Hula Hoops and Paper Mache



Lurking deep within me is a frustrated crafty person just dying to break out.

Sadly, although the spirit is willing, the flesh is fundamentally incapable of creating cute little knick knacks out of bits of yarn and empty soda bottles.

I am good at some things.

I am not good at others.

If I were Spock I’d devote my energy to the former.

I am not Spock, so I continue to hit my head against the wall of crafty DIY like a radio controlled car with faulty wiring.

How hard can it be to make paper mache Christmas balls to hang on the tree?

The lady on YouTube made it look so easy.

I have a university education for Heaven’s sake; surely I can manage to stick some pieces of newspaper on a ball?

Apparently not.

I now have 6 misshapen blobs and my floor is covered in flour cement paste.

The Husband wisely chose to distance himself from the proceedings except for one comment: “If I were doing it… I’d make sure they were round. But I’m a perfectionist that way.”

Really? Really?

He will never know how close he came to having the slimy squishy paper mache paste upended over his head.

The Husband knows stuff.

He knows about Tesla and electric currents and quantum flux mechanics.

Apparently he also knows about paper mache and hula hoops.

On Saturday he proceeded to instruct his offspring and their mother (me) on the precise way to get maximum momentum from a hula hoop.

He did not demonstrate, but sank to his knees in laughter as we tried to master the skill.

imagesAs a child of the eighties I could hula hoop with the best of them.

Round the neck, round the waist, on my arms, on my ankles.

I could hula hoop 4 different hoops in different directions.

I was the hula hooping queen of suburbia in leg warmers and a bubble skirt.

Now it is beyond me how on earth I am supposed to get that idiotic piece of plastic to orbit my body.

My mother in her seventies can just pick it up and hula to the Sound of Music.

I cannot.

I also cannot use a skipping rope without injuring people and tying myself up in a noose worthy of a hangman.

graduation cap diploma isolated on a white backgroundMy children don’t care that I went to university.

They don’t give a damn about postmodernist theory.

They care that I can make cool stuff and hula hoop.

And I can’t.

Someone… Someone….

Someone… should organize a college degree in parenting techniques including Masters in Making Stuff, and 20 Things to do with Toilet Rolls.


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