Cutiepie and her pals prepare for a party!
Monday 20 September 2010
Friday 10 September 2010
I'd Rather Be Quilting than Cruel
I know most are wondering, when is she going to quilt again?
Well I am quilting here and there.
We had a BYOB party a few Saturdays back. Funny I enjoyed it just as much as when BYOB used to be Bring Your Own Booze. On this day it was Bring Your Own Binding. The best was no hangover!
It was a great day, I had several American-living-Ireland friends visiting; it was a good mixture of quilters and nonquilters, always making the chit chat interesting. Not the same as playing quarters in beer pints, but we aren't fuddie-duddies either! Stitching and bitching. In the end, there was even a few nonquilters fondling fabric and asking about patchwork classes.
Myself, I have a variety of quilts in progress. Let's see, I have a thankyou quilt postcard for a lovely friend who made me lunch, oh, two months ago?? That goes to the top of the list. I have a baby quilt simply needing binding. Three charity quilts needing binding. One twin baby top needing quilting and needing a matching top for twin brother. Still enjoying the Country Club installments from the magazine. And alas, I have started two Christmas wall hangings for family gifts. With any luck this weekend, I'll combine the camera and my projects for a little show and tell.
Summer is over and fall is here. Work has been demanding to say the least. Family life too. But I feel a resurgence. We struggled with a car malfunction, bid farewell to our aupair and produced our best issue yet. Many restless nights. But with the return of the school routine, I feel rejuvinated. Two weeks in and the laundry pile queue is manageable, morning walks awaken me and a reasonable cycle of work is taking shape.
With this newfound peace, my anxiety-driven nocturnal activity is diminishing. I wish I could say the same for Babydoll. Her anxiety and excitement for school reminds me of my early school days; she inherited my sleepwalking. The other night I heard her in the hall. I thought she was going to DH downstairs and he thought she was going to me upstairs. An hour later we found her here:
Well I am quilting here and there.
We had a BYOB party a few Saturdays back. Funny I enjoyed it just as much as when BYOB used to be Bring Your Own Booze. On this day it was Bring Your Own Binding. The best was no hangover!
It was a great day, I had several American-living-Ireland friends visiting; it was a good mixture of quilters and nonquilters, always making the chit chat interesting. Not the same as playing quarters in beer pints, but we aren't fuddie-duddies either! Stitching and bitching. In the end, there was even a few nonquilters fondling fabric and asking about patchwork classes.
Myself, I have a variety of quilts in progress. Let's see, I have a thankyou quilt postcard for a lovely friend who made me lunch, oh, two months ago?? That goes to the top of the list. I have a baby quilt simply needing binding. Three charity quilts needing binding. One twin baby top needing quilting and needing a matching top for twin brother. Still enjoying the Country Club installments from the magazine. And alas, I have started two Christmas wall hangings for family gifts. With any luck this weekend, I'll combine the camera and my projects for a little show and tell.
Summer is over and fall is here. Work has been demanding to say the least. Family life too. But I feel a resurgence. We struggled with a car malfunction, bid farewell to our aupair and produced our best issue yet. Many restless nights. But with the return of the school routine, I feel rejuvinated. Two weeks in and the laundry pile queue is manageable, morning walks awaken me and a reasonable cycle of work is taking shape.
With this newfound peace, my anxiety-driven nocturnal activity is diminishing. I wish I could say the same for Babydoll. Her anxiety and excitement for school reminds me of my early school days; she inherited my sleepwalking. The other night I heard her in the hall. I thought she was going to DH downstairs and he thought she was going to me upstairs. An hour later we found her here:
She generally denies sleepwalking, so this time I captured proof. DH thought it was cruel taking a picture. Was it?
After sharing some of my infamous sleepwalking excursions, I thought she might come to accept her own slumbering ways. As we sat telling sleep stories on the sofa, I noticed fingerprints, that could only come from ninja turtles or my acrobatic daughters, smudged on the very large mirror hanging above us. The mirror is large enough that, if toppled, it could fatally wound one or both of the girls. This offence of theirs is very rare and they know that the fear of it turns me red with rage.
Babydoll spied my face about to erupt and she thought quickly.
"Mom, I'm thinking that might have been done while sleepwalking."
Nah, cruel is actually posting the photograph.
The Facts and Fixes of Life
Lately our Cutiepie has been preoccupied with acquiring a baby sibling.
Oh, but it ain’t happening.
There are a few of media culprits, but I blame Katie Perry and Charlie of Two and a Half Men. Thanks to them, 6yo Cutiepie knows Mommy and Daddy must “do it” in order to add a baby to our brood.
Oh, but it ain’t happening.
Her campaign for a baby sibling is strong, and while I am astonished—and scared—by her level of knowledge, I am amused at her persistence.
“Please mommy! Can you and Daddy do it? Please!”
We’re too old.
“No you’re not! Please, just go lay down with him and say you want a baby! I think that is all you have to do! I want a baby .”
For heaven’s sake, if only she were asking me to jump on the trampoline or run the Dublin Marathon naked, she’d win a puppy. Seriously, I love her with every ounce of my being, I’d do it. I would. She is so passionate, I so want to give her that baby.
Oh, but it ain’t happening.
“I promise! Babydoll and I will mind the baby! We will! And you know that pain? Like that woman screaming on the TV when she was given her baby?
Well, that will go away. I promise!”
Thanks for the concern, but it’s not the pain that scares me. It’s the added 12-year sentence labour of love. Something that can’t be easily explained to Cutiepie.
While I want to bottle her endless love, bubbling enthusiasm and innocent naiveté, I can’t honestly say I’d want to repeat it all with another babe. Which is why I’m writing this from my hospital bed in Dublin. How is it that kids have that magical ability of timing and intuitiveness that is hidden even from them? While Cutiepie has been marching for maternity, I’ve been fearing the very same nature of process. Our means of contraception—a surgically- planted cervix coil—is overdue for replacement. Despite my darling 6yo, the procedure was scheduled so she could not possibly have her way. Or rather, so I can count on golden years, not tough years ahead.
On the way to the hospital this morning, at 6 o’dark in the morning, my heart broke as Cutiepie asked why does Mommy have to go to the hospital? (We are winging it without an au pair. Be kind to your supporting family who may serve as minders.)
Only time will heal my broken heart and her denied request. She remains on my mind in this maternity ward, where ironically, I recover from the surgery that will ensure that I not return to this very same place, in which, I’d be ‘given’ a baby.
Cause, oh, that ain’t happening.
As I prepare to be discharged, Kevin and I plan our dinner with the girls. For a treat we are headed to Cortina, the latest, greatest Irish find of ours: a Mexican restaurant not too far from home. As I wonder if the tacos and burritos will be enough to preoccupy Cutiepie’s inquisitive nature and her adoring pleas, the nurse comes to sign me out.
“Will you be needing a doctor’s note to excuse you?” The nurse asks.
Yes, please! And be sure to address it to ‘Cutiepie’.
Oh, but it ain’t happening.
There are a few of media culprits, but I blame Katie Perry and Charlie of Two and a Half Men. Thanks to them, 6yo Cutiepie knows Mommy and Daddy must “do it” in order to add a baby to our brood.
Oh, but it ain’t happening.
Her campaign for a baby sibling is strong, and while I am astonished—and scared—by her level of knowledge, I am amused at her persistence.
“Please mommy! Can you and Daddy do it? Please!”
We’re too old.
“No you’re not! Please, just go lay down with him and say you want a baby! I think that is all you have to do! I want a baby .”
For heaven’s sake, if only she were asking me to jump on the trampoline or run the Dublin Marathon naked, she’d win a puppy. Seriously, I love her with every ounce of my being, I’d do it. I would. She is so passionate, I so want to give her that baby.
Oh, but it ain’t happening.
“I promise! Babydoll and I will mind the baby! We will! And you know that pain? Like that woman screaming on the TV when she was given her baby?
Well, that will go away. I promise!”
Thanks for the concern, but it’s not the pain that scares me. It’s the added 12-year sentence labour of love. Something that can’t be easily explained to Cutiepie.
While I want to bottle her endless love, bubbling enthusiasm and innocent naiveté, I can’t honestly say I’d want to repeat it all with another babe. Which is why I’m writing this from my hospital bed in Dublin. How is it that kids have that magical ability of timing and intuitiveness that is hidden even from them? While Cutiepie has been marching for maternity, I’ve been fearing the very same nature of process. Our means of contraception—a surgically- planted cervix coil—is overdue for replacement. Despite my darling 6yo, the procedure was scheduled so she could not possibly have her way. Or rather, so I can count on golden years, not tough years ahead.
On the way to the hospital this morning, at 6 o’dark in the morning, my heart broke as Cutiepie asked why does Mommy have to go to the hospital? (We are winging it without an au pair. Be kind to your supporting family who may serve as minders.)
Only time will heal my broken heart and her denied request. She remains on my mind in this maternity ward, where ironically, I recover from the surgery that will ensure that I not return to this very same place, in which, I’d be ‘given’ a baby.
Cause, oh, that ain’t happening.
As I prepare to be discharged, Kevin and I plan our dinner with the girls. For a treat we are headed to Cortina, the latest, greatest Irish find of ours: a Mexican restaurant not too far from home. As I wonder if the tacos and burritos will be enough to preoccupy Cutiepie’s inquisitive nature and her adoring pleas, the nurse comes to sign me out.
“Will you be needing a doctor’s note to excuse you?” The nurse asks.
Yes, please! And be sure to address it to ‘Cutiepie’.
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