Instructions: Collect junk. Hot-glue into a sculpture.
It was one of those out-of-body experiences, or maybe I'm just being dramatic. All I can say is that my youngest child's love language starts with a J and ends with a U. N. K.
I've said it a thousand times, but the kid eats, sleeps and breathes weirdness. It's sort of the best thing ever, especially since I've learned to roll with it.
Silas: Can I have that orange juice jug/ground cinnamon jar/dish soap bottle when it's all gone?
The dude just wants some containers, man.
And copious amounts of trash-junk.
Over the summer I gave him the empty laundry detergent bottle with a built in spigot and he very nearly lost his ever-loving business.
You get the point.
With Meg's magical junk sculpture, there would be an actual reason to collect these, uh, treasures. We were giving ourselves homework we knew we would ace.
I didn't give a full explanation of the project as much as an invitation to collect whatever "junk" homeboy found, all summer long. I drew the line at trash, but among many other things, Summer 2015 shaped up to be the year I learned to tread lightly upon the line between one man's trash and another man's junk.
There's no shortage of good junk around here, and I'm not just saying that because we happened upon an intact Neil Young cd on our walk to church one Sunday. No offense, Neil.
In true "Classic Shannan" form, we collected our brains out, then left the bucket sitting all trashy and ignored on my counter for months, taking up prime real estate by the toaster.
Daddy worked all day, the neighbor kids had gone missing...it seemed like the right time.
library book, under strict instructions not to turn around until they were done.
IF I MUST.
I mean, have you ever????
Silas got to man the hot glue gun, and I had a good reason to shuttle broken golf tees and odd bits of rusty metal around in my purse.
All that matters is that she's home now, on top of a grocery bag handle, and she's never held a post so significant.
Viva, weird kids!