Sewing: return of the mojo

Ooh, what's this? That appears to be a sewing machine needle in action. I do believe it's sewing two 8.5inch square together. But what's that in the background?

I do believe that's a whole pile of sewn 8.5inch squares. And a pile of fabric waiting to be squared up. Could it be that someone is working on a quilt? Could it be that someone is making 100 half-square triangles for a king-size, ice-cream coloured quilt? 

Well I do believe that someone is me! And I do believe that that's bona fide evidence of a sewing mojo that has dusted itself off, knocked at the door and said, "Honey, I'm home!". Welcome back my lovely mojo. Welcome back from vacation, my vocation.

 

Aaahhhhh, that's better.

Mothering: beginnings and endings

Three weeks ago exactly, this was the start and end of my day. The beginning. The end. In so many ways.

 

In two shoes, new shoes, bright shiny black shoes (paraphrased from the great Shirley Hughes), my Little One started primary school. When he went, I thought he wasn't too young for it but he wasn't quite ready. I wasn't quite ready. He was big but so, so little.

 

He walked in without tears, surprising everyone. He came out with a smile. I watched him, David Attenborough style, all afternoon and evening at home. He had a new swagger. His huge uniform now fit him. He was taller. He had a new place in the world, and it was on top. And I realised, to my surprise, that he was big enough for big school after all. That he was ready. That he had opened a door, stepped through, and had found himself greeted into the big, wide world.

 

But it was an end too. The sun set on the pre-school years. The years where the largest part of his days was me. When I lead him, guided him, and presented the world to him. Yes he went to nursery, but it was only three hours a day just down the road with a dozen or so others. That was a stepping stone over a stream. This was a burnt bridge across a river.

 

It was an end for him but he's looking forward, following that sun over the horizon. I am left in the darkness behind, and though I know it's right for him, and though I know I've looked forward to the time and freedom for me... there's a large hole in my days the size of my little man, and it's staring back at me. He's the elephant in the room, the ache in my heart. Three weeks in, I'm more settled, he's had his tearful days, and things are much more normal for both of us in the wobbly way we're taking on this new page in his life. But golly, I miss him.

Baking: A bowl of joy

Sometimes it's the simple things that are the best. The two littlest and I made rice krispie cakes, minus the butter, and using dark chocolate. We made a half-batch - just seven - for their dairy-intolerant friend. They all loved them. Loved them. But I think possibly, even more, my two loved scraping the bowl. This was all that was left after the Little One had set to work. He's a methodical little chap.

 

It set me thinking about our childhoods and the things we pass on; the things we remember. As parents we worry about the things we can't give our children because of the money or the time we don't have. But we forget that the things that imprint upon them enough to stay through their years on this earth, and then pass on to their own children are the simple things. Often these things are free, or near enough. Often these things are about the connection they have with us or a moment. You don't remember all the expensive details of a holiday you had when very young. You remember playing chase with the waves in the sea. You remember the hours of fun making castles out of random Lego bricks with your brothers rather than the fancy presents you loved and left.

 

I have made far more interesting, challenging things than rice krispie cakes, but I've made them alone or with much admonishment: "don't touch! wait! okay, one stir -just one - then it's my turn". They'll remember scraping this rice krispie bowl far better. They'll remember the fistfuls of puffed rice sent into the bowl until the scales were right. They'll remember the scattering of rice that missed. Watching intently as the chocolate melted into the butter. They flop of chocolate mess into paper cases. The crunch of matt-sheen chocolate boulders after they had been refrigerated rigid. The laughter at chocolate stains on their faces. The dash to the sink. The quietly proud gift of a left-over cake to their oldest brother.

 

We scraped every last bit of joy from that bowl.

Missing

Missing

 

 

One blogging mojo. Last seen earlier this year. Likely to be whizzing about in the ether somewhere. If you catch it, please box it up before it zips off again. Return to sender.

 

 

One sewing groove. Last seen at the start of summer. Likely to have crawled under the floorboards somewhere in shame. Appears to think it is a bit useless. If you spot it, please scoop up, soothe, whisper platitudes and the box it up before it skulks off when you're not looking (it does that). Return to sender.

 

 

Request: one pair of binoculars and one magnifying glass to search for the above. I will await the postman in case one of you finds either. If I find them, I will let you know. Get your beady eyes out people.

 

 

x