Lessons learned (in no particular order):

1. When rappelling, trust the rope; lean back all the way. Merely sitting in position is not enough to protect you from bashing your face in on the rocks. Note: This is also contrary to everything your body is screaming at you to do. As it tries to paste itself against the rockface. (Okay, make that going over the edge at first.)

Corollary: Be damn sure you trust the person who's anchored the ropes. My brother quit climbing with a crowd of friends thirty years ago when he got to the top and realized the rope had been anchored to a manzanita—a shallowly rooted bush.

2. Kindergartners have not been exposed to the delights of using tongs. The moment to discover this is best found before you stick them in a lunch line with three sets of tongs.

3. If one must buy vats of candy for a sorting activity at school, move to a neighborhood that actually provides trick-or-treaters later that evening. Before you eat a bunch. (Okay, what little bits of good stuff there were. I'm lucky. Those won't tempt me any longer. They're eaten.)

4. The dog will eat his new dog food if a little catsup is smeared on some.

5. Funny how he doesn't like mixed berry pie filling.

6. Singing the song for the recital is fine. Being in character for the song while singing to an audience? Um... not so much.

Corollary: Why did I pick a piece in Italian to sing when the character is a flirt? I possess not the flirtatious gene. FIX THIS next time.

7. My body is obviously set to non-daylight savings time. Why must I live half of my life fighting my body's internal clock?

8. A full day of kindergarten means I drink three to four more cups of coffee. Hey, at least I'm awake for the entire day.

9. The entire class loves their one-minute nap and begs for it. (No, it can't be longer. I might fall asleep. See #8.)

10. Joshua trees were created by Dr. Seuss.

For the interested... photos! (My favorites only, mind you. Because, wowza. I took a LOT.)

The Slug going for it. (After several minutes of soothing convincing by the dad to her right who talked her over the edge. I'm still not sure I really like him.)

A few more here!

The birthday ended at a production of A Chorus Line. I lovedlovedloved the way all those anonymous characters came to life.

Okay, the dog just scared me to shaky bits (my first response to sudden loud noises) by leaping onto the back of the couch and barking ferociously at something outside the window.

I didn't see the intruder. But what bunny nibbling on grass blades or lizard scooting by the window on little sucker toes is going to stick around after that welcome?

The same dog who doesn't recognize ducks swimming as a type of bird and fears them (after all, what sane beast would voluntarily swim around in a large body of water? And besides, he has enough hysterical barking to do whenever his people decide to go sit in that body of water in the backyard. How they would not drown without his alerts, he doesn't know. His shrieks are the only thing that keep them afloat.)

Oh, yes, we are fearsome when some critter is on the other side of the pane.

I had been priding myself on the fact that the Slug was now 18, and that meant NO MORE HALLOWEEN COSTUMES. EVER. (See, if you can sew? Oh, you are on call for any little holiday....)

I naturally said yes when she requested to go to the costume shop at 5:30P on Oct. 31st. A ride? No problem.

Or it wasn't until after she bought the red velveteen cape for $50 for her Little Red Riding Hood outfit. And then mourned, But I don't have a skirt.

My stupid brain forgot to bite its tongue. "Oh, I can make you a skirt."

And as she brightened, my protective instincts finally kicked in, "But you have to let me do it exactly the way I want: Two seams, a casing, elastic. No hem. And no pattern! NONE."

She promises she is fine with that, so across the street she runs. Straight to the patterns.

No patterns! NONE! Remember?

(She must have issues with short term memory, and I know she got that from her father.)

Reluctantly, she is dragged away from the patterns, but too late. She requires the apron that one pattern showed.

We find the red fabric. Cotton. Remnant. Long enough for a knee-length skirt when cut into two lengths. She is now fixated on the apron.

Fine, I say. Find me some cheapo white fabric. I will make an apron. It will be the way I want. A u-shaped piece of fabric, lace around the edges (oh, did I not mention the lace fixation?) and ribbon for the ties. That is all. IT IS A COSTUME.

We fight over the lace. She was $3.99/yd. stuff. I win with the $.99 cents a spool stuff. (Easy. I don't get the lace I want, no apron.)

Home.

But on the way, she mentions that she plans to cut the floor-length brand new $50 cape to knee length, as seen in, you guessed it!, the pattern books.

In horror, I convince her to pin the damned cape to the right length.

In thirty minutes, she has slapped-together skirt and apron, and she has finished pinning.

She needs a basket. (Easily found. She dumps all of my backup disks onto the floor.) Oh, and a white cloth! (She rips it out of my stash, destroying the neat pile. That'll work.)

We head to the car. And I suddenly realize that those high heels she's wearing aren't familiar.

Well, not on her feet. Because they're mine. And so is the blouse.

But Little Red Riding Hood lives. And she has a pie in that basket.

The finale? Her father puts the sewing machine away. The basket is tossed back into the corner from whence it came, the disks still lay scattered on the floor. Fabric stash? Still tumbled.

Where did I go wrong?

I'm pretty sure it was that Minnie Mouse costume at age two that I whipped up sans pattern. Or maybe it was the fairy costume at age four... that I whipped up... sans pattern.

But she has promised me that I won't have to TOUCH a wedding dress for her. Because god forbid her mother makes that. Something she has experience with because she's churned out four in the past. Something that—

you guessed it!

—requires a pattern.

No, I did not fall into the depths of the kinder mines.

Just came real, real close.

Another reject, this time a BFOD from Realms. I've had a mild temper tantrum and moved on. But there's still a tremendous portion of "I suck" resounding in the back of my head. This would explain why I have nothing out.

The recital performance went well—I didn't make any obvious errors or choke, I didn't fall apart in front of the 50 or so people there, and I mostly remembered to breathe. New things learned about this: in a performance, the technical aspects float away. You're on auto-pilot. All your attention is for the performance. Did I raise my hand at the right moment? Am I smiling? Smile, dammit! Give them that little flirting look. Smile! Differentiate between the guys' actions and your response. Smile! Smile! Smile! (Eeeeee. It hasn't been this hard to smile since the end of my wedding reception. Singing is serious stuff when you juggle technique and still struggle for control.)

Report cards. Who the hell decided we needed ALL those little boxes? No matter how I try, I end up with three kids with an unmarked box. Assessment? It was a very dirty word the last couple of weeks. No wonder it begins with 'ass.'

Parent conferences. Check off seventeen. Three to go. Add a special day student's.

The latter kid: while I was glad to see the growth in vocabulary the other days, "Never! Never! NEVER!" shrieked at the top of his lungs is just as disrupting as, "No! No! NO!" I also want to know what the fairies did with the real kid forty-five minutes later when he suddenly sat down at my table and waited politely for me to notice so that he could complete his work.

Someone in Fairyland is v. disappointed.

The eldest child is returning home for the first time in over two years. He's been in California, of course, during that time period, but not HOME. Yosemite was too alluring, apparently. We will see him for three days before he drives north to visit my mom and go to that wedding that he had to be here for. And then we will have him back for a few days at the end.

Oh. And he's bringing a friend. Who will also stay with us at the beginning and the end, but will be in Palm Springs over Thanksgiving.

Why no. He didn't think to mention this until a couple of days ago.

Oooooooookay.

There will be much cleaning tomorrow.

As in, STAND STILL AND YOU'LL GET SPIT ON YOU.

The magazine is going together slowly. Too slowly. I blame this on... well, me.

There's no one else. Dammit.