I had the perfect home project lined up for you today, cupcakes. Really. No, really. I’ve been working on this cross stitch pattern so I can frame it and put it on the wall next to my desk. It has a squiggly green border, tiny pink hearts, and says, “Thanks for Sharing.” I couldn’t decide between that one and “Don’t Make Me Cut You.”

Subversive Cross Stitch allows those of us who think we’re too cool for Granny’s sort of needlework (I still have some of her pillows) have a taste of working with our hands to create something… pretty, if a bit rude. Heh. Soon I’ll have my whole office classified “Not Safe for Work.” I love working from home!

And where is my little masterpiece, you ask? It’s right on my desk, not fit for display, is where it is. Wait—here it is, along with two-thirds of the reason I couldn’t do much more than fudge the border and muck up a lower-case “a” before bedtime. Instead, I spent the evening dashing from one room to another where each child was doing homework, explaining the metric system to the middle child in one room, unloading the dishwasher for the youngest’s assignment of counting each type of utensil (WHY? Why in the name of God and all his backup singers would you give an assignment like that? Those utensils were CLEAN when we started.), and helping the eldest craft a diorama of a Native American home and surroundings, in addition to building a boat that will float for three minutes. All I can think is, that must be the longest day-cut-into-three-minute-segments ever for the teacher.

By the way, I do not support doing the work for children. It’s for them to do, though they do need a ride to the craft store, everything pointed out for them and placed in the basket, and Mom’s credit card to get started, but after that, it’s all theirs. And believe me, it’s more painful for us than it is for them. Watching a child build a diorama without actually getting in there and doing it yourself is like pushing a peanut across the kitchen floor with your nose.

Ew, by the way.

And now, after reading bedtime stories, I will retire to my own retreat to get the &)#$&%^% knot out of that lower-case “a.”