?
The reason this question gets to me is because of The Small One, of course.  I don't want her to be one of the girls that relies on the opinion of others.  I couldn't bear it if my daughter was hurt by the opinions of some mean non-entity. 
So, how do I raise her to be like me?
I know, it sounds terribly prideful, but I do want her to be like me.  I want her to be able to throw off the unwanted opinions of others, I want her to know she is smart (she is), I want her to know she is clever and funny and witty and strong and determined. I want her to know that she is just as good as anyone else, and possibly better.  And I want those things to matter to her. I want her to know that she can be anything or anyone she wants to be and that no limitations need hold her back.  (The Small One is also pretty and has lovely hair.  But I prefer that not be the important thing to her.)
Trust me, I know that I am not perfect.  I know that I have flaws.  Everyone does.  But I also know that I am great.  I like the good bits of me.  I try to fix the not good bits about me.  The not good bits that are out of my control, well, I accept them for what they are and try to not let them take over.  I would certainly rather be me than most other people.
In my family, one is awesome simply by virtue of being one of us.  DeGreys are smart.  We are witty.  We are clever.  We are funny.  We are determined. We can do anything we put our mind to.   If you are a DeGrey, or born of one, you are amazing. (Other people are amazing,too, but that is neither here nor there.)
Is it nature?  Is it nurture?  Is it hubris?
I don't know.  But whatever it is, I want to make sure my daughter has it. Some people don't like it, but I don't care what they think.;)
Thoughts?  Opinions?  Success stories?  Throw your comments my way,  I love to hear from you.

How to be a gojillionaire...like Vera Wang

So, I got a job the other day.  Not exactly what I wanted to do, but one must weigh the pros and cons and make a decision.  I decided, for the time being, at least, that the pros of getting a job outweigh the cons.  But it was close!
Don't worry, though, it isn't some awful 9-5.  It is piecework alterations three days a week.  No biggie.  It will mean a regular paycheck.  And it doesn't mean that I stop doing my own thing, not at all.
Anyway, during the interview,after seeing my portfolio pictures, the owner of the shop asked me why I don't open my own shop.  I have been asked that several times, actually. So, here is the answer.
Right now, I don't want to. 
Before I had The Small One, I worked a lot.  I worked at Brigham Young University full time and also did custom gowns on the side.  After I left my job to care for my (much adored) nephew, I still needed an income, so I kept doing custom gowns and even advertised.  I got very busy, but was still able to care for my nephew as he was a very sweet and easy baby.
When nephew was 3, I had a baby of my own.  She was not a sweet and easy baby.  She had colic to begin with, which made working hard.  She is/was an infinitely more demanding than little nephew.  Different personalites, you know?
So, I dialed back the work load to care for the baby.
Well, when she was 1.5, I think, the business with which TMOTH was affiliated went belly up.  We lost, big time.  So, I went back to work at a bridal salon as a designer/alterations manager.  That lasted for a while, but didn't end up working out.  The Small One did not deal well with me working full time.  So, I left and went back to doing alterations and custom gowns out of my own space.
Fast forward to now.  We have some things we want to do which require money (like pay off debt, for one.  Go to the UK for another), so I have decided to get a job with a regular paycheck.
TMOTH was not thrilled about the idea, he thinks I am shortchanging myself.  So do a lot of other people, for that matter.
But, here is the thing.
Running a business is HARD.  Really hard.  And you have to work more than full time to be successful.  Why?  Because, not only are you working full time at the actual JOB part, but you have to work a lot outside of the job marketing, finding work, doing paperwork, hoping you are figuring your taxes out correctly, worrying about whether it is worth it to have employees, etc, etc, etc.
So, I weight the pros and cons.
I could be successful at a bridal salon of my own, I think.  I am good at what I do.  I have a pretty good eye for design, I am a really good manager. 
But.  I also like my kid.  (Not to imply that other people who work don't like their kids, I know they do).
What it boils down to is this. 
I can make more money, but not see my daughter very much. 
Or, I can deal with being poor, and hate it, but get to be with my daughter like I want to.
I could have my own salon and not much time.
Or, I can work for someone else, let them deal with the business stuff, make a bit of money and be home with The Small One like I want to be.
For now, anyway.  Things will definitely change when she is in school all day.  I won't have her with me, anyway, so I may as well put in some effort towards a business of my own, right?

It's the Small Things...

Sometimes, when life gets a bit overwhelming and unpleasant, I have to try and focus on the good stuff.  You know, count your blessings and whatnot.  Of course, I am very blessed, even in my trials.
Things could be worse, right?
Although, sometimes, I am reminded of that cliche when a child doesn't want to eat his/her dinner and the mother says, "Eat it, there are children starving in Africa."  That never made sense to me.  Ok, mail them my dinner.  I don't need it.
Obviously, the point was to be grateful for what I had.  To be sure, my mom never used this one on us.  I don't think it ever made sense to her either.
My friend, Jim Bennett, son of (hang on while I name drop for a second) former Senator Bob Bennett, posted something rather wise on Facebook yesterday, which is what made me think of this whole post.
Here it is. 
 I find the relativity of suckiness to be irrelevant. It is suckiness itself, any of it, which concerns me. I personally want less of it. Recognizing that my suckiness levels are ten times, fifty times, or a thousand times lower than someone else's reduces my own suckiness not a whit. However, it does produce guilt, as in "how dare you complain about your suckiness when Floyd's life is six times suckier." So there's that, I guess, but since guilt is sucky, that reinforces my central point.
He is wise, is Jim.  I hope he doesn't mind me quoting him.  I should probably ask.  Oh, well.  Maybe tomorrow.
Anyway, I think he is right.  We all have our own trials, right?  And they all suck for us, right?  I mean, I know that what doesn't kill me, makes me stronger but sometimes it feels more like What doesn't kill me will invariably come back and try again until it eventually succeeds.
So, rather than focusing on the fact that it could be worse, because it could indeed, I am trying to focus on the things that are good in their own right. 
No question that I am lacking gratitude sometimes.  I should be overwhelmingly grateful that we have a home, a car that runs (knock on wood), etc. etc.  But those things don't always cheer me up, because the reverse is so damn depressing.
So, instead, I like to focus on the small things that make me happy, bring a smile to my face.
Here are a few them-
-Jim Dale reading audiobooks.  Awesome.  Listening to Harry Potter for about the 30th time.  Never gets old.  And, if The Small One and The Man of the House are being noisy (fighting, usually), I still  know what is going on at any given time, because I pretty much have the books memorized.
Wanna know what one of my most favourite parts is?  Of course you do! 
Book 4, Goblet of Fire.  Ron and Harry in McGonagall's class having a sword fight with 2 of the twins fake wands.  Ron's has turned into a tin parrot, Harry's into a rubber haddock.   At the moment McGonagall yells at them to pay attention there is a pause and then the head of Harry's rubber haddock slides silently to the floor, having been severed by the parrot's beak a moment before. 
I die.  Every time.  Laugh out loud funny.  It is such a classic jr. high moment. 
-Norm Abrams voice/This Old House/New Yankee Workshop.  Why?  I don't know.  It is so classically lazy Saturday morning to me, I think.  It means TMOTH is in a chill mood.  It usually means the house is tidy.  And there are beautiful things being made/done that I can ask TMOTH to make/do for me.  Good stuff.
-When The Small One is driven to giggles.  The real ones, not the silly, fake 4 year old hamming for attention giggles.  Her nose squinches up, her eyes get tight and all her teeth show.  She looks and sounds so utterly delighted that I can't help but laugh with her.  It is adorable.
-TMOTH and The Small One laying on the floor, eating popcorn and watching movies.  It is hilarious.  They talk to each other like contemporaries. 
-Dewberry shower gel and lotion from The Body Shop.  This scent is what my flat in London smelled like.  11 years later and that smell still conjures London for me.  If you combine that smell with cigarette smoke and car exhaust, well, it sounds disgusting, but that is what a Kensington street smells like to me.  And it is a VERY happy smell.
-Knitting.  What else is there to say?
-The way the chickens shout for attention when you go out in the back.  Or follow you around if you they are loose.  It is hilarious.  They love people.  And treats.
-Hot baths in my gorgeous claw foot tub.  My mom rescued it for me when an old house in Salt Lake was being renovated.  It is huge.  And deep.  With a slanty back. 
-And lastly, for tonight.  The fact that my friend's 4 year old is in love with TMOTH.  For 2 reasons.  He has a fire truck, and he can fix ANYTHING.  Dreamy, apparently.

In other news, I have decided to put The Small One in a French Immersion program for school.  This means that I will have to drive about 30-35 minutes twice a day once she starts school, but from what I hear, it is worth it.  Should prepare her well for our trip to the UK and France in a couple of years.  It has been a hard decision.  Who knew choosing a kindergarten could be so angst ridden?

Bedtime Tamales and Other Inanities

So, last night, TMOTH gave The Small One her bedtime snack.  It is something she requires, or she can't sleep.  This is no joke.  Night before she sat up and talked and talked and talked and occasionally mentioned that she would like some cereal.  And then she talked some more.  Round about 11:30, I got fed up with her lack of sleep and got her some cereal.  She ate half the bowl and then promptly conked out.  Silly infant.
But back to last night's snack.  Tamales.  In my bed.  And I am not referring to the cinnamon candy.  Actual tamales.  Who eats tamales for bedtime snack in bed?  Seriously?  I mean, besides my daughter and maybe a sleepy Mexican or two.  I came in my room to find her happily ensconced in MY bed eating tamales.  And getting tamale goo EVERYWHERE.  All over my bed.  And I just changed the sheets last night.
Why was she eating tamales in my bed?  Well, I asked her.  Because, she tells me, she wanted tamales.  But why in my bed?  Well, she didn't want tamales in her bed. 
Oh.  That explains it.  If you are four years old.
I walked out and asked The Man of the House why he gave her tamales in my bed without laying down a protective sheet or, I don't know, feeding them to her in her bed.  He looked at me and said, Yeah, did not think about that.   Hmmm.
He politely came in and cleaned up the tamale goo from the bed.  But now my bed smells of Mexican food.  Which is a good smell if you are hungry and at Cafe Rio.  Not so much whilst attempting to wander off in slumber.

Lately, TMOTH and I have had a few people tell us they love to follow us on Facebook.  We look at them strangely and ask why.  They look at us strangely and say-Well, you two do the most interesting things.  Duh.  We look back at them (strangely, of course) and say-Really?  We think we are a smidge boring.
Tonight, one of those followers, who is also a friend, popped over to get eggs. 
Speaking of eggs, we currently have 7.5 dozen in the fridge.  Need any?
She wanted to see the redone room and the pottery wheel and the dollhouse.  So, I showed her.  Like most of you (admit it, it's true) I like to hear praise of my cleverness now and again.  She was properly effusive, then mentioned how she likes to follow me on aforementioned facebook and see all the things I do or teach The Small One to do.  She went on to say that she admired how willing I was to let The Small One try new things, and that some parents just can't handle the mess.
Well, if you came to my house, you would see that tidyness is hardly my strong point, so I can't really use that as an excuse to prevent her trying.  Also, my parents let me do things like that, so it would sort of be cheating to tell my daughter no.  That is how I learned, that is how she shall learn.
Besides, I like her enthusiasm.  Most of the time.
Then, talking to my mother about a quilt I am (very slowly) hand piecing, said mother mentioned that she does not like to do things like that, she would never finish.  And it occured to me that I don't do things specifically to finish. 
And then this quote came to mind.  And I think it describes my methodolgy perfectly.  Thank you, Adam Savage, for being awesome in more ways than one.

"I don’t make things in order to have finished objects. I have finished objects as a by-product of my need to always be making.” Adam Savage

It is true.  I absolutely have a need to always be making. 
TMOTH sometimes makes fun of me and my brother, who is very similar, because we have a lot of unfinished projects.  But that is the thing.  I don't create to have finished things.  I create to create.  The process is it for me.  I am a process knitter.  A process quilter.  And sadly, a process upholsterer and refinisher.  And redecorator.
This is not to say that I don't have finished objects, I absolutely do.  But the object is not the driving force.  The creating is.
And I realized, The Small One is very like me in that regard.  She likes to do.  And to learn.  She doesn't give a flying fig about the object.  The doing is what has her mesmerized.  And I love that about her.
Small One is hilarious as always.  She likes to use big words.  The other day she was telling TMOTH what was and was not "apporpiate" inside the house.  Playing with water?  NOT APPORPIATE inside.  In case you wondered.
When I had my tooth out and was laid up whining and moaning with pain, she told me she was mamma-sitting me.  She took care of me, brought me water and all sorts of snacks that I couldn't exactly eat.  But it was very sweet.  She would sit on the arm of the chaise and stroke my head.
I downloaded an app on my new Kindle Fire for her.  You register your kid by age and name and then it picks appropriate (or apporpiate) games, movies and books for them.  You can lock them in the app so they can't fiddle about with other things on the Kindle.  Very nice.  At the end of each week, it emails you a summary of what your child has been doing, what games they like to play, movies, sites they like to visit.  Do you want to know what it says her fave site is? 
BBC Kids.  Yep.  She is my kid.
Her second fave is PBS Kids.  I am so proud.

Inauspiciousness. Say that five times fast.

So, my New Year?   Did not get off to an auspicious start.  I hope yours was better.  I also hope that the previously mentioned inauspiciousness is not an omen for the rest of the year.  Because, if it is, I quit now.
Anyway, here is what happened. 
After the Christmas festivities ended, I found myself a bit loose-endish and my house more than a bit crowded.  The Small One had a giant new pottery wheel and a giant new dollhouse.  Where to put them?  The second half of our front room (which is a long narrow room) has been the sewing/Small One's crafty crap area for a few months.  What that means is that I have a desk with a sewing machine and a few untidy stacks of fabric on it.  And a knitting machine on the piano.  And The Small One has 2 bookshelves full of crafty crap.  Painting stuff, markers, crayons, pencils, paper, foamies, stickers, you name it, she probably has it.  Oh, and the floor was covered by some ratty carpet that never stayed clean, because you try to keep a carpet clean that a bunch of pre-schoolers use as an art space.  Not gonna happen.  Just sayin'. 
So, I got a bee in my bonnet about where on earth was the pottery wheel going to go where it would not cause havoc and despair on all things carpeted?  Nowhere.  Because there are only two uncarpeted rooms up here.  My room and the kitchen.  Yeah, no way.
I decided immediately to tear up the carpet in that room and expose the wood floor underneath.  Good idea!
Now, a few tidbits about my house.  
I live in a smallish town that was settled in 1853 (or thereabouts) by a bunch of Mormons sent on down from the Great Salt Lake City by Brigham Young.  They first settled in a fort, than moved out slowly to parcels of property round about said fort.  One dude settled on the plot of land on which I live.  He built a smallish log cabin over a soft rock foundation and set up his smithy.  As time wore on, he made more money and decided to enlarge said house.  Well, really, he knocked the cabin down and built an actual house.  The main room of the house was built over the soft rock cellar and the other two rooms built around.  This was in 1880-ish.  When he built the house, he didn't cheat.  Foot thick adobe walls finished with lathe and plaster.  9 foot ceilings.  And the floors.  Beautiful,old growth, heart pine floors. 
We found the first one when refinishing what was to be the nursery.  We intended to put hardwood floors in, but when we pulled up the carpet, we found VERY old linoleum, nailed to the floor and surrounded by a painted wood floor.  So, then we pulled up the linoleum, and Lo and Behold-a beautiful floor.
So, I figured that the wood probably extended into the other old rooms and asked the previous owner.  He confirmed my suspicions and I have been pestering TMOTH ever since to let me pull up the carpet in the "dining area".  He finally caved.
So, on Dec 29, I tore up the carpet, pulled up the nasty old linoleum, heaved up the nails and tack strip and was pleased with what I saw.  The next day, my tooth went haywire.  Bad.  Pain, oh, pain.  But I endured and began sanding the floor.  Got the main part of it done.  But the next day?  Ten times worse.  I could not handle the pain.  No dentists anywhere (it was New Year's Eve).  Finally, TMOTH called my GP at home and asked him to call in a prescription of LorTab so I could make it until Tuesday, when the dentists opened up again.
Well, I don't know about the rest of you, but they are not joking on that label when it says Do Not Drive or Operate Heavy Machinery While Using This Drug. 
I am such a lightweight.  Give me narcotics and I sort of float away.  While itching.  And talking non-stop. 
It is pathetic, really.  So, I was out for the count.  New Year's Eve?  No idea.  I was stoned.  Normally I watch the ball drop.  Nope.  Asleep by 10.  And I am pretty certain I slept the next 3 days.  Then I went and got the tooth pulled.  And slept for the next 7 days.  Seriously, I do not do painkillers well.
So, you can perhaps see what I mean about an inauspicious start to the new year? 
First, I pretty much missed it, because I was either drowning in pain or drowning in narcotics, neither of which were fun.
Second, my house was in TOTAL disarray, because the only place to put things that come out of the room are in other rooms.  Which kind of precludes using them.  Or cleaning them.
Third, dude, pain.  Enough said.
Fourth, very bad mood.  Due to the previous three items.
I am sure you get it.
Anyway, I have more or less recovered, although the use of my jaw joint as a fulcrum for prying out the tooth has caused me additional aches, especially since I have TMJ, and the room is nearly done. 
I will post some before and after pics so you can ooh and aah appropriately over my excellent taste in renovations/redecorations.
But not tonight.  Tonight, I think I may watch Downton Abbey.  And finish knitting my sock.

Here Again. Maybe?

So, I got booted from my blog due to a serious mixup with accounts and websites and whatnot.  Now I am back.  Hopefully for real this time.
Been wondering what is going around here with The Small One and The Man of the House (TMOTH)?  Well, pretty much, the usual.  The Small One is always funny.  And bratty.  Which is to be expected from a 4 year old.  And by the by, FOUR YEARS?  HOW IS SHE THAT OLD?  They are not kidding when they say time flies.
TMOTH carries on with working a lot, doing projects on our house (with me!) and being amusing.
So, here is a quick rundown of the recent past.  I am only going to do recent, because I don't really remember further back.  We are boring, so, there you go.
Christmas was good.  It sneaked up on me again.  I know, I know, how can I be surprised by something that occurs at the same time every year?  Well, trust me, I can.  Part of it was TMOTH working a lot.  Part of it was me working later in December than I really like.  Part of it was the lack of snow.  I just wasn't feeling the Christmas spirit this year, and that was a bit of a disappointment.  But, The Small One had an excellent Christmas.  She got a little barn with horses and people (dollhouse style) from my dad, which she promptly named Tambley farm.  Why Tambley Farm, you may ask?  Because that is what came out of her pencil when she wrote the sign.  She is getting to a point where she can sound out letters and words, but sometimes she just writes things, and that is why Tambley Farm.
It had two cows and two horses.  One white horse, one brown horse.  In case you are unaware, and it is likely you are, white horses are unicorns.  No, I don't know why.  I am not a 4 year old girl.  Unicorns are white, white horses are white.  White horses must be unicorns.




The Small One also got a dollhouse from me ( I built it!) It was actually a kit given to me when I was 12 or so, that I never finished.  Funny thing is, when I posted a pic on facebook, my friend called me and told me she recognized that dollhouse, because we had worked on it when we were small!  She loves it, but it is huge, and really, she did not need more huge toys.  Everything the child owns is huge.  We don't do things by halves.



And, speaking of not doing things by halves, the be-all and end-all present she got?  Something she has been begging me for for 6 months.  A pottery wheel.  Not just any pottery wheel, but a beautiful, full size, teak and granite pottery wheel made by none other than her daddy.  It is awesome.  Teak throw wheel, granite kick wheel, teak seat, metal frame, powder coated to a shiny white.  She will be able to use it the rest of her life.  And boy, does she love it.  And, she is good at it, too.  I was surprised, but I shouldn't have been.  She is rather tricky with her hands.
If you wonder why she wanted a pottery wheel, and well you might, since a lot of our friends thought it was a curious thing for a small child to want, I shall inform you. 
Back in June, we went to our local Heritage Festival.  Living in an old, small town, these things are popular.  At said event, there was a gentleman doing pottery and allowing the children to try it out.  So, she did.  Then a couple of months later, we were at a farmer's market/festival thing and there was another potter.  Then, she discovered that her Uncle Danny does pottery and that he made some of our bowls.  Well, that did it.  She had to have a pottery wheel.  And she did not forget about it. 
We looked at kids pottery wheels, the motorized kind, not too expensive.  But the reviews were terrible.  They didn't last, the rpms were too slow to actually do anything, etc.  So, TMOTH being clever, like he is, we decided he would build one. 
Of course, being on a budget, there was no way we could buy a real pottery wheel.  They range from about $400-$1000, which is a ridiculous amount to spend on a 4 yr old.  Luckily, we had everything but the granite, which was also free from a friend.  All we paid for was the powder coating and the shaping of the granite.  Awesome.
So, while it looked like massive amounts of money were spend on the child, we really only spent about $100.  Which is how it generally works out.  Having crafty parents is good.  Except that it often means that the child needs a GIANT playroom to hold her giant playthings.  Giant dollhouse, giant pottery wheel, 3 piece play kitchen, rocking horse, playhouse, dress up closet.  When you can make whatever you want, it is hard to scale back. ;)
And, TMOTH and I enjoy the building of said playthings.  We took turns in the evenings working on our respective projects.  He would come home, eat, then go out and work on the pottery wheel until 9, then come in and get The Small One ready for bed and I would go out and work on the dollhouse until about 11 or 12.  Fortunately for us, we have nice garage heaters.
Ok, so I will REALLY try to post more often this year.  It is one of my New Years Resolutions.  Wish me luck.