As I make lunch, Jack builds spaceships with Legos at the kitchen table.
Jack: "Mom, is this real?"
Me: "What, what you're building?"
"No, this. Like, us."
"Like... like us living here on earth?"
"Yeah."
"Wow. Good question."
"Is it real?"
"Well, some people would say it's real, and other people would say it isn't real. I guess I think if you believe it's real, then it's real. Do you believe it's real?"
"Yes. I believe it's real."
"Me too."
"Yeah. me too."
"Good question."
A few weeks ago--after hearing the phrase directed at him well over seven bazillion times--Charlie said, "I love you." (Well, really he said, "I yuv you." But you get the idea.) I wasn't sure he understood the meaning of the words, but it was a wonderful thing to hear. He would say it every time we said it to him, even adding a "too" to the end of the sentence: "I yuv you too." So sweet.
One night at dinner, Brett the Dad began his nightly ritual of grabbing three cookies from the cookie jar. (After he had eaten but before his milk was gone, of course.) He sat back down at the table and handed one cookie to Charlie.
Charlie: "Tank you."
Brett: "You're welcome."
Charlie took a bite. He smiled and added a high-pitched "mmmmm!" Then he said:
"I yuv cookies!"
Later, as Charlie tries on his new summer sandals for the first time at home, he says with delight:
"I yuv my shoes!"
The next morning, driving homeward, Charlie and I turn onto our street.
Charlie: "Mom, home."
Me: "Yes Barley, almost home."
"I yuv home."
Well sheesh. I suppose it's quite obvious now. This little boy knows the meaning of love.
Well, here it is:
Amidst the final two-week explosion of activity that left my kitchen a shambles, here it is. Eight month's worth of work on the book (with a not-yet-finalized-but-coming-soon title), packed into two boxes. Feels small.
(Only two boxes, really? Wow. I'm hoping it will all feel--well, bigger--once I crack open the cover come February. We'll see.)
Been a few weeks since I shipped those boxes. The kitchen's all cleaned up. Sewing stuff is back downstairs in my sewing room, where I never sew. (The sun and the fun--and my little ones--tend to stay upstairs.) Everything is back in its place. It's quieted down. I've had a nice sewing sabbatical. I'm ready to fire up my machine again, even though she could use a tune up and a new needle. Heck, she could use a massage and a girls' night out for dinner and a movie after all I've put her through. Thanks, machine.
I want to sew something. Thing is, I don't want to design it, create it, or start it from the roots or the grass. I just want to sew something. Don't get me wrong--shine bright or fail miserably, there's wonderful things to be said for blazing your own trail. For taking what you know and what you love and creating something that's one of a kind, completely you, and forever yours. But when you do it 26 times in a row, like I just did, there's something to be said for taking a break. For keeping your hands busy with a project that comes from another person's trailblazing.
So, I guess what I'm trying to say is... I'm off to church.
For over a year now I've been participating in a church activity, although I don't attend church. Once a month at this church, women get together with one purpose. To make stuff. The projects that need working on are simple, rhythmic, and easy to chat by--tying pieced quilts, hand quilting wall quilts for children's classrooms, creating matching games for kids with markers, file folders, and sticky velcro. Stuff like that. How many adults do you know who can, once a month on a Monday morning, go and talk with their neighbors while they quilt and tie and color with markers? I mean, who doesn't want to do that? I want to do that.
Kit-style baby bibs, ready for sewing at home.
In between individual projects that people can take home to make and monthly projects that people can work on together, this church gets a lot of stuff made. As I understand it, each brick-and-mortar church has a group. Someone at the top of the hierarchy decides what needs making each month and tells the groups. And then each group gets going. From one street in my town, as you are walking along one stretch of sidewalk, you can see six of this church's steeples. SIX. You have to turn a full 360 degrees to see them all, but still. Six churches from a single vantage point. That's a lot of getting going.
Almost exclusively, the materials for projects are found, donated, or rescued. The church makes use of what's been tossed aside, buried in closets, hidden under stairs, packed away in the garage. They make use of what's no longer wanted. And they turn as much as they can into handmade somethings to send away, wherever it's needed.
Who knew JCPenney ever sold yarn, for cripes sake? Old yarn, new scarf.
It's a cool feeling. Just making something and then letting it go. Letting your imagination wonder where your scarf, your wall quilt, your
newborn nightgown, will go. And then it's gone. You make individual projects during the month and then drop them in a
basket at the monthly meeting. There are no thank
you's. No oohs and aahs. No show-and-tell. There's mostly just, "can you
make more?"
Yes, I can.
Newborn nightgowns taught me how to use my overlock
machine (along with my kind and patient neighbor).
The monthly gatherings, at their heart, are what I imagine good old-fashioned quilting bees to have been like. You know, from Laura Ingalls days. I thought I had romanticized quilting bees in my mind after reading about their rich history. But geez, it really IS like
that. Creating friendships, helping
others, helping each other, rooting yourself and your family in the community, sharing stories, laughing,
learning about your neighbors. Not every time, not every minute. But yes, it's a whole lot of that. Even children playing under the quilting frame (I
KID YOU NOT!). I feel lucky to be a part of it. It's become a precious monthly event for me.
I am an equal-opportunity do-gooder. I don't belong to this particular church, for a whole lifetime's worth of reasons. But I believe they do good. And now, thanks to them letting me come back month after month, I believe I am doing good too. Could be a kind of trailblazing in its own right. Trailblazing without all the blazing. Sometimes, I kinda like that.
We celebrated Charlie-Barley's birthday this past weekend. Our littlest is now two years old. Looking back at my one year post about Charlie, I remember thinking that I didn't know him very well just yet.
Times have changed.
What have we learned about you, Charlie, during this past year? Let's look back and see...
You are a happy boy. Which reminds others around you be happy, too.
You like to move.
Fast.
Spring, summer, fall...
or winter... (or, in this case, winter in spring...)
You love to play outside.
You love your daddy.
And you will follow your brother to the ends of the earth. And downstairs, even.
You like your mama's sewing stuff.
And you will humor her by wearing the stuff she sews
(like this Daredevil costume, originally made for Jack).
You still like birthday cake. Same as last year.
And--same as last year--we are all unabashedly in love with you.
Charlie, you are an endless source for teaching and learning (it goes both ways). You are an endless source of hugs and cuddles. You are an endless source of laughter and entertainment. You are an endless source for reminding us how to live. LIVE (with a long "I").
Wow. All of that in our home, every day. An endless source for all of it. Who could ask for more?
Our days are brighter with you in it, little bean. I am so happy you are ours.
Now, on to year three.
As with Jack, starting way back when, I've been teaching Charlie what I know and love about music. During the past few months, Jack, Charlie, and I have embarked on Ph.D.-style lessons in the music of Devo, The Black Crowes, Erykah Badu, the B-52's, Led Zeppelin, Lenny Kravitz, and Michael Jackson, to name a few. (There are a lot of people to learn about. We're cramming.)
Over these past months I've been impressed with Charlie's musical ear. In the car he pleads "I wan sound! I wan sound!" until we pop in a CD. Sometimes, he can name that tune in just three notes. And he dances like he was born in a mosh pit. Not bad for a boy who is just a few weeks short of two years old. But what has thrilled me the most of late is our time, just Charlie and me, driving in the car. Without the strong musical opinions of Charlie's older brother to contend with, we can just drive along listening to anything I want. Charlie is simply content to listen.
But Charlie is selective. After certain songs are played, a small voice, bubbling with enthusiasm, emerges from the back seat:
"A good song!"
"Yes, Charlie," I reply, beaming. "I like that one too."
He's chimed in with his little sentiment many times for particular songs over and over again. And then, today, he surprised me. I was vacuuming upstairs. Charlie was dancing and running around me as I pushed and pulled. And then I turned the vacuum off.
"A good song!"
Hmm. Well. Yes, he surprised me all right. Back to class we go.
Although the sound of a vacuum is very punk rock, don't you think?
I like blogging. I just can't seem to find the time to do it lately. Incredible messes made by two little boys have gone unphotographed. Little slice-of-life stories have gone unwritten. A number of Jackspeaks have gone undocumented. (Now that last one's a pity, I say.) But I've been busy. Busy with things like
sewing. (unpicking.) resewing. cutting. pinning. (poking. bleeding.) writing. rewriting. inventing. (trying.) drawing. (trying.) doodling. imagining. dreaming. (and lately, nightmaring.)
and otherwise totally freaking OUT.
Why the freak out? Because. I'm writing another book. Except this time, it's a book. Not a box. It has pages. That you can turn and everything. So very cool.
(Although I did--and still--love that box. And this wonderful publisher, who I'm working with again.)
If you've ever wondered how a book is made--a book about sewing, in particular--here's a very rough retrospective of my experience up to this point. In pictures.
There's a lot of pinning involved.
And much sewing.
And did I mention pinning?
And a lot of trying to get things...
just right.
With little ones underfoot, you learn to ignore the daily messes
so you can get things done.
Alternatively, you can actually let them make messes so you can get things done. (Charlie gets to play in Niko's cat food. I get to finish ironing my binding. I got it done. See, it works!)
Of course, there are some messes you simply cannot ignore. So, because you are eating and sleeping and dreaming BOOK, you make a to-do list. Of just one thing.
And sometimes, you just let the kids join in the fun. (Like when you are trying to take a half-decent picture of something to send to the office.)
Or when you are trying to draw your illustrations quickly but accurately, and your five-year-old does something like this. Which makes you cry. Happy tears, you know.
I hope to share more details about the book soon.
The deadline is approaching fast (I counted, it's 22 days). After the deadline passes, I hope to get back to funnier, more lighthearted stuff here.
Hmm. Funnier, more lighthearted stuff. That's actually what I'm actually hoping this book will be. Sounds like I need an attitude adjustment for these last 22 days. Could use some encouragement, I think.
Meanwhile, I'll prick up my ears for a good Jackspeak in the coming weeks. I'm guessing he won't disappoint.Teaching words to children is a delight. And a challenge. You do your best to explain what words mean, when they are appropriate to use, and when they are not. Which words are for family ears only. Which words are slang-ish, and when we can and can't use those words. And on and on and on.
Then you tell a little joke like this one. And you realize that, yeah, when it comes to teaching language, you're doing pretty good.
Me: "What kind of bee makes milk?"
Jack: "A cow bee."
"Good guess, but nope. Wanna know?"
"Yeah."
"A boo bee!"
[laughter commences, followed by a broad, silent pause]
Jack: "You mean a breast."
