So, I have lots of paper at my house. And sometimes it sings, in melodic strains of persuasion, from the closet in the office; daring me to do something darling with it. And sometimes I am seduced by its siren song. Like today, during naptime, when I made these:
I have to give credit to Danielle, the honest-to-goodness well-spring of creativeness, who sent me a darling little bird card (that she made, of course,) a few weeks ago in a care package. She's the one who got my wheels turning about cutting paper into bird and branch-shaped scraps. I thought my creations were so charming while I was cutting and gluing all the little pieces. But now when I look at them and free associate, tacky is the first word that comes to mind. Hmph! Maybe if I put them behind glass in some clip frames and hang them in a trip-titch above my entry table I'll be more pleased. But the process of creation is something my soul absolutely craves every now and then; and my art department was parched, so I watered it.
I wasn't quite finished when H woke up...
When he emerged from his room, he bypassed my heap of scraps and shavings and headed straight for the kitchen. He returned a minute later with a chubby pickle in his hand and said, "Mom, look-it my sour pick-ow face," and then contorted his countenance into a puckered squint.
Turns out I've got a pretty decent sour face about pickles too; I discovered it this afternoon when I went into the kitchen and found a glossy, green puddle of sticky pickle juice covering half of the floor.