I've always had trouble with cutting paper according to instructions; one of my clear memories of kindergarten is when I got into trouble for cutting my circle too small. We were supposed to go around the corners to round them off, and I kept cutting on mine because it was so uneven, until suddenly I had a piece of paper the size of a jellybean which was NOT the point, dour Mrs. Freer was quick to point out.
Maddie was home sick again from school today, and during one of the short times she was downstairs hanging out with me, she suggested we try our hand at cutting some paper snowflakes. I googled how to make paper snowflakes hoping for some really cool, intricate design directions that we could make. There are many helpful people out there willing to share their best snowflake cutting tips, with step-by-step instructions complete with photos. Sadly, I am too stupid to follow any of them. I know this about myself—we tried once before in Colorado to make paper snowflakes, and mine came out looking like square blocks with slits. So did Maddie's, but she was three at the time.
And so I present to you my special flying fish snowflakes.
What? You need to see that again?
I couldn't duplicate this again if I tried, and if I said I was going for flying fish when I started I'd be lying through my teeth. Maddie took pity on me and hung it up anyway, next to hers. Which, incidentally, looked a heck of a lot more like snowflakes than anything I tried to do today.
This is the one that is supposed to remind me of how utterly charming The 1938 House is once the radiators are required around here. It's been dropping into the low 30s at night, so the radiators are required now. Thank goodness I have this photo.
This was once a house completely heated by radiators, but now there are only three left, all upstairs. The basement is heated by baseboard heating and the main floor is central heating. Kind of like Frankenstein's house, actually. So even though the radiators are upstairs, the very quaint thermostatthat runs them is on the first floor. Do you see where this is headed? If the radiators are to kick on, we have to actually trick the thermostat into thinking its services are needed. OK, fine, we can turn the thermostat up manually, no problem.
It's the turning it off part that we seem to be having some trouble with.
Like a few nights ago, when it was my job to turn it off before I went to bed, but Bridget was up crying around the time I was starting to get sleepy, and I fell asleep for a while holding her in the rocking chair, and when I stumbled to bed I neglected to turn down the thermostat. So at 2:30 am when Gracie woke up shrieking because the cat was in her bed (the cat does love a good source of heat, especially when the temperature is oh, say, in the upper 80s) Matt woke up and said "did you turn off THE RADIATORS??!?" I had to admit that no, actually, I hadn't, and I was actually cooking my two eldest children upstairs. In The 1938 House, you can pretty much hear people blinking their eyes if you listen hard enough, so the ensuing shrieking got Bridget going, and then we were all up for the next two and a half hours save for Maddie, who can sleep through bombs. Or large sheets of glass breaking. Whatever.
I'm going to make a little sign that says "did you turn the radiators off?" and tape it to the mirror in the bathroom.
I am happy to report that Matt is back home from his evening out, all in one piece. He went to a Wizards game with a friend. The Wizards won.
Normally this isn't really big news, the being-home-in-one-piece-from-an-evening-out part; welcome news, of course, but not really big news. However, tonight, it is, because whenever Matt and this particular friend are together, bad things happen.
Like the time they were in California 10 years ago and M. had a stroke. Or at least that's what they thought. He actually had Bell's Palsy, but they didn't realize it as Matt dragged him to the emergency room in a state of dread.
Then there was the time Matt nearly died in Hurricane, UT when a cattle truck driver obliviously drove him off the road. M. was following in the car behind, watching the whole scary episode unfold.