Third Winter


Recently, I saw an image that said there were 11 seasons in Washington. Right now, we’re in “third winter” and we’ve been snowed in for nearly two weeks now. If I hadn’t parked my car in a safer area on the street (instead of our driveway), we would be in dire straits, and the bunnies might have gone from pets to meals.

We also finally all recovered from influenza A (we were sick most of January), which was sandwiched between two colds that went around the whole family. The up side to being swamped IMG_0031with holidays and family-shared illnesses is when snowed in later, we have a stack of educational kits to go through. Today we opened the Secret Agent box from Kiwi Crates.

We explored two of three projects and now Little Fox is a secret agent, reading coded messages in his spy briefcase. This is in line with starting Carmen Sandiego, who, while a thief and not a spy, has overlapping skills and uses stealth.

Of course, once we’d made the briefcase and stored away his secret files, we had a secret agent dance party.





Fifteen Dollars and Twenty Cents

b48dc456-4e18-4b68-b1a5-71cf8b0f0b65My son has discovered capitalism, and it’s entirely my fault. The other day, he asked me, “What do we use money for?”

I was distracted while running errands and didn’t give a well-thought answer. “A lot of what you see here requires money. The food we eat costs money. The house has a mortgage, which means your Dad pays a bank money every month, we pay for the cars and the gas that goes in them. Our lives, sadly, require money for almost everything these days.”

Now he’s charging for everything, and it all costs the same amount: fifteen dollars and twenty cents. The magic portions he makes? $15.20. The juice made from mythical fruit? $15.20. (If only our mortgage and car payments were also applied to this system, it might just work.) And today, he’s started charging for passage up the stairs, even though I was in a hurry to the bathroom. I shoved the imaginary fifteen-dollars (“and twenty cents,” reminds me) into his hand, and run to the toilet.

He then informed me if I want to go back downstairs, it’ll cost me … a banana. Or else I go to banana jail.

[This post was written in January. I thought it had posted. We went through a terrible bout of the flu through most of January, and I didn’t realize this hadn’t published. Yesterday, he charged me $15.20 for sushi.]