Sun Valley Rutile over Woo Blue

I examine them closely, just like my homegrown judges did. Save me from visual acuity!











They are all small, deliberately, as there is only so much clay and time that I can afford to throw away.


This is the only one I like.




All were thrown at the same time with the same clay. Fired in the kiln at the same time. Glazed in the same manner on the same day, yet each one of them is different from the other.



9 are useable the rest are "poo pots."






One has a sharp shard from someone else’s explosion. One has two mysterious white spots from goodness knows where.






Three are on the pink side. Two are still pooish, brown and fatally dull. That leaves 4, only four and of that four, I only like one. How many bowls will I need to throw before I can make a set of four? It’s the kind of maths question that drove me quite dotty when I was small. Now I am big and I still have no answers.

On the other hand, some people's names just slot together like magic. A marriage made in heaven, or rather Ireland but lets not be picky. Happy Anniversary Anne and Ned!





If you enjoy caption competitions and photographs, you may wish to nip along to"DJ Kirkby" over at "Chez Aspie" and test your brain power.

Pi dish

Anyone for "pi?"



My teeny tiny tackle this week is to master international parcel mail. I purposely made the latest batch extra small and extra light so that I can use the flat rated, still hideously expensive, parcel rate.




I'll keep you posted as to my success.......or otherwise. I may need a guinea pig to practice on, someone trustworthy who can let me know that I effectively sent them a pile of broken china.

Don't forget to check out other "tacklers" as well as "Trish." You don't need to have a blog to join in, merely a postal address. Afterall Father's Day is the 21st of June both here and there, and quite possibly everywhere.

Come to think of it, what better guinea pig could I find than "crystal" afterall I'm sure she's the perfect match for the "farming life." I may not share her extraordinary insight, but we do share a "single handedness" and an awful lot of "laundry."

Cheers dears

Make your Mark

This is quite a coup for the tactile defensive amongst us, to say nothing of the fine motor skills and the good old indefinable 'motivation.'

I'm told that you can buy them "here" at S&S Worldwide, although I couldn't spot them myself, or at "Oriental Trading" on "this page."

I have spent a fortune at that shop over the years. I used to be annoyed that everything came in multiples, however as whatever it was used annoy my boys intensely, it usually took several or many tries before we were even in with a chance.

In this particular instance I have his Occupational Therapist to thank. Now there's a woman with spectacular powers of persuasion!


And if you have a free mo, try out this test or better still persuade your small people to try it out. You can't be too careful.


Test Your Eye Color Blindness Test - Click here for more blooper videos

Or you can check it out over here on "Metacafe" which I accidentally read as 'metcalf' but sadly I've not come across a similar dyslexia test!

Hosted by "Tracy" at "Mother May I," but the photo-picture below will whizz you right there with one click.

Just call me snap happy.

Career Opportunities for the ever so slightly deranged

Today I am also over "here" at "5 Minutes for Special Needs Mums."






I sometimes think that I missed my calling as an air traffic controller. So many of the campaigns around here are premised on the scaffolding of visual aids. They used to be mainly PEC’s, writ large but these days anything goes.

Not so long back I would send my little darlings to school with a whole collection of aide memoires, dangling from their back backs. From the Incredible 5 Point scale, to talismen, many and various, as well as other clues to help them cope. I do believe that they looked like Christmas trees out of season, all the year round. They needed them to be physically available, as visual and tactile work well together for some children, especially mine.

It’s all about helping them to express themselves, sometimes in a socially acceptable manner but now they all talk, they have trouble taking turns with their announcements and questions. Currently, they believe that the best way to get results is to shout. They have naturally adopted the ‘squeaky wheel’ policy, figured it out for themselves, with ear splitting results. It seems to be a case of ‘he who yells loudest’ will ping mum into action. Thus far, it’s working rather well as I dart around fulfilling the latest request.

However, I plan to retire from my post as ‘short order commando cook’ and implement yet another new campaign, roughly along the lines of ‘how to take turns.' I have yet to polish off the details.

I either need to print all the rules on a serviceable T-shirt and adopt it as my new uniform or alternatively make up a sandwich board to include the never ending list of ‘how to’s’, reminders and cues.







Pop on over and enter your "name" for a thoroughly free review of your blog.

In my next life I'm coming back as a sheepdog as I already have fabulous herding instincts.








Lastly, coming soonishly = lucky numbers.






Any requests?

Cheers dears

Homework helper

Two new great positions to aid concentration:-

Get the code:-
Cut and paste
from this little
boxy thing below

<a href="http://www.lighteningonline.com/"><img src="http://i135.photobucket.com/albums/q158/mmcewen/smiley-saturday-1.jpg" /></a>

Now that definitely made me happy, especially since he figured it out for himself!

If you want to bring a smile to your day [weekend?] then nip over and visit a happy "bunch of mums."

Left handed

Being "left handed" puts a person in the "minority."

"Stigma" is often associated with "condition," although it's not one I share.

The gene pool around here is a bit messy. My husband is the only lefty, so when the progeny started to appear I made sure that I had a watchful eye.

Would they be lefties?

Would they be righties?

I’d done my homework. I knew, some, of the issues that can arise if a natural lefty is forced in a contrary direction. Being the superior parent that I am, I soon noticed that writing implements were not a popular choice. There were many to chose from, always readily available.

I was prepared for children who write on walls and other inappropriate places. That’s just part and parcel for childhood. I was prepared. When no such event occurred, I concluded, obviously, that my children were far more exceptionally good than I had anticipated. Unexpectedly, I found myself yearn for a graffiti artist, one or two, but this development also failed to materialize. I concluded, logically, that my writing materials were just too dull to entice engagement. This inspired me to spend far too much money on vast quantities of far more interesting implements because some people are penny-wise and pound-foolish, especially when the local currency is dollars and cents.

There were other things of course, with hindsight.

I knew that I had American children and that therefore I must attempt to teach ball skills, not one of my strengths but duty called. My daughter was a natural, dog and bone. Throw the ball and the child became attached.

So easy.

The boys on the other hand, were quite another matter but I had to give them a sporting chance. I can still remember the look when I threw the ball, a large textured creature for ease of grasp, in a gentle upward curve towards the middle of the body, when it dropped like a stone at his feet and rolled away. It’s a cat ‘s disdain when you thrown a stick, “and your point is what exactly?”

So what is my point here, exactly?

My point is, that for me at least that I was so busy fiddling with the minutiae that I completely failed to take in the big picture. I’m still adjusting my lens to this day.

Woofless in San Jose

I have to admit that as a non dog lover, Thatcher has won me over. His behaviour is so predictable and he is so eminently trainable. He is even tempered and for a puppy, very quiet. For some while I believed that he was a dud because he did not bark, at all, ever. My knowledge of dogs is sadly limited to a handful of unpleasant first hand experiences with vicious guard dogs in South Africa, as well as the wee yipper that lives next door. Of all the things that I know about dogs, one thing for sure is that they bark.

It took some while for him to find his bark and when he finally did, it was so loud, deep and throaty that we all collectively jumped out of our skins. We now all know the occasions when he is likely to bark:- when a stranger enters the property, through the gate, not casual passers by, squirrels, but he’s learning not to, when someone treads on him by accident or when playing with his doggy or human pals.

Quite restrained for any member of our household.

With this in mind, our family enjoys our usual noisy dinner, together at the table one sunny Californian evening. Thatcher lies inert in his bed whilst we discuss fearful things. Who is fearful of what and when and why? It is a heated debate. Each person believes that their own fear is genuine and justifiable, whilst everyone else’s is ludicrous. There is very little common ground. It is probably the first time we have ever managed to be able to have such a discussion, since more usually the mere mention of the trigger word would produce mass meltdowns and abject hysteria.

“I’m only really scared of Black Widow Spiders, not other arachnids, just the Black Widows.”
“Snot fair to pick on one spider!”
“I’m think I’m afraid of pain, personal pain. I have a very low pain threshold.”
“How can you say that when you’ve had four kids Mum? The only thing I’m afraid of is dolls.”
“Dogs? You’re afraided of dogs?”
“Not dogs! Dolls.”
“I can understand that,” adds her husband, “I’m afraid of masks……creepy.”
“Dey are not creepy. Seagulls are creep me out!”
“Nuffin is scary excepting for death.”
“It’s chaos of for me, that’s what I’m afraid of,” adds the head of the household although he addresses Thatcher, not the general company at the table. Thatcher lifts his nose as his ears prick up and tears out of the room, through the kitchen into the family room where he begins to bark, frantic. The boys canter off after him to see the cause of the commotion in the back garden.
“What is it dear?”
"A giant!"
"A giant?"
“Itza ball.”
“What?”
“He is being afraid of dah ball.”
“He’s not afraid of balls! He’ll play catch for hours, he never gets tired out.”
“No! He’s afraid of the ball.”
“What ball? Which ball?”
“Dah one…….dat did be came over dah fence.”
“Oh……it’s great to have such good neighbours. You really need to be more careful where you throw them dear.”
“No.”
“No what?” I put down my knife and fork and go and do what I should have done in the first place.
“See…….dat is not being our ball.”
“My what a windfall!”
“No……not a windfall……a ball fall.”

What it is?

Can you guess?






"Here's" another "clue."





If you enjoy caption competitions and photographs, you may wish to nip along to"DJ Kirkby" over at "Chez Aspie" and test your brain power.

Woofless in San Jose

I have to admit that as a non dog lover, Thatcher has won me over. His behaviour is so predictable and he is so eminently trainable. He is even tempered and for a puppy, very quiet. For some while I believed that he was a dud because he did not bark, at all, ever. My knowledge of dogs is sadly limited to a handful of unpleasant first hand experiences with vicious guard dogs in South Africa, as well as the wee yipper that lives next door. Of all the things that I know about dogs, one thing for sure is that they bark.

It took some while for him to find his bark and when he finally did, it was so loud, deep and throaty that we all collectively jumped out of our skins. We now all know the occasions when he is likely to bark:- when a stranger enters the property, through the gate, not casual passers by, squirrels, but he’s learning not to, when someone treads on him by accident or when playing with his doggy or human pals.

Quite restrained for any member of our household.

With this in mind, our family enjoys our usual noisy dinner, together at the table one sunny Californian evening. Thatcher lies inert in his bed whilst we discuss fearful things. Who is fearful of what and when and why? It is a heated debate. Each person believes that their own fear is genuine and justifiable, whilst everyone else’s is ludicrous. There is very little common ground. It is probably the first time we have ever managed to be able to have such a discussion, since more usually the mere mention of the trigger word would produce mass meltdowns and abject hysteria.

“I’m only really scared of Black Widow Spiders, not other arachnids, just the Black Widows.”
“Snot fair to pick on one spider!”
“I’m think I’m afraid of pain, personal pain. I have a very low pain threshold.”
“How can you say that when you’ve had four kids Mum? The only thing I’m afraid of is dolls.”
“Dogs? You’re afraided of dogs?”
“Not dogs! Dolls.”
“I can understand that,” adds her husband, “I’m afraid of masks……creepy.”
“Dey are not creepy. Seagulls are creep me out!”
“Nuffin is scary excepting for death.”
“It’s chaos of for me, that’s what I’m afraid of,” adds the head of the household although he addresses Thatcher, not the general company at the table. Thatcher lifts his nose as his ears prick up and tears out of the room, through the kitchen into the family room where he begins to bark, frantic. The boys canter off after him to see the cause of the commotion in the back garden.
“What is it dear?”
"A giant!"
"A giant?"
“Itza ball.”
“What?”
“He is being afraid of dah ball.”
“He’s not afraid of balls! He’ll play catch for hours, he never gets tired out.”
“No! He’s afraid of the ball.”
“What ball? Which ball?”
“Dah one…….dat did be came over dah fence.”
“Oh……it’s great to have such good neighbours. You really need to be more careful where you throw them dear.”
“No.”
“No what?” I put down my knife and fork and go and do what I should have done in the first place.
“See…….dat is not being our ball.”
“My what a windfall!”
“No……not a windfall……a ball fall.”

What is that?

So what is this?





Here's a "clue."


But if that is too tricky, how about this:-





Here are some suggestions:-

a] a dog who continued to drink from the "toilet?"
b] a dog who has put himself up for adoption due to pet "abuse?"
c] a new breed of dog, part dog, part peacock. [Please offer your suggestions]
d] none of the above.


Answers.........

The top one is a picture of guitar strings before they were attached.

The second one is poor Thatcher after his beauty treatment. Maybe it will help them remember which "end" is "which?"




If you enjoy caption competitions and photographs, you may wish to nip along to"DJ Kirkby" over at "Chez Aspie" and test your brain power.

Green Capitalists - step by step guide

How to make paper flower pots from newspaper and then further exploit the enterprise.

This idea was originally from my chum "DJ Kirkby" on her post over "here" but I decided to steal it from her to provide her with the opportunity to sue me for copyright infringement. They're a litigious lot those Brits.


1. You will need a PVC pipe of the right diameter [small, medium, large] a cutting tool and some newspaper.

2. Chop the pipe to the desired height that you want your pot to be.

3. Turn the newspaper diagonally and fold in half for extra strength.



4. Fold over again to the same height as the pipe.

5. turn over the paper and roll the length of the strip around the pipe.

6. several time until you have a couple of inches of tail left.


7. fold upwards.
8. Tuck in the other end, squish it, to form the bottom.

9. tuck in the top tail between one of the folds.

10. Voila! Pots for free.

11. Make loads in advance ready to fill whenever you come across an errant seeding.





This was, necessarily, a joint family enterprise to take account of different people's skills and limitations. Those who were paper averse in the tactile defensiveness department relied upon the fine motor skills of their sister to help fashion the pots.

Then is was the boys' turn to identify the seedlings in the garden. It's easy enough to spot different coloured flowers but it's far more taxing to identify teeny tiny little green plants and to differentiate between them. However with a handy aide memoire clutched in their hot little puds, this too turned out to be easy peasy. Laminate both sides because you know it's going to get muddy and soggy.

N.B. make one for each child to avoid hic-cups.





Then all you have to do is wait a couple of weeks for the seedlings or cuttings to settle in.

After that teach the basic principles of capitalism to your socialists who pocket money is apparently deficient.




Then sit back and watch the competition clean up with baubles for the magpies amongst us.






N.B.B. This post is brought to you via the ability to enjoy outside play.

No finger painting for the tactile defensive child

Hosted by "Tracy" at "Mother May I," but the photo-picture below will whizz you right there with one click.

Just call me snap happy.

If you are with a child that abhors tools such as painting brushes and crayons, someone who MUST remain clean or the OCD will kick in then this is an ideal activity for their suppressed creativity.

All you need is a high sided tray or old cardboard box. Tape a clean sheet of paper to the bottom. Provide shallow dishes of preferred colour paint. Guide the child to plop a marble in the paint, swirl it around gently and then transfer the marble to the paper lined box. If you don't have the right sized / easily manipulable tweezers or tongs to transfer the soggy marble, help out with a teaspoon. The transfer is the challenge for us but once that marble hits the paper then the fun takes over.

This is also a good exercise for eye tracking, balance, challenging the mid-line or it won't roll and all that other good stuff.

Join in and don't forget to visit other participants.