Crafts For Kids Quotes

One thing I know for sure about raising children is that every single day a kid needs discipline.... But also every single day a kid needs a break.

You don't have to like everyone, but you don't have to be a jerk about it, either.

Never comfort someone with a lie.

John Davis smells like Play-Doh. When we were in elementary school, it wasn’t a big deal. I mean, we were kids. Play-Doh was pretty high on the awesome scale. But there comes a time when a guy should stop smelling like crafting supplies and develop a more manly scent, like campfire or gym floor.

The kids were to bring one hundred of something, and to dress like old people. Lest any twenty-first-century mother find a moment not devoted to proving maternal devotion through crafts.

Calvin's Mom confronts him as he stands at the open front door, going to school: Calvin, are you going to take that stuffed tiger to school again? Calvin: Sure. Calvin's Mom: Don't the kids make fun of you? Calvin: Tommy Chestnutt did once, and now nobody does. Calvin's Mom: Why? What happened to Tommy Chestnutt ? Calvin: Hobbes ate him! Hobbes [The stuffed tiger]: Ugh! He needed a bath, too.

A reporter once asked me why I think progressive men who earn significantly less than their breadwinning wives still won't quit their jobs to take care of their children. Why do they still hold on to their careers, even if taking care of the children would make more financial sense because the cost of childcare is higher than their net salary? I think I know the answer to that now, and it sucks. Women are not expected to live a life for themselves. When women dedicate their lives to children, it is deemed a worthy and respectable choice. When women dedicate themselves to a passion outside of the family that doesn't involve worshiping their husbands or taking care of their kids, they're seen as selfish, cold, or unfit mothers. But when a man spends hours grueling over a craft, profession, or project, he's admired and seen as a genius. And when a man finds a woman who worships him, who dedicates her life to serving him, he's lucky. But when a man dedicates himself to taking care of his children it's seen as a last resort. That it must be because he ran out of other options. That it's plan Z. That it's an indicator of his inability to provide for his family. Basically, that he's a fucking loser. I think it's one of the most important falsehoods we need to shatter when talking about women's rights.

Now we can craft a Crafting Table.

Women are not expected to live a life for themselves. When women dedicate their lives to children, it is deemed a worthy and respectable choice. When women dedicate themselves to a passion outside of the family that doesn’t involve worshipping their husbands or taking care of their kids, they’re seen as selfish, cold, or unfit mothers. But when a man spends hours grueling over a craft, profession, or project, he’s admired and seen as a genius. And when a man finds a woman who worships him, who dedicates her life to serving him, he’s lucky. But when a man dedicates himself to taking care of his children it’s seen as a last resort. That it must be because he ran out of other options. That it’s plan Z. That it’s an indicator of his inability to provide for his family. Basically, that he’s a fucking loser.

Confession: Having kids did not fix me. I was not somehow more whole, less botched-up, or more certain just because I had a kid... I was still me, with all my holes and problems and questions - only now I was also exhuasted and had a lot more laundry to do.

We had a special Construction class today. At first, they just went on about the super easy stuff. Stuff even I knew. Like how it's a really good idea to put a crafting table and a furnace next to each other. Who doesn't know that? They're made for one another. Aww.

We recently graduated from school, and the mayor gave us one last little school assignment. We had to write about our chosen profession. Twenty pages, too. Now, I love my village and all, and have absolutely zero regrets about becoming a warrior, but dude, c'mon. Who wants to write twenty pages about anything? Luckily, Runt thought of a way for us to avoid writing so much without breaking the rules, and every other student copied Runt's idea. Needless to say, the mayor wasn't too thrilled about that. Guess that's why Runt is back to crafting potato-based food items." Resisting the urge to ask 'What's a potato?', I nodded. "Hmm. Do you think I'll be able to speak with him?" "Probably,

Well, I just took a nap on an enchanting table. And when I did, I learned something very important. Enchanting tables are very, very uncomfortable. In other words, nothing happened. I feel like I’ve been scammed! I just want to be able to kick a zombie so hard it flies back thirty blocks. At least thirty. Is that too much to ask?! Hurrmmmph!

Nowadays, we're all expected to make lunches in the shape of Frozen characters, put our kids in stylish clothes, spend our weekends making elaborate Pintrest inspired balloon-animal melted-crayon ombre-cookie crafts, and having our families and homes look like they just walked out of a page from Real Simple magazine-the pressure is enormous. And its stupid.

As if that wasn’t enough, a creeper rushed in and exploded.

After thirty minutes of Mob History II, Runt will turn into a zombie. Runt will make moaning sounds. Runt will head toward the nearest door and break it down.

But Pebble, Donkey, and Rock said it was the stupidest-looking house they’d ever seen. Um, wasn’t that the point … ? Noobs!

An author who adds a prologue to his novel is kidding himself if he thinks the reader won’t recognize it for what it is: backstory.

We're still family-owned, which keeps life a whole lot simpler. When my wife and kids and I decide to make a business move, we don't have to ask Wall Street about it.

I woke up before the sun

Children are the future of a nation. If the children are intelligent, the country will be prosperous. Thai proverb

When I was a poor kid in Maine, my collection of used paperbacks was like a pile of cheap vacations.

When you accidentally mistake a kitten for a chunk of wool while trying to craft a carpet, well . . . that’s when you know you need to take a break.

Then creepers climbed the staircase. Oh, yeah, that iron golem was still hanging around. He looked really sad, too, with his head always lowered like that. Anyway, back to the cube—

All Persians are liars and lying is a sin. That's what the kids in Mrs. Miller's class think, but I'm the only Persian they've ever met, so I don't know where they got that idea. My mom says it's true, but only because everyone has sinned and needs God to save them. My dad says it isn't. Persians aren't liars. They're poets, which is worse. Poets don't even know when they're lying. They're just trying to remember their dreams. They're trying to remember six thousand years of history and all the versions of all the stories ever told. In one version, maybe I'm not the refugee kid in the back of Mrs. Miller's class. I'm a prince in disguise. If you catch me, I will say what they say in the 1,001 Nights. "Let me go, and I will tell you a tale passing strange." That's how they all begin. With a promise. If you listen, I'll tell you a story. We can know and be known to each other, and then we're not enemies anymore.

I think if a writer is being honest they’d admit to a file full of a dozen or more stories that are all started to varying degrees. They’re like the kid who wants to be a firefighter and a police officer and an astronaut.

There's no way around it. Motherhood is hard. And you young moms put more pressure on yourselves than we ever did, with your crafts and your activities. Do you know what we called crafts when David was young? Chores. We didn't play with our kids, we sent them outside. All day. They'd only come back in when the streetlights came on. You moms have it different. You're expected to be on 24/7 and look good doing it. My advice is this. Stop being so hard on yourself. And drink more vodka.

They walked on into the dark and they slept like dogs in the sand and had been sleeping so when something black flapped up out of the night ground and perched on Sproule's chest. Fine fingerbones stayed the leather wings with which it steadied as it walked upon him. A wrinkled pug face, small and vicious, bare lips crimped in a horrible smile and teeth pale blue in the starlight. It leaned to him. It crafted in his neck two narrow grooves and folding its wings over him it began to drink his blood. Not soft enough. He woke, put up a hand. He shrieked and the bloodbat flailed and sat back upon his chest and righted itself again and hissed and clicked its teeth. The kid was up and had seized a rock but the bat sprang away and vanished in the dark. Sproule was clawing at his neck and he was gibbering hysterically and when he saw the kid standing there looking down at him he held out to him his bloodied hands as if in accusation and then clapped them to his ears and cried out what it seemed he himself would not hear, a howl of such outrage as to stitch a caesura in the pulsebeat of the world. But the kid only spat into the darkness of the space between them. I know your kind, he said. What's wrong with you is wrong all the way through you.

Most people say, “Show, don’t tell,” but I stand by Show and Tell, because when writers put their work out into the world, they’re like kids bringing their broken unicorns and chewed-up teddy bears into class in the sad hope that someone else will love them as much as they do.

And so, for the rest of the day, I learned a few things from Steve. While we were crafting tools, he asked if he could borrow the wooden stick I’d been playing with earlier. I told him it’d be his for the low, low price of just twenty emeralds . . . Yeah. I’m definitely learning.

He never looks at comics these days, even though they’ve become fashionable to the point where adults are allowed to read them without fear of ridicule. Ironically, in David’s view, this makes them a lot more ridiculous than when they were intended as a perfectly legitimate and often beautifully crafted means of entertaining kids. At age thirteen, David’s idea of heaven was somewhere that comics were acclaimed and readily available, perhaps with dozens of big budget movies featuring his favourite obscure costumed characters. Now that he’s in his fifties and his paradise is all around him he finds it depressing. Concepts and ideas meant for the children of some forty years ago: is that the best that the twenty-first century has got to offer? When all this extraordinary stuff is happening everywhere, are Stan Lee’s post-war fantasies of white neurotic middle-class American empowerment really the most adequate response?

We began crafting ways to apply defusion and self skills to coping with the fear and pain of acceptance. Learning to defuse from the voice of the Dictator helps us keep a healthy distance from the negative messages that pop uninvited into our minds, like “Who are you kidding, you can’t deal with this!” It also helps diminish the power of the unhelpful relations that have been embedded in our thought networks, which are often activated by the pain involved in acceptance. For example, the relation between smoking a cigarette and feeling better will be triggered by the discomfort of craving a smoke. Reconnecting with our authentic self helps us practice self-compassion as we open up to unpleasant aspects of our lives, not berating ourselves for making mistakes or for feeling fear about dealing with the pain. We see beyond the image of a broken, weak, or afflicted self to the powerful true self that can choose to feel pain.

Listen, kid. I know you understand more than everyone thinks. Now, I’m gonna tell you what I told Ellie on her first day of school. Everything worth doing starts out scary. You’re gonna make friends and play games and do crafts and eat snacks, and you’re gonna have so much fun you won’t even wanna leave, but you’ve gotta take that first step. And I’m going to be right down the hall.

We don’t think about how we want to spend our time, and so we spend massive amounts of time on things—television, Web surfing, housework, errands—that give a slight amount of pleasure or feeling of accomplishment, but do little for our careers, our families, or our personal lives. We spend very little time on things that require more thought or initiative, like nurturing our kids, exercising, or engaging in the limited hours we do work in deliberate practice of our professional crafts. We try to squeeze these high-impact activities around the edges of things that are easy, or that seem inevitable merely because we always do them or because we think others expect us to. And consequently, we feel overworked and underrested, and tend to believe stories that confirm this view.

The value of the tape was also the crafting of a mixtape. I am from an era when we learned not to waste songs. If you are creating a cassette that you must listen to all the way through, and you are crafting it with your own hands and your own ideas, then it is on you not to waste sounds and to structure a tape with feeling. No skippable songs meant that I wouldn’t have to take my thick gloves off during the chill of a Midwest winter to hit fast-forward on a Walkman, hoping that I would stop a song just in time. No skippable songs meant that when the older, cooler kids on my bus ride to school asked what I was listening to in my headphones, armed with an onslaught of jokes if my shit wasn’t on point, I could hand my headphones over, give them a brief listen of something that would pass quality control, and keep myself safe from humiliation for another day.

As we leave our youth, there’s a pull toward complacency. We can start to coast, settle for what’s familiar and lose the juicy desire to expand our frontiers. We adopt the paradigm of a victim. We make excuses and then recite them so many times we train our subconscious mind to think they are true. We blame other people and outer conditions for our struggles, and we condemn past events for our private wars. We grow cynical and lose the curiosity, wonder, compassion and innocence we knew as kids. We become apathetic. Critical. Hardened. Within this personal ecosystem the majority of us create for ourselves, mediocrity then becomes acceptable. And because this mindset is running within us each day, the viewpoint seems so very real to us. We truly believe that the story we are running reveals the truth—because we’re so close to it. So, rather than showing leadership in our fields, owning our crafts by producing dazzling work and handcrafting delicious lives, we resign ourselves to average.

Great teaching is the ability to distinguish between what can and needs to be explained and what cannot be explained. The working of a computer needs to be explained as it is made by the human mind. But a butterfly need not always be explained. A butterfly has to be seen with gleaming eyes of wonder as it is a natural expression of life and not of the mind. Great teaching is more like a craft than a technique. To evoke the curiosity in the learner, to care for the learner and to take the learner on a journey of discovery are some of the most critical elements of this craft.

And this isn’t high school. Now that you’re not worried that (a) your skirt is too short or too long and the other kids will laugh at you, (b) you’re not going to make the varsity swimming team, (c) you’re still going to be a pimple-studded virgin when you graduate (probably when you die, for that matter), (d) the physics teacher won’t grade the final on a curve, or (e) nobody really likes you anyway AND THEY NEVER DID… now that all that extraneous shit is out of the way, you can study certain academic matters with a degree of concentration you could never manage while attending the local textbook loonybin.

Max cooked up a story about an enderman who wants to be a professional swimmer. The enderman is willing to pay 500 emeralds for a Potion of Water Resistance (so he doesn't burn while in the water). ② After hearing about the enderman, tons of kids at school freaked out. They wanted to brew that potion. Kids kept bugging the Brewing teacher about it. How do I craft one? What's the secret recipe? And so on. (The Brewing teacher got so annoyed, he called in sick today.) ③ Max and I dug up most of the sand around the village. (You need sand to make glass, glass to craft bottles, and bottles to brew potions.) ④ Yesterday, we spent hours crafting bottles.

When traditional cultures are outlawed, that is the homogenization of culture. It’s an old story, which could be told by any Native American, or by my grandparents, who fled pogroms and saw the Eastern European Yiddishkeit they were born into disperse and disappear in a single generation. By the time I headed home to the land of obscenely stocked supermarket shelves, I had come to the conclusion that no matter what I said or did, my presence in Africa served only to glamorize the capitalist world order, adding to the seductive allure that if you abandon your traditional culture, educate your kids in colonial languages at missionary schools, and grow cacao beans for export, maybe someday you’ll accumulate the kind of excess wealth to travel to the other side of the globe, just for fun and stimulation.

Send it and end it, kid.” Court would fire, sending a boat-tail round across fields and lakes, over cabins and farms, and, more often than not, much more often than not, he’d hit his target, thereby ending the “threat.” He’d send it, and he’d end it. He thought back to those days, the fundamentals of the craft, and he fought again to remain calm. He forced himself not to feel any emotion at all. Any increase in heart rate, fluctuation in breathing, new sweating on his skin that could cause reflex muscle contractions. Anything different with his body at the moment he fired would affect his shot. It could send the round out of the barrel one hundredth of an inch from where he wanted the muzzle positioned for firing, but translated out across 1.81 miles, the round would end up several feet off target.

Golden Rule #17 Don’t mine stone with your bare hands. Long, long ago, there was a noob named Steven. He harvested wood with his bare hands because he thought using tools was a waste of resources. Why reduce tool durability? Why bother crafting axes at all? Steven’s hands had no durability, as far as he knew. Even if it took him longer to chop down trees this way, he could save materials. He could punch and punch all day and never waste any crafting tools. Steven was the kind of guy who, after loaning his best friend a wooden sword six months earlier, would ask for exactly one stick and two oak planks to be returned. Once, Steven and two friends bought a cake together. The cake cost six emeralds and was cut into six slices. That meant each person had to pay two emeralds. However, one of Steven’s cake slices was slightly smaller than the rest, so he argued that he should have to pay only 1.75 emeralds instead.

When, one day, Kamaswami held against him that he had learned everything he knew from him, he replied: “Would you please not kid me with such jokes! What I’ve learned from you is how much a basket of fish costs and how much interests may be charged on loaned money. These are your areas of expertise. I haven’t learned to think from you, my dear Kamaswami, you ought to be the one seeking to learn from me.” Indeed his soul was not with the trade. The business was good enough to provide him with the money for Kamala, and it earned him much more than he needed. Besides this, Siddhartha’s interest and curiosity was only concerned with the people, whose businesses, crafts, worries, pleasures, and acts of foolishness used to be as alien and distant to him as the moon. However easily he succeeded in talking to all of them, in living with all of them, in learning from all of them, he was still aware that there was something which separated him from them and this separating factor was him being a Samana. He saw mankind going through life

I stood next to Breeze in a small quartz room. A sea lantern served as the only light source, bathing the room in its pale blue light. Against the center of one wall stood a mysterious object. It was three meters tall, three meters wide, and flat, like a banner. However, instead of dyed wool was a surface like the calmest pool of water. Breeze reached out with her right hand. Her fingers touched those of her reflection. After she lowered her arm, we continued staring at ourselves in silence. In awe. It was the first time we'd seen ourselves this way. But more than that were our outfits. Our clothes were made of spider silk, a type of cloth crafted using spider string. Puddles, the owner of the Clothing Castle, had worked with the humans for days to craft perfect recreations of Earth fashion. Then, to make us look even more majestic, our cloaks had been modified to fall over our shoulders. Poster children. Symbols of hope. Villagetown's biggest stars. That's what we've become. Some say it's sweet: a budding romance between two young heroes fighting valiantly against all odds. I'd say that's an exaggeration. Although Breeze and I are close, we haven't had much time for anything beyond battle or preparing for the next. I guess the mayor wants to change that, though. The people need something to believe in, he says. I suppose that's why he whisked us away in

Your story isn’t powerful enough if all it does is lead the horse to water; it has to inspire the horse to drink, too. On social media, the only story that can achieve that goal is one told with native content. Native content amps up your story’s power. It is crafted to mimic everything that makes a platform attractive and valuable to a consumer—the aesthetics, the design, and the tone. It also offers the same value as the other content that people come to the platform to consume. Email marketing was a form of native content. It worked well during the 1990s because people were already on email; if you told your story natively and provided consumers with something they valued on that platform, you got their attention. And if you jabbed enough to put them in a purchasing mind-set, you converted. The rules are the same now that people spend their time on social media. It can’t tell you what story to tell, but it can inform you how your consumer wants to hear it, when he wants to hear it, and what will most make him want to buy from you. For example, supermarkets or fast-casual restaurants know from radio data that one of the ideal times to run an ad on the radio is around 5:00 P.M., when moms are picking up the kids and deciding what to make for dinner, and even whether they have the energy to cook. Social gives you the same kind of insight. Maybe the data tells you that you should post on Facebook early in the morning before people settle

lived in the house. There were aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, and friends. A grill was set up on the patio, and delicious smells wafted from platters of burgers on picnic tables in the yard. It was the perfect sort of day for Munchy to get her fill of people blood. Who would have thought that giving a person one tiny bite could result in such a delightful snack? Munchy was aware that most people thought she was a pest. They tried to swat her whenever she got near, but Munchy was fast and an expert at dodging humans’ flailing fingers. I don’t want to hurt anyone, Munchy thought. But a mosquito bite just takes a second, and then I fly off to find the next person. Satisfied at last, Munchy buzzed back to the garden where she lived with her best friends Wiggly Worm, Rattles Snake, and Snarky Snail. “I’m full!” she announced. “I don’t think I’ll eat for a week!” “There’s some kind of celebration going on over there,” remarked Wiggly, who was playing in the dirt. “I know!” smiled Munchy. “The family has so many guests over—so many guests with delicious blood.” Snarky made a face. “I think it’s the Fourth of July or something—but, Munchy, do you really have to do that to people? Mosquito bites make them awfully uncomfortable.” “Only for a second,” Munchy replied. “It’s just an itty-bitty sting.” “No, it isn’t,” protested Snarky, who ventured into the backyard more than any of his friends. “Mosquito bites are itchy and uncomfortable for a long time—sometimes several days. I’ve seen those two little kids scratching and complaining about bites you’ve given them.” “I think that’s true,” agreed Rattles, who also went into the yard more often, now that the humans knew he was a friendly rattlesnake. “Oh, no,” murmured Munchy. Mosquito bites hadn’t seemed like a big deal before—but they did now. She didn’t want to be responsible for making people feel itchy all the time! With a sigh, Munchy said, “I guess I’ve got to quit. From now on, I’ll stick to sugar-water shakes at the Garden Town soda fountain—but it isn’t going to be easy!” With some help from her friends, Munchy was able to stop biting people once and for all. And, when the other mosquitoes that lived in the garden heard about her new lifestyle, they decided to give it a shot, as well. In no time, the backyard was practically a mosquito-safe zone! The kids and their friends could now play in the yard for hours with no worries about being bitten. They had no more itchy skin and no more discomfort. Munchy felt like she had done a wonderful thing. And no one ever tried to swat her away again! Just for Fun Activity Make itty-bitty bugs using circles of Fun Foam for bodies, tissue paper cut-outs for wings, googly eyes (you can find them at craft stores), and shortened pipe cleaners for long, skinny noses and legs. Have fun!

They may have been made of gas, but they were as solid as anything hand crafted by the ninjas themselves. I made two and I knew that when I threw these, I could not miss. These stars had to fly true and had to hit their targets.

Daniel.” “Ma.” “Are you well?” She was angry. If the straight-to-voicemail treatment for the last week hadn’t tipped me off, her tone now was a dead giveaway. “I’m great,” I lied. “And how are you?” “Fine.” I laughed, silently. If she heard me laugh, she’d have my balls. “Did you get my messages?” “Yes. Thank you for calling.” I waited for a minute, for her to say more. She didn’t. “I leave you twenty-one messages, three calls a day, and that’s all you got for me?” “I’m not going to apologize for needing some time to cool off and I’m not going to sugarcoat it. Who do you think I am? Willy Wonka? You missed my birthday.” She sniffed. And these weren’t crocodile tears either. I’d hurt her feelings. Ahh, there it is. The acrid taste of guilt. “Ma . . .” “I don’t ask for a lot. I love you. I love my children. I want you to call me on my birthday.” “I know.” I was clutching my chest so my heart didn’t fall out and bleed all over the grass. “What could have been so important that you couldn’t spare a few minutes for your mother? I was so worried.” “I did call you—” “Don’t shit on a plate and tell me it’s fudge, Daniel. You called after midnight.” I hadn’t come up with a plausible lie for why I hadn’t called on her birthday, because I wasn’t a liar. I hated lying. Premeditated lying, coming up with a story ahead of time, crafting it, was Seamus’s game. If I absolutely had to lie, I subscribed to spur-of-the-moment lying; it made me less of a soulless maggot. “That’s true, Ma. But I swear I—” “Don’t you fucking swear, Daniel. Don’t you fucking do that. I raised you kids better.” “Sorry, sorry.” “What was so important, huh?” She heaved a watery sigh. “I thought you were in a ditch, dying somewhere. I had Father Matthew on standby to give you your last rights. Was your phone broken?” “No.” “Did you forget?” Her voice broke on the last word and it was like being stabbed. The worst. “No, I sw—ah, I mean, I didn’t forget.” Lie. Lying lie. Lying liar. “Then what?” I grimaced, shutting my eyes, taking a deep breath and said, “I’m married.” Silence. Complete fucking silence. I thought maybe she wasn’t even breathing. Meanwhile, in my brain: Oh. Shit. What. The. Fuck. Have. I. Done. . . . However. However, on the other hand, I was married. I am married. Not a lie. Yeah, we hadn’t had the ceremony yet, but the paperwork was filed, and legally speaking, Kat and I were married. I listened as my mom took a breath, said nothing, and then took another. “Are you pulling my leg with this?” On the plus side, she didn’t sound sad anymore. “No, no. I promise. I’m married. I—uh—was getting married.” “Wait a minute, you got married on my birthday?” Uh . . . “Uh . . .” “Daniel?” “No. We didn’t get married on your birthday.” Shit. Fuck. “We’ve been married for a month, and Kat had an emergency on Wednesday.” Technically, not lies. “That’s her name? Cat?” “Kathleen. Her name is Kathleen.” “Like your great aunt Kathleen?” Kat wasn’t a thing like my great aunt. “Yeah, the name is spelled the same.” “Last month? You got married last month?” She sounded bewildered, like she was having trouble keeping up. “Is she—is she Irish?” “No.” “Oh. That’s okay. Catholic?” Oh jeez, I really hadn’t thought this through. Maybe it was time for me to reconsider my spur-of-the-moment approach to lying and just surrender to being a soulless maggot. “No. She’s not Catholic.” “Oh.” My mom didn’t sound disappointed, just a little surprised and maybe a little worried. “Daniel, I—you were married last month and I’m only hearing about it now? How long have you known this woman?” I winced. “Two and a half years.” “Two and a half years?” she screeched...

Soon, my masterpiece was finished.

Her house was what one might expect . . . except she added a sign. I forgot to do that.

Yeah, there was a lot more training today. But forget the training.

One zombie, after he came back up to the surface, was so angry that he kept beating the ground with his shovel, over and over.

It seemed she wanted to say something to me, although I couldn’t imagine what. I walked past her and took off back home through the wet streets … thinking about Breeze, and what she might be doing

At this, the so-called war heroine poked me in the chest. "Hey! I did manage

At this, the so-called war heroine poked me in the chest. "Hey! I did manage to get some iron golems! I’m not a wuss, okay?!

At this, the so-called war heroine poked me in the chest. "Hey! I did manage to get some iron golems! I’m not a wuss, okay?!" "Sure. You’re not a wuss." Anger flashed across her face. She poked me again. "You might think you’re hot stuff, but honestly, your social skills need a lot of work! All you do is rage, show off, and act like a total tryhard!" Tryhard? Really … ?

Her words slowly sank in. Friends are important. I had learned that with Stump. But equally important is not having too many enemies.

Apparently it isn’t okay to have mold spots on your robe. Who knew? I gave in and looked around at the various garments. Most of the robes were like this.

It was the coolest outfit I’d ever seen.

I felt like someone was watching me just then. Breeze? I didn’t see her anywhere, though. Strange.

When I got there, the humans had already stepped through the hole they’d created. About one hundred villagers were there, whispering to one another and studying the two warriors.

Uh! I hate the sound of rain For all of you who hate the sound of rain, here is the answer to your problem.  If you go to the pause menu and click on the following buttons listed here: options>Video settings>particles>click till shown minimal like the picture above. And enjoy the serenity of silence in the midst of the storm. You got to be kidding me? Pink sheep have a 0.001% chance to spawn in the Nether. So...Yeah pink sheep kind of look like a pig’s imposter. Rubber TNT

From our bathroom breaks to our sleep schedules to our emotional availability, Millennials are growing up highly attuned to the needs of capital markets. We are encouraged to strategize and scheme to find places, times, and roles where we can be effectively put to work. Efficiency is our existential purpose, and we are a generation of finely honed tools, crafted from embryos to be lean, mean production machines.

Ahem. Excuse me, my dear zombies. May we take a break from all this fighting? My hunger bar, you see … allow me to set a dinner table so that I may replenish it. You’re most welcome to join me. We shall have an appetizer followed by a main course and then a most elegant dessert.

Red activities are extremely sedentary, such as lounging and watching TV, and burn just 0 to 50 calories per hour. Yellow activities generally have you up on your feet and puttering about. Activities such as standing and stretching while on the phone and chopping vegetables for dinner fall in this category. A few of the more energetic sitting activities, such as board games (e.g., Cranium), crafts, and sewing, also fall into yellow. They burn 50 to 100 calories per hour. Green activities have you on the move and include things such as mowing the lawn and playing with your kids. They burn 100 to 200 calories an hour.

lunch,

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(Well,

(That’s a "no" without a period. You see, not including a period means you simply don’t want to take the time to end the sentence completely. It means you care so little about what was just asked that you can’t be bothered with taking the fraction of a second out of your day to add the period in.)

Just made it.

Everyone with a kid knows glitter is the butthole of crafts.

came up with a bunch of pranks of my own. I went with a more “grown-up” approach than Gabe did, which means I didn’t want to do anything that would hurt him like he did with me by THROWING A FREAKING ROCK-HARD SNOWBALL AT MY FACE. Nope. Harmful pranks could land me in detention, so I decided to go with FOOD pranks instead. The ingredients for crafting the perfect food prank

I think that a book can be the best place for a kid to first encounter some of the evils of the world. Better in the safe confines of a book than in real life.

One family described their core value of hospitality, lived out as they cleaned the house together each Friday for the express purpose of welcoming people over the weekend. They wanted to be able to spontaneously invite others over, knowing their space was ready to receive them. All this was explained to their kids by connecting the dots between the practice of keeping house and the immense welcome of God. They talked about their apartment as a gift and a refuge, and how important it was for it to feel inviting. Hosting people was not about living some Magnolia life; it was how they loved their neighbors. Thus, Friday night cleanup was a faith practice. One family used the tradition of a summer road trip to visit relatives as a means to support being who God uniquely made each of them to be. Each family member got to design the itinerary for one day of the trip. On that day, everyone else went along with that person’s choices for restaurants and an activity. They talked about the wonder of God’s image in each person and how this was a fun way to see each member of the family just as God made them to be. Thus, a family trip was a faith ritual. What about your family? What unique characteristics need to be accounted for as you craft a vision for faith? • Who makes up your family? List the members. You may share a living space with them or not, live in the same town or not, be relationally close or not. • Next to each person on the list, jot down a few distinguishing key traits of that person. What are they like? What are they interested in? • What are some of your family’s strengths and loves as a group? Do you love a good party? Cheer for a certain team? Love a particular place or meal? • What are some of your family’s unique challenges right now? Do you have a child who doesn’t “fit the mold,” for whatever reason? Are finances tight? Have any of the relationships been strained or broken? • List anything else that feels important to you about who your family is and what they are like. What other traits make you, you?

Rather than teaching you tips and tricks so that you, too, can conform to my predetermined core movements, what if we align around a larger, shared goal? What if we adopted the goal to be with our kids as they get to know God and discover if God can be trusted. To do this, you’ll craft a family faith culture, an intentional set of habits and practices that help you live connected to God and what God is doing in your lives and the world. This is your web.

want the other girls

are

As if. No, that food needs to be eaten as quickly as possible so my health bar can regenerate in combat! Sword in one hand, half-eaten cookie in the other—that’s a real warrior! So today, during our break, when I jammed a whole slice of cake in my mouth, I wasn’t being a pig—no, no, no. I was just … training. Yeah. Training. That’s it. "Oh, I almost forgot," I said. "I bought you some robes just like mine. They’ve been in my inventory the whole time." I handed him the robes, the special boots, and the mask. He slipped into them immediately, then looked down at himself. "Hurrmmm. These robes are really cool and all, but … we look kind of similar now, don’t we?" He was right. Our robes were the same dark gray color.

It’s not very hard to confuse you," Max said.

Do you want kids?” “I don’t know.” The answer surprised him. “It’s easy to die for someone. You push your chips, and that’s it. It’s harder to imagine living for them, day by day. The responsibility would work you like sand on stone. You set aside your life, your dreams, your fears, the change you wanted to make in this mess of a world. Not all at once, but a little at a time—because they’re sick, they’re scared, they need help with school. You’re needed now, here, by this one person. You do what you can. Work with things as they are. Your kids love you. Maybe a hundred years ago, or even thirty, that would have been enough.” He looked out the window at the dark. “It doesn’t have to be that way.” “Maybe not. But the world is full of people who think they can do better. And it all still looks like this.

With this knowledge, we can craft obsidian swords, advanced redstone machines, enchanted arrows and powder kegs and armor strong enough to withstand the strongest monsters—monsters thought to exist only in fairy tales and ancient times, which now haunt the Overworld once more. The

What’s brown and sticky on a crafting table? A stick.

Wool

The Renzettis live in a small house at 84 Chestnut Avenue. Frank Renzetti is forty-four and works as a bookkeeper for a moving company. Mary Renzetti is thirty-five and works part-time at a day care. They have one child, Tommy, who is five. Frank’s widowed mother, Camila, also lives with the family. My question: How likely is it that the Renzettis have a pet? To answer that, most people would zero in on the family’s details. “Renzetti is an Italian name,” someone might think. “So are ‘Frank’ and ‘Camila.’ That may mean Frank grew up with lots of brothers and sisters, but he’s only got one child. He probably wants to have a big family but he can’t afford it. So it would make sense that he compensated a little by getting a pet.” Someone else might think, “People get pets for kids and the Renzettis only have one child, and Tommy isn’t old enough to take care of a pet. So it seems unlikely.” This sort of storytelling can be very compelling, particularly when the available details are much richer than what I’ve provided here. But superforecasters wouldn’t bother with any of that, at least not at first. The first thing they would do is find out what percentage of American households own a pet. Statisticians call that the base rate—how common something is within a broader class. Daniel Kahneman has a much more evocative visual term for it. He calls it the “outside view”—in contrast to the “inside view,” which is the specifics of the particular case. A few minutes with Google tells me about 62% of American households own pets. That’s the outside view here. Starting with the outside view means I will start by estimating that there is a 62% chance the Renzettis have a pet. Then I will turn to the inside view—all those details about the Renzettis—and use them to adjust that initial 62% up or down. It’s natural to be drawn to the inside view. It’s usually concrete and filled with engaging detail we can use to craft a story about what’s going on. The outside view is typically abstract, bare, and doesn’t lend itself so readily to storytelling. So even smart, accomplished people routinely fail to consider the outside view. The Wall Street Journal columnist and former Reagan speechwriter Peggy Noonan once predicted trouble for the Democrats because polls had found that George W. Bush’s approval rating, which had been rock-bottom at the end of his term, had rebounded to 47% four years after leaving office, equal to President Obama’s. Noonan found that astonishing—and deeply meaningful.9 But if she had considered the outside view she would have discovered that presidential approval always rises after a president leaves office. Even Richard Nixon’s number went up. So Bush’s improved standing wasn’t surprising in the least—which strongly suggests the meaning she drew from it was illusory. Superforecasters don’t make that mistake. If Bill Flack were asked whether, in the next twelve months, there would be an armed clash between China and Vietnam over some border dispute, he wouldn’t immediately delve into the particulars of that border dispute and the current state of China-Vietnam relations. He would instead look at how often there have been armed clashes in the past. “Say we get hostile conduct between China and Vietnam every five years,” Bill says. “I’ll use a five-year recurrence model to predict the future.” In any given year, then, the outside view would suggest to Bill there is a 20% chance of a clash. Having established that, Bill would look at the situation today and adjust that number up or down.

A friendly enderman who only wanted to trade. He was looking for a potion. And not just any potion, but a 'Potion of Water Resistance'. In other words, a potion that prevented not drowning damage, but . . . damage from water. I've never heard of such a potion, and neither has anyone I've talked to. Yet . . . that doesn't mean such a potion doesn't exist. Now, here's the thing. The enderman is willing to pay five hundred emeralds for a stack of such potions. Five hundred emeralds. This enderman is rich, apparently. Of course, everyone in the village started freaking out. Especially the kids at school. "We've gotta find out how to craft that potion!!" "We've gotta make some before that enderman returns to the village!!" "With that many emeralds, I can buy an enchanted diamond sword!!" Like that. Forget the trees—the enderman was all anyone was talking about. As the rumor goes, the enderman is a world traveler, and has a dream of becoming a professional swimmer. The problem with that, obviously, is the fact that water is like acid to endermen. They can't even be out in the rain, much less swim for any length of time. But this Potion of Water Resistance would fix that, I guess.

the ultimate

Short Brief Story, How I started to make this which you see today? I'm talking about the works, most people doubt about that I will become a writer. Most people said me this, you must drink a lot of teas, to become a writer (you must have a rich vocabulary and many other stuff!). But check out what Stephen King said in his book "Memoir and Craft" this amazed me. Most people know him as an actor or as an book writer...Maybe this can change some people opinions which didn't believe in me (in their opinions), I just show in my books a new world, YEAH I read some books in this time, I watched some films, I finished some games, some interesting stuff happened and many other things. But the best thing everything as much as possible was added in the books Series The Life Of One Kid!

warmed up to the idea of me becoming a warrior. These days, they’re just too tired

You see, God wants you to be alive and share in that life with your children. He wants to help you develop a foundation of joy, imagination, and beauty in the lives you share together. Experiences like those described above, as with any other part of life, don’t just happen. You must have a plan. What kind of home do you want to live in? How can you craft a home and a schedule that is interesting for you and your children? In taking responsibility for being a conductor of the music of your and your family’s life, you will find joy and fulfillment, and, as I did with my sweet kids, eventually find that you have developed your own best friends out of your own children, who have learned to love what you love.

As today’s young people seek a more coherent sense of identity, the stress that formerly hit them in college, or even after college, now begins in middle school (or younger). By high school, many middle- and upper-class teenagers juggle digital calendars jammed with extracurricular activities that begin as early as 6:00 a.m., after-school study sessions, college entrance exam tutoring, and sports team practices that leave them trailing home after 10:00 p.m.11 Followed by two to three hours of homework.12 Athletes used to specialize in a single sport in high school; now that starts in elementary school. Previously, musicians and artists could freely dabble in various media and instruments throughout high school; present-day teenagers have to claim their craft in middle school. No longer can a kid flirt with a handful of hobbies, discovering various facets of their personality and passions, before choosing what they love. There’s so little time for thoughtful and measured exploration in high school that young adults end up exploring their skills and passions well into their twenties. A recent study showed that 13- to 17-year-olds are more likely to feel “extreme stress” than adults.13 Even more alarming is that the adults closest to young people are often blind to their heightened stress levels. Approximately 20 percent of teenagers confess that they worry “a great deal” about current and future life events. But only 8 percent of the parents of these same teenagers report that their child is experiencing a great deal of stress.14 Parents often don’t realize the constant heat felt by adolescents, increasing the pressure for them to figure out who they are and what’s important to them. After adolescence, emerging adults race from the proverbial stress-filled pot into the stress-fueled fire.15 Fewer college students are reporting “above-average” health since this question was first asked in 1985.16

to

Professor Craig Franklin of the University of Queensland mounted a crocodile research partnership with Steve. The idea was to fasten transmitters and data loggers on crocs to record their activity in their natural environment. But in order to place the transmitters, you had to catch the crocs first, and that’s where Steve’s expertise came in. Steve never felt more content than when he was with his family in the bush. “There’s nothing more valuable than human life, and this research will help protect both crocs and people,” he told us. The bush was where Steve felt most at home. It was where he was at his best. On that one trip, he caught thirty-three crocs in fourteen days. He wanted to do more. “I’d really like to have the capability of doing research on the ocean as well as in the rivers,” he told me. “I could do so much more for crocodiles and sharks if I had a purpose-built research vessel.” I could see where he was heading. I was not a big fan of boats. “I’m going to contact a company in Western Australia, in Perth,” he said. “I’m going to work on a custom-built research vessel.” As the wheels turned in his mind, he became more and more excited. “The sky’s the limit, mate,” he said. “We could help tiger sharks and learn why crocs go out to sea. There is no reason why we couldn’t help whales, too.” “Tell me how we can help whales,” I said, expecting to hear about a research project that he and Craig had in mind. “It will be great,” he said. “We’ll build a boat with an icebreaking hull. We’ll weld a can opener to the front, and join Sea Shepherd in Antarctica to stop those whaling boats in their tracks.” When we got back from our first trip to Cape York Peninsula with Craig Franklin, Steve immediately began drawing up plans for his boat. He wanted to make it as comfortable as possible. As he envisioned it, the boat would be somewhere between a hard-core scientific research vessel and a luxury cruiser. He designed three berths, a plasma screen television for the kids, and air-conditioned comfort below deck. He placed a big marlin board off the back, for Jet Skis, shark cages, or hauling out huge crocs. One feature that he was really adamant about was a helicopter pad. He designed the craft so that the helicopter could land on the top. Steve’s design plans went back and forth to Perth for months. “I want this boat’s primary function to be crocodile research and rescue work,” Steve said. “So I’m going to name her Croc One.” “Why don’t we call it For Sale instead?” I suggested. I’m not sure Steve saw the humor in that. Croc One was his baby. But for some reason, I felt tremendous trepidation about this boat. I attributed my feelings of concern to Bindi and Robert. Anytime you have kids on a boat, the rules change--no playing hide-and-seek, no walking on deck without a life jacket on. It made me uncomfortable to think about being two hundred miles out at sea with two young kids. We had had so many wild adventures together as a family that, ultimately, I had to trust Steve. But my support for Croc One was always, deep down, halfhearted at best. I couldn’t shake my feeling of foreboding about it.

We wanted to create a book that would bring children back to the roots of playing and having fun without technology. These projects are designed to get children away from the screen and encourage them to explore their creativity, follow instructions, and cultivate important skills,” explains author and CraftBoxGirls founder, Lynn Lilly.

The first thing you should make is a tool to help you get more wood. This would be an Axe. An Axe can also be used as a weapon, so it’s the perfect first thing to make. This is the crafting recipe and it needs to be made in your Crafting Bench:   Once you have made your Axe, go find more trees and see how easier it is to chop them down now! Next, with some of the new wood you’ve collected, we need to make a Pickaxe. This will help us with two things: 1) Getting cobblestone to improve our tools and 2), helping us build a shelter for our first night!

You can make a better axe and pickaxe using the same crafting recipe, but with cobblestone instead of planks. When the morning comes, it would be a good idea to find some sheep. You can kill them to get some wool and make a bed. This will help you pass the night peacefully. Place three wool in a line above three planks in a crafting bench to make it. Well done, you’ve survived your first night! You’ll probably need some breakfast. So let’s move on to satisfying that hunger.

Shuffle A Dream You cruise around in your deluxe water craft And play and picking designer shades, don't deny class And the girls that you know want it mighty bad They want your kids in a row, they'll be lining up fast to your door So make a move, castle in the sky Pick and choose if you want him Would you share? 'Cause that's the deal, girl Trickling coins, making a noise Follow it blind, follow the signs Why would you want someone so vain? Stealing your soul, looking at rain You act supreme as your fortune lit the sky But it's a shell with a crack and you're just a plain guy Play a pill 'cause the world made it easy to I see the shimmering rocks moving closer to you to your door So make a move, castle in the sky Pick and choose if you want it, girl Could you share 'cause that's the deal now If you dare, so Trickling coins, making a noise Follow it blind, follow the signs Why would you want someone so vain? Stealing your soul, looking at rain Trickling coins, making a noise Follow it blind, follow the signs Why would you want someone so vain? Stealing your soul, looking at rain Trickling coins, making a noise Follow it blind, follow the signs

right top and right bottom.

Which brings us to a little book that may provide a clue to the cure. My wife got it as a gift from a friend. It is titled Porn for Women. It’s a picture book of hunks, photographed in all their chiseled, muscle-bound, testosterone-marinated, PG-rated glory. Lots of naked chests and low-cut jeans, complete with tousled hair and beckoning eyes. And they are ALL doing housework. There’s a picture of a well-cut Adonis, and he’s loading the washing machine. The caption reads: “As soon as I finish the laundry, I’ll do the grocery shopping. And I’ll take the kids with me so you can relax.” There’s another hunk, the cover guy, vacuuming the floor. A particularly athletic-looking man peers up from the sports section and declares, “Ooh, look, the NFL playoffs are today. I bet we’ll have no trouble parking at the crafts fair”. Porn for Women. Available at a marriage near you.