Wax Museum

Last week was our 6th grade's dreaded, despised, delightful Wax Museum; a scholarly soiree that would run Madame Toussaud right out of Vegas. Students spent a good part of the year researching their character, pouring over books and articles, filling stacks of note cards with details for their final report. Parents, on the other hand, use the time cursing the event all together. The reason this is so, is due to the inescapable fact that creating an effective, appropriate, non-embarrassing, yet cheap, costume for the evening falls on our sagging shoulders.

This year, the Squire chose to study Alexander the Great, born around 350 BC, best known for his many vast conquests and ruthlessness in battle. While I loathe the project, I too have been known for ruthless frugality and conquered many a thriftstore in my time. So, I deftly completed my part of the assignment and presented the costume for final approval: Princess Leah's dress, Cleopatra's wristlets, gold sash from my senior formal, headband of hot glued silk leaves, spray painted gold, and plastic armor.

Him: Uh, Mom? It's not cool to wear a dress to school.
Me: Hey, no biggie! Problem solved.


Just between you and me, it's probably even less cool to wear white knit maternity pants under your dress to school. But that'll be our little secret, mmkay?

One final question: How on earth do we get a character like the student sitting next to him?! Now that's some costume.

Her heavy load to bear

Last Sunday, I emptied the contents of Lady May's exceptionally hefty scripture tote. My inspection uncovered a random assortment of discarded gum wrappers, pens, pencils, bookmarks, a wad of folded printer paper, an assignment to read a scripture in next week's sharing time, a mood ring, lip gloss, hand lotion, several impressive sketches of silly monkeys, a mini hymn book, her scriptures, a bajillion markers...

and this little number:






I suppose schlepping all that junk around during church would cause one to work up an appetite.

Sorrow & Lamentation

Last night, Lady May's fish committed suicide. When we went to bed, it was swimming happily in it's bowl. When we woke, it's lifeless corpse was dried up on the cold tiles of the kitchen floor. At some point in the night, the fish catapulted out of the water and plunged to it's death. Perhaps the poor thing finally realized it's owner felt caring for it was “boring, boring, boring”.

Nevertheless, Lady May put on an impressive display of grief. She was the embodiment of sackcloth and ashes the whole afternoon ( i.e., 20 minutes). It almost made my heart hurt hearing her wail, "my heart huuuurrrrrts".

Almost.

And now for your reading pleasure, an essay about the deceased:

A homonym, but not really

When Lady May was baptized, we promised her a brand new set of scriptures with gleaming gilded pages, shiny ribbon bookmarks and index tabs making it oh so easy to locate Nehemiah, Nahum, Haggai, Obadiah and Habakkuk. Because let's be honest, you just never know when you're going to need to turn to Habakkuk with accuracy and precision. Remarkably, it only took us 1.5 years to make good on that $60 promise, and yesterday she picked out a brand new set of tiny scriptures of her very own.

As we made our purchase at the bookstore, the salesperson asked if she'd like her name engraved on the cover. Asking a 9 year old if she'd like her name embossed in fancy gold lettering on...well, anything, is pretty much like asking her if it would be OK to have Justin Bieber babysit. When it was finished, she gushed about how pretty it was and how she liked that it matched the Hyman's book she has. The Hyman's book? Huh? I was confused, and so this is how the rest of the conversation went:

Me: Do you have a book from Bishop Hyman?
Her: No.

Me: Did his wife loan you something in Primary?
Her: No mom. The Hyman's book?! The one that Grandma and Grandpa gave me.

Me: What book are you talking about?
Her: You know, the one from my baptism that has my name printed on it too?

And then it all became crystal clear what book she was referring to:

FHE as it should be

For Family Home Evening last week, Sir William taught a lesson on prayer. As he spoke, our downy little chicks sat quietly on the sofa and took notes. That's right my friends, what every mother wants: no fighting, no arguing, no complaining, no heavy sighing, no flopping around on the floor or begging for it to be over – just Lady May feverishly scribbling words in a notebook and The Squire click, click, clicking away on his iPod. I would like to say this is standard operating procedure here on Monday nights, but alas, I cannot. Until recently, Family Home Evening has been a rare occurrence at our house. It has taken our family longer than average to get our house in order, so to speak.

Regular family prayer = 9 years.
Consistent scripture study = 13 years.
Keeping the TV off on Sundays = won't happen in a million years.

(Bishop, if you're reading this, feel free to release us from our callings immediately! More righteous referrals for our replacements will be hap-hap-happily provided.)

Given our history, I figure the kids thought they'd better keep good notes because FHE may not be held again for a very long, long time. Here is a sampling of what they learned:

[click image to enlarge]

As you can see, their interpretation of Exodus 20:3-5 is: Don't pray to carrots.

(Again Bishop, if you're reading this...)

As we wrapped up the evening, I could almost hear angels spreading mortar on the bricks for our mansion in heaven when Sir William felt it important to suggest the children pray at all times, but especially when mom is driving.

And now it is official. There will absolutely be Family Home Evening next week.

The topic?
Ephesians 5:25

Someone better be taking notes.