ALERT: Charlietalk

It's dinner time. After being asked for the fourth time to start eating, Charlie begins negotiations.

Charlie: "I will eat my dinner, mom. But just not the food. Okay? Just not the food."

My life. In hair.

In the past few weeks I've seen several posts on blogs I follow about new haircuts. Those posts reminded me of something:

Hey, I was gonna do that.

According to the date on my photo scans, I was planning to document my hair history back in 2009.

Got a new haircut last week.

See?

Somehow it feels like the right time to use the photos I so meticulously scanned two years ago. Otherwise, it'd be an awful waste of computer memory.

With that, I give you my personal history. In hair. Mine is a journey filled with innocence and simplicity. With rebellion, lies, and deceit. With dangerous chemical abuse. With dozens and dozens of cases of cheap hairspray. (Seriously, cheap stuff only, please. I need it to work like glue.).

Here goes the long and short--and long and short, and long and short--of it. You'll see what I mean.

Exhibit A: The innocent years. With and without perms.

Kindergarten. There are a few photos of
myself that I love. This is one of them.

Shortly thereafter, we find Dorothy Hamill in her
living room sorting Girl Scout cookies.

During my growing years, I begin to notice that genetics are going to assure me a lifetime of arrow-straight locks. Thin and limp? Envision a chewed-up piece of bubble gum stretched between two lamp posts. In an attempt to battle nature--and with mom's help--I try a perm. At home.

Yes. You know what I’m talking about. It’s the DO-NOT-TRY-THIS-AT-HOME home perm.

That's my sister Melainie in both shots above, and my old friend Cathy.
I love the bottom photo. Magically, with a home perm I can become
almost as handsome as my brother-in-law. We’re practically twins!

Luckily, home perms fall out of my hair as quickly as a toddler falls out of a tantrum when you give him a sucker.

And anyway, perms are out. Even though they were never in. Fancy feathering becomes all the rage.

I would've had the hippest hair around…

  ... if I had been a boy.
photo photo photo

At some point during my teen years, I decided to take hair matters into my own hands.

Exhibit B: The rebellious years. With and without bleach.

Perhaps I worked on this ‘do above just for the photo; perhaps I was on my way to school. It’s hard to know for sure. At the time, I would try anything. Except dyeing my hair.

I wanted to dye my hair so very badly. But mom wouldn’t let me. So secretly, I started “dyeing” my own hair. With bleach. Just a secret spritz every morning from a trial-size spray bottle.

I’m sure my mom never noticed.

If mom ever said anything about my hair, I was planning to
blame it on these guys--my high-school buddies.
I mean, look at the hair here. Major peer pressure.

Now that I'm looking closely at the photo of my friends, I guess perms were in.

Somehow, my hair survived those years. It didn’t fall out, and I don’t think the bleach gave me cancer or anything. Yet.

Exhibit C: The college years. With and without politics.

Arm-wrestling a mannequin at the Utah Shakespeare Festival.

Above: early college. Major: education. When I cried the first time I taught a class because an 8-year-old called me a name, I decided teaching wasn’t for me.


Above: late college. Major: women’s studies. And the hair to prove it.

Exhibit D: The get-a-job years. Where the growing gets tough.

Our first year in Seattle. Slowly leaving the pixie cut behind.

Still short at my first Quilt Market as a copywriter
for Martingale & Company, but growing.

Three years later, we moved back to Utah. Hair can grow a lot in three years. I was growing it long for one reason. An impending wedding.

Sometimes I wore my hair down. (I like this picture of
me. I like this picture of Bretty even more.)

More often than not, though, I wore my hair up. No patience for fussing and flyaways. (Flanked by my gorgeous, now all-grown-up niece and nephew, top right. Both valedictorians and full-ride scholarshippers, yo! Okay, I'm braggin'.)

Aaah, the wedding day. Long hair, curled
and flowing. As much as my hair can curl and flow.

Wedding’s done. Long hair, be gone! Or . . . not.

Exhibit E: The baby years. A hairdentity crisis.

In the time of baby Jack. Short.

In the time of toddler Jack. Medium. (This scarf was featured
in Quilts and More magazine; pattern here.)

Another perm? Really, Jenny, you should know better.

In the time of growing Charlie. Long.

Oh my goodness, I was so very pregnant.

It is so very nice to not be pregnant.

In the time of kid Jack, toddler Charlie. Short again.

These photos were taken for ReSew by a
wonderful photographer out of Southern Utah, Juanita B.

I've pretty much worn the haircut above for the past two years. Until last week.

So that brings us back to present-day hair. What a long, confusing, indecisive journey it has been. But rather than confusing and indecisive, I prefer to call it "creative." Yes. A creative journey.

That's my hair story. And I'm sticking to it.

The other day, my sweet husband--who has always leaned toward liking long hair on me--said of my new haircut, "You look so cute. You look great with short hair. Yeah, keep the short hair."

Between the two of us, it's decided. Welcome back, pixie!

At least, for now.

ALERT: Jackspeak

After weeks of unpredictable weather, we enjoy a dry, sunny day from sunup to sundown. Our family eats posicles on the deck in the backyard, listening to the rushing stream below us and watching the mild winds move the blooming trees above us. 

Jack: “I have to say, nature is even better than I thought. It’s even better than electricity.”

the makings of many little monsters

I have a monster story to share. (Don't worry. Not scary.)

Since announcing the goals of this humanitarian group a few weeks back, I’ve received many emails from people about the endeavor. Some wrote to share their own experiences with similar undertakings. Some suggested easy projects that could be made in multiples. Some offered help in making items with their own hands. One is even sending dozens of books all the way from Pennsylvania to help fill our welcome bags (thank you again, Liri!). And some just dropped a note to say they think we are doing a good thing.

For those of you who have reached out, you know who you are. Thank you, YOU!

One friend of mine sent me a pattern, offering to make several of these projects if I thought they would be a good fit for the welcome bags. The project is simple. It is economical. And it is adorable. So after telling her yes please!, I had to make one too.

Meet Mabel. The Positive Attitude Monster.

This fun monster sewing pattern comes from Rebecca Danger. She’s a knitter by passion and author of the Big Book of Knitted Monsters. I imagine she created this sewn monster design, Max the Monster, for her fans who don’t knit. (Or for her fans who don’t knit well. Like me.) The pattern offers three monster sizes (just one fat quarter needed for the littlest), along with scores of possibilities for personal touches. I chose to hand-embroider around the heart and added extra-large perle cotton eyes.

Whenever I see that wonky red heart and that gentle grin, I get a happy little charge. So lately, she’s been following us around the house. In her happy-little-charge fashion, she’s been encouraging us all the while.

  She’s just a sweet, upbeat kind of gal. Rubs off on ya.

(I think she needs hair... agree?)

In addition to simple, economical, and adorable, I can also add addictive to the cast of supporting words for this little sewing project. I’m already making space in my sewing room for the impending monster metropolis. For the humanitarian project, of course. But each family member will own a Mabel of their own soon. Even the awesome painter.

I just can’t help myself.

You bet I will, Mabel. You bet I will!

ALERT: Charlietalk

We’re taking care of our neighbor’s baby chickens over Memorial Day weekend. They’re just a few weeks old, still tiny. Charlie crouches down and watches the chicks peck around in their crate.

Charlie: “They are delightful!”

Me: “They are, aren’t they?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe later we can take them out and play with them for a little bit.”

“Can we juggle them?”

“Probably not.”

I went to Quilt Market and all I got was this lousy photo.

Many of you probably know that Quilt Market--the place where sellers and buyers of all things quilt converge--was in Salt Lake City this past weekend. For me, it was just up the street. I was very lucky to attend courtesy of Martingale & Company, my supernaturally-awesome publisher. (And my soon-to-be full-time employer. Again. Long story. Those guys just can't get rid of me.)

Perhaps it was the people I met--both beloved old friends and new quilting buddies. Perhaps it was the unexpected opportunities that fell into my lap. Perhaps it was the sheer excitement that comes with walking a new Market floor. Perhaps it was dancing with abandon at Market parties not one, but two nights in a row. Whatever the reason, my camera stayed in my purse, fully charged, for the entire four days I was at Market. Except for one photo:

A tile wall at the Blue Lemon, downtown SLC. Taken during
the packed-to-the-hilt Blogger's Quilt Market Meetup. Congratulations to
this talented young woman for putting on an incredible, standing-room-only party.

Seriously, of all things, Jenny ... the one photo you take at Quilt Market is of a tile wall!?! Yep. Sadly, with all the flurry of seeing and doing and meeting and laughing and twisting my right foot into my boot a teeny-tiny bit differently so it didn't hurt THAT bad and I could keep on walking, I neglected the wonders my camera could have captured. And there certainly were wonders to be captured each day.

Day One: I was introduced to some coworkers of mine who I'd never met in person before. They were warm, funny, interesting, and easy to talk to. Plus, I got to spend time with a woman who I have known, loved, and admired for well over a decade, and hadn't seen in a very long time. (Yes, YOU, Chris Wright from M&C.) I was too busy being in the moment. No photos. Crap!

Day Two: By a stroke of chance, I saw a friend I hadn't seen since Charlie was a baby--Annie Smith of Quilter's Stash. She invited me to talk about ReSew for her round of Quilt Market podcasts. What a treat! Annie is such a natural conversationalist; she makes it easy to forget you are being recorded, and that her many fans will be listening in on your casual chat. And sure enough, I forgot. Just like the camera. Why didn't I take our picture together, Annie? WHY? (You can listen to Annie's podcast with me here.) 

Day Three: I was in the M&C booth waiting for an appointment when who should walk by but Carma Wadley, reporter for the Deseret News. She let me know that the article she'd written about ReSew was going to be published on the front page of the "Family" section of the newspaper on Monday. And sure enough, it was! (Here's the online version.) I spent the afternoon thinking about how proud my dad was going to be when he saw it. The article begins, "Thrifty is nifty — especially the way Jenny Wilding Cardon does it." Hee-hee! Thank you, Carma. I think you're nifty, too. Even nifty enough for a photo. But alas, I forgot again. Dang it!

Day Four: I briefly met with Ellen March, Editor-in-Chief of Sew News and host of the PBS series Sew It All. Ellen invited me to be a guest on her show--we're taping this fall in Golden, Colorado! Why no photo? Well, that's simple--too nervous. Then, that night, I was invited to hit the town with THE. COOLEST. BLOGGERS. AROUND. We ate and laughed and talked and danced to '80s music. No time for photos. Too busy having a great time. But now, I would very much like to kick myself.

I've been to Market many times over the years, but never have I had so much fun. And as I think about it, I understand why I had such a wonderful experience. People--talented, kind, energetic, generous people--reached out to me. And I was surprised. Surprised enough to forget a photo opportunity or two. Or twenty.

Too in the moment. Too chatty. Too excited. Too nervous. Too surprised. Too busy with the fun of it all. And now that it's all said, done, packed up, and back home, I've come to a realization.

Yeah, sure, I'm kicking myself, But really, I wouldn't have wanted it to happen any other way.

ALERT: Jackspeak

Most people who see me day to day know something's up--I've been wearing a very noticeable black brace for four months now. It's my wrist. My right wrist. Can't open jars of peanut butter. Can't turn on bath water. Can't zip up three-year-old's pants. Can't grate cheese. Can't get any outfit to look good with that black brace. (Not even a black outfit.) What's a mama to do?

Just do what the doctor says, I guess. Surgery is in my near future.

I recently expained the impending procedure to Jack. Incisions, needles, bone scraping, fragment packing, stitches. Sounds a bit horrifying.

Jack: "So, what do our bodies look like on the inside, anyway?"

Me: "Well, there's blood, and veins, and organs, and bones... I guess it's kinda scary in there."

"It's like, we're so pretty on the outside and then we're so yucky on the inside."

"Yeah. Pretty much."

"I'm so happy we're not yucky on the outside too."

"Indeed, bean."