Happy Easter

Went to the Beach
Had a cold
Too much chocolate
Lovely company

hat!

made it. stop. baby sick. stop. mother unfit to model hat. stop.

the confused blanket

 I bought some lovely fabric for a summer quilty blanket for picnicking and beaching and outdoor frolicking. Well six months later I can tell you that it's autumn and no such blanket was made.
Instead the pile of fabric was used to collect dust under my sewing table. Occasionally I stroked the fabric lovingly. Until I found my rotary cutter in a random drawer, and there you go - I assembled a quilt top in less than five minutes, hastily sewing fat quarters together in the most boring and speedy way possible, I didn't even bother to cut the selvedges off. That's how cheap I am. Hurrah!

Since it's now autumn and we do really not need any kind of summer entertainment blanket, I, prone to in-a-flash decisions, ran to Spotlight and purchased 2,5 metres of cheap and nasty polar fleece in a minty colour. For 4 dollars a metre. Bam.

I proceeded to wonkily sew the fleece to the quilt top, without at all aligning any edges, turned it out, and here it is, with me under it, the seasonally confused blanket. In all its glory. I am actually totally loving it - it's quite heavy and has a quilty feel, but is lovely and soft (and who needs a fire place if you can listen to the gentle crackle of acrylic as you snuggle up on the couch...).

last crumbs of summer

Dear Matilda

You have been eating solids for a few weeks now - you are nearly six months old and already you have found your likes and dislikes. Just like me you love sweet potatoes and just like me you are not so sure about mashed potatoes.

You start wiggling your feet and thrashing about in your chair when we open the freezer doors and see what's left of the homemade purees I make for you. I even puree minced beef for you. It smells. Bad.

Your first ever food was parsnip, followed by sweet potato, and then potatoes. You love apple, and you love apricot. You also love to chew on teething rusks, even though you have no teeth to speak of. Frankly, you love eating, like your parents. You are not even that messy. You just open your little mouth like a bird and we have to shovel it in, if we're not fast enough you start crying.

I weaned you and sometimes you still bat away at my top, looking up at me sadly. At least that's what I think. I don't really think you're upset about the lack of boob in your life. Considering the last time I breastfed you you impatiently chomped down like a calf and nearly dragged my boob off to never never land.

I worry about your length.

I will not allow you to be a supermodel when you're older, you might as well stop growing. You are beautiful, inquisitive, and you have a top notch sense of humour. You really love slapping your naked belly.


Love, mummy

Weekend

Was sick with Mastitis...continued to work on my crazy rug idea...did some gardening and found the spud tower is growing some spuds...harvested eggplants...observed the Redback web carefully and set some mouse traps...made a cushion...did a bit of redecorating...started on a quilt, being carefully watched by Matilda.

Hope your week is full of sunshine!

Changing Faces

I thought how unpleasant it is to be locked out; and I thought how it is worse, perhaps, to be locked in.

- Virginia Woolf-

I've been thinking about this quote a lot. Not only in regards to postnatal depression, and living live under a bell jar. Also in relation to what it's like being a mum at home. 

Many wise mothers have warned me that it's horrible to be "trapped" at home with a child.

I used to think, trapped, come on, all I have to do is stick the baby in the Ergo carrier or the pram and we can escape, together. But I understand now that it's a different kind of trapped.

I think motherhood enriches your life in more ways than you could ever imagine. But for all the riches to fit in, you have to make room. And the something that has to give is space. Mental space, physical space, your own space, head space. I miss my space. I do. Even when I have it, when I'm swimming, for example, and I know the baby is safe at home, and I'm swimming lap after lap, my head still isn't free like it used to be. It's always, somehow, with my baby.

At home, the baby's things have slowly crawled into every possible corner. More and more things are being moved into the garage. Our toes are blue from their encounters with the baby gym and the bouncers. I am fine with that. It's lovely and it's necessary. But I can't remember that crafting in my own space has ever felt this important to me before Matilda arrived.

Crafting gives me head space, feet space, mental space.

I have just recently finished clearing out a little corner for my desk and my shelves and my silly doilies, and just looking at it makes me feel a teensy bit calmer. 

It's there waiting for me.

Dear Matilda

you are not four months old and you are rapidly growing. So are your fingernails and toenails. 

Last week I once again faced the awkward and terrifying challenge of cutting your tiny, see-through, fragile fingernails. You were playing with my hair with one hand, and I was gripping the other, clipping one finger at a time, they are as thin as matchsticks, or so it seems to me. I was oh so careful not to do any damage to your buttery, delicate skin. Then I clipped your thumbnail, and there was blood.

A tiny bit. And you started crying.

I rang your dad at work and informed him that he needed to come home in a taxi immediately, because you were bleeding, probably needed stitches, and we had to go to hospital, and I wanted you to have a tetanus shot, who cares if the nail clippers weren't rusty. 

He arrived 20 minutes later, sweating and panicked. He found me on our couch, holding you tightly against my chest. I was sobbing. You were laughing and giggling.  Your dad was very pleased to find out that your blood loss amounted to a 2 dollar coin sized patch on a tissue.He also did a good job of pretending that he didn't mind being married to a crazy person.

He returned to work soon after he reassured me that the injury most likely did not require an emergency room visit. He said it reminded him of the time I rang the ambulance because you had heat rash.  

Sheepishly, your loving mother.

When Matilda was being cooked in my belly I decided she would lead a plastic-free life. 

I purchased wooden toys, lovely cotton rattles and lovingly handmade playthings.

Her favourite toys are mainly those we got given, and those my mum bought at Ikea.

All made in China.

Of course.

Reading

Of course after collecting the best of the best of children's literature for my daughter the first book she falls in love with is: Ikea, by Ikea.