I was scrolling back through my photos and realized that I have lots of evidence of kiddling shenanigans that I have yet to share with you. So, no point in dilly-dallying. Let’s go!

First up, take a gander at these wallets.

They’re made out of duct tape! Yo-Yo learned how to do this at his friend’s house and then he bought himself a roll of duct tape and started smacking together a bunch of wallets.

It kept him busy for a couple days—totally worth the eight dollar roll of tape. (Except, I think he got a generic tape because it smells rank. If you’re going to do this, buy the real deal.)

Here is Miss Beccaboo learning how to type…while sporting a queenly crown fashioned from a Barbie doll dress and a straight pin.

Here is the dish drainer after Yo-Yo finished washing them.

I bought a wig at the thrift store, handed it over to my kids, and crossed my fingers that it wasn’t hopping with lice.

My son loves it.

My daughter loves it.

My husband loves it.

Here we have a rigged light switch, courtesy of Yo-Yo. (Ignore the graffiti.)

He wanted to be able to turn his ceiling light off without climbing down from his loft, so he tied two strings to the switch and then ran them up along his ceiling, using hook-y things to hold them in place.

At the other end up in his loft, he tied a Lego piece to the end of each string.

Pull one and then light goes on. Pull the other and the light goes off.

I’ve been watching an episode from the Cook’s Illustrated DVD almost every day. The three younger kids usually join me.

Yesterday we learned how to make pommes anna and then Miss Beccaboo made a pommes anna out of play dough. She had the technique down pat.

The kids have to bring in wood almost daily.

When they get smart, they turn it into a game and make a chain.

Yo-Yo has been hankering after a bow and arrow so Mr. Handsome told him to make one.

Yo-Yo made two.

I’m not sure how this picture ended up on my camera. I think the kids maybe stole it, the dirty little rascals. Anyway, I’m glad to have that picture now because it means I can tell you about the latest bit of terror they have inflicted upon me. See that bust that a woozy-looking Yo-Yo is shouldering? That’s a bust of a two-year-old Yo-Yo, done by my youngest brother. (I think?) It weighs a ton. It’s pink.

The kids like to stick it places and then wait for all hell to break loose. Actually, they don’t usually see my reaction because they’re sound asleep, but that doesn’t stop them. They set it up some place and then go to sleep and when I come up to check on them I freak out so bad I about pee my pants. Just the other night I walked into Yo-Yo’s room, which was eerily lit by an orange electric candle, and there was the bust atop a blanket-draped stool. It nearly did me in.

This same time, years previous: earthquake cake

I am a true blonde!

I learned this from none other than my eye doctor. This is the first time I’ve ever been to this actual eye doctor—I haven’t been to see an eye doctor in years and years and years—so to call her my eye doctor is perhaps a little forward. However, I totally dig her style, so I’m more than ready to call her my doctor. Heck, she’s going to be the whole family’s eye doctor, should I ever decided they need one.

Anyway, at one point in the hour-long session she peered into my eyeball with a laser lens do-hickey thing and then sat back and said, “Huh. You’re a true blonde, aren’t you?”

“What? Uh— Um… yeah, I guess so,” I stammered, confused.

She rushed to explain. “Most people have pigment in their eyes—I can see it with this lens. But with you there is no pigment. That’s how I know.”

Seriously? I’m pigmentless in my eyeballs? Wow.

She explained that fair people like me are more sensitive to sunlight and that sunlight can actually physically damage the eye. For example, light-skinned people are more susceptible to cataracts, and cataracts are partially a result of sun damage. I should be wearing sunglasses, she said, and not just for a fashion statement, either. (Also, most sun damage happens before 18 years of age so it’s a good idea for kids to wear sunglasses, too.)

I came away from her office with a diagnosis of a stigmatism, farsightedness (hard proof that my body is going to pot), and a recommendation that I find myself some reading glasses (I’m going for the cheap drugstore version) and a couple pairs of sunglasses.

The same day I had my eye appointment, all four of the kids had dentist appointments.

Remember the last time that Sweetsie went to the dentist? Yeah, me too. Not a good memory at all. After that failed attempt, I took Sweetsie along to the next scheduled appointment but told her that she couldn’t get the prize bag if she didn’t sit in the chair and do what the dentist said. When we walked out of that office, the other three children merrily brandishing their new toothbrushes and floss, she sobbed.

This time she said she’d sit in the chair and she wanted to be first in line. Ahead of time, I had secretly asked the office to do an abbreviated cleaning for her, and they played their part to the hilt, explaining everything, cheering her on, brandishing the prize bag, and generally keeping her mind on other things. Sweetsie sat on my lap, and though I could feel her trembling and shaking down to her toes, she minded her manners (did I ever tell you about the time she kicked her allergist?), followed directions, and even flashed some smiles. This time when we left the office, every single one of my children had new toothbrushes and Sweetsie was glowing.

Sometimes kids just need to grow up, you know? Back then, in the midst of those horrible appointments, I suspected that was the case—she was just terrified and stubborn and needed a little space to mature. Or at least I hoped that was the case. I really didn’t know, but I went with my mother’s intuition, decided that there was no danger in waiting a year or two, and tried to take a relaxed approach. It took nearly two years for her to grow up, but my patience finally paid off. I’m thankful that’s the case, but I wish that myself of one year ago could have had a peek at last week’s appointment. It would have eased my anxiety tremendously.

Makes me wonder what worries I have now that are just as unnecessary…

My friend, Thy Hand, is doing a giveaway for Yo-Yo. If you want to toss your name into the bag for the chance to win one of three pieces of jewelry (you’ve got options!), head over to her blog and leave a comment.

(It was my idea that he do a giveaway, but Yo-Yo had to help come up with the plan, write the initial email, and do some of the follow up correspondence. It’s all made for a valuable lesson in advertising, communication, and business economics.)

This same time, years previous: a rant against the boob tube

“Howdy, neighbor! I’ve been wanting to talk to you!” halloed Gale. I was passing by their place on my afternoon walk, and as he tromped up through the field, I swung over to the other side of the road to meet him. “I just wanted to tell you that we’re butchering the Saturday next and ya’ll are more than welcome to come.”

And so, this morning, we did. The kids were up before daybreak, chattering with excitement. They hustled through their bowls of granola, jumping up to run to the back door every two minutes to check on the neighbors’ house. “Another car is driving in!” they’d holler. Or, “the big outside light is on!” Shortly after seven, all six of us were heading down the road, eyes watering from the cold despite being bundled up to our eyebrows.

When we arrived, the first of the six hogs was already being scalded and scraped. Fires were burning, tables were set up, and men were milling around. Things picked up speed right quick. Soon there were three pigs hanging, another being scraped, and yet another was in pieces on the cutting-up table.

This was the second pig butchering I’ve seen. The first was at our local butcher shop, and while both were community efforts (in the sense that a local butcher shop is part of the community), the scenery was totally different. The shop was professional with its concrete floors, bright lights, white coats, and tons of stainless steel. Today’s butchering was down-home and earthy with the frozen ground, wood fires, cast iron kettles, and sun shining through the clouds of steam and smoke.

They shot and stuck the pigs quite a bit a ways from where we were. Sweetsie held my hand the first time, scared the pig would scream. There was no noise, however—just the gun’s dull pop, and then the big pig was flopping around on the ground.

A tractor hauled the slaughtered pig down to the dipping station where men used ropes to lower it into the tub of 162 degree water.

After a couple minutes of swishing and a great heave-ho, it was hoisted back onto the platform where a bunch of men rapidly scraped it clean.

The pig was eased to the ground and some men drug it to one of the tripods.

After it got strung up by its hind feet, it had a quick hose-down and some touch-up scraping.

Then the cutting commenced. First to go was the head (I am sparing you those pictures) which got lugged over to the head station to get cleaned up (i.e., dissected).

The snout tips and eyeballs got tossed into the grass, but not much else got thrown away. The tongue, ears, head meat—all of it got thrown into the pudding kettle.

As for the actual gutting, it was totally fascinating. They started cutting up around the tail (the top), first tying off the rectum and then separating the organs and innards from the abdominal cavity. Then someone helped hold all the innards in place while more cuts were made down around the heart. Once most everything was cut free, the whole mass splashed into the bucket below. The heart, liver, and pancreas—those all got saved.

This might sound rather odd, but I found the innards, the perfectly shaped orbs and spheres, the billowing balloons, to be rather beautiful.

Our neighbors generously let our friend Sam, who they didn’t know from Adam, butcher his pig with them. Last night Sam’s dog attacked one of his pigs and wounded it severely enough that it couldn’t wait another couple weeks till its intended butcher date. Sam brought Lee, my distant cousin and member of our church, along to help with his pig.

Lee has ten hogs worth of experience under his belt, so he knew what he was doing.

Though he couldn’t hold a candle to the man who had been butchering pigs since 1968. That man knew everything. When he helped Lee with Sam’s injured pig, he showed us how the kidneys had dark spots caused by the trauma of the attack. One kidney, the one that was on the injured side, was much worse than the other. Amazing, no?

Anyway, Lee is also a science teacher and he seized the opportunity to educate all us novices clustered around, both young and old.

He showed us the bladder. The “pee sack,” I think he called it.

Running all through the intestines were sheets of lace, otherwise known as the capillaries. (Yes, they will also get eaten.)

Then there were the lungs and heart.

Human hearts and lungs are similar to those of pigs, though ours are smaller, of course.

Lee cut into the heart and expounded upon the ventricles and aorta, etc.

But for the lungs, he went all out.

After wiping off the trachea, he put his mouth on it and puffed air into it, first one side and then the other.

The whole thing expanded dramatically—it was absolutely fascinating … and hilarious.

After the gutting, the backbone was sawed/hacked/axed out, and the carcass cleaved into two pieces.

The halves were laid across shoulders and carried to the cutting-up table.

The fat gets rendered into the lard, and there will be hams and sausages, ribs and tenderloin.

I made only two trips down to the butchering during the morning—the kids were freezing cold, and I had sweet rolls (not sweetbreads!) to bake and a couple extra children to babysit—but Mr. Handsome stayed the whole day. Maybe he learned enough that we’ll be butchering our own pigs in a year or two.

This same time, years previous: moving big sticks of wood, baked hash brown potatoes