When Love Strays

I've been unfaithful.

That's me. My blogging love and attention have been over here. I'm sorry.
Please forgive me, because I'm back.

Slowly I'm redefining my role as a crafter, mom and wife after nearly four years being held hostage over here. Still there, but trying to be more here!

We have been in our Wexford house since March and patchwork classes began in late September. Really, I wasn't interested in patchwork classes--as I have such limited time and, honestly? What I wanted is a quilting, stitching group gathering where I could work on projects I love but for whom I had little time.

I get it. I should start my own gathering, but it's baby steps--this redefining of life. So I enrolled in the local class for a committed-two-hours-of-sewing a week. I haven't sewn consisently on any one project in years and let's face it, my sewing can always use some instruction.

We meet at the local community centre and the only slot open was the beginners' class. Most other students are older and only one or two know me. As I begin this new quilt--which jumped ahead of all the rest--guilt washes over me. I find myself rushing through my sewing.

The quilt is the Jacob Ladder block, so I am working hard to ensure sharp points. Immediately I took a generous 1/4" seam so already I fail the class, with a block measuring 11" when class sample is 12". My teacher, a friend, has already scolded me on my fast pace. She says many of the ladies know who I am and they expect me to breeze through the class with beautiful work. "So slow down!"

I'd rather not have such expectations of me from strangers. Lord knows, I let down my own family enough! I'm content when I can finish 30 decent blocks. I reckon, 30 perfect blocks will come to me when I'm in my 50s. My brain has limited time for too many responsibilities (wifery, motherhood, accounts, sales, writing, etc.,) that my perfect stitches are not at the top--nor am I the one who makes the featured quilts over there.

I will continue going to sewing class and I'll do my best, but hopefully one or two of these women will take the time to get to know me. Up til now, I'm still very much a 'blow in' in the village and to them.
I've shown my teacher the shrunken block to her dismay, but to my credit, they are all consistently shrunken to 11".

So my block is wrong, but it is consistently wrong.

Worse, if you consult my unfinished projects, each would say they're unloved and that I've been unfaithful.

Again.

Persevering Through Pain

For the last two months, I've awoken with a pain in my underarm. The day progresses with searing pain down to my fingers and alternates with a dull throb in my elbow.

Must be a trapped nerve. What is it like to be a trapped nerve? A needling little nuisance?

Once I was called a badger by a boss, which in my book is the same thing as a needling nuisance, a royal pain among other working muscles. I guess I bothered her. In fairness to me, she was not at the top of her game and the natives on our team were restless. Back then I was 21, knew it all and was outspoken, unlike my unhappy, but wise, middle-age coworkers working in our department. Although I went onward with promotions and seven years employed in that company, she, on the other hand, endured divorce and redundacy a short while after our time together.

(I would like to stress that I make no link between her shortcomings as a manager, her marital demise and the downsizing of one of America's largest drugstore corporations. Nor does being a badger bring merits--suffice to say, I was and am a hardworker.)

Still I often reflect on this time with my boss and I do regret my behaviour. I was a painful nerve to her and she was trapped as my superior. My comments did nothing but bring criticism and spectulation. The greatest offense was being inexperienced know-it-all clerk. We managed well as a team, but my needling was uncomfortable to us all.

Much like my trapped nerve which serves to disturb my mobility, sleep and mood. Dr. Google says these pressing pests have a way of going away on their own. Treatment is simple a form of pain suppression.

Back then I eventually found my place and confidence in my own work and stopped worrying about my superior.

Treatment was and is life experience. Climb onboard.

Treat yourself today!

Summer's in the Bag

Just came from my biz blog where I wrote about taking inspiration (with permission, of course) into our sewing projects. This counts in the homefront as well. Recently, I made some very cool and oh, so easy bags. I originally spied them at designer Judith's blog and she credited the original pattern at Grosgrain.

The morning I was sewing, the in-laws dropped in. Handy enough, I was just finishing one and my MIL was thrilled when I gave her the first one.

You can't see the fabric up close, but the floral pattern is a vintage print that came along in a box of excess scraps from a fabric company in Dublin. It seemed to be a perfect fit for Nanny.

This will tell you how behind I am on posting. My scramble to make these bags one morning--and I did, three in one morning-- was for my daughter's teachers as thank you gifts back in June. Needless to say, the girls were delighted to model before taking to them in as gifts.

It was a countdown to school ending. Now we've begun the countdown to school beginning. My cutiepie,who is about to enter the full day in first class, is driving the back-to-school campaign.

And, this mom's right behind her.

Suffering Guilt Block

I'm working through my demons. I've got guilt blocking me from blogging.

Oh, the amount of times I think of my blog. I love writing and I love writing about my life. This blog was born more than three (four?) years ago. At the time, I worked in an office as a production manager. Looking at my posting history, one might think I did nothing at work. When actually it was quite the opposite--I was very good at my work. HA!! That's not fair. really.

My managerial role was to keep the designers in an ad production studio supported and ensure we made daily deadlines. The reality was the team was that good. My tasks included morning production conference calls; the remainder of my day was to put out fires and resolve problem escalations. The truth of the matter, the artists in the studio were that good--beyond the morning, my role rarely kicked into gear--when it did, it was five minutes before day's end and a working mother's worst wish, but that's another post.

So at my desk, I had plenty of time to write and explore blogs. Irony was this particular company disallowed any internet surfing. Click to any website and a forbidden code appeared. Yet, click to blogs, and viola! I remember thinking how insanely ineffective that IT functionality was. I also figured my postings must fly below the radar, or the IT guys really digged my blog!

My blogging changed when I began working for the magazine. My life changed. I've worked hard to keep my family the same. (Not sure I've succeeded.) I've lost hold of my friends (all of them) and cherish to death those who allow me to lose touch and welcome me anytime. At the height of my blog, I was crafting. Naturally, some of the best bloggers and blog followers are crafters. So I'd like to come back, but I've got a guilt block. Not a writer's block, but guilt. I want to come back with craft. I want to show my creativity and be visually interesting. Meanwhile my mind is bursting and my hands have not known craft for two or more years, beyond the odd project.
So I've decided to come back with or without craft. The creativity will follow, I believe.

When Words Stiffle Us
Last night I had the most vivid dream. It was unreal. This morning it was our entertainment at breakfast.
I was in Disneyland Japan with a tour of quilters. There was one lady who kept trying to steal people's valuables while we stood in line for the park's rides. I was asked to mind someone's camera and caught this lady in the act. Holding tight to her hand, I summoned the park police and told the theft she would be left behind in a Japanese jail. The Japanese cops arrived--they were two sumo wrestlers in police uniforms with a third regular-sized dressed cop. They let the thief go. I went to the cop upset asking why they let her go. He explained that they had to honour the tourists and airlines so as not to cause problems. I began talking fast with my annoyance of this, and the cop raised a microphone to my face and suddenly some liquid sprayed out the end much like a clown's trick water ring. Only, once this water hit my mouth, my lips went numb and my words were drooling slurs. Ultimately. I became the one who missed the flight out of Japan.

Back in reality, we laughed hard.
The girls wondered aloud if there was a Disneyland in Japan.

DH wondered aloud where one could find that special liquid.

And I , well, I wondered if it was time to return to my blogging.

Rainy Thoughts

We awoke this morning to buckets of rain. This meant two things.

1. I would have a guilt free day working on my laptop indoors.
2. The line of clothes outside were washed, dried and now wet again.

Yesterday was sunny skies, a near scorcher. I was working all day so I had the usual lost Saturday guilt. Doing three loads of wash, I thought the scales of justice balanced. That's if I remembered to bring in the dry wash from the line last night.

In reflection it is has been seven years since I entered into a tumble dryer deprived free world. Amazing, but I manage. What leisure tool do you sacrifice?

The weekend had began with beautiful weather and I was able to celebrate with the photography of the latest quilt. With help from my neighbor who did the peicing and quilting, my US vision has come to life.

Here's a sneak peak.



This Tribute to America quilt is my design and as soon as I can get a fresh coat of pain on our foyer walls, I'm hanging it over the staircase.

From Irish sea to shiny American sea!

Stay dry,

a

The Troll Who Made Me Cry

There are days when I regret not writing a post. The regret is when a followup post becomes obvious. Part I is the post never posted. Part II is the irresistible followup.

Part I

Parent/Teacher meetings were the week before we moved house. I met with both girls’ teachers and had opposite experiences. Cutiepie’s teacher was orderly with written lists for every child capturing poignant comments regarding the student. Babydoll’s teacher had a cleared desktop, a large smile and vacant eyes.

Needless to say, this story is about the latter. The teacher’s greeting was, “Well I have nothing really to report on Babydoll.” Oh. Don’t worry, this Mom has questions.

There was this assignment we had been so proud of and yet, it never seemed be handed in. Each day Babydoll would say I must write my story. We would say, ok, well, what more do you need to do? I would scrounge through her backback for teacher’s instructions. Nothing. After two weeks, we were clearly lost in translation. Babydoll said another student was typing it on a computer, so we taught (oy vey) her to type. Then she said it needs more detail. So I helped her think about her readers and what might help them visualise the story as she told it.

A few days before Teacher meeting, the story surfaced yet again at the dinner table. Babydoll said it needs a taped edge. Could she fold it over and put tape on the side? It was all very confusing, but we did our best to create what it was Babydoll thought she needed.

By my fourth search of her backpack, I was very annoyed at the lack of written teacher instructions. For goodness sake, she is 7 years old. If you don’t watch, she’s still capable of brushing two front teeth and considering “brush your teeth” a major accomplishment.

So I said to the starry-eyed teacher, Please tell me about the story assignment—we really struggled and I’m not certain why it is lingering...

The Teacher said, “Oh yes. Well it is an education centre competition that all the children in the particular catchment areas are doing. The books will be sent off and judged and, well, it is very exciting.”

Competition? Books? Sent off? Suddenly, I felt I was on a plane without my boarding pass.

The teacher reached to the immediate shelf behind Babydoll’s seat to a stack of bound (taped edges!) books with illustrations and written stories, albeit one typed. My mouth fell open. I said, really? You’re kidding?

Then. THEN. THEN. (oh I’m still so mad)

The teacher said, “Well Babydoll hasn’t been doing anything for the last ten days or so. She just sits at her desk in her own lalala land.”

WHAT?

The teacher said, “She just seems lost.”

WHAT?

The teacher appears to have what I call nervous laughter. I don’t like nervous laughter—I realise it is an involuntary body language, but I still don’t like it.

The teacher continues, “She must be lost because she is moving. She isn’t doing any of her work.”

I said “but, you said you had nothing to report? Would you not rein that behaviour in? Ten days! Would you not call me?”

The teacher said, “I am sure it is because she is moving, and well, I didn’t want to come down hard on her.”

So you choose to ignore the child and let her miss out on this opportunity? Mention it as happenstance? This is my Babydoll and her gig! She goes to bed with a journal every night. She writes letters and notes and thoughts. She IS a writer! Shame on you, Teacher. How dare you withhold the last ten days of providing education, ahem, YOUR JOB!

I really felt like she was robbing my child of what she deserved and what all kids need to motivate and encourage for the next ten + years of schooling. I was so mad. Ten days was one day too late.

Back in my car, I cried. I cried at the steering wheel in the school parking lot. What if I hadn’t been a prying mom? What if Babydoll had altogether abandoned her story? What if I hadn’t asked about this confusing assignment?

Pushing my anger aside, motivated by shock and concern, I worked with Babydoll that night. I told her what I had seen of the other books. Now we could finish her story correctly. I sourced a few clip arts and inserted according to her. Then I used a sharp knife to create an illustration window on the cover. Babydoll completed it with a title page and author signature.

The next day was Babydoll’s last day in school. She turned in her book, The Troll. Her teacher was absent that day. I sent a thank you note to the Principal commending Cutiepie’s teacher for her commitment and organisation. Some things are better noticed unsaid, if you know what I mean.

Part II

Babydoll is adjusting well to her new school. We did have to explain to Babydoll why telling new classmates that you are from California is a bit of a stretch. From California and born in California have two different meanings.

I was driving yesterday as my phone messages played back on the hands free. The principal from the old school had called to let us know that Babydoll won first place in her age group for her book, The Troll. I pulled the car to one side and played the message back twice, tears filling my eyes. Twice now, this troll had me crying in my car.

There is to be an awards ceremony in Dublin in a week and do I have to say, we are overjoyed? There are no words to express my anger, sadness and happiness found in the creation that is The Troll.

I would love just one more day to walk into that teacher’s class and teach her a lesson. I’ve since talked to the Principal and despite DH’s urging, I did let the Principal know that we were quite lost on the project, and well, why was there no teacher instructions? It was probably wasted words, but she begged me on as she said, well I suppose, she did win—afterall, her mother is a writer. In the end, I will choose to take her comment as a compliment.

Today we received her invitation to the awards ceremony. I had already called nanny and granddad and everyone is ready to parade into Dublin for Babydoll. Unfortunately, only two family members are allowed to attend. We’ve decided to let Babydoll chose and I’m not sure I will make the short list. Nanny pretty much tops any list.

I’m ok with it.

I know I’ll just cry. Again. Damn that troll.

Peck Your Words Carefully

If I shall die in my sleep tonight, my heart will be full with pride. That sounds so morbid, but it is how I feel.
This evening, Babydoll, at one month shy of 8yo sat beside me at the computer and typed her first story.
Cue the kleenex.

In actual credit to her, DH and her teacher, she had penned the story yesterday using a story board approach. Teacher identified sections (Begin in one World; Move to an imaginary world; Identify a problem; Resolve the problem) and Babydoll set the scene in a full tale. Tonight she became an accomplished writer.


A classmate of hers is using a computer, as Teacher said it is allowable, she saddled up to one of our computers and next thing I know Babydoll is changing font sizes for titles, and a colour code (desktop publishing? be still my heart) for emphasis within her colourful tale of a human condemned to life as a troll.

Maybe I do have the knack of a writer? I'm not faking this gig afterall? The written word has been seeping out Babydoll's pores since she first held writing utensils as a toddler, and by golly, this trait came from me. Seeing her at the computer, with poised fingers at the proper 10-finger type positions, I felt so accomplished. Nothing like her Dad's hunt and peck, but rather like me.

Monday is coming fast and we have decisions to make, do we plan our move? Worse, I'm expected at a parents' meeting for a school we may not be attending in 11 days (mid term soon kicks in).

Better still, I could ditch the meeting and really "make" my mind and pop down to the Make and Do group stitching in the pub. Sometimes being a responsible adult is hard. I went to Make and Do last month and loved it. I took an applique chicken. Given that it is set in a pub with pub lighting, one would highly recommend sorting colours earlier in the day. I had stitched my brown chicken's outline, only to realise I was using purple thread. Want to know how I knew? I pulled out my camera and flash shot it. So for the next three colours, I chose by camera.

Time will tell, even over the next 24 hours. Come Monday, I may not get anywhere yet. DH arrived home and Babydoll said, "Dad, look at this! Mom said my story is great. I'm a real writer! She said I get it from her cause you only hunt and peck!"

I'm too busy walking on eggshells.