My Great Aunt Mary left a few things to me when she passed away. One was a cedar hope chest, the other was her sewing basket and everything in it. I was just a kid when it fell into my hands, and couldn't have really appreciated all the treasures inside. Now, thankfully, things are a little different.
As of late, I've had an intense urge to learn the art of embroidery. I knew Aunt Mary had excelled at this, as she had in all things crafty, so I pulled out her sewing basket. Inside I found all the things I needed to get started: a hoop, embroidery needles, and an abundance of embroidery floss. I have yards and yards of muslin that I bought sometime in junior high, back when I was determined to teach myself to quilt (it didn't go over so well the first time), so I cut a 24 by 18 inch piece, found a drawing of a flower that I liked, traced it onto the muslin, and commenced embroidering.
And a tea towel was born. It was easier than I thought, and oh, so very fun.
I found the how to page over at Sublime Stitching very helpful. I also enjoyed looking through this: Just another treasure from Aunt Mary's sewing basket.
The thought that preoccupies my mind is this: where is the best place for my child to sleep?
And seriously. Where SHOULD she sleep?
My two options are as follows:
1. In a bassinet near our bed. 2. In her crib in her nursery.
I know people are going to say I should go with my instincts and do what feels right, which is excellent advise, but in the end, I'm not getting a whole lot of information. I suppose what I'm looking for is someone to tell me what they think of me putting my days-old, precious angel down the hall in her own crib to sleep. We're talking alone. In her own room. With her own stuff. What have you moms done? What has worked best for you, your partner, and your baby?
I want to get her started off in her own room. There will be less transitioning for her and for all of us. Not to mention more sleep for the dad who gets to pay for all the diapers.
Call me a mean mom if you must, and then, when you are done, tell me what you think of my decision.
I'm tough. Because mean moms have to be.
On Being A World (or something like one)
It occurred to me the other day that I am a small planet, maybe a bio dome, perhaps a greenhouse. It hit me that if I don't live, neither does my baby.
If I don't breath, have a beating heart, have neurons transmitting and myelin sheaths shooting, my baby doesn't make it. How many small miracles are happening every second to keep me alive, I wonder. And now they are happening for two.
I am a world. A big dumb, blundering, world. I don't control the science of it. I don't tell my body to work, to pump, to build or create.
My body is a house, a house for two souls and a house for miracles.
And I do believe I know where these miracles come from:
He gave me my eyes that I might see
The color of butterfly wings.
He gave my my ears that I might hear
The magical sound of things.
He gave me my life, my mind, my heart;
I thank Him reverently
For all his creations,
Of which I'm a part.
Yes,
I know Heavenly Father loves me.
And that goes for ally'all.
If you'd like to hear the whole song, this is a beautiful video with music by Amy Gileadi.
Once upon a time, I had a really teenytiny pantry. Despite my organizing attempts, it still looked like a big messy blob. I didn't even know what I had in there. On Saturday, that came to an end when Brian took his only real day off and built me a new pantry.
First he placed some brackets. He also concentrated very, very hard.
Next, he built some shelves. He even ate lunch in there because he's just that dedicated to his craft (yes, that is a turkey sandwich in his hand).
Then he built even more shelves (this was his reaction when I told him to smile).
And I organized.
Finally, I saw that it was good. (I also saw that, at 27 weeks, I am enormous.) We're talkin' huge.
The front porch was looking a little plain. So I says to myself, "No front porch a mine is gonna be plain, no sir!" I took some little green tables I had hangin' out in a closet...
and I painted them cappuccino.I took some plain yellow pumpkins... I Mod Podged some with craft paper...
And glittered the crap out of the rest. Then I made some pillows...
The day I found out our little bairn was a sheila I went straight to Gap.com and loaded up my virtual shopping cart. When I showed Brian my pending purchases he put the breaks on.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he said. "Let's hold off a bit."
I think the big daddy was in shock. Be it a combination of baby shock, girl shock, or sticker shock, he needed some time to process. Let's not forget that he saw a half-crazed look in my wee beady eyes, either.
But if I'm fully disclosing information here, I can't put all the blame on Brian. I have to say that buying things for someone you've never seen, never known, someone who has not even taken a breath of air before is at the very least a little bit strange.
So I've been a good girl. Waiting until I felt I needed to buy something for my child. I've been patiently biding my time.
Until today.
When I went to Carter's.
And they were having a sale.
We're talking about bum ruffles people. Bum. Ruffles.
Brooching the Subject
A few months ago my friend Bridgette invited me to teach a class for her Enrichment Night down in San Jose. Since I was coming down anyway to hang with her and Kim I gladly said yes. The project I decided to do was felted wool brooches.
And they just turned out pretty stinkin' cute if you ask me.
My table.
Here's one I made today, a poinsettia for the holidays.
And last but not least, here is the big, fat pregnant lady getting ready to teach the brooch making class.
Two nights ago, I finished reading A Tree Grows In Brooklyn by Betty Smith. I read this book because I remember my good friend, Heather Carlile, telling me that it was one of her favorites. Plus, I guess I just always thought it was one of those books you had to read.
Well, I do think it is a must read. It's a wonderful, brutal, funny, and sad book about a little girl growing up in Brooklyn in the early 20th century. Her family is poor, and instead of perpetuating the sad way of life of her family, Francie Nolan decides to make something of herself.
The ending was, I felt, written in a rush, the author trying new techniques and styles and slapping them all into the end. I also felt a little sad at the mother's moral advice to her daughter in the end, but all in all, I think this book is valuable and worth reading, if not for the storyline, at least for the opportunity to catch a glimpse at what life was like at that time.
I enjoy books about life in America at the turn of the century, the immigrant experience, or life in the lower classes. If you do too, here are some books I have read and highly recommend:
I am very excited to tell you that I've been asked to be an author on a cooking blog. My friend, Madeline, started The Saltbox House Cooking Exchange a while ago and just recently decided to expand by asking some of her cooking friends to participate. I was overjoyed, since I think Madeline's blogs are just pretty freakin' awesome. Head on over there to peruse the sight, get some fantastic recipes, and check out my first posted recipe!
I was casually flipping through the channels the other day when I stopped on a show (which I can't even remember now). During the commercial break I witnessed the dumbest. thing. ever.
No, this commercial is not from Saturday Night Live, or Mad TV. These people are serious. Dead serious. How do I know? Because I went to Fred Meyer last night and right inside the doors was THIS:
I have yards and yards of muslin that I bought sometime in junior high, back when I was determined to teach myself to quilt (it didn't go over so well the first time), so I cut a 24 by 18 inch piece, found a drawing of a flower that I liked, traced it onto the muslin, and commenced embroidering.
Just another treasure from Aunt Mary's sewing basket.
and I painted them 
I took some plain yellow pumpkins...
I Mod 
And glittered the crap out of the rest.
Then I made some pillows...
And now my front porch 
