International Creativity Month

January is International Creativity Month. As many of you know, I like to send Bubby a little something each month in recognition of one of the off-the-wall celebrations designated for that month. You can read about some of the past goodies he's gotten from me here and here.

So for International Creativity Month, I'm going to give -- no, I'm going to BRING for Bubby when I go see him next week! -- CORNSTARCH!

Yay for cornstarch!

"That's pretty, ummm, creative, Lisa," you may say, adding, "and, uh, pretty stupid!"

No, no, no, dear reader. It will be fun! And it will be creative!

See, I don't often get to do crafty, messy fun things with my Bubby since he lives in the desert and I live in the mountains. But because I'll be babysitting him -- by myself -- for three whole days, it's the perfect opportunity to have some fun and make some messes while Mom and Dad are away.

Which is where the cornstarch comes in.

When Bubby's mom and her sisters were little girls, I was a stay-at-home mom and we did daily craft activities. One of our favorites when the girls were around Bubby's current age was fingerpainting -- with fingerpaints made out of cornstarch.

And it's high time Bubby gets a taste (literally?) of Grandma's homemade cornstarch fingerpaint.

So I'll arrive in the desert to take care of Bubby with my box of cornstarch in hand, ready for fingerpainting.

But the creative fun ala cornstarch won't stop there! With my box of cornstarch, we can also make cornstarch goop and we can make peanut butter play dough. Messy, creative fun where I don't have to worry that Bubby's going to stick his paint- or goo- or dough-covered hands in his mouth. I won't encourage eating the gooey goodness, but I won't freak out and fear for his life (or at least his digestive system) if he happens to swallow a bit of the fun.

So yes, for International Creativity Month, Bubby gets cornstarch. And here are the recipes I'll be using to turn said cornstarch into something memorable -- at least for me!

Cornstarch Fingerpaint

Ingredients:

3 cups water

1 cup cornstarch

food coloring

Directions: In a medium saucepan, bring water to a boil.  Dissolve cornstarch in a separate bowl with water.   Remove boiling water from heat and add cornstarch mixture.  Return to heat, stirring constantly.  Boil until the mixture is clear and thick (about 1 minute).  Remove from heat.

As the mixture cools, divide into separate bowls and add food coloring; thoroughly mix in coloring.

Peanut Butter Playdough

Ingredients:

Cornstarch

Peanut butter

Directions: Just add equal parts of cornstarch and peanut butter together; knead together til smooth.

Cornstarch Goop

Ingredients:

1 cup cornstarch

a small amount of water

Add water slowly to cornstarch until the goop drips from the spoon. The mixture will seem hard until you try to pick it up then it should slide between your fingers. If it is too liquidy, add a little more cornstarch. For color, add a few drops of food coloring.

Today's question from the Zobmondo "Would You Rather" board game:

Would you rather skydive without a lesson - OR - scuba dive without a lesson?

I'd rather skydive without a lesson. I've gone skydiving before (a tandem jump) and could at least guess at what I should do; if I guessed incorrectly, there's still a chance I may survive. But scuba diving? No way! I barely know how to swim and if you do the wrong thing under water, there's no way to take a deep breath and start all over again. It'd just be OVER. (Sheesh, just writing that kind of took my breath away!) Plus, there's scary underwater monster-like thingees that might just want to take a bite out of you.

Fave photo of the week

Yep, this truly is my favorite little boy in the whole entire world!

Today's question from the Zobmondo "Would You Rather...?" board game:

Would you rather live forever as a 13-year-old -OR- as a 65-year-old?

I think I'd rather live forever as a 65-year-old. For one thing, you can't legally drink as a 13-year-old -- and although I'm not a lush by any means, I do like a drink now and then -- but more importantly, the older I get, the more comfortable I am in my (saggier and wrinklier by the minute) skin. As a 13-year-old, I was so horribly shy and uncomfortable and unsure of myself. I'd never want to be 13 again.

The Saturday Post

As I get older, I definitely notice myself getting more and more stupid an ever-so-slight decline in my mental capabilities. Especially my memory.

So when I received an e-mail that mentioned Test My Brain, I forgot about it for a couple months then rediscovered it yesterday I had to quiz the ol' noggin with a few cool cognitive tests.

According to the site, "Test My Brain is a website dedicated to internet-based experiments and science education. ... By participating in these experiments, you can learn a bit about your personality and individual aptitudes.   All of our experiments are designed to provide personalized feedback that is specific to you.  By making research relevant and helpful to individuals like you, we aim to make psychology and brain research more accessible and, ultimately, to promote awareness of scientific research.

As Test My Brain grows and evolves, we hope to continually expand our educational content, presenting the latest in brain research as well as results and what we've learned from these experiments."

Last night, I took the "Keeping Things in Mind" test (15 minutes) and the "Can You Name That Face" celebrity face-recognition test (5 minutes). Below are screen shots of my scores. Check them out (you may need to enlarge the screen to see the type ... maybe??), then visit Test My Brain to find out how you fare. And if you're oh-so daring, share your results here.

"Keeping Things in Mind" scores:

 

And the "Can You Name That Face" score:

I guess I'm not quite as cognitively impaired as I thought (although it did make clear that I really DO suck at anything with numbers). Give it a whirl, then share your scores.

Today's questions from "If... (Questions for the Game of Life)":

If you had to name the best purchase you've ever made, which one would you choose?

I would have to say ... Jim's vasectomy. HA! I'm totally kidding (maybe). No, I'd have to say the house we owned prior to the one we live in now because it was one heck of a deal that led to our ability to buy our current home (and provided many, many good memories ... although I don't think those were related to the purchase).

Monkey tales

Monkey Bubby rides poor Roxie.*In exactly two weeks I get to see Bubby! Hooray, hooray! Preston has a big conference in San Diego at a fancy-schmancy resort and Megan gets to go along.

And I get to be flown to their home base to babysit Bubby for three days, all by myself!

We've had this planned for quite some time, but I'm starting to think Megan now has a few concerns about leaving me alone with Bubby for a few days. For my sake and sanity, not his.

A recent conversation:

Me: So, did you get the toy box put together? (Santa brought Bubby a new wooden toy box that also serves as bench seating.)

Megan: Yeah, we did. <hearty chuckle>

Me: And ... how does Bubby like it?

Megan: He loves it! We have it sitting by the couch and he first used it to jump from the toy box onto the couch. Then he decided to try jumping from the couch to the toy box. From there, he figured out how to jump directly off the toybox onto the floor.

Me: <stifling my "What the hell? He's still a baby! He's going to hurt himself!" instant reaction> Oh really ... hmmmmm ...

Megan: But we LET him do that. That's just the way we do things, Mom. We let him be ... a monkey.

Me: <silence as I try to decide if my Bubby is a bratty terror who gets to run wild throughout the house or if he's a tad too rambunctious and needs to be tamed before he hurts himself ... or both>

Megan: <in her "treading lightly" voice> I'm telling you that because I just want you to know that he's allowed to do that. He gets to be a monkey in our house, and I'm sure it's going to give you a heart attack.

Me: Oh-kay ... So, does Bubby help put his toys in the toy box? <stealthily changing the subject>

Sheesh. Seems my daughter thinks I can't handle a monkey of a boy. A wild, crazy, physically daring little boy who pulls stools down on his head, rides the dog as if Roxie were a bucking bronco, and regularly sports bruises, bangs and rug burns from his acrobatics.

She thinks I'm too paranoid about kids getting hurt. I get it. I can read between the lines.

Yes, I'm a paranoid mother who suffered hysterical panic attacks at a child's slightest veer from a stationary position feared for the safety of my little ones ... and had ridiculous unfounded phobias about them falling down -- or up! -- stairs (thank God Bubby has no stairs in his house) ... and gave regular thanks that I had daughters who couldn't go out for football where they'd surely suffer concussions or worse. (Although Andie didn't fare much better with soccer; and Brianna did break bones in track; and Megan had her fingers smashed flat -- honest to God -- in a bout on the playground.)

Okay, so derring do scares me a bit when it comes to my babies.

But hey, doesn't Megan remember that we got a massive trampoline when the girls were preteens? And it didn't even have one of those safety-net surrounds! And I didn't wrap them in bubble-wrap before they climbed aboard.

See ... I can do danger!

Although I must admit: There were so many rules and regulations surrounding the use of the death trap bouncing mat of joy that it was probably not much fun for anyone -- least of all the friends and neighborhood kids who weren't allowed to even remove their shoes and pretend to set foot on it without their parents' signatures on the three-page liability release for kids who become paralyzed or die permission slip I handed out to one and all.

See, Megan. I can handle monkeys. I can do danger. It just has to be safe danger!

*Luckily Roxie thinks Bubby's hugs make up for the wild ride.

Today's question from Zobmondo's 'Would You Rather...?' board game:

Would you rather live for 10 additional years at the top of your game -OR- for 30 additional years in which you have moments of brilliance amidst trials and tragedies?

I vote for the second. I'd like as many years as possible to see how fabulously life unfolds for my children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. And since trials and tragedies are part and parcel of life as it is now, I don't really see any need to trade in 30 years of that for 10 years of being at the top of my game.

Update

on 2010-01-07 19:27 by Lisa Carpenter

Oh ho ho!! I just got a phone call from Megan. She read this post ... and proceeded to tell me that she'd been forgetting (yeah, right) to call and let me know that soon after the conversation above, Bubby proceeded to jump from the back of the couch onto the floor and LANDED FACE FIRST, BIT THROUGH HIS LIP AND MEGAN THOUGHT SHE WAS GOING TO HAVE TO TAKE HIM IN FOR STITCHES!

So Mama/Grandma's not so damn paranoid after all, my little Meggie Beggie!

Even Preston said to Megan that evening, "Uh, maybe we shouldn't be letting Bubby do that anymore."

(Brianna voiced that maybe Megan kept "forgetting" to tell me about the incident because she didn't want to admit I was RIGHT!)

Luckily Bubby didn't need stitches nor did he break his new little teeth ... this time!

The fun begins

Frankly, I'm not sure I believe Megan's claims. How can my Bubby be anything but absolutely precious all the time!?There are so many challenges that come with parenting, beginning from the moment the baby arrives. Most of those early challenges are related to the fact the baby can't talk, can't say what's going on. Is he hungry or hurt? Sick or sleepy?

Moms (and dads) muddle through the best they can, anxiously awaiting the day their little one can talk.

Little do they know that it's once their sweet snookums can talk that the real work fun begins.

Seems Megan is just now learning that.

Bubby is nearly 19 months old. And he's learned how to communicate -- sometimes in real words, sometimes in real whines, and sometimes in all-out, throw-myself-on-the-floor, I-want-what-I-want-and-I-want-it-now-dammit tantrums.

In other words, he's hitting the terrible twos.

"What happened to my sweet boy?" Megan asked me yesterday.

"Sounds like he's definitely his mama's son," I told her.

"Yeah, that's all I can think about," she replied.

She remembers the screaming, crying, whining, door-slamming, "I hate yous!" and running to her room. Wait ... those were the teen years.

No, it's the pictures she's thinking about, she says. All the pictures we have of her as a toddler and little girl, crying because life was so absolutely horrible when she didn't get her way. Or get all the attention -- from the dog, her mom, her dad, her little sister, her big sister, anyone daring enough to visit the house.

Full disclosure: In all honesty, Megan didn't cry and throw fits because she was a brat; she cried all the damn time because she was truly heartbroken, my hypersensitive little Meggie. She regularly handed over her heart to anyone within arm's length, then suffered utter devastation when they didn't accept -- or understand -- the gift they were being given.

And now, with Bubby using all his emotions and communication skills to his full advantage, all Megan can think about are the pictures.

All I can think about is that it's payback time.

(And that she's pretty darn lucky her first child is a boy because the hell fun will really begin when she has a hormone-raging, mama-testing little girl!)

Today's question from "If ... (Questions for the Game of Life)":

If you had to choose the worst song ever composed, which one would you pick?

I'm sure there are others but as of right now, just because it's still fresh in my mind with the recent holidays, it's that absolutely stupid, sickening, ear worm of a Christmas tune (if you can call it that) by Paul McCartney that goes ... "Sim-ply hav-ing a WONderful Christmas time." AACK! I hate that song and turned off the radio or changed the channel every time it came on.