Domestic Goddesque » PD

Names have been changed to protect the guilty…

Domestic Goddesque — Mon, 29 Aug 2011 10:30:49 +0000

When I started blogging it was because I wanted a space of my own. I never gave much thought to anonymity, but then there was only DH and I to think of. I appreciated that DH had a working life that needed to be kept separate from the life about which I wrote, so gave him a nickname- the ‘oosband to start with- and from there it seemed a simple step to give the dog one too. I imagine if you look you will find references to their actual names since I was never particularly religious about it.

I didn’t really need to tell people my real name at that point because I only had about four followers and they were family. I didn’t see a problem with giving readers The Girls’ full names when they were born because people who read this blog had been through miscarriage and pregnancy with me. And I am ridiculously proud of their beautiful names. Yet, despite spending a long time choosing their names, they quickly developed nicknames which sort of spilled over into blogland. Thus Squeaky, PD’s first nickname. She became Widget at some point too. I came up with the Pocket Dictator whilst ranting about her pre-terrible-two behaviour on a Mumsnet thread, and that really stuck. Even when I thought she had outgrown PD and tried Threeva, it never stuck. I used PD in texts and on Facebook, Twitter and when talking over her head!

And yet in the last few weeks of the summer holiday I have come to the startling realisation that it is time for an upgrade. She is no longer pocket-sized, for starters. Yes, she’s still petite when compared with her peers, but she has shot up in the last week, necessitating an urgent trip to Clarks for larger school shoes, and an appointment at the School Shop for new uniform next week. She has started requesting plaits in her hair, or ponytails, or this clip, or that hairband, and no longer hates having her hair brushed. Yes, she still tries to exert her authority, but it’s in full sentences, rather that the short one-word orders that once spawned her nickname. And, as you would expect from the daughter of a lawyer, most of her orders come in the form of ‘deals’. I spend most of my day negotiating with her, answering her insatiable questions and trying to limit the number of outfit changes. She has become, in her words, a Big Girl. And yet she is still my Little Girl. My Little Big Girl.

Dimples on the other hand, has grown to assume the PD mantle in the past few weeks. She marches around like she owns the world, and is bloody good at winding up her sister. She also holds a grudge, biding her time until she is sure that Little Big Girl has forgotten she offended her small sister before exacting revenge in the most painful way possible. The bloodcurdling screams that LBG lets forth bring me running every time: I know that I will find Dimples holding a fistful of LBG’s hair, a look of triumph on her face, and no amount of time on the naughty step will take that look away. It takes a good few miutes to prise LBG’s white curls from her smaller sister’s fingers, such is her grip. It’s pretty much a metaphor for her life, if I’m honest. She’s a tenacious little bugger, with a thirst for danger and a cheeky look. The Dimples are pure deception, leading you to believe that she is cute and placid. But you’ll only be fooled until you hear her scream indignantly when she doesn’t get her way. That girl is in danger of breaking glass. To call her Dimples is to give you the wrong impression of the most feisty, character-ful, cheeky, intelligent and independent child I have ever come across. She is equal parts cute & cuddly and calculated stealth. Dimpled Assassin, maybe?

Either way, it’s all change in the DG household. LBG is back to Kindergarten next week, with only a year until Proper School. The DA is stepping up to two days at nursery, partly for my sanity (those screams cause viscious headaches) and partly because she needs more variety to keep her occupied. I started the summer with a Toddler and a Baby. I’m finishing it with a Big Girl and a Toddler.

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Water, water, in your hair: The Gallery

Domestic Goddesque — Wed, 10 Aug 2011 08:41:14 +0000

I tell you, the summer holidays seem to be whizzing by now. Even the British weather seems to have co-operated to a certain degree, so we have plenty of good days at the beach with friends and family. Of course the thing about the beach is that, no matter how hard you try to clean it off, the sand welds itself to the parts of your children’s anatomy that are most sensitive and hardest to clean. Like the scalp. And the undercarriage, or groovy bits as my family call it.

So, when we get back to the house, we abandon the beach buggy, deposit all clothes and shoes on the doorstep, and head dirctly up the stairs to the bathroom. A good soak in a warm bubbly bath later, and a bit of crying (it doesn’t matter what I do, I always manage to upset one or other of them by washing their hair at an ‘inconvenient moment. It’s almost a gift) et voila! Two clean children.

The next issue is how to dry their hair. Dimples legs it the moment her feet touch the ground, and the PD is not much better. She is happy for me to ensure every crevice is dry and sand-free, but her precious locks? Forget about it.

Bizarrely, I inadvertantly came across a solution recently in Poundland, when I purchased a hair turban. For myself. I’m working on making myself more middle-aged, not that I need too much help in that department. The Girls have a fondness for using my pink towels for play and so I often find that I have a towel for body or hair, but not both. But the turban was small and not pink so there was a chance that I wouldn’t have to make a naked dash from bathroom to bedroom first thing in the morning (lets face it, no-one needs to see naked middle-aged post-birth flesh at any time, least of all first thing in the morning, least of all me.)

Wouldn’t you know it, the Girls thought the turban was wonderful. So wonderful that they fought bitterly over it forcing me to dispatch DH dirctly from the station to the store to purchase a second one. Three happy girls, one quiet house, and no more wet pillowcases: a result for a bargain price.

Rather tenuously linked to this week’s topic at The Gallery, which is water. For more water wonders, mosey on over to see Tara.

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Vintage Family Album

Domestic Goddesque — Wed, 20 Jul 2011 19:42:23 +0000

That bloody Tara Cain has had me all misty-eyed this week: her vintage theme sent me to the land of nostalgia, where everything is tinted pink. I have been blubbing like a whale since dawn. It may be down to the fact that I have been up since dawn that I have been blubbing. I’m not sure.

Thus I give you me:

You've got to love the way my mother co-ordinated our outfits with the Army-Issue sofa!

before the internet, when all I cared about was playing, a bit of cake for breakfast and ideally a trip to the pool after the Brother’s nap. Not that he was good at napping. He was on Temazepam at 9 months. I suspect it may have had permanent damage, because he was always up to no good. In fact whenever we take a trip down Memory Lane, we always end up telling tales of his (mis-) deeds. I assume he grew out of it because The American had the good grace to marry him and give birth to his child: squeezing a quart out of a pint pot is not something any woman goes into lightly.

Good or bad, I am unsure, but just as there is an uncanny likeness between PD and the three-year-old-DG, so there is an unsettling similarity betwixt my youngest child and her Uncle. So similar that The Mothership is reported to have mistaken the two on Facebook recently (she’s not on FB herself, but looks over Brother Adam’s shoulder at his feed). Admittedly this is a regular occurance: I’m fairly sure it is written in the Rule Book of Life that, once you have multiple children, you should never use their name at the first attempt, but instead scroll through all relevant family names until you alight upon the correct one. There is a subsection to this clause which states that “…the only appropriate reaction to being made a grandparent (save complaining bitterly about being made to feel old at every opportunity) you should increase the frequency with which this name-confusion occurs, ideally including names of family pets if possible.

As ever, there are numerous much better Vintage entries over at The Gallery this week!

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How to make a Weather Chart

Domestic Goddesque — Sun, 17 Jul 2011 21:43:34 +0000

If your house is anything like mine it is littered with bits and pieces of art crafted by children relentlessly. Some of it is fabulous and different and makes its way onto the Breakfast Room wall, the best pieces of which eventually find their way into a scrapbook. Some pieces are ‘distributed’ to Grandparents who dutifully display it on their fridges when we come to visit, but that still leaves a lot of work that I feel I can’t throw away.

The school holidays are upon us, leaving nothing but me to occupy PD for the next 52 days, so I am gearing up to keep her busy with crafts and playdates, a few trips and a little learning here and there. The starting point is our weather chart, made using a good handful of these spare pieces of art.

Step 1: Using a dinner plate as a template, cut a semi circle from some card (in this case, a scribbled-on one.)

Step 2: Having first established what kind of weather you want to include, cut the relevant shapes from other artwork. In this case, we assumed that the summer would not involve snow or violent storms. An image for wind was tricky until a google image search made me realise I could just draw a kite.

Step 3: Get your helper to stick all the bits in the right places. Readjust as needed.

Step 4: On some white paper or card, print out the words that are relevant to the images and stick in the appropriate places. Cut an arrow (remember to check that it is the right length for your semi-circle.)

Step 5: Laminate your chart and arrow, for longevity. Cut out.

Step 6: Punch a hole in both the arrow and the chart, then use a split pin to fix the two together. Stick the back of the split pin to the rear of the chart with sticky tape to prevent it swivelling around and annoying you.

Step 7: Enjoy talking about the weather.

Happily shared: Creative Link Party, Tip Junkie, something for the weekend

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When PD Built a Bear.

Domestic Goddesque — Thu, 21 Apr 2011 06:00:02 +0000

If you were to have said Build-a-Bear Workshop to me a month ago I’d have sighed, conjuring up a half-forgotten memory of a bear I received one birthday when I worked for a well-known insurance company. I’d only been there about six weeks when it was my birthday and they thought that I would love a fluffy lamb dressed up in a pink dress. Whilst I appreciated the thought and sentiment gift, I cannot fathom what made them parlay my fondness for pink pens and lip-shaped Post-It notes (a gift from DH-before-he-was-DH on my first day at work) into a stuffed animal.

Fast forward a *ahem* few years and I nearly snapped off the hand of the Build-a-Bear Workshop PR team when they offered PD a Build-a-Bear Workshop experience. We walk past our local branch every time we go into Bromley, so she is well aware of what goes on behind the hallowed doors and had been begging me for ages. An added incentive was the friend we were allowed to share the Build-a-Bear Workshop joy with too.

And it truly was a joy. PD and Best Friend Ellie were enchanted by April who gave us an unforgettable tour of the Build-a-Bear Workshop. She sat patiently whilst The Girls agonised over which animal to choose. She sat patiently whilst they agonised over which sound to put inside their Bears of Choice. She sat patiently whilst they agonised over which heart they wanted to put inside their bear. In fact, if I have one criticism of Build-a-Bear Workshop it’s that there was simply TOO MUCH CHOICE. Two girls with a combined age of 5 really can’t handle more than a choice between A or B, and even then that sometimes goes wrong, and said child ends up in a pool of tears and flailing limbs on the floor. I spent most of our 90 minutes holding my breath, expecting at any minute a tanty that never came.

The reason it didn’t come was April: she was amazing. If they train all their staff that way, Build-a-Bear Workshop must regularly lose people to the nanny business. Even Dimples, who endured the entire experience from the safety of the pushchair, was enchanted by her.

PD and BFE made wishes and whispered secrets to their bears, they pressed buttons and activated stuffing machines, they washed and fluffed their bears to within an inch of their little lives and, just when you thought you were winding down, they embarked on the most epic task of all: the Outfit.

Frankly by this point I could have stripped naked and run round the store: PD wouldn’t have noticed. BFE’s mum and I almost went for coffee, so engrossed were they in the choice of dresses and skirts and hats and tiaras. And shoes, my God, the shoes you could buy your bear. When you thought you were done with the outfits, there were bags and beds and wardrobes, bows and flowers and accessorising small animals.

The sheer volume of choice was blowing my mind too, although I’d have loved a bear in the Darth Vader costume. Or maybe the Hula Girl, complete with coconut bra. And then there were the Royal Wedding bears. No, still can’t choose.

You can see why it took 90 minutes. And even then, you weren’t finished. There was the Birth Certificate to fill in, which required a name for your creation. Thus Purple Princess and Hello Kitty were brought into the world. They think of everything, those Build-a-Bear Workshop people: there’s a tag which can be scanned so that if your precious lost bear is returned to a store by a kind stranger it can be returned to you. There are gift cards for buying new outfits, meaning you don’t have to shell out on a new bear every time. You can buy things online if you can’t get to a store easily, which is great for Birthday Gifts. There are special edition bears. There are spare hair bows and colouring sheets. There’s a whole Bearville community online. I’m amazed there wasn’t a celebratory glass of Champagne or Cigar for the new ‘parents’ of the bears.

I cannot recommend the Build-a-Bear Workshop enough, either for two friends or for a great big birthday party. We had such a wonderful time, all down to the incredible staff who involved the girls every step of the way. They came away clutching their Bear box feeling so special, even Dimples who got her very own little Build-a-Bear Workshopdog. Two very happy girls and I was a very happy Mamma.

For more information, or to find your nearest store, please go to www.buildabear.co.uk

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Coloured rice and I spy bottles

Domestic Goddesque — Wed, 30 Mar 2011 21:35:02 +0000

I was looking around slightly vaguely for Kidling crafts on the interweb a couple of days ago when I came across these fabulous I-Spy-Bottles and just knew I had to make them. We spend every weekend in the car driving back and forth to the Kent Coast, and I am always on the lookout for easy ways to keep them entertained in the car. There’s nothing worse than spending most of your journey twisting round from the front seat reaching for things that your kids have thrown on the floor and are now screaming for. Or passing them food that in turn gets thrown on the floor. Followed by the dummy, the sippy cup and anything else you try to pacify them with with whilst they scream and writhe against the constraints of the car seat. Meanwhile you are getting slowly garroted by the seatbelt as you stretch and reach for things, inadvertantly pulling muscles in your shoulder and blocking the rear view mirror which in turn irritates your DH who is trying to overtake a bloody Sunday driver. Don’t tell me you haven’t been there.

So, like I said, I like to keep them entertained in the car. The difficulty comes at the moment when PD is old enough that the trip in the car doesn’t automatically send her off to Dreamland, but too young to really be able to play many car games. Audiobooks have been an uunexpected hit. She usually announces her playlist once the engine has started: Naughty Little Sister then songs then Milly-Molly-Mandy. And when we get to the songs, her voice pipes up from the back seat “Join in everybody!” For our own sanity a break from singing is required. Hence making these great I-Spy bottles: she doesn’t need to be able to read, or know which letter the objects begin with to play; just shake and look.Although as she learns more about letters, this game has the potential to be altered to suit her growing ability. And I made one with all the letters in too for that eventuality. Thus she can learn how to occupy herself in the car whilst also learning basic reading skills. She already knows all the words to all the songs…..

To make the I Spy bottles, I had a look around for a very simple method of dying rice , something that I have seen on quite a few Homeschooling blogs, although you don’t need to dye rice: the first bottle I made used red lentils. Mine dried in just a few hours so was ready when The Girls came home from nursery. Whilst I used the green and blue for the alphabet bottle, I gave the red to Dimples in a plastic container, along with a bowl and spoon, and a couple of small figures. This was a great game for improving her spoon control transferring the rice from one container to another. And we also played a game inspired by the bottles I had made earlier when we buried small toys and dug around to find them again. Of course it all ended up on the floor but the clean up was relatively painless and entirely worth it to see Dimples’ skills develop.

Red rice and red lentils

I never did much craft with PD when she was small, partly because I was working and let her do it at nursery (far less messy) and partly because I didn’t realise how much she would get from it. I have come to realise that, although most craft is done with PD in mind, Dimples not only loves joining in, but is more than capable of doing it and she really learns things. More than that, she feels included.

They do say that children are sponges and soak up everything until they are about five, and I have no doubt that they would learn things even if you didn’t make an attempt to engage with them at all. They probably learn in their sleep. But what I have found of late is that learning whilst they play is not so much for their benefit as for mine. I have spent the last thirteen months trying to come to terms with what I thought was losing my identity, with juggling two children under three, with trying to balance children and housework, blogging and sleep. I now realise that those 13 months were a transitional period in which I became a new me. The me that spends hours online researching things to make and as many hours trying to make those things. The me that gets enormous satisfaction from both of those things and more: the satisfaction I get from seeing my children enjoying playing with the things I make; that they learn things from playing with them; that they prefer these toys to the ones that have been bought for them in shops.

It’s not just them that learn through play. It’s me too. I am learning how to support and encourage them; how to enjoy being with them; how to be the Stay at Home Mother, the Mamma I became when they were born. I thought I gave up learning when I left University, but it turns out that my children are the best teachers I have ever had.

Submitted to the Tots100 March Blog Hop: Learning Through Play

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Who’s the Mamma?

Domestic Goddesque — Tue, 29 Mar 2011 17:55:43 +0000

Muddling Along Mummy wrote an interesting post recently about the assumption that everyone on the internet is just like you, in which she said:

But there are people I look at on the internet and I think ‘what?????’
Like the ladies on twitter who describe themselves purely as someone’s mother and someone’s wife – where are you? Where is your identity? Do you exist only as a reflection of someone else? And no I don’t tend to follow them.

I read that sentence twice, the one about people who describe themselves purely as someone’s mother and someone’s wife and called up my twitter profile with an impending sense of doom. Staring back at me from the sticky laptop screen was my description of myself:

Bedraggled thirty-something mother of the Pocket Dictator and her Dimpled Sidekick, wife of DH and slave to the Wonder Hound.

It appears I am one of those people.

The problem I have is that I am incapable of separating myself out from my dual roles as wife and mother: they form part of my identity. At the moment, since The Girls are 1 and 2 respectively, they form pretty much all of my identity. DH is lucky if he gets a kiss goodnight never mind anything else. My day is fully absorbed by looking after my children and the home we all live in. Even when I am not with them, I think about them, making mental notes about name-tapes for PD or innoculations for Dimples. At a very basic level, I assume that this is because they are part of me: for nine months I carried them around, growing them, feeding them and then giving birth to them. They have some of my DNA, so I am part of them too: we are connected by more than mere cohabitation.

The same could not be said of DH, since the thing that binds us, other than our deep devotion to each other *gets bucket to vomit into* is a piece of paper which sanctifies and makes legal our marriage. And though we are not bound directly by blood, we are indirectly through our Girls, and subsequently through our shared experiences of raising them and being exhausted by them. And it’s not just those experiences, but the ones that came before having children: buying our first home, learning to live with each other (which is far harder than one would think), trying to find a way through life side by side, determining who is best at dealing with finances (him) and laundry (me), choosing holiday destinations and the right pension. Planning our future together. He is the person I run almost everything past (excluding gifts for him naturally) and the first person I call when I am down or thrilled, or simply because hearing his voice makes me feel better. We overlap in so many ways, I’d be less whole without him. So he defines me too.

I didn’t go back to work, partly because I didn’t have a career to go back to. And partly because there always has to be one parent who can drop everything and pick up a sick child. DH’s schedule is unpredictable and oftentimes long, so that person had to be me. And I am more than happy to do it, particularly now that I have had 13 months to adjust and am beginning to find a little bit of time to be myself in: to paint something; read a few pages; blog. For me not to go back to work was a no-brainer rather than a decision-making necessity. And, when I am not grumpy, I am grateful that I can do it. It’s not because I want to be a sanctimonious “I sacrificed my professional life so I could raise my children, it’s the best thing for them” crap, since I don’t think that is necessarily what’s best for the child.

I recently wrote a Personal Bio for a position I’ve been offered as a writer. I must have started writing it dozens of times but found it hard to come by the words to describe myself without making reference to my family. So I gave up trying to sound like someone else, and wrote about myself:

Mamma to PD and Dimples;
Wife to DH;
Mistress to the Wonder Hound.

I am a person, at least I once was. These days I have small children, so Mamma seems to be the best way to describe myself. It’s what I do: I cook, clean, change nappies, teach right from wrong and, if I have time, iron my husband’s shirts.

Of course the bit of me that isn’t utterly absorbed by the mundane, potters around in the kitchen baking, spends her spare hours on art projects (or crafting as it’s called these days) and chunters on wistfully about the old days whilst sharing it all online.

It’s life as I know it: I just wish it had more chocolate.

Do I exist only as a reflection of someone else? On the basis of my Bio, yes. But without my husband and children I would be nothing; I would literally shrivel up and die because they are my reason for living. So it makes sense that they would define me.

If you are interested in writing for Brew Drinking Thinking, then please fill out an application form. You can also follow them on twitter, or subscribe via the website.

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We’re Going on a Bear Hunt

Domestic Goddesque — Thu, 10 Mar 2011 15:01:43 +0000

I’ve written before about books and reading with children. In fact I ran a competition to win some Charlie and Lola books and I’m delighted to say that they are winging their way to Red Ted Art even as we speak (as it were.) If you didn’t win, fear not, since there will be more books to give away very soon.

World Book Day came and went without me really being aware of it, since I have been encumbered by a cold to rival the one that deprived me of a voice over Christmas and the New Year. Getting older has a lot to answer for, I tell you. But the Kidlings and I did mark the occasion, not that they were particularly aware of the significance either.

It was one of those wet windy days, and we had battened down the hatches and put on the heating when PD declared that we ought to have “tea in the sitting room.” Now that I have written that it brings to mind the awesome Cat in the Hat “Too wet to play out and too cold to play ball”, which is another truly mesmerising children’s book. Back to the story though: I can’t quite remember how, but from there it was a short leap to Going on a Bear Hunt. There are some books that you almost know by heart from your childhood and this is one of mine. PD also loves it, which has it’s uses, since when we are out and about and waiting for someone to go to the loo or come back from the shops, or just sitting at a table waiting for our food, I trot out bits of the book and we do the actions, and everyone is kept thoroughly occupied.

This is was that we used:

Sheepskin rug for the grass

Waterproof playmat on the waterproof side for the river

Uh-oh, a river!

Pile of cushions covered in a blanket to create a mountain (not in the book but a lot of fun)

Fan for wind

Blanket thrown over the gap between footstool and sofa to create a cave.

Uh-oh, a cave!!

And at the end? That’s Not My Bear (turns out that PD is quite afraid of bears.)

And a picnic tea on the waterproof play mat.

Uh-oh, a picnic tea

It’s true that all you need is a little imagination and you can bring a story to life. Going on a Bear Hunt can be quite exhausting though.

A well-deserved rest.

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Better late than never, right? No bake salt-dough alternatives to decorate your tree.

Domestic Goddesque — Wed, 15 Dec 2010 11:33:00 +0000

PD has been a bit off colour of late so we’ve been staying at home doing some winter craft. As she is a big raw-dough consumer, I came up with an alternative to prevent her overdosing on salt, with a little help from the Usbourne 50 Christmas Things to Make and Do book. All you need is some old bread, cookie cutters, and some paint.

And in my case, a plain wreath I bought from Ikea.

Step 1: cut out your shapes from the bread. I’d recommend simple larger shapes: the smaller ones I did broke easier. Poke a hole (for hanging) with a straw or squewer. I used a meat thermometer as it was to hand! Lay them on a cooling tray and leave to dry out overnight.

Step 2: mix PVA glue with poster paint and paint your the sides and back of your shapes. They do go a little soft at this stage. Leave to dry again, then repeat on the other side. Whilst the paint is still wet, decorate with glitter and sequins etc. Whatever you’ve got really. I used glitter paint.

Step 3: once dry, thread with string or ribbon and hang wherever you fancy.

Check out the other posts for the Christmas Countdown at Cafebebe and kids getting crafty at Redted Art

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Festive swear words on the Christmas Countdown

Domestic Goddesque — Mon, 13 Dec 2010 21:39:00 +0000

There have been a few extra bodies in our bed of late, and before you start thinking that you’ve tuned into the wrong blog and that it should be beyond the watershed, I refer to:

1. The Wonder Hound, who whined so pitifully in the night because she was cold that we brought her into our room just to shut her up. She obligingly curled up under the duvet at the bottom of the bed to warm DHs toes.

2. The Pocket Dictator, who woke up cold (not really a surprise given that we weren’t allowed to put her pjs on, so she went to bed in her vest and princess pants. And by bed, I mean a bean bag on the floor, since the bed was ‘not right’, covered in a light quilt that Granny M made her.) and insisted that she came into our bed. Which is to say that she cried lots, and loudly, a sure-fire way of getting her way in the small hours of the morning, since we will do anything to keep Dimples asleep. So in she came, along with blankie and not one, but two dogs, and wedged her little body between DH and I. At which point, with a warm body at our feet and a warm body between us, we switched off the electric blanket.

3. Dimples woke up coughing mere minutes later just as we’d all dozed back off, so in she came in too. PD turned over and snuggled up to her, the dog thought better of it and fled to a bedroom chair and DH and I were left clinging to our respective sides of the bed whilst our darling daughters writhed and wriggled.

Thus after a few days of these nights, DH and I are a little short. I don’t know how DH handles it, since he goes out to work every day. I swear. Lots. Unsurprising then that yesterday morning whilst we were still dozing and the girls were being quite dear to each other as they snuggled in bed, we heard “God’s sake Bella, what did I said??” Frankly I’m surpised it wasn’t worse.

But it does mean I am having to come up with alternative expletives to use when short-tempered and within earshot of kidlings. Ones I have used thus far include:

Elf Yourself, with sincere apologies to purveyors of amusing video montages, but Elf does so lend itself to the alternative swearing world.
I’ll roast your chestnuts, mate: not quite as good but useful for when in the car and being cut up by some stupid boy racer who doesn’t understand the unwritten etiquette of 1,1 when two lanes feed into one. Grrr.
Baubles. Simple but effective.
Clanging Bells, as provided by DH.
to be Scrooged Off.

It’s a work in progress, so feel free to add to the list. I can’t wait to see what you come up with!

This post was written ~~as a desperate plea for help~~ as part of Cafebebe’s Christmas Challenge.

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