Apparently, the spawn are really diggin' their summer camp, which is good, 'cuz now I feel like less of a turdfuck for sending them away every day of the summer. This week, Mr. Z attends the "Literary Academy" in the mornings, where he says he's been reading poems by Edgar Allen Poe, writing his own poems and crafting stories with the other eggheads there. Friday, they're having a little get-together where he'll read some of his works, which should be most excellent.
At around ll, though, he's dumped in with all the mouth-breathers for regular fun-time-Charlie camp stuff, which he also really seems to dig. At least some of his afternoon has been spent basically undoing everything he's learning in the morning, as evidenced by this Mad Libs I found in his backpack:
There it is, my friends -- the mind of an eight-year-old, in black-and-white. Which, coincidentally, is mighty close to the mind of a 42 year old. If I were to fill that page out, I think I'd only change one word. I would've changed "balls" to "nutsack."
Miss O, meanwhile, is having a jolly old time at camp, making new friends every day, making crafty shit and continuing her goal of bringing every scrap of paper in the world into our home. One cool thing she's doing, though, is writing things out phonetically, like she did in kindergarten. She's stopped asking us to spell everything for her and she's just trying to figure shit out on her own, which rocks.
Lately, she's just bringing home little, crumpled scraps of paper with mysterious sentences scrawled on them, like this:
I think that's my favorite droing she's ever mad.