Tiny Shoebox Dollhouses. 'Cause Obviously.

The other day, the girls were playing with these miniature shoeboxes that their back-to-school TOMS came in (deeply discounted TOMS, I might add- because I love 'em, but 50 bucks for kiddo shoes? Yipes), and my budding environmentalist asked if we could turn them into something. 

We chose dollhouses, because good LORD there aren't enough places in which the girls' cadre of dolls can live/work/reside. 

However, I cannot resist dollhouses. And these shoeboxes are seriously teensy tinesy and adorable and just begging to be transformed into smallish residences. 

So here's what we did:

We chopped the lids from the eco-friendly and mucca sturdy shoeboxes. If this were a regular
shoebox, you could just,you know, remove the lid. Just sayin'.

Next, we traced the "walls" and "floors" with fabulous construction and wrapping paper. For wallpaper and area rugs,
obviously. If you want it to look really good, have your toddler help you trace with a bulky crayon. It'll really
streamline how the ol' walls meet the floors. But do not let her help you cut them out. Especially if she's Zuzu.

Do, however, have her help you prep the walls and floors of the houses with a glue stick.
None better.

This is what it'll look like once you get the house wallpapered and glue the original lid on as a roof.
(Again, if you used a regular shoebox, you could just flip the lid on a diagonal, chop it in half, and have
an automatic roof with eaves already built in.) The TOMS lid- with its special tabby tabs- made it
extra special. But regardless, I know. This dollhouse is stupidly attractive.
I am a professional.

For extra schmanciness, we created gingerbread eaves outta popsicle sticks and foam paper.
And the only reason this photo is watermarked is because it would look odd to have this
be the only picture without one. But seriously, steal away. I care not. Mazel tov.

Voila: an awesomely small dollhouse, just right for two of your Russian nesting dolls.
(Russian nesting dolls sadly not included.)

And there you go. High quality dollhouses (I dig Nora's circular "portraits" on the walls of hers, right next to a square still life of a bowl of pears) which will last for generations.

Or until the shoebox bulldozers come trampling in the name of eminent domain.

Sometimes You've Just Gotta Hula.

And then there are days like the one where your formerly Shy Violet of a preschooler willingly raises her hand at the free concert in the park, right at the moment when the Hawaiian band asks for hula dancing volunteers... 

...And she runs up in front of the stage, grabbing the hands of two complete stranger "big kids," asks if she can hula with them, and proceeds to do just that.

And you see it: this transformation from a cautious toddler, always looking back over her shoulder at you as if to ask "This still okay, Mom?" into an almost-big kid, the kind who already knows that- should she ask- you'd be giving her a big ol' thumbs up to hula or merengue or sidestep her way into new friendships and dance moves.

Because she's rapidly figuring out that life is so much better when you decide not to be afraid- or to be nervous and do it anyhow- because jumping up in front of a crowd and dancing with new friends beats the heck out of the alternative.

And it makes you so, so proud.

Summer's Last (Lazy) Hurrah.

This is our last week of summer vacation.

Now granted, with a preschooler in three-mornings-a week school and both kids in one-afternoon-a-week gymnastics, we're not exactly Booked City (...but the every couple of hours commuting is downright truckertastic).

And when they've got stuff to do/prep/be carted to, it's a tad tougher to schedule my own stuff to do/prep/cart myself to. I know- wah- but it's definitely forcing me to enjoy every last second.

Which I realize totally defeats the purpose. (After all, I did write this piece right here earlier this very summer.)

But there are a few more days where we could- feasibly- spend some morning hours at our neighborhood beach.

Check out that one splash park we've been meaning to stomp through.

That summer concert series has just one more performance this season...and it wouldn't be beyond the scope of imagination to throw some sandwiches in a backpack for picnicking.

Come on, Zu, the rest of summer's this way.

And I bet our backyard would appreciate another blanket faceplanting session. (I think I heard it say it hopes someone will nap there this afternoon.)

Ambitious, I know. But I think the girls and I have it in us to squeeze the last bits of unfettered fun outta this summer. I'll keep you posted.

As soon as I put some pants on my children.

Real Men Rock Duct Tape.

Even though I haven't posted about him in awhile (Giving him a break from the limelight? Keeping him on his toes?), my Dad has been diligently undergoing his all-too frequent rounds with chemotherapy. (He has another one today.)

But last night? He out-Dadded himself. Here are some things I know about the man:

a) He's famous for the phrase "Buck up." (Unless his grandkids are around and looking snacky, then it's "Who needs another Munchkin?")

b) He personifies Monty Python's "It's merely a flesh wound." Nothing fazes the man. I remember reading something when I was little that roughly went- A man shouldn't cry unless a piano falls on him. Or something like that. Whatever the exact wording was, it always made me think of my Dad.

c) Nothing stands in the way of his guitar playing. At yesterday's performance of Live On The Lake, my Dad- who's been dealing with some nerve ending non-awesomeness in his fingers as a result of all the chemo- DUCT TAPED A PICK TO HIS FINGERS to aid in his shreddin'.

Duct tape. Fingers. Not letting a little thing like cancer prevent him from playing for his adoring fans. (Like my Mom.) How frickin' badass is that?!

At dinner last night, Nora casually referred to my Dad as SuperPop.

She's so, so right.