Wall art with kids: Butterfly footprint paintings

Needed:

• Canvas
• Acrylic paint (I used mixtures of ultramarine blue, cadmium red, cadmium yellow medium or light, white, with a small amount of brown) and paintbrushes
• Wet wipes

I've made three of these paintings so far with two butterflies, three butterflies, and nine butterflies, and with children ranging in age from one year to eleven years. Here are some tips to make it easier:

1. Paint canvas background color (I used ultramarine blue) the night before. If needed can do a couple coats.

2. Mark ahead of time where you want footprints to go.

3. Don't try to do all the footprints at once unless you have other adults to help.

4. Wipe child's feet with wet wipes first, before applying the paint. Do one foot, wipe clean, then the second foot, and wipe clean.

5. Toddlers and babies are easiest to do if you have a second adult to hold them while you put the paint on their feet, then the two of you can lower and press each foot straight down and straight up from the canvas. Then immediately can wipe feet clean with the wipes before the paint spreads elsewhere. If making the painting on your own with kids, strap baby/toddler into high chair with a snack while you paint their feet, and then hold the canvas upright to push the foot into it. The first method works better if possible.

6. Kids who are preschool/early elementary age are easier to do - have them sit on a chair, wipe their feet, apply paint one foot at a time. They can stand, leaning against you for balance, while you press their foot straight down and up from the canvas (canvas is on floor, with tarp/plastic underneath). I usually have put the foot over my shoulder to have the greatest control over getting it where I want it to go.

7. Some footprints turn out better than others - can always paint over them with the background color and then do them again another time, or can fix them as needed with paint and paintbrush.

Giving up strength for Lent

Ok, this was not my initial thought on what to give up for Lent this year. Last year, I gave up obsessing over clothes that I wanted to buy. This year, since I'm eight months pregnant with a bowling ball sticking out of my abdomen, it's frankly not that fun thinking about my appearance.

Instead, I was making an attempt to give up going to bed so ridiculously late every night.

And then last Tuesday happened. Last Tuesday was the day that my body declared to me that it was indeed 32 weeks pregnant. It gave me notice that it will no longer do the things I've been asking it to do, and declared a strike for an undetermined amount of time, during which if I so much as load or unload the dishwasher, it will unleash an obnoxious protest on me in the form of lower back pain, burning and aching muscles, and the threat of heavy waves of false (fingers crossed) labor pain.

It's been a week now since my body called it quits. And I've decided to think again about Lent. I'm not thinking any more about when I go to bed, because my body now hits a point at which it will no longer tolerate being upright and demands sleep. So. Instead: I have decided that this year for Lent I will give up the illusion of my own strength.

It is an illusion maintained for myself as much as for anyone around me. I have always liked to seem, or indeed actually to be, as self-sufficient as possible. I like to make a plan to do something, and then maybe throw a few more items into the mix, just so that at the end of this stressfully great juggling act I can give myself a little pat on the shoulder, and maybe get the sense that people around me are wondering how just how I managed that without dropping a single ball.

Obviously, having kids can just knock the juggler right out of you. Or, if you are someone really committed to seeming strong and capable, they simply provide more of a challenge to prove yourself. It's just an upping of the ante.

Christians, or at least I can speak to American Christians, make this into a kind of a virtue. For years I used to remind myself, and hear others repeating around me, like a mantra: "I can do all things through him who gives me strength." Amen, pray more, and move forward throwing yourself at the million tasks and demands in front of you.

I don't disagree at all with the idea of asking God to provide strength for the day when I lack it. And yet here I am, with minimal strength and increasing pain, and what I want to think is: Ok. Pray. And then get back to the juggling.

But the problem with all this throwing around of Philippians 4:13 is that our English Bibles create a paragraph break between two verses that are clearly tied together. It's something I never noticed until recently. Paul writes: "I can do all things through him who gives me strength. Yet it was good of you to share in my troubles." He's trusting in Christ's sufficiency, but he recognizes his need for other people.

It can be difficult to do, but it is good for me to let myself be weak. And, even harder: it's good for me to allow people to see me be weak.

My weakness opens up the possibility that I could receive the care of other people. It can strengthen and deepen relationships. It allows other people the opportunity to give; it possibly requires some self-sacrifice of them. It requires me to push pride out of the way of accepting that someone else sacrificed something for me. I really hate asking anyone to do anything for me. I hate the possibility that I have irritated someone, inconvenienced them. And yet, in theory, I do think it's good to get inconvenienced. To have the opportunity to give something that actually cost something.

So, since I will be spending Lent in one of the final months of my pregnancy, I am going to spend Lent openly declaring: I am not strong. My self-sufficiency was a lie, even before my body dumped me. For this season at least, my juggling is at an end. I will not be amazing anyone with any feats. If you stop by my house, it will even more of a mess than normal. If you come over to eat, I will buy something from the store and hand it to you. But I will certainly be glad to see you.

There could be something really special about a month of the year spent in transparency with one another. Refusing to cover up the holes in our lives or to deny the needs. And when we help others, not doing it in a way that makes us look stronger or more capable. But instead just getting together, as people who acknowledge what we lack, and who are willing to help each other in the ways that we are able.

Painting used glass (fun for grown-ups and kids)

I don't know whether it's all the glass honey jars I've been cleaning and recycling lately, or if it's because I realized I could buy a little set of glass paints at the craft store for only £2, but I recently became obsessed with the idea of painting some of our old glass items to reuse for other functions around the house.

A trip to the craft store put me out only about £10 (for two sets of the paint pots as well as gold and dark blue glass-paint markers). I'd saved myself a wine bottle and three glass honey jars on which to experiment and looked around Pinterest for some glass-painting ideas. I'd also set aside three glass salad dressing bottles on which my four-year-old could attempt his own glass-painting experiments. In the afternoons, we've been sitting down with the paints and markers to see what we could do.


DECORATIVE WINE BOTTLE
On the wine bottle, I used the gold marker to draw a series of squares and rectangles (and to color in some segments as well). After the marker dried, I painted the rectangles various colors (it took a few coats of paint since I wanted the colors darker). After the paints dried, I went back over the gold lines and gold-colored rectangles again to finish off the stained-glass look.













FUN FOR KIDS
Meanwhile, painting from his side of the table, my four-year-old continuously declared glass painting to be the most fun thing he'd ever done. He's not always into painting, but I think the novelty of it as well as me joining him with my own glass-painting projects really excited him. His finished products could be used as fun vases--although he has preferred instead to use them as homes for a small plastic green alien.






TOOTHBRUSH/TOOTHPASTE HOLDERS
For my final project, I used the honey pots to make containers for all of the toothbrushes and toothpastes often scattered on top of the bathroom shelf. To help make sure that the look of two of them would be consistent with each other, I first drew what I wanted on a piece of paper, then put the paper inside the jar, so I could trace it onto the glass and ensure relative conformity. On the third honey pot, I tried out a random flower design before lightly painting the whole jar blue.




























While I've satiated the glass-painting urge for now, there are so many more fun experiments that my son or I could have tried. The paints could work as well for an even simpler project, like painting baby food jars all one color (maybe dark blue or red?) for a series of votives. With the minimal cost involved, I do think it would be worth trying again.

The irritation of intimacy

Here is my tribute to Valentine's Day:

Nobody has the potential to irritate you like the people with whom you live. Whether a spouse, a child, a parent, a sibling, a roommate--and there's a reason for it. These are the people who live in your space. Who make demands of your brain, of your time and your energy, and who have the capability and willingness to do all kinds of things within your space that make no sense to you whatsoever.

If we have enough money, we are living at a time and in places where people can increasingly live together and forgo these irritations--to live together without being in each other's space. Maybe everyone has their own rooms, perhaps even with the added retreat avenues of their own televisions, computers, and phones. One can happily close a door rather than suffer the annoyances of another person.

When those physical logistics combine with a culture in which "love" is something that exists to fulfill and bestow happiness upon its owner, we can forget the hidden value of everyday relational irritations.

Because the flip side of letting someone into your space--someone who will frustrate you with their differences, whose needs will encroach on your energy, whose plans will at times completely alter your own--is that irritants can teach things like patience, compromise, and communication. Those differences could take you a couple of steps toward understanding a perspective or a personality unlike your own. That other person's needs could teach you to give, even as they teach you your own limitations.

And the difficulties of allowing someone into your space combined with the level of commitment that a spouse makes to a spouse, or a parent gives to a child--that teaches sacrifice. Sacrifice. A word that I am groaning to type, because Christians seem to throw it around so much that any meaning fell off of it a long time ago.

"Sacrifice" means a death has happened. It could be as small as the death of some plans you'd had for the day, of some rest you thought you'd get, or some activity in which you'd hoped to participate. But it could also mean the death of larger hopes, of something you'd thought you'd do, of ideas you'd had for your own future, of someone you'd imagined yourself becoming. It sounds wrong even as I type it, to say something like that in a culture that values self-actualization above all else. But it's clear that you can't be a husband or a wife in the long term without some of this kind of sacrifice, and you can't parent a child without it either.

The sometimes pain or difficulties or self-denials of intimacy--what could teach us more practically to be like Christ? And yet we can run from it, or at least when we find ourselves in those situations we can assume something must be wrong with our relationship, since those moments are not happy or fulfilling ones. But in reality those moments are symptoms that confirm--yes, indeed, we have allowed someone else's life truly to overlap our own.

But I can't only dwell on the idea of what you could gain in Christlikeness when your spouse or child or parent or sibling or roommate presents you with irritation or pain or difficulty. Because in these relationships, you also will fail. You will misunderstand, you will get angry, you will annoy, you will make demands, you will cause pain.

And in those instances, you grow in yet another important way. You can be humbled. You can be changed, for the better. And, best of all, you can experience the grace of another person bestowed upon you, another person who has actually seen and felt the lash of your lowest self. But who continues to live in your space, and to love you.

Happy Valentine's Day to those who have shared their space with me, and who have given me grace.

Crocheting binge

I didn't let myself crochet anything for several months in the attempt to begin to get on top of organizing photos. But the colder weather just feels like crocheting weather to me, and so between November and now I've made a couple hats and scarves as well as a blanket (from the book Candy Crochet) that I'd been dying to try but only just recently did I find the right kind of green yarn in bulk...

Neither here nor there

At the tail end of a long day of traveling from Scotland to my parents' house in the States, my four-year-old started to lose it. My mom distracted him by giving him his first taste of a GPS system. He has recently become fascinated by the idea of maps, so an animated talking map that noted our destination with a happy checkered flag was a clear winner.

Soon, every time we hopped into their minivan (a "huge car with magic doors," according to my son), we'd hear him, buckled into his seat in the corner of the back row, making sure we hadn't forgotten that he wanted to hold the GPS.

When we drove on various errands around the hills and farmlands of Pennsylvania, my mom showed my son another way by which we could locate ourselves: the small mountain range on which they live. Otherwise known as "Gran's mountain" (um, within our family only), it could be spotted above the trees and fields, a sure marker toward home.

On our airplane ride back to Scotland, my son sat next to the window, his head bobbing as he looked around intently. Finally, he confessed, "I can't see Gran's mountain anywhere." At this moment he knew for sure that Gran and Gpa were far away.

What I think he was feeling is akin to something I feel often. Looking for home.

When I was in the States, I felt for a couple weeks what it would be like to be at my nieces' and nephews' birthday parties, and for my son to have a birthday party with aunts, uncles, cousins, and grandparents in attendance. For my kids to have play dates with their cousins, while I chatted with my sisters. It seemed like such a luxury to me, those moments. And the time together strengthens those family bonds, though I feel the pain of it even more when it is time to leave.

And so a part of me wants to be home, thinks of "home" as where our families are, in the States. But another part of me wants to be home, thinks of "home" as Aberdeen--where I have watched my son grow from babyhood into boyhood. Where my daughter was born. It's where we have become a family ourselves and created a horde of memories. It's the only place my son knows--watching the 17 bus drive past our house, riding his bike around the park, running across the stone floor at church toward the chocolate biscuits at the back table. This part of me feels the timer counting down our time here, and I can't imagine being a family anywhere else. As my son's been telling me, "I like Scotland. When I'm big I'm still going to live here."

Some days, I feel like I don't know where I belong. I can't get my bearings on a particular "home," because home in recent years always seems to mean a place where our roots can never firmly take hold; home also means time with family in locations scattered around the States in which we have few personal ties or memories. Something inside me as a person feels very strongly that I should be able to plot "home" on a map and settle down there. But maybe that comes from an idea of a kind of life that very few people have anymore: a place where you nurture friendships and memories for decades, where your families are and continue to be, a place where you might also stick around for your older years.

Other days, I can celebrate that moving has taught me an important truth: I never knew what I could do until it was just my husband and me in a strange new place. Stuff college-aged me could never have imagined, like gaining the legal right to drive on the wrong side of the road. Forcing myself to poke holes in my own terrible shyness and instead discover that new people have all sorts of fascinating stories and information tucked inside of them. Seeing God provide for me as I could never have known if I hadn't needed so much.

When I was in the States, and wrestling with these kinds of thoughts, I happened to read an old Daily Bread sitting around my parents' house. In the February 5 entry, a couple of sentences jumped out at me: "The following were words on a sign outside a church in England: 'It doesn't matter where you live as long as you live where you are.' If God is your dwelling place, you are living where you are. If you're not content where you are, put your trust in God and thank Him for all He's given you."

I think at least one element in my struggling has been the struggle to trust God, thinking my own unmet desires for my family are what we most need, rather than trusting God's own purposes for us. Perhaps I need to grab a permanent marker and write Isaiah 49 every place I look during the day:

¹⁴ But Zion said, “The LORD has forsaken me, the Lord has forgotten me.”
¹⁵ “Can a mother forget the baby at her breast
and have no compassion on the child she has borne?
Though she may forget,
I will not forget you!
¹⁶ See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands;
your walls are ever before me.

Are we limiting our little girls?

There is perhaps an education inherent in having first a male child and then a female. From the earliest days, I wondered whether I subconsciously treated my daughter differently from my son. Did I handle her more gently? Treat her tears with more sympathy? Encourage her with the same zest to test her physical limitations on the playground?

A fascinating aspect of this has emerged as my daughter heads toward her second birthday, and the three of us spend more time playing together. Because my son is the oldest, most of the toys we have are his, and he also tends to determine the direction of our play. At the moment we most often pretend-play with Thomas the Tank Engine, Imaginext's outer space toys, and Octonauts (a team of cartoon characters who have underwater adventures).

As my daughter plays along with my son, she obviously does not have the gender self-consciousness yet to note that of the many, many Thomas trains he has, only a couple are "girl" trains. Of the eight Octonauts, two are female, and these two don't seem to participate in the action like the primary three (male) Octonauts do (though, I suppose, a shout-out is in order to the girl bunny who is an engineer). Of the eight Imaginext figures my son has accumulated, who drive the various airplanes, vehicles, and space shuttle, none is female. When I checked the Imaginext website, just thinking maybe I could find my daughter some kind of Imaginext figure of her own for her birthday, I discovered that there are no females in the world of Imaginext--not even among the Cars and Toy Story Imaginext toys. It just means that when she gets older, and realizes that she is a girl, she will also realize that Imaginext adventures are for boys, and she will have to pretend to be a boy if she wants to continue to play along with her brother.

If you scroll down the list of preschooler toys on the Fisher Price website, it's clear that toys are strongly segregated, even though preschoolers themselves don't seem to segregate themselves yet in their play--"boy" toys are often about imagining adventures and building things, while "girl" toys seem limited to role play about cooking and taking care of babies. Why would we push such young kids to imagine in only one direction like that? Why not play house one day, and then imagine space missions the next day?

Last spring I read a book called Packaging Girlhood: Rescuing our Daughters from Marketers' Schemes. In six chapters, the authors evaluate the ways in which marketing messages target girls' ideas of themselves (from toddlerhood through adolescence) in the areas of clothing, television and movies, music, books, and toys/recreational activities in order to sell them products. They conclude by offering suggestions for age-appropriate conversations to help our daughters learn from an early age to consider critically the marketing messages they will consume throughout their lives.

The authors noted the strong dichotomy between girls' and boys' toys as well, in much greater detail. For example, in their review of board game covers, twice as many boys as girls are shown in action playing the game (girls usually shown "watching, waiting, reacting, catching, or poised to act"), and only boys or male characters were ever shown winning the game (p. 222).

Even though the book is five years old and a little dated, I recommend it for the sake of parents building up some critical thinking skills in this area, and for realizing that it's not so much about undertaking the Herculean task of keeping our daughters away from these things, but teaching them to approach them wisely, as appropriate, and with critical eyes.

The book made me turn a critical eye even on my own childhood play, the shows I watched, and the inherent messages. My 80s cartoon fare, from Superfriends to GI Joe to Smurfs, often revolved around a team of boys with one or two token girls, who served as love interests for good guys and objects of attraction for bad guys. I never stopped to think about whether in my own mind I had developed a way of thinking that implies that I need to be attractive to men in order to be of value or included in life's adventures.

Well, I'm about to descend into a rant that might be regrettable, so I'll end it by saying that as a Christian woman the true source of my value (my daughter's value!) has everything to do with the love of God, who values us at the cost of his Son's life. As for Imaginext, I can't force them to make female pilots, but I can let my daughter play along, and, when she's old enough, give her this earful directly.