Fireballs, Flowers, and Fertile Neglect

I keep a bag of treats in my piano for my students. I tried to cleverly disguise them in a bag labeled, "I'm a healthy eater," but since my girls can't read, the irony AND disguise are both lost on them. Kiki found a Fireball in the bag, and she begged and begged for it. I explained time and again that it was spicy, it would burn her mouth, and she wouldn't like it. This went on for three days, and I finally gave in and let her eat it. And of course...

...nothing bad happened. She ate it. That's all. My motherly warnings were unnecessary. What a shame.

I took this picture of Kate, and thought I would try to get all artsy and zoom in close.

As soon as I pressed the button, she said, "That's going to be a good one! I was doing the splits!" So, I guess I will label this one, "Kate Doing the Splits."

I'm working on a wedding. Here's a dry run on the bouquet.
The colors are gold, purple, spring green, white, and peacock feather accents. I've got a little tweaking to do, but I think I can make it very pretty.

Lastly, I enjoyed this article on Slate: http://www.slate.com/id/2216564/pagenum/all/#p2

It's about cutting yourself a little slack as a parent- I can't say I 100% agree with everything put forth, but I can say I have felt the frustration of trying to plan a great day out and at the end of it receiving no appreciation whatsoever. I'm not alone-here's an excerpt for those too busy to read the whole article (by Tom Hodgkinson):

People are scared to stay at home all day because they think the kids will get bored. But things happen of their own accord. You don't need to leave the house. We think we are enjoying ourselves at the theme park, but really it's a disabling sort of fun because it's passive. It actually follows the familiar pattern of 21st-century life: long periods of boredom interspersed with the occasional thrill. And we don't have to make any effort beyond getting out our wallets. The rides, in return for cash, hurl us around in a parody of real pleasure. At home you can play Scrabble, you can eat on the floor, the kids can make dens. You can learn how to play together, or you can get on with your own jobs and pleasures and let the children exist around you. And you don't even have to bother to play with them. My friend James doesn't play with his son. I asked him to explain himself:
Fertile neglect is the name of that policy: leaving the boy to his own devices so I can pursue mine and he can develop those solitary skills that will serve him in future airports, waiting rooms and prisons. It came about simply because I found actual down-at-his-level waving-tiny-figurines PLAYING to be, for some reason, soul-destroying—the arbitrary and despotic movements of the child-mind and all that. Bonus side effect: when you do consent, in moments of magnanimity, to lower yourself to their play-level they are incredibly grateful. ...
You can also use time with the children to learn things yourself. Now is the time to teach yourself to draw. We give too much responsibility for learning and being creative to the schools. We must learn and teach at home. This need not be a trial but can be a great joy for parent and child.
But you must always make sure that you are genuinely enjoying yourself. Doing things for other people's sake will lead to feelings of corrosive resentment that will then find expression in some unhealthy fashion, like cancer. Your first responsibility is to your own happiness. If you are unhappy and you do things merely out of a sense of duty rather than genuine love and generosity, then others will sense that and ugliness will result.

Fertile neglect, huh? I guess that's what I've been doing when I park the girls in their playroom so I can grab a shower.