Sweet Daughter guest blogs

On noon on Saturday, I finished another 18th century girls gown for Sweet Daughter's best friend. Her birthday party was at 2:00. Finished in plenty of time!

I looked at SD and said "Do you know what I'm sewing tomorrow?"

She looked at me expectantly and said "What, Mama?"

"NOTHING."

And so, on that note, I'm letting SD guest blog with a creative writing assignment she had in class. The assignment (1st grade) was to write 3 or more sentences about a leprechaun. Here it is, complete with creative spelling.

Once upon a time there was a leprechaun. He was very quite.* Once I saw him under a bush. I asked him for his gold he said to look under Scottland. I took an airplane to Scottland. I dug up Scottland and found no gold. The sneeky leprchaun tricked me. I dup up the whole Earth but I found no gold. So finaly I caut that leperchaun. He said his gold was not on Earth it was on Jupiter!** He burried his gold in Jupiter's red spot! I'll never find it I can't bleve you burried the gold in JUPITER! He said "OK! OK! OK! I will go get the gold. I'll be back in 100 days." "If you don't bring it to me I will crush you! Now GO!" So the leprechaun went to Jupiter. But all he brought me was the big red spot. I said I would crush him if he did not put the red spot back and get the gold! He said his friends would help the leprerchaun dig up Jupiter. He found the gold and I got the gold!

* quiet

** I thought this would have been a great opportunity to substitute Uranus, but I really don't want to contemplate a red spot on Uranus.

Sweet Daughter (ahem) cooks

At MTA Sweet Daughter watched our cook prepare this amazing salmagundi.

I know, I know. Navel oranges hadn't been developed yet.

Later that day, she decided to make her own "salad". She took the redware pan we'd make the venison pasty in (with bit of crust still attached) and asked for contributions. There was a heel of cabbage, and a leftover carrot and parsnip. I pulled some onion slices out of the fire (a.k.a. trash pit) and the cook donated the top of a leek. There are a few red potato slices as well.

For the finishing touch, she added grapes. She then wanted it placed over the fire. Our cook graciously indulged her, and added water.

Chock full o' vitamins!

After a while, it was taken from the fire and allowed to cool. I was then asked to sample it. Uh ... I thought this was all "pretend", hence the vegetables salvaged from the fire pit.

"Try it, Mama!"

I tried to distract and redirect, to deflect, to otherwise figure out a way I could weasel out with my honor intact. It was impossible to even try. What self-respecting mom could say "no" to this?? Not I. So knowing the history of the grapes (washed before being added to the melange), I chose to impale myself on that particular sword, figuring that the whole thing had been heated pretty thoroughly, and I wasn't likely to die from a few grapes. Well, I'm typing this so I can affirm that I did not die, or even get ill, but those were some interesting grapes. They were still hot and completely infused with the flavor of onion. With a hint of venison.

For the event at Petersburg next month, I'm planning ahead. There will be kid-friendly food to prepare and if I have anything to do with it, grapes and onions never the twain shall meet.

Interpretive Dance

Unfortunately, the memory card filled before the finale which involved backs to the audience and ruffles being shaken. I hope to have better footage courtesy of another mom later.

Presented without further ado, the can-can as performed by Sweet Daugher's Daisy Troop.

Disclaimer: this was taken with a hand-me-down camera that I don't yet know how to use.

Derby

On Saturday, Sweet Daughter and Shorter Half participated in the local Powder Puff Derby (think Pinewood Derby for the Girl Scouts). The Boy Scouts had their Pinewood Derby two weeks earlier, and someone said they had 17 entries. The girls? Close to 80. Yeah. They weren’t prepared for that.

It's hard to focus when your subject is bouncing around like a squirrel on meth.

It was a single elimination tournament, and SD won her first heat, and came in second in her second heat. While she didn't place in the racing, she did win the medal for the “Most Patriotic” design. A flag in the front, and butterflies and flowers in the back – we called it “America the Beautiful”. But her favorite part? She insisted on a little round orange sticker on the back, with “Guns Save Lives” written on it.  Yup. Just like those on the family cars.

New nomenclature

Sweet Daughter acquired several new games during Christmas. I've had the pleasure of playing them with her, and she's quite ... proficient.  She regularly creams both Shorter Half and me at cribbage, for instance. She started owning us at Uno. I'm still holding my own at Mancala, but I'm running out of adjectives for getting soundly beaten at Concentration and the like. There's getting "spanked", "getting beat like a rented mule", being told "You're going down!" and the ever popular "I'm going to beat the pants off you!"

Which, of course, evolved into "I am SO going to Robb Allen you!"

Survived

Skating today was a success. Sweet Daughter and I made the first circuit of the rink at a snail's pace, both frantically clutching the boards. The second pass got easier. She fell a lot, but she was prepared for that. By the end of 90 minutes she was skating without help in the middle of the rink. I improved to the point that I made several loops without SD, at a reasonable speed, and didn't care that I was yelling "WhoaAAAH!" with my arms wind-milling  in front of the high school kids. I even remembered how to go backwards, which was helpful in keeping ahead of, and an eye on SD at the same time. When one of the moms (17 years my junior) jokingly accused me of being a slacker while standing around, I challenged her to a race around the rink. Ha. She backed down.

One very cute couple asked me to take their picture. "Say 'Brian Boitano'!" I chirped. They looked confused. "Say 'Dorothy Hammill!" No better luck. I'm hoping I at least got eccentricity points.

I only made one "controlled descent" (NOT on my bum, thank-you-very-much!), and overextended into a near split once while trying not to run over SD when she fell down in front of me. (Remember how I don't remember how to stop?) Which reminded me of the last time I went skating -- it was my senior year of college and it was outside. No boards. I seem to recall more than once that night when I ran out of ice before I ran out of speed and ended up launching myself into a snowdrift. I quit when I hit the one that was like concrete. No, I don't believe there was any beer involved, at least not until I was done skating.

All-in-all it was a success. I held my own on the ice, I didn't wipe out in a spectacular manner (although that would have made a better story), and SD had a good time. Now I'm ready for some more Vitamin I, and a good stiff drink. We'll see how well I'm moving tomorrow ...

Update: I'm moving better this morning than I was earlier in the week. The only possible explanation I can come up with is that I'm still experiencing some sort of post-exercise endorphin rush and when it wears off, I’ll be unable to so much as blink my eyes.

Second shot

This is Sweet Daughter's second shot with her new rifle. She cranked off the first one with nary a flinch before I could press the "go" button on the camera.

Shooting with Sweet Daughter

Sweet Daughter finally got a chance to fire her birthday present today. She hasn't done any shooting in months, but it was time to try out her new .22.

Her first target selection was the Big Bad Wolf. Shorter Half instructed her on the basics and she was good to go.

[Video to come if it will EVER load ... UPDATED - Video on following post.]

The bi-pod made all the difference for this new shooter. SD was able to hit what she was aiming at. The wolf target took a beating.

Then we set her loose on some reactive targets. See the orange spinning target? She hit the diamond on her first try. Here is an action shot of the the target in mid spin. Really.

By this point, she's loading and cocking the rifle herself.

She's ready for something different.

She loves the targets that change color. So while Shorter Half did some pistol work, she selected anew target and we girls did some bonding with the help of an EPR*. I didn't worry about her technique, I just made sure she stayed safe, followed the four rules, and had fun.

I think we were successful. This reaction was a result of this target.

Seven shots from the prone position. Six on paper. Rifle not yet zeroed. I'd take that any day of the week.

*Evil Pink Rifle

Out of the mouths of babes ...

Sweet Daughter has a place mat with a map of the United States on it. Tonight she ironically pointed out that both Maryland and Massachusetts are shaped vaguely like handguns.

"And I gladly stand up ..."

When Sweet Daughter takes a bath, I often sit in the bathroom and play music on computer. Tonight she requested Lee Greenwood's "God Bless the USA". It was Grandparent's Day at school, and she noted that one the grandparents was a "Camouflage Guy" and they played that song. So, it's been on repeat for over half an hour, and I'm listening to some interesting interpretations of the lyrics, to include "Across the pies of Texas ...".

And the chorus -- instead of:

"And I gladly stand up,
next to you and defend her still today.
‘Cause there ain't no doubt I love this land,
God bless the USA."

I heard:

"And I’ll stand up,
Next to you and still eat today ..."

"And I'll stand up,
Next to you and defeat her still today .."

(I corrected that one right quick.)

And, my favorite:

"And I gladly stand up
Next to you because my feet still hurt today ..."

But after listening to it for close to 45 minutes, I was hearing "Paul is dead", so who am I to critisize?

Last Monday, Sweet Daughter and I went to the Regional Amusement Park. The good news is that I found some great discount tickets online, and the weather was perfect like only the back side of a hurricane can be. Mid 80’s, sunny, breezy, and no humidity. Not only that, there weren’t any lines. Nada. None. Zilch. Zippo.  The longest we had to wait was for any given attraction to finish its current run and then it was our turn.

The bad news is that they don’t let you go armed. They don’t even let you carry a pocket knife -- although they did let me check it at the front gate so I didn’t have to go back to the car. (Well that, and the fact that none of the roller coasters that SD could ride had enough room for my knees.)

SD wanted to wear matching shirts, and while I’ve always secretly laughed at families that do that, I will admit that there are some distinct advantages. The people running the rides can tell which kid you belong to. If, heaven forbid, you were to get separated, you can point to yourself and say “she was wearing a shirt like this!” But best of all, if you choose wisely, you can influence how you are perceived.  Because nothing says “I’m not a victim, nor am I a threat -- unless you mess with me first” like matching Kalishnikitty shirts.

Magazine Maintenance

I won't go into the care a feeding of magazines here, because what do I know about it, anyway other than you need to keep the lint and dirt out of them, and clean them thoroughly from time to time? What I do know is this ... you're supposed to label them. This is so you can tells yours apart from all the rest when shooting with friends. This is so you can narrow it down in case there is one magazine that is causing problems with your firearm.

I hadn't gotten around to it because, well, I don't have that many magazines, and I knew I'd spend way too much time obsessing about some sort of obscure code that would indicate if that mag was for my defensive ammo or my plinking ammo, the date I purchased the it, etc. I'd research the best labeling method, and select the best font for readability. Basically, I was over-thinking the whole thing. Sweet Daughter solved the problem for me today. What do you think?

Two of them sit on the right side of my shoulder rig to balance the weight of the pistol on the other side. Yup. They sit there right along my ribcage, bottoms facing out. So much for staying "low key".

Well, I wasn’t expecting that.

Sweet Daughter was the C.O.W. at Y-camp today. (That’s Camper of the Week. I was confused at first when I picked her up today and she started exclaiming “I’m the COW! I’m the COW!”) So, to celebrate, we decided to pick up a pizza and go to the park for a pizza picnic and some play time. I decided to OC.

There were some kids running around (with no close adult supervision that I could see) while we ate. When we were done, the other kids seemed to evaporate, and I pushed SD on the swings for a bit. When we migrated over to the slides and climbing stuff, the other kids materialized again. SD was sliding down the fireman’s pole, and I was standing under her slowing her descent when a little urchin of about 4 ½ quite earnestly told me he wasn’t supposed to talk to strangers. I told him that was a good idea, and did he realize I was a stranger? He then told me if he was caught talking to a stranger, he’d be beat with a belt. He then asked if I’d help him down the pole. I politely declined, explaining that I was a stranger, and maybe his momma wouldn’t approve.

Then … the question I wasn’t prepared for. Because while I am not comfortable talking to strange adults, I sure as heck don’t like talking to Other People’s Kids. Especially ones traveling in packs and reenacting The Lord of the Flies. Even if they’re only about 4 ½ years old.

“Is that a gun?”

“Yes.”

“A REAL gun?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a cop?”

“No.”

“I can tell you’re not a cop, because you’re not wearing a cop suit.”

“That’s right.”

“So why do you have a gun?”

“To keep her, and the rest of you safe from bad guys.”

I could tell he was thinking that over. And then the 8-year-girl saw the magazines.

“What are those?”

“Magazines.”

“Magazines?” (I could tell she was only familiar with the kind you buy in the checkout line.)

“OMG! IS THAT A GUN?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a cop?”

(Sigh.) “No.”

“A Marine?”

“No.” (But that was kind of cool. When I was her age, women couldn’t be Marines. At least not with guns.)

“Can I see it?”

“Absolutely not. It doesn’t come out of the holster unless I need to use it.”

“Why do you have it?”

And SW piped up with a grin: “To keep me safe!!”

Amazingly, nobody ran screaming back to an adult. Even me.

OC Update

I’ve been OCing a bit more lately. Mostly, if I’m out with my pistol, I’m open carrying unless the venue is so air conditioned I want a jacket. And then I don’t worry about concealment.

I’ve OC’d at CVS a half dozen times, now. That seemed was odd at first, but it’s not a problem now. I’ve OC’d in Kohl’s  and Target a handful of times, and I added Old Navy to the list this weekend. I REALLY wish we had a Trader Joe’s or Whole Paycheck Foods less than an hour away so I could have that experience.

I had left work early one day a week or so ago and was grubbing around at home before picking Sweet Daughter up from camp at the YMCA. I had thrown on my shoulder rig and was heading out the door before I remembered the whole OC Ambassador mindset. I went back and changed out of the oversized shirt with stuff all over the front into a plain red fitted t-shirt. When I got to the pick-up spot, one of the counselors looked at me and said, “Are you a cop?”

“No.”

“FBI?”

“No.”

“CIA?”

Smiling, “No.”

“I was wondering because I saw those.” (Pointing to the two magazines on my right side.)

“They go with this”, I said, turning and showing her the holstered pistol. She looked a little surprised.

“So what do you do?”

II gave her a general idea.

“So why do you carry that?”

(Pointing at SD) “To keep her safe.”

Counselor #2 chimes in with “Yeah. I wouldn’t want to carjack your car.”

I said “That’s pretty much the point.”

I saw the light bulb go off over the head of Counselor #1. And she said she’d like to learn how to shoot. I told her I’d be happy to help point her in the right direction and the next time Michael W. came to visit we could maybe set something up.  

That’s a conversation that never would have happened if I’d been carrying concealed.  We’re winning -- one at a time.

Not like other moms

Sweet Daughter asked me the other day which Disney Princess was my favorite. I’m not thrilled with the idea of “princess” as something to be when one grows up, but I picked Belle, because at least she reads. SD’s favorite? Cinderella.

I said “Cinderella is a perfect example of why you need to finish school and go to college.”

SD: Puzzled look

Me: “If she had a good education she could have a decent paying job, or at least one where she didn’t have to live in the attic and get up before everyone else and be ordered around all day.”

SD: Looking at me like I’ve lost my mind.

Me, continuing: “She’s a grown-up. Why doesn’t she just leave? See? This is why we have guns. So if a bad guy tells us to do something we don’t want to do, we have choices.

SD: Sighs. “Mamma. I think she chose to stay.”

And this is why other moms probably won’t let her come to our house to play.

R. Lee Ermey is a darn nice guy

While at the 2011 NRA Convention in Pittsburgh, Sweet Daughter wanted nothing more than to stand in line to see “Gunny” again. We stood in line for 2 hours last year, and he clearly made quite an impression on her. That, and Glock has the most cushioned floor I’ve ever stood on, so I was okay with that part of the program. Saturday morning the line looked fairly short, and so like some Cold War-era Soviets, we hopped in line without even knowing the details. It turns out the line was short because it wasn’t moving. And it wasn’t moving because R. Lee wasn’t shaking hands at that point. No matter. We talked to some nice people for about a half hour and then had to step out of line to go watch the anti-gun demonstrators. They didn’t show, so we got back in line to see R. Lee. And one of those very nice, well-meaning retired law-enforcement types who was behind us in line proceeded to tell me everything he thought I should know about handguns and shooting.

Him: “You know what the best carry gun for a woman is?”

Me: “The one I’m most comfortable with and will carry.” (And you thought I was going to say a .38 snubbie, didn’t you?)

Him: “The one you’ll carry. The .22 on your hip is better than the .45 in your bedroom.”

Him: “You know, you hafta practice with your holster. You gotta practice drawing and firing from your holster. You gotta train like you fight.”

And on. And on. Ad infinitum, ad nauseum. I swear I was familiar with every cliché he uttered to the point I was finishing his sentences. He meant well, and he was a Viet Nam Veteran, so I was as polite as possible. But when I got the call that the antis showed up, SD and I lost no time in beating feet back outside for the demonstration.


Afterwards we got back in line for the third time and waited our turn. It was worth it. R. Lee says he remembered SD from last year. Now, I don’t imagine there are that many 6’ tall middle-aged moms with little girls that wait in line to see him so it was probably true, but SD was impressed. And he autographed a picture for her and her stuffed animal. AND gave her a challenge coin. Then he signed another picture for me because I told him my boss’s boss was a retired Marine, and it gave me a little street cred to have his autograph on my wall when he stopped by. And so R. Lee insisted on sending another autographed picture for the Big Boss.

“What’s his name?” R. Lee asked.

“Um, Mr. Lastname”, I said. “I don’t think he has a first name. I’ve never heard anyone use it.”

And R. Lee Ermy autographed one for “Mr. Lastname”. And when I gave it to the Big Boss, he smiled, and said he’d have it framed and put it on his office wall. I’d never seen him smile before, or say that many words to me in a row. R. Lee is magic.

Daughter Blogging

Sweet Daughter asked if she could do a guest post.

Fluffy Snuggles is the best cat in the whole wide world because she is never bad. She is always the best kitty at school. (She goes to cat school.) The fluffy tail of hers … she likes it when I pull it for some reason. When she wags it she is always happy, when she doesn’t she is mad. It’s always backwards for being a kitty, because kitties wag their tails when they’re mad. And it is Sweet Daughter’s cat. (Yes, SD refers to herself in the third person when "cat talk" is involved.)

(“What year did I get this?”

“You got Fluffy Snuggles in your Christmas stocking last year, so it was 2009. “)

I got this kitty in 2009.

And without further ado, let me present Fluffy Snuggles and friends.

Here is photograph of Fluffy Snuggles, Pumpkin Tumpkin Socks, and Diesel (named after the dog at her old daycare.)

 
And here is SD’s picture of the same, done last December.

Not the most fun I've had this week

Sweet Daughter came home last week with a flyer advertising the “planetarium” that was going to be at school tonight. I told her that I was REALLY BUSY this week, and didn’t know if we’d be able to go. She came home from school today telling me I had to read the flyer in her book bag about the presentation in the school cafeteria tonight. Shorter Half had a meeting from 6:00 until 8:00 tonight, so even though I have reports due at work tomorrow, and a HUGE weekend to pack for, and food and clothing to document, I agreed to take her. She SO wanted to go.

We got to the school at the appointed hour and walked in to the cafeteria to find what looked like a giant silver mushroom cap inflated in the middle of the floor and chairs set up in rows behind it. I naively hoped that the presentation would be projected onto the outside of this thing. No such luck. Have I mentioned that I’m a bit claustrophobic? And that it seems to be getting worse as I get older? So when I found out that they expected us to crawl through this tunnel thing like it was some kind of space-age igloo, I asked the parent of one of SD’s friends if he’d mind keeping an eye on her, and told him he was free to rip off her arm and beat her with the wet end if she misbehaved. I went to go sit and wait things out when the Guy In Charge lifted up the side of the giant mushroom for those of us that were old, infirm, halt and/or lame to enter. I thought that I’d try that way – after all, there was plenty of room inside, right?

The good news: I ended up sitting by the fan that was blowing fresh air into the giant Hefty bag. The bad news was that the fan was so loud I couldn’t hear the presentation. We were packed in there like sardines. We had to sit on the floor, and being closer to 50 than I am to 45 these days, that wasn’t terribly comfortable. It was stuffy in there. And when he started spinning the stars across Kinderdome, I thought I was going to hurl. Did I mention that there was no way out that didn’t involve a bladed instrument?

So I sat with my head down next to another claustrophobic mom and waited it out. Then the sick bastard giving the presentation told us those of us ducking under the side had to wait until everyone else had gone through the tunnel before the rest of us could exit. I thought I’d done pretty well until I got home and found that my stomach was still in knots an hour after leaving. And to top it all off? I found out the kids had already sat through the same, if not more extensive presentation, earlier that day.

Reboot

I’ve been rather out of sorts the past few days, and Sweet Daughter has picked up on it and been responding in kind. I’ve been trying really hard to be the responsible grown-up, but I wasn’t doing as well as I would have liked. Well, today was errand day, and SD and I got up, make our shopping lists, got breakfast and got ourselves buckled into the car with only slightly foul moods and without spilling any blood. (Juice was spilled. Epically. But that way my fault and did not improve my mood.)

As we were pulling out of the driveway (both of us scowling a bit), I asked if she wanted some “rock star music”, as she calls it. She nodded in the affirmative, and “Vital Idol” started to play. We didn’t talk (and antagonize each other further) but listened for a while. After about 20 minutes, SD said “Mama? Can you put the first song on ‘repeat’?”

“What, you want ‘White Wedding’ on repeat? What’s special about that one?”

“He says ‘shotgun!’”

And with that, we fist-bumped, grinned, turned the volume up a bit and proceeded to have a much better day.

Merry Christmas

I probably have the only 5-year-old who is still asleep at 10:45 on Christmas morning. Sweet Daughter was up all night. Vomit, drink Gatorade, sleep for 30 minutes, lather, rinse, repeat. She’s already mastered a key college skill of woofing into the garbage can without actually having to get out of bed. I’m so proud.


I was thinking that Mary was up all night on Christmas Eve, too. Being a parent is tough, but at least I’m not responsible for the freakin’ Son of God.

Around 5:00 this morning, whatever demon that was possessing her decided to exit her body rather abruptly at both ends. She’s been sleeping ever since. I think it’s time to check for a pulse.